Bein’ green ain’t easy at UNL
All right, I’ll get this out of the
way right now—I’m not very
artsy.
I like art. I don’t object to art. I’ve
even been seen hanging around a
museum or two with my eyes glazed
over, clutching my chin and sinking
deep into thought.
And sometimes, I’m not even think
ing, “What the heck...”
As much as I adore art, modern art
flies over my head like Wonder Wom
an’s invisible jet. I know it’s up there;
I can see the whole Justice League
hanging out and I can see the dotted
lines, but I can’t figure it out. I can’t
quite reach it.
I’m not proud. I’d like to appreci
ate modem art. I try really hard. It’s
disheartening to think that such laud
ed and talked-about stuff should com
pletely baffle me.
I try to hide my modem art illiter
acy. When in the presence of my high
falutin’, away-at-prestigious-art
school friends, I try to look affected
by Picasso and Mondrian.
I tollow their lead and oooh and
“ahh” in all the right places, like
someone who laughs at a dirty joke
she doesn't get, just so no one thinks
she’s a prude.
So last year when the campus was
caught in the uproar surrounding
“Greenpoint” — the infamous hunk
o’ metal between Andrews and Burnett
halls — I was quiet.
I listened to the natives roar.
“It’s hideous.” “It’s a waste of
money.” “What moron picked that
out?”
But I didn’t say anything. I didn’t
want people to think I had less culture
than stale yogurt.
I kept my mouth shut until I was
finally alone with Greenpoint. And
then, when all of its defenders and
critics were faraway, I looked it square
in its rusty side and said, “Blech. You
are ugly.
Later, “Greenpoint” became a safe
ty issue for me. It seemed an ideal
place for would-be criminals to hang
out. There exists no way to see if
someone is lurking within the sculp
ture. I knew that one day, I’d be
walking by and some ne’er-do-well
When choosing art or sculpture in
the future, the folks in charge
should give us art we can actively
partake in. Maybe a giant
“Where’s Waldo” mural on the
side of Hamilton Hall or even a
great big swingset.
would jump out and victimize me
before you could say “aesthetically
displeasing.”
I haven’t thought much about
“Greenpoint” this year.
Maybe the controversy that was
“Greenpoint” last year has mutated
into the green-space scandal that en
gulfs us now. Something about the
word green really pushes buttons on
this campus. Maybe if they called it
puce space, everybody would say,
“Wow. Great idea.”
I like green space, in theory. I’ve
said it once and I’ll say it again —
nothing beats a park, especially if it
has a swingsct. But I also sympathize
with all those whiners and complain
ers who don’t want to walk far from
their parking space.
I had a parking space once.
It was very far away and I didn’t
enjoy the long walk. I was so afraid I’d
lose my spot and never find another
one that I left my car there and walked
home.
That was a few weeks ago. Maybe
I should go check on Lady V, make
sure she still has all her hubcaps and
check her tire pressure.
Maybe we could make everyone
happy by only allowing green cars to
park in the lot.
I suppose walking from a remote
parking space could be dangerous,
too. But frankly, walking ANY dis
tance alone at night is far less than
safe, and complaining about the park
ing lot just distracts us from the real
campus safety issue—which, forme,
will always be “Greenpoint.”
Ah, back to “Greenpoint.” #
Yesterday my friend Dan almost
made me change my mind about
“Greenpoint.” Oh, I still think it’s
darn ugly and all that, but maybe it
isn’t completely useless.
Dan has discovered that
“Greenpoint” is an excellent place to
play the didgeridoo — his musical
instrument of choice.
Like so many other young men
bogged down by puberty, Dan took up
the guitar in high school. Apparently
he now thinks there’s just too much
competition for a guitar player, so
he’s shifted his attention to the afore
mentioned aboriginal instrument.
Dan tells me that the didgeridoo, a
long hollow tube, originated in Aus
tralia and has pretty hefty phallic as
sociations.
Yesterday at high noon, Dan played
his didgeridoo in the middle of
“Greenpoint” to a crowd of me, a few
passers-by and his girlfriend.
He’s impressed with the acoustics
of “Greenpoint.” The didgeridoo, in
' my experience, sounds a lot like a
psychedelic moose. “Greenpoint”
enhances its sound and makes it sound
like a much bigger, much spacier
moose.
1 think Dan's hit on something
here. 1 like the idea of interactive art.
