--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.
VISA
KHS MASTERCARD
AMERICAN EXPRESS
I-1 AND DISCOVER
1- ACCEPTED
yiavtm_ „
A ten-dollar bill buys you
nonstop midway rides these days:
Friday, August 26 6 p.m. - midnight
Sunday, August 28 noon - 5 p.m.
Monday, August 29 6 p.m. - midnight
Tuesday, August 30 6 p.m. - midnight
Wednesday, August 31 6 p.m. - midnight
Thursday, September 1 6 p.m. - midnight
Friday, September 2 6 p.m. - midnight
Monday, September 5 6 p.m. - midnight
August 26-September 5 • Lincoln
- V, . ■ .- -— — r-r- ■,
