Heather
LAMPE
Collective craziness
Obsession about bags of beans bodes ill-will
Forget Waco. Forget the Heaven’s Gate
cult. There’s a new bunch of wackos in town,
and they’re as close as your nearest
McDonalds. People have gone completely
nuts over a piece of cloth stuffed with plastic
beans.
They’re called Beanie Babies, and they’re
causing mass hysteria across the country. I’ve
yet to understand or appreciate how a piece of
felt stuffed with beans could become a
collector’s item, but I missed the New Kids
on the Block bandwagon, too.
On a recent trip to McDonalds, I was
nearly killed as I waited in line for a ham
burger. Two women in front of me got into a
brawl over the last set of Beanie Babies. I had
no idea that a Happy Meal toy could cause
such hysteria until I saw a grown woman beat
another woman with a napkin dispenser. It
was a scene I’d never care to see again.
Some McDonalds were just selling the toy
without the purchase of a Happy Meal.
McDonalds sold a two-month supply in 13
days. The scary thing is that it’s not the
children that seem to be going insane over
them, it’s the adults. If they think they can
resell them and make a buck, then who cares
about the little girl who doesn’t get a toy in
her Happy Meal?
“Get your hands off that you little shrimp.
It’s mine, all mine!”
“But Mommy!!”
Several days after the Happy Meal
incident, I again found myself caught in a
Beanie Baby frenzy at the Nebraska Book
store. I went in to buy a birthday gift and was
caught in the middle of a new shipment.
After seeing one woman body slam a little
boy for the last Spike the Rhinoceros, I
decided it was time to leave.
People were filling two and three of those
red shopping baskets to the brim. At $9.95 a
pop, three basketsfull can add up. The lady in
front of me bought $300 worth of the stupid
things. What kind of person buys hundreds of
dollars worth of stuffed animals?
“I’m sorry I won’t be able to donate to
your charity this year. I spent all my extra
money on some brightly colored bags of
beans. I wish I could help feed those Guate
malan orphans, but I had to have them.
They’ll be worth a lot of money someday you
know.”
It’s not like they’re covered in gold. They
aren’t antiques and they aren’t rare. The
corporation that makes them is making fools
of all these people. Right now they’re hard to
find, so people are grabbing up every one
they can find. But give it two months, and
the company will distribute more. What kind
of company would stop making an item that
they’re making millions from? Remember
Tickle Me Elmo? At Christmas they were no
where to be found, now the shelves are
stocked.
Maybe I don’t understand the frenzy
because I’ve never been a collector. I’ve
never found anything worth collecting. I had
a friend who was completely obsessed with
collecting stamps. Every time the post office
released a new stamp, she was the first in line
to get if.
“Oh my God, they’ve released the limited
edition Gary Coleman collection. It features
highlights from his many years on “Diff’rent
Strokes.” I must have it.”
Collecting things requires too much
patience for me. One has to wait years for
items to be worth anything. Those crazy
women at the bookstore will be dead by the
time those bean bags are worth anything.
I have one of the first Cabbage Patch Kids
ever made, still in the box. No one is knock
ing down my door. I have a box of National
Geographic magazines from the early 1920s,
but I’ve yet to see any dividends. I have mint
condition vintage baseball cards from the
1950s, but they’ve yet to make me a million
aire.
You can own every Beanie Baby and every
“Star Wars” figure ever made, and I won’t be
impressed. When you have Van Gogh’s ear or
one of Elvis’ sideburns, give me a call.
Lampe is a senior news-editorial and
English major and a Daily Nebraskan
columnist.
sieve
WILLEY
O’Willey
Poet laureate-elect rhymes into history
Two weeks ago today, I received a letter in
the mail with no return address. It was
yellowed with age, and a faint odor of
tobacco smoke tweaked my nose as I punc
tured the seal with a pencil.
The single page was dated Oct. 17, 1967.
Scanning the page, I saw that it was signed
Allen Ginsberg — a famous poet and social
observer of the time.
Recognizing Ginsberg’s name and
recalling that he had recently passed away, I
collapsed into my chair in disbelief. Care
fully, I began to read:
“Dearest poet: If you are reading this, then
it is truly a disheartening day, for I must have
embraced eternity. Damnit! And I had so
much more to do! Oh God, I hope someone
turned off my coffee pot. Anyway, I am
writing to you because you have been chosen
to continue my legacy of poetry.
“Your poetry — which divine guidance
has thrust to my attention — shall change the
world. It will make the blind see, the deaf
hear and President Clinton ethical. And you
must publish your work, for writing poetry
without allowing people to inhale its mean
ing denies humanity its inherent right to live
free. The galaxy demands that you not shirk
this responsibility.”
At first I believed the letter was a hoax —
perhaps from my father, as he often sends out
letters like this. Just last week, he sent my
cousin a letter pretending to be the ghost of
Abraham Lincoln. In that letter, my cousin
was instructed by “Lincoln” to rid the world
of ceiling fans as “they keep knocking off my
ghost hat.”
But Dad always makes the same revealing
mistake of writing letters on his own person
alized stationery. So, the letter I received was
indeed authentic. Accepting its validity, I
hastily ran to my room and fumbled through
my box of high school assignments. I was
searching for the last poem I had ever
written.
A manilla envelope from Pat Stansbury’s
English class my senior year revealed the
poem entitled “The Tulip.” A red “F” was
circled in the top left-hand comer, and the
teacher had scrawled the word “Disgusting!”
underneath it. Slowly, I re-read it:
"There 1 lie, face down, naked, in a brook.
With a tulip sprouting from a place only
enemas dare to look ”
Clearly, I had no business writing poetry
back then, but had I changed? Why would
Mr. Ginsberg choose me now? Indeed, I ask
myself that question even as I write this. But
there are things in this world that innate
logic does not permit me to understand. So
indulge me as I recite a few poems I have
been laboring on.
