Commentary
Impatience fuels frozen fury
If patience is a virtue, it’s just
one more virtue that this girl doesn’t
have.
I hate to wait. I mean, I really,
really hate to wait. It has become a
problem. My increasing lack of
patience is making me dangerous to
myself and to others.
I once thought I could control my
weakness with long breaths and
slow repetitions of counting to 10,
but I was wrong. Recently at a local
grocery, I came close to becoming
the perpetrator of an attempted
murder with a box of frozen
cauliflower.
It started out innocently enough. I
was perusing through the fluores
cent-lit aisles, mulling over whether
I wanted “Rotini arid Cheese” or
“Macaroni and Cheese.” (Variety is
the spice of life, you know.) I
moved from one artery-clogging
item to the next until I spotted the
white-trash version of hors
d’ouevres, pizza rolls!
There they were ... cheesy,
chewy, saturated with animal fats
and preservatives, and I wanted
them. I would donate organs for
pizza rolls. But in front of the two
frost-covered freezers that held my
cheesy confections stood two
women. Their ages and descrip
tions don’t really matter. All that
does matter is that for a mere
moment, I felt an animalistic urge
to tear off their arms and legs and
beat these women with their own
limbs.
For 10 or more minutes, while I
stood shivering in the frozen-food
section eyeing my square-shaped
snack foods, these women held a
sort of Geneva summit dealing with
Marge’s new hairdo and Blanche’s
new recipe for vegetable cheese
soup.
“I use the California-style
vegetables in my soup. I just love
Bird’s Eye. They’re so fresh,” said
Heather Lampe
Blanche.
“I prefer the Jolly Green Giant
myself. The way he stands all virile
and potent, looking like a masculine
piece of asparagus... wouldn’t I like
to steam him,” replied Marge.
Okay, this isn’t the exact conver
sation, but it did have something to
do with cheese soup and Marge’s
new perm.
But not once did they notice me
standing there with my 150-pound
basket of groceries. I kept waiting
for them, hoping one of them would
look at me and think, “Oh my,
maybe we should get out of this
ravishing young woman’s way. She
is busy, and she doesn’t have time to
stand in a grocery store all day. She
seems to be angry. Her eyes are
bloodshot and watering, and there
seems to be a white foam coming
from her mouth. Why, it appears at
any moment she could lunge across
the popsicles and physically harm
us.”
It never happened. When I
noticed my hair graying, I ended up
squeezing between them and their
vegetables to get my rolls.
My impatience followed me to
the check-out counter, where I
proceeded to get in line behind a
middle-aged shopper who had yet
learned to count. Standing in the 20
items-or-less aisle with my six
items, I noticed that the counting
impaired individual in front of me
had nearly 40 items. (I counted.)
By this time, I was so irritated
that I sat my pizza rolls on the gum
rack, spouted off some obscene
language and left. It may have
seemed rash, but I’m the type of
person who drives over the curb out
of the drive-thru line if it takes too
long.
My impatience also strays into
other areas of my life. People more
than 75 years of age are quite
familiar with my middle finger. I
like to wave to them with it when
they drive 15 mph in a 40-mph
zone. I also have nice relationships
with women who fail to see the
green light (after it’s turned 3 times)
because they’re applying war paint
at stop lights.
I like to blame Western society
for my give-it-to-me-now-I-can’t
wait affliction. Look at what its
done to us. Commercials have given
us all attention-deficit disorders. It
is almost impossible for us to stay
interested in anything for more than
2 minutes. Why do you think we
have a 50 percent divorce rate? If
you can’t sit through two minutes of
an Alka Seltzer advertisement, how
are you supposed to deal with years
of matrimony?
As I have proven, fast food isn’t
even fast enough. We want it, and
we want it now. People don’t wait
for anything anymore. If you don’t
want to wait to get a letter, you can
have it faxed. If you can stay
interested in marriage for more more
than 5 minutes and want to try it,
they now have drive-thru wedding
chapels.
Anything that we used to wait for
is now available on the computer.
Hey, they’re even developing
grocery-shopping over the Internet.
