Sacred treasure
Scrapbook brings back 20 years of life .
I cried the other night.
A cruise through my scrapbook
doesn’t always have that effect on
me. But I don’t always turn 20.
The chance to reminisce was
sobering.
The cry wasn’t a sad cry. Mainly
it was a cry about being over
whelmed. It was strange to see bits
and pieces of my life taped to worn
pages. One thing I came across was
a letter my mom handed me one
morning seven years ago.
And now, just before my 20th
birthday, I read it again.
It was a sweet conglomeration of
words and love. A kind of reaffir
mation why I love the woman —
beyond the fact that she’s my mom.
I don’t know if I understood the
words then; I don’t know if I
needed to.
It’s one of the few pieces of
correspondence I have — from my
mother or anyone else. Sometimes,
like the other night, I feel robbed
by the telephone.
So that letter means a lot to me.
And so does the scrapbook that I
put together on whim. Someone
with great foresight gave it to me.
Looking back and through the
book, I’d consider my 20 years full
and rewarding.
The first few pages are of my
childhood and so many of my
favorite memories come from that
part of my life. Good God we had
some fun times!
I can’t count how many forts we
built, the number of cops and
robbers chases through the alleys,
or the many bags of Weaver chips
and popcorn we consumed.
I’ve thought about my first
dalliance with love and the first
rose I ever sent a guy. It was
beautiful — a single red rose in a
pretty glass vase. I also wrote him a
terrible poem, which I still have a
Jessica Kennedy
“I’m excited about
turning 20. For most
people, it’s another
birthday— with no big
events. But not me. The
scrapbook got me
thinking. Twenty is a
biggie for me. ”
copy of in the book.
I have a couple pages dedicated
to the memory of my grandfather. I
find those hard to look at. It doesn’t
seem right that he isn’t here to see
me turn 20.
When I was a little girl, he used
to take me to Aksarben to watch
the horses exercise and warm up.
Then we would go to the pancake
house and have pancakes and
chocolate Elsies — the creative
combination of a plastic gow cup
and chocolate milk.
The chronicles of some amazing
travel experiences that I’ve been
able to have, thanks to my family.
San Francisco is most definitely the
most memorable. An earthquake, a
pro-baseball game, the beach, a
baby buffalo being bom and a
cruise on the bay.
Pictures of my friends, remind
ing me of all those times when you
start laughing and can’t stop. Until
your stomach and sides hurt.
I’m excited about turning 20.
For most people, it’s another
birthday — with no big events. But
not me. The scrapbook got me
thinking. Twenty is a biggie for
me.
My parents set the precedent
when I turned 10. After all, it was
the end of my first decade, quite
the accomplishment in their eyes.
We went to the Renaissance
room in the Comhusker. I got to
order anything on the menu and the
ashtrays were whisked away by
attentive servers before my parents’
cigarette ashes had a chance to
cool.
But what I remember most is the
cake. It was terrible. I find it funny
now, but it certainly bit it back
then. It was super sweet and full of
nuts.
I still don’t like birthday cake.
In fact, when I celebrate at home
next week, I’m having frozen
pumpkin ice-cream pie.
But I don’t have any pictures
from it — the Comhusker is not
exactly the kind of establishment
that you snap a quick picture in.
So, instead I’ll be having my pie
with my family and some friends
and taking all the pictures I want.
And when I turn 30, I’m sure I’ll
be looking through a new scrap
book, crying. I hope that there’s
another letter or two for me to get
mushy over.
And I definitely hope that I’ll
have a dried rose or two taped to
the pages.
Kennedy Is a broadcasting, advertising
and public relations major and a Daily Ne
braskan columnist.
Odd
Lost romance binds opposing music styles
The other day, in my biology
lab, an acquaintance of mine
caught me singing a country tune.
He knew it was a country song
because I accidentally spit tobacco
juice on my microscope when 1
changed octaves.
“Oh God,” he sighed. “Why on
earth would you listen to country?”
I tried to explain that my great
grandparents would come down
from heaven and attack me if I
listened to anything else, but it
only added to his confusion.
“Hey,” he squawked. “You
know what happens when you play
country music backwards?”
“What?” I inquired, because I
can take a joke.
“Your wife comes back to you,
and your dog comes back to life!”
“You sucker,” I giggled, while
shaking an erect index finger at
him. “That’s a good one.”
When he returned from the
bathroom, he didn’t even notice the
tobacco juice that accidentally
found its way into his chair.
My dog Skippy, who’s probably
at this moment thinking about how
much he misses me, would love to
have a chomp at this guy. You see,
dogs and country music are what
life is all about.
Country music is clean, honest
music with good morals, and unlike
“gangsta rap,” the only violence it
inflicts is against die listener’s liver.
I think even the staunchest of
rap-lovers would like country
music.
After all, both styles concentrate
on losing girl friends. The main
difference is that country singers
have hair on their heads and
generally don’t tend to take their
shirts off as much in videos.
There are also mild differences
in the wording. For example, in
places where a country singer
would use the word “darling” or
“baby,” rap artists might feel
Steve Willey
“For example, in places
where a country singer
would use the word
darling'or ‘baby,' rap
artists might feel
inclined to use the word
‘ho' or ‘gangsta ho.'”
inclined to use the word “ho” or
“gangsta ho.”
If you need more concrete
evidence, consider the following
country verse from any number of
popular country favorites:
“Darlin,’ please come back ta
me.”
