All V way
Moderation is method to enjoying h responsibly
DANIEL MUNSKGAARD
is a sophomore English
and philosophy major
and a Daily Nebraskan
columnist.
I read a book about fun and
paranoia recently. It’s called
“The Pleasure Police,” by David
Shaw, and it’s interesting stuff.
The first chapter alone really
caught my attention with the fol
lowing quote:
“How extraordinary!” wrote
the late political scientist Aaron
Wildavsky. “The richest, longest
lived, best protected, most
resourceful civilization, with the
highest degree of insight into its
own technology, is on its way to
becoming the most frightened.”
He’s talking about us, folks.
We’re in a unique period of
history. No society has existed
before like our own. No society
has had so much leisure, so much
knowledge at its fingertips, so t
much flat out going for it.
And yet we’re so whiny, and
more than a little scared.
We spend our days obsessing
over the latest threat to our
incredibly expanded life spans.
Everywhere we turn, we hear
people screaming at us about the
latest threat to our minds, bodies
or ways of life. And these threats
have an underlying message:
This will kill you.
Which is a blatant exaggera
tion. Yes, there are many things
out there that could potentially
shorten your life span. Some of
the perpetrators are fairly new on
the scene, like the lists of car
cinogens which seem to grow
every day. Others are more
ancient, like sex and alcohol.
Some of them are a serious
problem, others are exaggerated.
For example, just because it has
been discovered that such and
such a chemical can cause cancer
in lab rats doesn’t mean that it’s
a noticeable risk. The doses used
to cause that cancer are usually
way beyond what you’ll be
exposed to in a lifetime.
Ah, but then there’s the more
commonly touted “this will kill
you” trio of alcohol, sex and any
kind of food which tastes
remotely good. Some of this
comes to us from self-pro
claimed health experts, and a lot
of it from self-proclaimed moral
ity experts.
We’re talking about going
way beyond warnings to be care
ful. “Abstain or die” is their ral
lying cry.
It’s a wonder how little we
hear of one simple word: moder
ation. Moderation is a neat thing.
It’s not unrealistic or “boring”
like abstinence, and it’s not bla
tantly stupid like gluttony.
If you have a couple of
drinks, it’s OK. If you have sex
with a monogamous partner and
use some simple birth control,
you’ll probably~be fine. If you
have a thick, juicy steak or a
two-dimensional, charred
McDonald’s hamburger every
once in awhile, no big deal.
It’s not going to kill you.
Another interesting thing
about moderation is it teaches
you stuff like alcohol, sex and
tasty food aren’t bad things. We
tend to demonize what can harm
us, which takes the responsibility
away from ourselves.
It’s abuse that’s the problem,
not the item or act itself.
“This will kill you.” No. Let’s
put that in a more objective, less
reactionary fashion. This can kill
you. This might kill you. But
you’re alive right now, and most
of us have a pretty good chance
at staying that way for quite
some time, just as long as we
take simple, reasonable precau
tions.
But we take little comfort in
that. We’re paranoid, plain and
simple. We enjoy complaining,
and we are fascinated by disaster.
I’m not saying that there is no
cause for concern. By no means.
There are some horrible diseases
out there which can lead to either
a quick death or a miserably
short life. Even more important,
we do some pretty stupid things
that put our lives and the lives of
those around us in danger, things
which can be avoided by no or
minor inconvenience.
But by focusing only on what
can threaten us, we may actually
be doing our health a disservice.
As sociologist Barry Glassner
once put it, “Don’t people realize
... every scientific study shows
that the single best thing you can
do for you health is have fun?”
“Great!” says the reader.
“That means we should go out
and get completely plastered,
right?”
(dead silence)
Come here. Just a little closer
... that’s it. Now lean forward ...
WHACK!
What did I say about modera
tion, hmm? Please tell me how
you can define fun as blowing
large amounts of money every
weekend so that you can become
intimate friends with a toilet
bowl?
I know, I know. There’s more
to it than that, otherwise why
would you do it? Watching a
videotape of yourself being
drunk is somewhat like looking
back at the ’80s: You know it was
stupid, you looked like a com
plete idiot, but damn it, you sure
seemed to have been having fun
at the time.
So don’t get me wrong; I
firmly believe everybody should
have the chance to act like a
slobbering moron every once in
awhile. It’s good for the soul. But
there are other things to do.
things which won’t result in^sli
able gaps in your memory.
“Things like wild, promiscu
ous sex?”
You really want to get me in
trouble, don’t you?
Pestering problems
Marching mice, saboteur squirrels invade helpless home
STEVE WILLEY is a
senior news-editorial
major and a Daily
Nebraskan columnist
Anybody who has ever been to
my immaculate home will probably
•have a difficult time believing what
,I’m about to say: I’ve got a pest
problem.
Well, not me personally, unless ol
course you want to count fee ant
farm I recently uncovered in one of
my nostrils.
What I meant to say is that my
house has a pest problem, and it’s
getting pretty damn serious. Let me
try to paint a picture of just how seri
;ous it is.