Anything to get away from
Marge and Blanche.
Lampe Is a junior news-editorial and
English major and a Daily Nebraskan col
umnist.
Powerful or pretty—pick one
mnary, wnat can I say. 1 teel for
you.
Just the other day my son Justin
called me a “fat butt,” and he’s not
even a registered Republican — yet.
And yesterday a couple of teen
age boys actually barked at me
while I was out walking the family
canine — future United States
Senate material, no doubt.
So don’t take it too hard.
In case some of you haven’t
heard, Spy magazine played a bit of
tomfoolery on a group of freshman
Republican senators and posed as a
publication for GOP teens. Report
ers then asked the group if they
thought Hillary Rodham Clinton
was pretty.
“She’s not my type,” said Sonny
Bono of California. (Just who IS
your type, Sonny?)
“She’s not a dog, but I—you
know — she’s not gorgeous. I’d
give her a five,” said Steve Chabot
of Ohio. (Aren’t you going to wait
for the swimsuit competition,
Steve?)
Robert Ney, also of Ohio (Is
there something in the water up
there?) said he thought Clinton was
attractive. But not being able to
leave well enough alone, he went
beyond pretty, to comment, with a
giggle, on the first lady’s figure.
“She has big hips, but I can’t say
that.”
Sorry, Ney, you already did.
Gaffe. Gaffe.
Perhaps Spy magazine over
stepped its bounds. But then again,
maybe it’s time we debate the pretty
vs. powerful issue and decide once
and for all which is more important.
Or do we have to choose?
Is a critique of one’s looks a
prerequisite for a visible position in
politics? When was the last time the
media had a field day over Newt
Gingrich’s less-than-granitejawline,
Cindy Lange-Kubick
his dinner jacket or his Phil
Donahue-copycat coiffure?
Someone once said, “Better that
a girl has beauty than brains,
because boys see better than they
-think.”
Seems Rodham Clinton has
acquiesced to the political winds of
change and decided that appearing
is preferable to doing—softening
not only her hairstyle but her
politics as well.
News of her latest endeavors
center on a mother-daughter get
together in Egypt and redecorating
the Blue Room instead of revamping
operating rooms. She’s gone from
policy-making to homemaking.
A recent People magazine
photograph shows Ms. Clinton,
arms stretched heavenward, looking
ecstatically aloft at a particularly
pleasing paint job at the White
House.
“My one hope was that we could
create a more blue feeling in the
room, but not make it so blue that it
would be dark and shrink the room,
especially at night,” Clinton told the
press.
Yes, I have a dream: the perfect
shade of indigo.
But who can blame her, really?
In a culture gone mad over appear
ance, Hillary’s revolving hairdos
and the front-page media commen
tary on her personality, looks or lack
thereof, are as common as wolf
whistles at construction sites and
facelifts in Beverly Hills.
And what a bizarre dichotomy
for our daughters. When the most
powerful woman my daughter can
think of is Madonna, the person
she’d most like to emulate is Cindy
Crawford and the message she gets
from the world in general is to
succeed and look damn good doing
it, life in the year 2010 doesn’t seem
real promising.
Unfortunately the missive that
seems to have implanted itself in the
minds of most young girls, like
silicon gel in the Hollywood Hills, is
if the going gets tough, take care of
your fingernails and your bustline
first, finance and biochemistry later.
(Many grown women succumb
to this philosophy as well. A
friend who ran into an old school
mate, now possessing her doctor
ate, had this commentary on the
encounter: “She’d put on a lot of
weight, and she looked old.” The
message: her brains sapped her
looks, and who cares about
success if you have to lose your
waistline to get it?)
So the verdict is in. Take your
pick, Hillary, powerful or pretty,
homemaker or health care advocate.
We’re not about to let you do both.
And the next time my son mutters
“fat butt” at me behind my back, I’m
thinking of you and Congressmen
Ney, Chabot and Bono. (Don’t you
think Sonny looks cute with his foot
in his mouth? I’d give, him a six if it
weren’t for his scrawny bird legs.)
By the way, Hillary, I just
painted my kitchen white, and it
really makes the room seem bigger.
