K VII H is I ki I*
Student fees eat grocery money
There was not a bowlful of food
in the house. Maybe because
the bowls had been eaten last
week.
I looked at the ceiling woefully,
then it hit me. I ran to the closet and
threw open the trap door to the attic.
Why hadn’t I thought of it before?
There was the fiberglass insulation,
spread lavishly before me like a smor
gasbord. The nights would be a little
colder now, the air leaking in and
chilling my bones like a Muzak ver
sion of “Smoke on the Water.” At
least my belly would be full. I flopped
down and ripped up handfuls of it,
stuffing my cheeks full. The shards of
fiberglass dug into my tongue. The
fluffy filler expanded in my mouth,
propping it open and rendering my
jaw immobile.
I smirked. The secretof Pizza Shut
tle was a secret no more.
Alas, thought I, if only I hadn’t
spent my last $174 on student fees.
With that much green I could have a
feast! Why I could double, maybe
triple my size! But dreaming sucks.
Then I thought of Sophia Loren. I
had seen several films m which she
was starving. What did she do, and
how could I look like her while doing
it?
“A thousand curses on you, Ser
vice Counter 117A,” I hissed. I beat
my breast and turned, looking for an
Italian man to spit on. But my foe was
too large. Even Sophia, with her hy
peractive saliva glands, could not take
on the entire administrative staff of
UNL.
I’d spent $174 for what? I had yet
to attend any interpretive dance der
bies at the Lied Center or scamper
around the track at Sappland Recre
ation. I hadn’t even had one of those
free Pap smears that that math major
told me his department offers. They
had bled me dry, all for naught.
How could I get the money back?
libi
Ki
But my foe was too large. Even
Sophia, with her hyperactive saliva.
I glands, could not take on the
| entire administrative staff of UNL.
I pondered. Maybe I could go to the
Administration Building and explain
my situation, and fill out some sort of
Refund of Student Fees Form in trip
licate, requiring the signature of my
department adviser, who has only
actually appeared in his office in pho
tographs in the Weekly World News.
It would be almost as pleasant as
driving an Oldsmobile hood orna
ment into my thoracic cavity while
watching reruns of “Family Matters.”
No, I thought, the semester is only
halfover. I will get my money’s worth!
Activities will be my food! I will be
nourished by rich involvement, fed by
crunchy school spirit!
The next day, I rose BEFORE noon
and hurried to the Counseling Center.
For 45 minutes I confidentially dis
cussed anxiety concerns and organi
zational planning. I deliberated about
my sexual identity, communication
skills, anxiety planning and organ iza
tional concerns.
Next I scurried to the office of the
Ombudsman. We tossed around the
Ombudsbat, careful not to soil the
Ombudscloth.
After Ombudsing, it was off to the
Culture Center. There I talked to White
Studies major Marvin Pratt. We spent
hours listening to Kenny Rogers al
bums and reading the latest volume of
poetry by Suzanne Somers.
I enjoyed a tour of Love Library.
Thus went my entire week. It was
a joy ride of centers, clinics and spe
cial performances. I was emotionally
fat and happy. Then as I lay sleeping,
a tiny thought began to germinate in
my brain. Like a seed. A seed that
would grow into a potato. Which could
be made into a french fry. My stom
ach had stopped growling a couple of
days ago. It was too weak to speak.
Sophia, give me strength!
And she appeared to me. She told
me about the Center for Microelec
tronic and Optical Materials Research.
There they teach how to grind lenses.
As soon as I have achieved interna
tional stardom, she told me, people
will be thrilled to buy anv product
with my name on it. I wouldn’t need
an impeccable sense of style or any
thing, the vision impaired would pay
my bills forever!
International stardom? Athletes are
famous. But they have grace, strength
and years of training. Sophia was an
actress. But she is physically attrac
tive and has a magnetic presence.
Politicians are famous. But they are
charismatic and come from high soci
ety. Bernard Goetz is famous. Why
didn’t he design his own optical line?
Fate was cracking a window. All I
have to do is cause a national incident
to get my name in the papers and then
financial security is mine. Would
“Sherman Tank Kate Specs” fit on
one of those skinny earpieces?
Pdstrap it a *opboa»ore EagjUih major
tad a Daily Nebnukaa columaiit.
K \I\IU>\\ ROWKU
Say no to bell-bottom renaissance
You did it, didn’t you? You
said you wouldn’t, but you
did. Yes, you scoffed when
they told you that you would, but the
cock crowed three times, and you
went and did it anyway.
You wore bell-bottoms again.
Or maybe you haven ’ t rcac hcd that
point yet. Maybe you’re just wearing
stove-pipes, straight-legs.
It could be that you just today, for
the first time since 1983, stopped
folding your jeans at the ankle — the
first step toward ringing the bells.
Go ahead, use some fancy
schmancy euphemism like “free-flow
ing slacks.” A rose by any other name
smells as sweet, and you still look like
Danny Partridge.
Remember how much we used to
hate the ’70s? Remember how we
cheered “WKRP”’s Johnny Fever
when he set off on a one-man crusade
against disco?