First, I want you to close your
eyes and think of every possible pest
you’ve ever heard of. Of course I
'want you to think ot the common
ones, but don’t excludes pests like
gophers, dingoes and Richard
^Simmons. ' ! ' ' -
Next, I’d like you to squeeze youi
eyes together a little harder and
.imagine all of the animals under the
same roof.
<, Finally, picture these pests not
.only happily living together, but
1 actually getting along so well that
they often hold huge beer-swilling
poker games. They tell jokes and staj
up until the wee hours of the morn
ing. And if I dare come down from
the bedroom to ask them to quiet
down, I’m pelted with Ruffles potato
chips and, sometimes, feces! -
(I should note, however, that the
doody is usually only thrown when I
interrupt and one of the dung beetles
is sitting on a royal flush.)
And the sad thing is, I’m only
slightly exaggerating. Twice now,
I’ve come home from school to find
Marlin Perkins from “Mutual of
Omaha’s Wild Kingdom” filming a
new episode in my kitchen.
And hear this: I am not some
spoiled rich kid who grew up in a
home that never knew the occasional
pest. In Mississippi, we had flying
cockroaches a foot long. And if my
father happened to be bored that day,
I was fortunate enough to witness a
drunk goat staggering through the
living room.
But it has gotten to the point now
where I am actually physically com
peting for food in my home. And
that’s one thing I won’t stand for.
My landlord has done nothing
about the problem. “It’s an old
house,” he says. “You could extermi
nate in there until you grow a third
leg; it won’t do any good. Besides,
the bugs pay rent on time.”
But you See, bugs I can handle.
Hell, I can even tolerate the battal- «
ions of mice that randomly march
through my bedroom. • 1
After all, those things
are supposed to be
pests. The pests I really hate arc the
birds and squirrels, and I’m not talk
ing about the gentle ones you might
find in a tree. No, these animals live
inside my home.
I swear I’m not making this up.
Let’s play a real-life game involv
ing one of my roommates, shall we?
One day my roommate woke up in the
morning only to find a cooing pigeon
resting comfortably on his chest.
He should: a) ask the pigeon to
get him some Skittles, b) ask the
pigeon if it gets any satisfaction from
crapping on automobiles, or c) pat
the pigeon on the head and go back
to sleep as this is not uncommon in
my home.
You know the answer, I’m sure.
Those damn birds have built
retirement communities in my home.
These are somany eggs in my attics
that I constantly have to shoo raiding \
foxes out of there with a broom.
And the squirrels aren’t any bet
ter. For the past year, a family has
taken up residency in the crawl space
between the attic floor and the ceil
ing. And you wouldn’t believe how
noisy they are! I am fully convinced
that Iraq is subcontracting the squir
rels in my home to build nuclear
weapons under America’s nose. It
honestly sounds like they’re cutting
through concrete with a chain saw.
And there are so many of them
that the ceilings in our bedrooms
have began to buckle and crack from
the weight. In one room, a small hole
has developed. The squirrels often
drop a straightened coat hanger
through the hole and slide down it
like firemen. They then proceed to
squirt themselves with cologne, grab
a nudie magazine and scurry back up
the pole.
It’s really affecting our mood
around the house because no
one is able t(|ggtjftQre»ihafr two- ,
tfours of sleeft each night. It's jusf^db
noisy. ' -- - ;
Even my sound-sleeping room
mate has trouble catching a wink. It's
not because of the noise, but because
he keeps having the same reoccur
ring nightmare in which 3. tons of
chestnuts smash through the ceiling
and smother him.
Now you might be thinking,
“Steve, if the pests are such a prob
lem, why don’t you just call an exter
minator?”
Believe me, i‘ve tried. V \
The fewfh4 have shown up lied;
my home so wildly jhaj; tiiey**^
knocked themselves unconscious /
when they smacked into the house
across the street.
And I’ve been told, after visiting
my home, none of the exterminators
has been able to work successfully
since.
Therefore I’m forced to handle
the pest control. And luckily for me.
I have had some experience in this
field. You see, I took several pesti
cide classes back when I was an ag
journalism major. ,
By the way, for those of you who
V rwxv/vv, U^, JUUlllUUJlll to 14 1UC4JVS1
in which people are trained to prop
erly report the various rapes and
murders committed by cattle.
So through these classes, I’ve
learned the weaknesses of these
pests. For example, how many of you
knew rats can’t stand Bon Jovi
music? And if you accuse a cricket
of eating pancakes, it’ll immediately
commit suicide.
But even with all of my training,
I couldn’t remember how to kill
birds and squirrels.
So here I sit.
Maybe if I tell them they’re fat,
lazy and I wish they had never been
bom, they’ll leave home. After all, it
worked on me when my father said
it.
Anything’s worth a shot.
At this point, I’m not above set
tling for a peace treaty that requires
my residing in the bathroom for the
rest of my putrid life.
Just as long as it’s pest-free.