Now Lnnsberg was perhaps most famous
for confronting pertinent, timely societal
issues with his poetry. In his honor, I will try
to do the same.
The first poem is entitled PIZZA HUT OR
DOMINOES—
Pizza Hut or Dominoes, which will it be?
Thirty minutes or less, and the latter is free.
Unless of course driver wraps car around
tree. In which it’s Pizza Hut delivered to me.
Deep dish, regular, crunchy or thin.
Pepperoni, sausage or the triple-cheese sin. I
can eat a large Dominoes all by myself. To
order the Hut would require more wealth. So
many choices, all so hard for me. Pizza Hut
or Dominoes, which will it be?
(You are now supposed to stand up and
yell, “Brilliant! It’s pure genius!” Though
one shouldn’t do this if one is sitting on the
toilet, or others might think one’s getting
excited over something one shouldn’t
probably get excited about.)
This next poem describes one man’s
painful struggle to get a date: TOUCH ME —
I would shower every week if I thought it
would help. And never again would I do my
“spontaneous yelp. ’’ They frighten girls, I
know. But how else do I show, “I’m happy
with you. ”
Sometimes I think I’d he better off dead.
‘Cause a cramp in my leg s all I get in bed. I
call up the girl, but she’s fled to the border.
And if I persist? Restraining order.
I’ll comb my hair and clean the house. I’ll
do whatever it takes. Like my third ear
removed? A new car? I’ll buy any model or
make. I just want to be loved, a docile hand
on my face. And not have to pay money to
get touched below the waist.
(For this poem you are supposed to glance
at the person sitting next to you, quickly
shuffle to the sports section as if you weren’t
reading that poem and silently think: “You
know, I’d bet that poem was about Steve.”)
And finally, a poem for you graduating
seniors. SO YOU’VE GRADUATED MAGNA
CUM LOUSY—
You ve labored J or years to earn your
degree. You ’ll hear “Pomp and Circum
stance, ” such a sweet melody. But have you
given much thought to how it would be? If
vou couldn’t find a job, that paid more than
$2.33.
There is much competition, in this world
of ours. And experience, not degrees, is what
gets you far. So there goes the down payment
on that house and new car. You ’ll lose all
your friends and call home “Harry’s Bar. ”
So move back with the folks, they won’t
mind at all! Or join the military, just give
them a call.
You thought life was just starting, you
were filling the void.
But we ’ll still be students, while you ’re
just unemployed.
(After reading this poem, if you’re not
graduating, you’re supposed to sigh and
exclaim, “Man, I’m glad I ain’t graduatin’.”
However, if you are graduating this semester,
there is a “Steve Lynch Mob” meeting in the
union today. The room will be posted.)
Mr. Ginsberg, I hope you’re proud.
Willey is a senior news-editorial major
and a Daily Nebraskan columnist.
Guest
VIEW
R.I.P.
Fox divorcing
‘Married with
Children'
NORMAN, Okla. (U-WIRE) — It has
been said that nobody ever went broke
underestimating the intelligence of the
American public.
This postulate is (6
proven with every
wretched episode of
7 _
U1V 1 V 311UW
“Married with
Children.”
Mercifully, the
Fox network
recently decided to
cancel “Married,”
the longest-running
sitcom currently on
television.
I find this last
statement unbeliev
able. “Married with
Children” is a
dinosaur, a creature
of a cruder age of
television. It is a
place where
inflatable-woman
jokes are considered
so funny that they
are included in
every episode.
It is a show that
punishes viewers
for any trace of
independent
thought.
Granted, this
does not separate
the show from the
mass of TV
programs. It’s just
that “Married With
Children” seems
The day we
have lost
the ability
to be
disgusted
at stupid,
guttural
tripe like
‘Married
with
Children’
is the day
we have
renounced
our
decency. ”
aggressively
ignorant; it seems to flaunt its stupidity.
I do not purport to be the arbiter of all
things funny. Yet “Married with Children” is
surely funny only to the obnoxious laugh
track blaring through every episode. This
show asks the viewer to suspend disbelief,
good taste and a desire for original humor.
I, for one, reject the notion that bathroom
jokes represent the culmination of human
sensibility.
The saddest thing about the last decade is
that “Married with Children” has lost its
shock value. It is no longer able to revolt its
audience. This is the result of our own
decadence more than a sudden loss of
creativity on the part of the show’s writers.
We have become a culture that is no
longer ashamed that impotence jokes are on
our public airwaves.
Instead, we slap a meaningless rating on
such a vile piece of filth and think nothing
more about it.
mat s not enougn. me aay we nave tost
the ability to be disgusted at stupid, guttural
tripe like “Married with Children” is the day
we have renounced our decency. It is a very
sad day indeed.
I remember when “Married with Chil
dren” first came on the air, a group of
suburban housewives called for a national
boycott of the show on the grounds that it
stereotyped women. <.
Ironically, their protests had the effect of
publicizing the show, of lending credence to
its brainless humor.
These housewives were undoubtedly
material for jokes on later shows, what with
their out-of-touch notion that women are
anything more than bonbon-eating slugs or
bleach-blond tramps.
Herein lies the greatest problem with
“Married with Children”: Every group with
any sense of morality is fodder for its juvenile
humor. Somewhere between Al’s complain
ing, Peg’s whining, Kelly’s whoring and
Bud’s masturbation cracks, everyone who
isn’t dysfunctional is ridiculed.
It is a great personal relief that “Married
with Children” will no longer curse Monday
nights on network television. It is a great
concern of mine that there was any market
for the show in the first place.
— Stephen Galoob
The Oklahoma Daily