Remember in junior high, when
you ripped your second-grade class
picture from the family album? Re
member living in fear that your Izod
polo-shirt-wearin* friends would find
evidence that you once wore a pair of
bells that would make Quasimodo
drool with envy?
I remember mine. They were light
blue with even lighter blue stallions
charging around my legs. “Faded Glo
ry” was embroidered in gold across
the back pockets.
And now, look at us. Like a dog
returning to its own vomit, our gener
ation picks up the garments it once
cast away.
Bring on the platform shoes, we
scream. One more helping of velour
leisure suits, ma’am, if you please.
Thank you, sir, may I please have
another?
Am I surprised? No, not really. For
as long as I’ve been picking out my
own clothes, the hippest, happening
styles have been styles of another era.
Go ahead, use some fancy
schmancy euphemism like “free
flowing slacks.” A rose by any
other name smells as sweet, and
you still look like Danny Partridge.
This trend isn ’ t unique to the world
of fashion. Art, architecture, music—
the gods that shape our culture have
been spewing neo, retro this and that
for a solid decade.
And we’ve swallowed it with our
eyes closed—just gulped it down and
begged for more.
Maybe there truly is nothing new
under the sun. History will just repeat
itself over and over.
But if this is true, then bell-bot
toms must have popped up before the
1960s and ’70s. they just didn’t catch
on with the same memorable fire. Just
another fashion blip in the historical
parade between bustles and beehives.
Maybe this “new” look is really a
flashback to the 1770s. Instead of
those silly knickers and pumps, could
it be that all the big-whigs at the
Continental Congress were really
wearing bells?
Sure, they’re not wearing them in
those cheesy artist’s depictions. But
Ben Franklin probably threw a hissy
and had all the original paintings de
stroyed.
“Come on guys, I don’t want the
French to know f wore bell-bottoms.
They’ll think I’m a jerk.”
So they repainted them wearing
cooler clothes—lacy shirts and tights.
I used to look to the future with
unbridled excitement and anticipa
tion. I thought that by the year 2000,
we’d be closer to the Jetsons than the
Bradys.
Like Jane and Judy, I thought we’d
just push a few buttons and then all of
a sudden be wearing a smashing new
green gown with Saturn rings for
sleeves. That should be the future.
Or maybe we still hate bell-bot
toms and the ’70s just as much as we
used to — we just hate ourselves
more.
To punish ourselves for a decade
of waste and shame that was the 1980s,
we’ve chosen the most repulsive cloth
ing imaginable to wear as our hair
shirts.
Because really, let’s be honest, as
much as we preach that beauty is in
the eye of the beholder, some things
are just inherently ugly — toenail
clippings, open sores, “Greenpoint.”
And bell-bottoms.
And butterfly collars and gold
plated astronomical pendants and,
most especially, clogs.
Can’t we move on? Can’t we put
the past behind us, once and for all?
Let’s do something no one has ever
done before. Let’s break new ground.
Let’s pioneer something, anting.
I feel like I’m stuck in a perpetual
Mountain Dew hell—did it, done it,
seen it, surfed it.
So go ahead—rehash the past over
and over and over again. But as for
me, I will be damned to an eternal
disco inferno if I ever don a pair of
bell-bottoms again.
Rowell to a Jailer aewi-edltorlal, advar
dslag aad EegUib najor a ad a Daly Nebras
ka! cola audit.
v 'wmm'
THERE’S NO SUCH
THINGASA$775CRF
OF GOOD LUCK.
Know the warning signs.
American Heart
Association
C 1992, American Heart Association
Mingle with the
weird and insane at
Haunted House
228 North 12th,
next to Spaghetti Works
October 14-31
7 to 10 p.m. weekdays
7 to 11:30p.m. weekends
Closed Mondays
COUPON JO esrti «f f
See ulking heads telling deranged tales
from their lives, a sewerman with live
rats by his side, an electric woman who
has been electrocuted five times, a
sharkwoman swimming inside a fish
bowl and many other creatures.
Are You Late?
• Free Pregnancy testing
• Options counseling
• Abortion procedures
to 14 weeks
• Saturday appointments
available
• Student discounts
• Visa, Mastercard
Women's
Medical Center
of Nebraska
4930 "L" Street
Omaha, NE 68117
(402) 734-7500
Toll free (800) 877-6337
| HEY PUMPKIN HEAD,
COME SEE US FOR YOUR
) HALLOWEEN THREADS’
Second
UJind
Vintage Clothing and Collectables
720 ’’O" Street (Under the Viaduct)
N CATCH THE GREAT
PUMPKIN CLASSIC
Cheer on the UNL men's and women's
swimming and diving teams
in their first meet of the season
at the 1993 Pumpkin Classic.
FRIDAY, SATURDAY & SUNDAY
Oct. 22, 5 p.m.
Oct. 23,10 a.m.
Oct. 24, 8:30 a.m.
Bob Devaney Sports Center
Admission
$2 - general admission
Free - full time UNL student with photo I.D.
For ticket information call 472-3111
KEYSTONE LIGHT
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WARM CASE 16 OZ. OOU36PACK 16ml
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