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About The daily Nebraskan. ([Lincoln, Neb.) 1901-current | View Entire Issue (Aug. 26, 1994)
--1—i.m _ i—-—:—> Dummies should just shut up Tonight the Nebraska State Fair will enter the increasingly misnamed realm of alternative music. For tonight at 7:30 p.m. the masses will gather to witness the Crash Test Dummies in action. I won’t mince words with you. I hate the Crash Test Dummies. Oh. at first I kind of liked them. I admit it. I was hooked by that “Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm” song. So I borrowed the album from my neighbor. The novelty quickly wore off. If all you’ve ever heard of the Dummies is that “Mmmm, Mmmm” song, you’ve heard the entire album. Ail the songs sound just like that one, and that man’s voice never changes. He just drones on and on like some sort of mutant emphysema-stricken mosquito. And every song, every last one, has inane lyrics. Remember that guy — or gal — who sat in the front of your philoso phy class? You know tne one. The one who just couldn’t shut up. It doesn’t have to be philosophy. It could be English, history, anything. At the beginning of the semester, everyone thinks they’re just eager. They raise their hand for every question. Or sometimes they just start talking for no reason at all. About their wedding plans. Or their special research in cold war espionage — including who really killed JFK. The rise and fall of the Egyptian civilization. Civil War tactics. Their family vacation. And how it all, everything ever, relates to the final season of “Star Trek — the Next Generation.” They also like to drop high falutin’ names, to show how much they know about everything. “Nietzsche,” they say. “Descartes, Descartes.” They firmly believe that every thing they ray is profound and relevant, even profoundly relevant. Remember that guy— or gal— who sat in the front of your philosophy class? You know the one. The one who just couldn t shut up. But every time they open their mouths, the class turns to them with a collective, “Whaaaaat?” Not because they’re impressed, but because they can’t believe anyone could act like such a doofus. Professors try to be civil and try not4o stunt anyone’s creative juices. “Thanks for sharing,” the professor says, cutting off Mr. or Ms. Knowitall. “But let’s let someone else talk now.” But the students can’t take a hint. Or two. Or 30. By the end of the semester, the professor cuts the loudmouthed offender off mid sentence. Ah... I digress. 1 was talking about the Dummies, the Crash Test Dummies. I’m quite sure the lead singer and songwriter for the Dummies was one of those annoying classmates once. After he graduated, he found he had no captive audience upon which to inflict his irrelevant musings. So like countless other talentless whelps, he cut a couple of records. It doesn’t take long when all your songs sound the same and you ramble mindlessly rather than write real lyrics. Their album getting attention now is called “God Shuffled His Feet.” (Out of boredom, no doubt. He certainly wasn’t tapping those holy feet to any sort of pleasant rhythm or beat.) If you’ve never sampled the album, here’s an especially painful taste: “Well, take my fingers/ What do fingers really mean to me/ You can easily look them up in the dictionary:/ They call them digits or technically they’re known as the ‘phalanges.’” Rock on. If I would have known there were such kick-butt lyrics in my biology book, I wouldn’t have sold it back for a lousy $8. I don’t know the name of the Dummies’ lead singer. I could probably find out, but it’s harder to say mean things about people when you know their names. I don’t wish any ill will to him. My heart goes out to him, really. Maybe he had a traumatic childhood or something. Something had to happen to make him the tedious bore he is today. He bears an uncanny resemblance to a member of the Muppet band. Maybe his dreariness is the result of years of pain working under Dr. Teeth’s iron fist. I can’t tell you what to do. I’m not your mama. Go see the Crash Test Dummies. Maybe you’ll think, “Wow. He is SO profound.” Maybe you’H dance and sing and enjoy it just to spite me. More likely you’ll think, “I wish he would just shut up.” I warned you. Rowell It a senior news-editorial, advertising and English major and a Daily Nebraskan associate news editor and columnist. ‘Reunion of American lowlife’ One of this summer s high lights comes from Saugerties, N.Y.: A scrawny, shirtlcss, long-haired, fortysomething hippie lugs his backpack up the New York country side. As the gentlemen passes a CBS News camera, he exposes his yellowed buck teeth and mutters, “Hey, man. I’m