Boyfriend gets seal of approval
I took my boyfriend home to meet
my folks. I don’t make a habit
of mixing boyfriends and folks.
There’s always the danger that they’ll
end up on speaking terms. And guess
what they’ll talk about?
I decided to take that chance after
Stephen and I had spent a grimy
evening throwing sandbags at the
Mississippi. I told him I might go
home over Labor Day, and I asked if
he’d like to go with me.
He said, “Sure.” And there it was,
with a life of its own. A commitment
I’d made by opening my mouth and
letting a thought escape.
“You’re nervous as hell, aren’t
you?” Stephen asked as we headed
west on 1-80.
“Look, there’s the glass-bottom
boat ride that dad took us on when we
were kids,” I said, communicating my
need for him to shut up.
We pulled off at the Cozad exit and
checked into the Circle S Motel. The
desk clerk was a short, round woman
with a gray ponytail. She giggled and
said it was none of her business but
still asked if we were married.
Stephen got that look on his face
that people use when they’re waiting
to license their car.
A taller woman stood behind the
short, snoopy one. She asked if I was
Debbie Berryman. I hadn’t used that
name since it went from a Class B
high school byline to the Dawson
County Court Report. A plummet from
grace sells a lot of coffee in a small
town. Yes, I was Debbie Berryman.
My, how you’ve changed, she said.
Well, I thought, a gal can’t be a suicid
ally depressed teen-ager forever.
They checked us into the bridal
suite.
I called my mother to tell her we
had arrived. She said my dad was at
the pool hall. My dad had been going
to the pool hall from 4 to 6 for almost
every afternoon of my lifetime.
A handful of regulars lined the bar
atihe pool hall. They all turned around
when we walked in. Stephen is a
smart-looking Italian with perfect hair.
I, a woman shacked up in the local
bridal suite with a Mafioso while
her ex-husband was driving
around town in his new pickup,
left the pool hall.
He doesn’t appear to be a man whose
friends have been known to pec on car
tires.
My dad bought us beers and started
talking about my ex-husband, Spike.
Spike had bougnt a new pickup, and
he had just been out to show it to my
folks. I looked at Stephen. I thought
he might be getting ready to give me
bus fare. My dad left to shoot.
One of the regulars came over and
introduced himself to Stephen. He
wanted to know if Stephen was in the
mob. Stephen told him no, he wasn’t
in the mob. That’s what all the mob
guys say.
I, a woman shacked up in the local
bridal suite with a Mafioso while her
ex-husband was driving around town
in his new pickup, left the pool hall.
Stranger things have been known to
happen, but not very often.
We drove out to the farm to see my
mom. Her home is an unrivaled show
case of individualistic decorating. The
entire color spectrum is represented
in her house. I didn’t worry about
Stephen’s reaction. Italians put or
ange and green together, and they
carpet walls.
My mother had added a lamp to her
living room. What had been a typical
floor lamp now supported, in mid-air,
a 30-year-old toy spring-pony. He
was yellow with a painted, black mane,
eyebrows and hooves. He had a red
bow on his tail, a string of pearls for
reins and a sock monkey riding on his
back.
Some men meet tjbyeir girlfriends’
mother and realize that the family’s
women gain weight as they age.
Stephen realized that our family’s
women practice the Elvis Presley style
of decorating.
After dinner, we drove to the cem
etery. None of my boyfriends has ever
taken me to his cemetery, and I’m
beginning to think that some people
don’t visit cemeteries. Five genera
tions of my father’s family are laid to
rest at Walnut Grove. We walked
around, and I told Stephen about dead
people.
The next day was Sunday so the
men watched football. It’s a great
equalizer among American men. They
can all agree that football players get
paid too much money.
My mother watches football be
cause she loves to bet. She and dad
have been pathologically frugal for
most of their lives. Now they are both
pushing 70 and living dangerously.
My mom had just lost $40 on the
tables at Fort Randall, S.D. She told
us that she wanted to go to dealer
school and open a casino near the
interstate. It’s nice to know what to do
with mom if anything ever happens to
dad.
Stephen and I had to leave after a
couple of football games. Mom load
ed us down with fresh potatoes, cook
ies and homemade plum jelly. She
squeezed the daylights out of Stephen.
He had passed. If she continues her
precipitous gambling habits, she may
need a friend in the mob.
. McAdams 1* a sophomore aewi-edltorta
major ud a Dally Nebraskaa columaist.
A life ‘Destroyed by the Bell’
My name is Rainbow.
— Hello, Rainbow. —
And I have been watch
ing “Saved by the Bell” for three
years.
Oh, it all started innocently enough.
In the beginning, I never watched
alone. I’<1 “just happen” to wander
into the living room when my 12
year-old sister was tuned in.
“I can’t believe you’re watching
this,” I’d gripe and make like I just
might turn it to CNN if she wasn’t
careful. I’d sulk behind a National <
Geographic during commercials.