And it’s a lot easier on my eyes
when I open those dam medical
bids.
Lange-Kubic k is a senior news-editorial
and sociology major and a Dally Nebraskan
colnmnlst
Talk show trash
taken to the limit
No one knows exactly why
Scott Amedure decided to go
courting on the Jenny Jones show.
Why does anyone go on these
shows, baring their heart’s desires
and their life’s disappointments to
strangers?
“He led a troubled life,” says
his brother Frank. Last year, some
men had beat him and smashed
his truck. Once he was missing
for two months. But for whatever
reason, on March 6, he decided to
expose himself as the “secret
admirer” of Jonathan Schmitz.
Maybe Amedure thought that
the spotlight would provide a
warm glow of safety. Maybe the
applause of a studio audience, the
recognition of viewers, would
provide an understanding venue.
Jonathan Schmitz apparently
went into this event unaware. He
went for the kick of it. For the trip
to Chicago, for the chance to be
on TV, for the harmless joke of
being on a show about secret
admirers. Why not?
When he saw his friend Donna
Riley in the studio, he assumed
that she was the one. When it
turned out to be Amedure, the 24
year-old Schmitz sat politely and
said that he was heterosexual and
not interested.
In the etiquette of talk shows,
the guest is supposed to go along
with the joke, to be the life of the
surprise party. He doesn’t tell
them to take the candid camera
out of his face. He is a good
sport. But three days later,
Jonathan Schmitz snapped.
Whether it was homophobia or
humiliation, the anxiety of
waiting for the show to air or the
follow-up note from Amedure on
his door, the Michigan man
bought a 12-gauge shotgun and
five rounds of ammunition. “I just
walked into his house and killed
him,” he told the 911 operator.
“He was after me day and night.”
This murder sounds like a
perverse subject for another talk
show shocker: “Can A Talk Show
Be An Accessory To Murder?”
Or: “What Happens To The
People After The Show Is Over?”
But the shock is that it didn’t
happen sooner.
Back in 1992, Geraldo once
had a father and daughter on his
show talking about their incestu
ous relationship. Later, the father
kept calling up and telling the
staff that he was thinking about
killing his daughter.
Since then, trash TV has
expanded enough to turn the
daytime schedule into a waste site
of abnormality and amorality.
Guests arrive, carrying their ex
husbands and excess baggage,
their pathos and their problems.
Ellen Goodman
Then they are summarily dis
posed of.
We never know what hap
pened to the 12-year-old star of a
Gordon Elliott show entitled “My
Child Is Underaged And Over
sexed.” Or what happened after
the reunion staged by Sally Jessy
Raphael between four daughters
and the father who deserted them
20 years ago.
If talk shows were old-time
carnivals, the ringmasters would
have some understanding of the
performers, some obligation to
their ongoing side show. But in a
world of revolving guests, the talk
show’s “guests” are temps, one
night stands sent back to live their
lives as best they can.
Jenny Jones didn’t put the
shotgun against Scott Amedure’s
chest. She is a former stand-up
comic and before this murder, she
worried about her guests: “What
do we do with the feelings that
come up?” But every host,
producer, booker, knows that
when you deal in surprise, shame,
embarrassment, you may also get
rage.
i aiK snows in tne 1 yyus are
like quiz shows in the 1950s. The
old quiz shows tricked viewers
into believing they were witness
ing the real thing, brains in action.
The new talk shows trick viewers
into believing they are watching
real emotions in action. They
trick guests with the belief that
life and its problem can be
resolved in one public hour.
Jenny Jones never knew Scott
Amedure’s history or Jonathan
Schmitz’ breaking point. The TV
match made between a “secret
admirer” and the unwilling,
unsuspecting object of his
affection was as rigged as any
quiz show.
It was rigged against real life.
Rigged to treat emotions like
entertainment. Rigged to deal
with the feelings of strangers,
casually, between commercials,
with an eye on sweeps week. And
now with this gruesome murder,
we know that the show was also
rigged for disaster.
© 1995 The Boston Globe Newspaper
Company
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MikeLuckovich