Mark
ALBRACHT
Split personality
Oh, to be able to be in two places at once...
I feel like George Jetson. I find
myself screaming “Stop this crazy
thing!” nearly every day. I yell it loud
and in all sincerity, but it’s not a
runaway treadmill that I want off—
it’s this crazy
planet.
There is
nothing so bad as
wanting some
thing you can’t
have, and a moon
rocket out of here
is certainly
something I
won’t be getting
soon. Desiring unobtainables causes
one to lose sight of real options. It
puts delusions in people’s naive
heads that relief is just over the
horizon, driving the Happy
Winnebago of Oblivion. As irony
more ironic than Alanis Morissette’s
fame would have it, I can’t seem to
heed my insight and escape my own
delusions. It’s not a moon rocket I
want, it’s a clone.
I went to the Starship 9 movie
theater last weekend. The Starship
makes an affordable ($1.50) moon
rocket for a couple hours a week. I
saw “Multiplicity.” It was a funny
movie. More importantly, it was a
movie that made me realize how
much I want a clone.
Life has become an avalanche of
“things to do” that have buried me
more with each passing year. I’m no
help to myself — constantly adding
instead of subtracting activities. I
don’t know what compels me to do
this. I’m not particularly masochis
tic, but I can’t seem to help myself.
«
Desiring unobtainables causes one to
lose sight of real options. It puts
delusions in people’s naive heads that
relief is just over the horizon, driving
the Happy Winnebago of Oblivion.”
This is probably how nervous
breakdowns occur.
Mankind has created all sorts of
inventions to simplify life and, save
for the microwave oven, every one of
them has succeeded in making life
more complicated. The remote
control for instance—genius in
theory—gives the common man
fingertip mastery of the machine that
masters man. With cable television
thrown into the mix, viewers widdle
their lives away in a continual thumb
twitching surf. Instead of instantly
recognizing that there is nothing
worth viewing, they are hopelessly
duped into believing that what they
want lies at the next flip of the
network. This activity only ceases
when the device is inexplicably
missing, whereupon the viewer
huddles in a comer, whimpering like
a beat puppy.
It seems that a clone is certain to
be one invention that would join the
ranks of the microwave. We would
first have to get past the fact that this
new technology will be brought to
market by a team of mad scientists,
as it is only raving lunatics who
attempt to create new humans. (Read:
Dr. Frankenstein and Dr. Moreau)
But once we are comfortable with
cloning’s origins, we can reap the
benefits.
Michael Keaton handled his
clones like an idiot. Instead of
planning out ahead of time how he
and his clone would utilize each
other, he jumped right into the
situation and let the madcap adven
tures ensue—which ultimately led
to the creation of two more clones.
He also had several unfair rules by
which the clones had to abide,
namely they were not allowed to
have sex with Andie MacDowell.
If I had a clone, I would plan
things out with him so that both our
lives were simpler. If Andie
MacDowell was my wife, I would let
my clone have sex with her. He is,
after all, me. And I wouldn’t want
him to think I was a jackass.
My done would be useful right
now by helping me write this
column. It would go something like
this:
_ “Hey clone, would you please
help me write this column?”
“Sure, what do you need?”
“Well, I was hoping we could
bounce a few ideas off each other.
You know, create a creatively
conducive environment.”
“You like throwing around those
big words, don’t you?”
‘Well I...”
“Create a creatively conducive
environment? A little bit redundant,
isn’t it?”
‘Well, it’s effective in conveying
meaning, I think. Besides, I like the
alliteration of the hard C’s.”
“Alliteration? People don’t want
to hear that crap.”
“I think they do.”
“I don’t like how you refer to me
as your clone.”
“But isn’t that what you are?”
“It’s too demeaning. I’d prefer to
be known as the clone.”
The clone. Fine, whatever you
say.”
“What’s all this flowery prose at
.. the top supposed to be?”
“Flowery prose?”
‘“Relief is just over the horizon
driving the Happy Winnebago of
Oblivion.’ How pretentiously
comball is that?”
“Maybe I don’t need your help.”
“You don’t, huh?”
“No.”
“Fine,jackass.”
Of course, there could be one
drawback to having a clone. You
might not like him. Oh, well. Here’s
to staying on this crazy planet.
Albracht is a junior philosophy
major and a Daily Nebraskan
columnist
Jessica
KENNEDY
Fuzzy forever friend
Teddy bears are better than boyfriends
Even though I’m a “big girl” now,
things still go bump in the night, hide
in my closet and lurk in the darkness.
The magical “21” has come and
past, and I’m still prejty sure that
there are ghosts
and goblins and
ghouls out there
in the depths of
my apartment.
I cry at
sad movies,
moving stories
and sappy TV
dramas. I cry for
good reasons and
stupid reasons. I cry about personal
crises.
And through it all, one person has
been there for me unequivocally.
He’s always ready to let me cry on
his shoulder, squeeze him when I
need a hug and listen to me howl and
scream.
Oh, and is he a marvelous
listener!
He never passes judgment, never
interrupts and never corrects me.
■ & ■ i i-Ti:- -'' ■ ;
The most important thing he’s
never done is let me down.
Even after 15 years of abuse, he
still loves me. , V
«
I was turning 6 when Corduroy
entered my life. And even at that young
age, I knew we were meant to be.”
Granted, I’ve worn him down a
bit; he’s a little softer and definitely
scruffier.
But he’s mine, all mine.
I was turning 6 when Corduroy
entered my life. And even at that
young age, I knew we were meant to
be.
My parents tell me that Corduroy
almost didn’t happen. They were
just out of law school; struggling and
poor. But when Dad saw Corduroy in
the window of J.C. Penney’s, he
knew that somehow, I had to have
that bear.
And have him l did.
Best damn present I ever received.
Corduroy is my teddy bear.
Almost everyone has had a teddy
bear at some time or another. And
almost everyone knows the therapeu
tic value of such a beloved itetp.- ,
l ij.' v' r if i' :i> f' r* » t j .
He looks a lot like a fuzzy
Butterball turkey. He stands about 18
inches tall and has a round butt like a
weebil-wobbel.
Corduroy is the perfect size to
curl around when you need to keep
out all the evil and icky things.
You can always find Corduroy on
my bed or nearby; I sleep with him
almost every night. I sleep better on
the nights he is with me.
It hasn’t always been this way.
. Sure, when I was little, Corduroy
and I were inseparable. But in junior
and senior high school, I was just too
cool to sleep with my childhood
teddy bear.
For a while, a tiny white bear took
Corduroy’s place. I thought—at the
time—that it’d be cooler to snuggle
with the bear my boyfriend gave me
versu? the one from my parents.
J i -• >• , ; i • ■ _ „ . .
Then I learned that boys come and
go, but teddy bears will never leave
you.
On a whim, I decided to bring
Corduroy to college. That decision
has proved to be one of the smartest
I’ve ever made.
I shudder when I think of all the
things Corduroy has helped me
through since I was a freshman. The
boys, the jobs, the grades, the cold
nights_
I worry about what will happen to
Corduroy when I get married and
snuggle with someone else every
night. I suppose he’ll find a home in
my hope chest—alongside my
“blankey” and my flute and my first
doll.
Maybe I’ll put Corduroy away
until there’s someone special to give
him to—maybe a daughter or
granddaughter or special friend.
I’m sure he’ll be able to bring joy
into another person’s life someday.
But for now, Corduroy’s still
mine, and we have a few more crises
to get through before he goes
anywhere.
Kennedy is a senior advertising
and broadcasting major and a
Daily Nebraskan columnist