looking for some acid. I’m gonna fry my brain.” And so began the 25th anniversary of Woodstock. This reunion of American lowlife we call Woodstock ’94 was both good and bad. On the bright side, it gave those baby boomers who had longed for their “glory days” a chance to see how doltish they looked 25 years ago, decked in their hippie apparel, and how even more idiotic they appeared today—wrinkles, flab ami all. The negatives of this subculture conference, however, outweigh the positives. While some of the ’94 Woodstockers were of the baby boomer generation, far more be longed to the age group labeled “Generation X*— today’s twentysomethings. Wo<xistock ’94 promoters touted a drug-free prairie romp. Yet images of these callow love-children wanna-bes puffing on marijuana pipes infested TV reports. Tne tragedy of Woodstock ’94 goes beyond the lie-dyed shirts and beyond the rebellion without a cause. Woodstock ’94 represented the glorification of a failed philosophy and counterculture — both of which manage to plague American society today. In 1969, Woodstock was held to celebrate the counterculture of the ’60s that fought established society values with so-called “love, peace and harmony." By attacking America’s existing values, the radicals of the ’60s and the Woodstock generation forever changed America and her societal standards. By the early ’70s, the hippie subculture had created a moral and spiritual vacuum, weakening the foundations of American society. Thus Thanks to the Woodstock generation, 1969's societal ills have turned into an epidemic in 1994. small, vocal cultural minority had — and still has — the backing of our mainstream media, universities and liberal politicians. Together, they disassembled traditional America and her way of life. Gone was the stress on hard work, thrift, sanctity of marriage, fidelity, sexual self-control and, perhaps most distressingly, personal responsibility. The Woodstock era and its results were headed by the baby boomer generation, which was, at the time, still young, rebellious and ignorant. The hippie philosophy was a fad for an entire generation. The privileged, discontented, well-to-do liberal youth of the late ’60s enjoyed their experi ments with sexual libertinism, drugs and social rebellion. They rejected traditional values such as work, family, faith and individual account ability, while toying with admiration of the underclass. The underclass — those from the inner city and the working class who were below the poverty line — stood up, took notice and joined the fun. Tnis was their chance to mingle with those in the upper echelons of society and break the stigma of their eco nomic conditions. As time progressed, the privileged hippies traded their beads for beanies and headed to college. Others went directly to the work force. But the impoverished and working classes were stuck with their “fad* lifestyle. The privileged gave up their drugs for bottles of Evian, while the underclass made drugs a permanent feature of inner-city life—along with violence, addiction and crack babies. At the same time, the sexual revolution wreaked havoc on the low class family: Increasing divorce rates, illegitimacy and single-parent families made for the fall of inner-city America. But worse than the drugs and sex of the Woodstock generation was the self-centered message they invoked to America’s underclass: To hell with the values and personal qualities needed to escape poverty. Instead of an underclass trying to live the American dream, a welfare class was created. The hinpies tumed-yuppies, on the other hand, graduated from college, acquired good jobs, built homes in the suburbs and raised privileged families. Thanks to the Woodstock genera tion, 1969’s societal ills have turned into an epidemic in 1994. And in spite of the past mistakes, lessons do not stick. Some 170,000 people bought tickets for Woodstock ’94, despite a $135 ticket price. And for one weekend in August, a handful of privileged folks got to wear tie-died clothing, wallow in the mud, puff some pot and pretend they were society’s worst enemies, when Monday came, the “hippies” got cleaned up and went home, back to the suburbs from which they came. All the while, the rest of America watched from outside police-protected wire fences. And one can only hope America’s underclass was covering its eyes. Karl U a Juator newi-editortal aiajor a ad a Dally Nebraakaa staff reporter aad columeUt. CYCLE WORKS 27th & Vine 475-BIKE BACK TO SCHOOL SPECIAL LINCOLN'S LARGEST SELECTION OF BIKES AND ACCESSORIES. INCLUDING U-LOCKS, LOCKS AND CABLES. OPEN 7 DAYS A WEEK. 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