Before long, concerned friends
started asking too many questions,
but I pushed them away.
• “Leave me alone. I don’t have a
Frobiem. Sure, 1 was in the room, but
didn’t watch.”
One thing led to another. What was
just a social habit became more per
sonal. I started watching alone.
At first, I’d just steal a minute or
two in between “60 Minutes” and the
“MacNeil/Lehrer Newshour.” A
pause when switching channels. Just
a taste, really.
I’d come home from class and zip
through the cable fare. “Headline
News,” “Yo! MTV Raps,” “The
Jeffersons” reruns. Everything else
was so bland. Nothing else gave me
that “Saved By The Bell” buzz, that
lift to keep me going.
From seconds to minutes, from
minutes to hours. By the end of this
summer, I found myself watching as
many as three episodes a day.
It was so easy. I didn’t have to plan
my schedule around “Saved by the
Bell.” It was always there for me. On
KPTM and WTBS. On the
Superstation and Saturday mornings
on NBC.
When I reached out, it was there. In
the mornings, the evenings. And in
the afternoons, when most half-hour
Eventually, my friends stopped
calling. Even “90210” watchers
don’t want to be seen with a Bell
head.
shows wore off and the craving was
almost too much to bear, “SBTB”
Came through for me with back-to
back episodes.
I knew it was wrong. 1 was warned.
I’d heard the rumors, seen the public
service announcements.
—“This is your brain. This is your
brain on ‘Saved by the Bell.’” —
But once I started, I couldn't stop.
Laugh if you will, but “Saved by the
Belr filled a void in my life. Sudden
ly I was happier than I’d been since
they canceled “Kids Incorporated.”
But it still wasn’t enough. Even
after two hours of classics—like the
time Zach and Skreech used sublim
inal messages to win Kelly and Lisa’s
hearts — I felt empty inside.
I found myself watching the hard
stuff —“Saved by the Bell, the New
Class” and ‘The College Years.” Even
cheap “Saved by the Bell” imitators.
As‘The Bell” consumed more and
more of my waking hours, 1 could
hardly function anymore.
“Class? I can’t go to class. Mid
term, schmidterm. Today Slater and
Jessie get trapped in the basement and
he asks her to the prom. What are you
thinking?"
Eventually, my friends stopped
call ing. Even “90210” watchers don ’ t
want to be seen with a Bell-head.
And I can’t blame them. 1 don’t
like the show either. The acting is
horrible. The characters are neither
believable nor likable.
They are walking, talking stereo
types. A jock, a nerd, a brain, abimbo,
another bimbo and a smarty-pants.
They wear clothes that I never see real
people wear. They say things that no
one with any pride would say.
Yet, to my shame and disgust, if
the nation went to war, I’d probably
find a station—and believe me, there
would be at least one — that was
showing three consecutive episodes
of “The Bell” before I’d watch the
news, even MTV news.
Maybe secretly, deep down in the
darkest part of my soul — the same
part where I sometimes resent my
parents and want to be a pharmacist
— I wish my life was more like the
show. Maybe I want to be more like
Kelly or Jesse.
Probably not.
So why do I watch? The theme
song is catchy, but is that enough?
Maybe it doesn’t matter. All that
counts now is that I know I have a
problem and I’m going to turn my life
around.
I’m going to return to the land of
the living. IYm going to watch more
than just “Saved by the Bell.” I’m
going to watch “Blossom,” too.
After awhile, I might even get back
to class. But I don’t want to bite off
more than I can chew.
Rowell li Junior newt-editorial, advertii
Ing nnd English mnjor and a Dally Nebras
kan columnist.
Catch the UNL CROSS COUNTRY TEAM in action
in their first varsity meet of the season at the
1993 WOODY GREENO/NEBRASKA INVITATIONAL.
SATURDAY
Women's race 10 a.m.
Men's race 10:45 a.m.
Pioneers Park
|| FREE ADMISSION_
I ■* t^h ^TTHTiJ
I V I V i %r 1 k ▼ A I m—d k1 I
^■TrrnrTsil^B
ON SALE
AT TWISTERS
GETS
$10.97 $6.97
Selections
"Just Another Victim"
_ii— HeknetHouseofPain
"Another Body Murder
Faith No More/Boo-Ya TMbe
"Disorder
q Ice-T/Siayer
■ "Judgment Night"
Onyx/Btohazard
"FalSn"
' Teenage Fan CUxOe La Soul
"I Love You Mary"
Sonic YtxJthCypressHi
"Freak Mama"
Mudhoney/Sir Mbt&Lot
"Me Myself & My Microphone"
Living Cotour/Run Dmc
"Missing Link"
Dinosaur Jr/Del
"Come and Die"
Therapy/Fatal R J
"Real Thing"
Pearl JamCypressHM
• .JE
Prices effective
through 9<30>93