The rap version essentially
states the same message, only in
different words:
“Yo gangsta ho, brang dat booty
home.”
Both styles indicate an extreme
desire to have a loved one return
home; it’s merely expressed in
different manners.
I often wonder if Snoop Doggy
Dogg would get along with George
Strait. They both stand at the zenith
of their respective careers. How
would their conversation go?
“Congratulations on yore
success Mr. Dogg, you’ve got quite
a fan club out there.”
“Rat-a-tat-tat, one-eight-seven,
beeeeech!”
“Er — I see, can I get you a beer
befbre suppah Mr. Snoop?”
“Hell naw fool. I’m from the
street, beeeech, bom right there on
the sidewalk.”
“I just asked if y’all cared for a
beer, I didn’t...”
(Snoop, sensing a bit of awk
wardness in the conversation,
decides to rectify things by demon
strating his brilliance with words.)
“Straight up. It’s all good.
Chronic dope. Know what I’m.
saying?”
(Snoop leaves amongst a fury of
bullets, abolishing all contact with
George Strait — except for some
reason he sends George bar
mitzvah cards on weekends.)
I’ll be the first to admit that this
scenario is a bit far-fetched and
moreover, not humorous in the
least, but it could be possible.
I’m not implying that all rap
music is anti-Christ; I actually like
some of the slower rap ballads.
It’s those hard-core thumping
songs that cause me to crouch
behind my curtains at home, and
curse God for giving me ears.
What is it about rap music that
requires its listeners to instantly
remove the shocks from their
vehicles and spend their life
savings on speakers.
I can’t explain this phenomena,
but I suppose that rap listeners feel
that their music is much more
enjoyable if it is shared simulta
neously with the rest of the state.
As time goes on, I’ll do my best
to understand rap music and die
artists who perform it, but don’t
expect it to be a quick transition.
Maybe it would help if they
chewed tobacco in their videos.
Willey b aa ag-joaraaUsm major aad a
Daily Nebraska* cohunafst
...doomed
Feb. 7,1995
Spirit of Dr. Seuss
tackles tale of Juice
‘Butprosecution is where
The burden of proof is,
And although it’s not perfect
Here’s what the truth is:
If the Ju ice s excuses
Beat what the proof is,
It won’t be too long
‘Til the Juice on the loose is. ”
The following column by
Doug Peters was printed Feb.
7,1995. A lot of water has passed
under the bridge, but the words
of this, um, poet still seem to
ring true.
It was a long time ago, re
ally. But not so long. Remem
ber how it felt to be totally in
the dark?
Truth about Juice forsooth.
When I was a small child, my
mom read Dr. Seuss books to me
almost every night.
Dr. Seuss had a way of ex
plaining complex things, such as
the importance of trying out new
things before deciding whether
you liked them.
“I do, I do like Green Eggs and
Ham! I do so like them, Sam I
am.
If Dr. Seuss were alive today,
he would still be tackling those
complex issues, breaking them
into bite-sized pieces for us to
digest and comprehend. And what
issue could possibly be more
complex than the O.J. Simpson
trial?
More than seven months ago,
95 million people watched a white
Ford Bronco crawl down the 405
freeway in Los Angeles.
In the months since, countless
millions have followed the events
Surrounding the O.J. Simpson
case, intimately getting to know
Simpson, his friends, his late ex
wife, a bunch of lawyers and a
judge named Ito.
The early reports of the case
were bizarre; the facts that have
come out since the trial began
have been even more weird.
And Americans, hungry for
some insight into the events of
last June, glue themselves to the
tube in a daily ritual viewing of
Court TV and CNN.
The O.J. Simpson trial, regard
less of the verdict, will have a
profound effect on our society. It
will do more than propel the al
ready-bright careers of lawyers
such as Carl Douglas and Marcia
Clark (although it may end the
career of Clark’s hairdresser).
It will do more than get Judge
Lance Ito a guest spot on
Letterman next fall. It will tell us
how well our system works. It
will tell us whether the legal
phrase “innocent until proven
guilty beyond a reasonable
doubt’’ actually rings true.
It’s a confusing issue. There’s
no doubt about that. What’s more,
with six months of trial remain
ing, it’s bound to get incredibly
weird.
At times, I’m tempted to give
up trying to figure the whole thing
out.
But this time, at least, in the
spirit of Dr. Seuss, I have tried to
shed a little light on the subject:
It started in June
With a chase that was slow.
We watched people yell
Go, O.J., go!
Go, O.J., go, O.J.
Go go go go.
But some didn’t cheer,
Some held up nooses.
They didn’t believe
All the Juice’s excuses.
Now there’s a trial.
It’s on TV.
See the big trial.
Come watch it with me.
See the trial, see the trial.
See see see see.
We watch and we watch,
We grin and we grin,
‘Cause we don’t find ourselves
In the mess that he’s in.
The media held court.
He’s already been tried.
“He did it!” they cried.
“He should be fried!”
Fry O.J., fry O.J.
Fry fry fry fry.
But prosecution is where
The burden of proof is,
And although it’s not perfect
Here’s what, the truth is:
If the Juice’s excuses
Beat what the proof is.
It won’t be too long
‘Til the Juice on the loose is.
In a courtroom world where
the characters are stranger than
any of Dr. Seuss’ creations, this
little explanation may not do the
trick. I suppose that shouldn’t
surprise me. Some things even
Dr. Seuss can’t explain.
Peters is a graduate student and a
Daily Nebraskan colnmnist
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Or by phone at (402M72-1782.