People like audience participation.
Look at the success of the “Hokey
Pokey” and that “Hip Hop Hooray”
song.
When choosing art or sculpture in
the future, the folks in charge should
give us art we can actively partake in.
Maybe a giant “Where’s Waldo”
mural on the side of Hamilton Hall or
even a great big swingset.
A really artsy swingset.
Jg. 1 V
Rowell Is a aews-edMorlal, advertisiag
aad English major aad a Daily Nebraska!
colu maiit.
Squirrels just wanna have fun i
hrggmph,” I mumbled to
myself, “so this is grass.”
I sat up, partially disen
tangling myself from my bicycle. Then
I spied the squirrel and counted my
self lucky. I scrambled over to its
motionless little body. I seized it in
my hands and quickly performed the
Heimlich maneuver. I heard a faint,
yet distinctive crunching.
“Oops,” I said. I put the furry casu
alty in my pocket and pedaled stiffly
home. That made six for this week.
The next morning, after chasing
six squirrels from mybathtub, I began
to feel a bit troubled. Where were they
all coming from? There is no Pharaoh
in Lincoln, so I ruled out a heaven
induced plague. I decided to put my
$174 “student fee” dollars to work
and ask a certified University of Ne
braska smart ypants.
Dr. Lynch is a professor of biolo
gy. He was surprisingly receptive to
my squirrel concerns. He informed
me that it was a lack of predation that
was causing the squirrel population
boom. A housecat would find a squir
rel to be easy pickins, but many cats
are kept indoors for their entire lives.
When I asked if soon my neighbor
hood rodents would grow larger than
their only serious predator, the mighty
Buick, he did not laugh at my anti
quated Lamarckian ideas.
Apparently it is not the burliness of
the squirrel that ensures survival, but
the hastiness.'It would be dam near
impossible for a species of automo
bile-immune squirrels to come into
existence. Their diet would have to
differ drastically from thatofthesauir
rels currently on the market, and the
population would be far more sparse.
Artificial selection is entirely an
other matter. It would be possible for
I shuddered as I thought of Earth
in the 24th century, swarming with
chubby golf players talking on
cellular phones. We’ll be sitting
ducks when the Klingons invade.
-1
human scientists to engineer geneti
cally the giant squirrel, in the spirit of
such atrocities as the Pekinese and the
seedless tomato.
I, for one, would hardly be sur
prised if the brewers of America, the
same fiends responsible for the
criminalization of marijuana, decid
ed to let loose the giant squirrel on the
unsuspecting citizens of our fair city.
Or Exxon could be responsible. Exxon,
a place where the diabolical and inex
plicable are company policy.
Thus, deeply engaged in thought, I
barreled home from Dr. Lynch’s of
fice.
The nex{ thing 1 knew, I was once
again face down in the grass. A guy
was yelling, seemingly angry that I
had nailed him with my bicycle. I
rolled over and gasped.
“Stop,drop, and roll!” I yelled. He
was all pink and doughy. In a fit of
dementia he, or someone else, had
dressed him in a dark, neatly pressed
suit. He obviously needed some help.
He only glared scornfully at me and
wiped on his polyester/wool blend
trousers. I watched him walk off and
realized in horror that he was joining
an entire landscape of Brooks Broth
ers cellulite. More than half of the
casual downtown strollers were ...
BUSINESSMEN.
Where were they all coming from?
I thought back to what Dr. Lynch had
told me of Darwin's thrones. If there
is some feature that certain members
of a population possess that makes
them more attractive to the opposing
gender, that trait will become more
common as these members get more
action. An example would be colorful
pi umage or an enlarged wallet. I shud
dered as I thought of earth in the 24th
century, swarming with chubby golf
Klingons invade.
Gosh, maybe Exxon is right. If
businessmen had to battle fierce giant
squirrels on their ways to work, per
haps it would make them stronger.
Perhaps men would once again be
come fighters and hunters, animal
blood spurting onto their bare, hairy
chests. Someday I could have a mate
who drags me by my head into our
suburban four-bedroom house to do
his bidding. This time the conspira
tors were one step ahead of us. Men’s
survival instinct has been reduced to
applying for college and wearing co
logne . This was truly a coup de Perrier,
I marveled.
Petatrop li a top So no re EagUib major
and a Dally Nebraakaa colunalit.
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