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EDITOR
Erin Gibson
OPINION
EDITOR
Cliff Hicks
EDITORIAL
BOARD
Nancy Christensen
Brad Davis
Sam McKewon
Jeff Randall
Bret Schulte
Our
VIEW
Community
contention
Faculty, staff grumbles
deserve attention
Last week, we wrote an editorial about the
growing ire of faculty and staff members over
the new parking - or pricey parking - plan.
As far as faculty and staff discontent,
though, parking appears to be the tip of the
iceberg. Although many faculty and staff
members seem content with UNL, there’s a
growing grumble from the masses.
If it’s not rising insurance and parking
costs, it’s falling department budgets and the
threat of an additional across-the-board bud
get reallocation. It’s brilliant visiting profes
sors who will leave if not offered a contract
extension during the fall - and it’s having no
money to offer those contracts.
It’s departments being forced to save
money by having teaching assistants and
folks with masters’ degrees teach the same
courses that tenured professors with doctor
ates used to teach before they retired or
moved on. It’s the positions left empty when
professors leave because there’s no money to
fill them.
Written down separately, these para
graphs may sound as if they contain small
concerns. Don’t write them off. Little things
add up.
UNL must take better care ot its faculty
and staff members if it wants to rise back into
the second tier of universities nationwide. It
must take better care of its faculty and staff
members if it wants the best students to come
here instead of, oh, say the University of
Missouri-Columbia, which recently lured ris
ing star English Professor Marly Swick.
We’ve talked to a few of the other herald
ed professors who are leaving, and most say
they’re not just leaving because of the money.
They feel a bit beleaguered here.
Perhaps its the constant barrage of finan
cial worries. Perhaps its the discomforting air
of change on a campus waging hard battles
over budget reallocation, diversity issues and
massive campus construction projects.
If it’s the money, then we wholeheartedly
support a 4 percent rise in tuition next year in
order to pay higher faculty and staff salaries.
Sure, we’ll graduate 4 percent more in
debt. But we support the hike because we
know that good teachers and their support
systems mean better classes and better educa
tion. Budget cutting sounds good to the politi
cians clamoring for constituents’ votes, but
even we poor students know: You get what
you pay for.
If it’s not the money - if it’s something
more that money can’t fix - we hope that fac
ulty and staff will be forthright and express
themselves, instead of letting the usual peo
ple be the martyr spokespersons to the admin
istration. We also hope that administrators
take this discontent seriously and not write it
off as the work of a few disgruntled naysay
ers.
From the top down, UNL must learn why.
the grumbles are growing.
Editorial Policy
Unsigned editorials are the opinions of
the Spring 1999 Daily Nebraskan. They
do not necessarily reflect the views of the
University of Nebraska-Lincoln, its
employees, its student body or the
Univeisity of Nebraska Board of Regents.
A column is solely the opinion of its author.
The Board of Regents serves as publisher
of the Daily Nebraskan; policy is set by
the Daily Nebraskan Editorial Board. The
UNL Publications Board, established by
the regents, supervises the production
of the paper. According to policy set by
the regents, responsibility for the editorial
content of the newspaper lies solely in
the hands of its student employees.
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but does not guarantee their publication.
The Daily Nebraskan retains the right to
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Ritter’s
VIEW
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Oink, oink outta here
Battle between pork pushers, veggies ends in arrest
MARK BALDRIDGE is a
senior English major and
a Daily Nebraskan colum
nist
It began with the pigs - with a
particular pig.
It began with some anonymous
vegetarian dressed up to look like a
Pig
Later, as my arresting officers
and I lounged in the air-conditioned
comfort of the interrogation room -
following a breathlessly boring ride
in the back of a sweltering squad car,
the paperwork of rights read and
understood, the inspection of tattoos
(mine) - during that brief lull I sur
prised myself by asking aloud, “But
can you imagine handing out fliers in
this weather, dressed in a pig suit?”
A cop snorted, “It’s hot enough in
this one!”
Yes, it had something to do with
the pigs.
You remember July 17,1997?
No reason you should: sky like a
junk mirror and the bank thermome
ters flashing 99.
I’d heard the Oscar Mayer people
would be cruising Omaha in the
world-famous Wienermobile looking
for children.
You know, for their advertising?
Seems the folks at Oscar Mayer
all look back with nostalgia to the
great ad campaigns of the past - to
the days when “My bologna has a
first name” rivaled “What kinds of
kids eat Armor hot dogs?” as nursery
rhyme to an entire generation of
boomer consumers.
It was a golden age, innocent
voices chorusing catchy jingles:
“Oh, I wish I was an Oscar Mayer
wiener... ”
Salad days indeed for the best
selling packager of baloney, and it
was with some hope of reliving them
that the Oscar Mayer event had been
staged - an event which seemed to
me like something worth recording
for posterity.
I pulled into the Bakers parking
lot, my borrowed camcorder turning
out 30 frames per second. .. .
The cops had already arrived.
Because along with the Oscar
Mayer event, and running parallel to
it, was the Vegetarian Society/PETA
event.
You might well say the two events
fed off one another: While the Oscar
Mayer ladies set up shop in front of
their meaty RY the protesting veggies
waved signs, shouted forgettable slo
gans and generally stood off at a little
distance making a ruckus.
I found the young activists wran
gling inconclusively with a couple of
bored teenagers over whether or not
Jesus ate meat.
Myself, I can’t say if Jesus ate
meat - though it’s a pretty good bet
he stayed away from pork.
As if to illustrate this point, the
vegetarians trotted out some poor '
schmoe in a pink pig suit, bulbous
cartoon head and everything, who
blindly poked “meat stinks” fliers at
anyone who came within his meager
field of vision.
This is what I had come to see,
this Battle Royale with Cheese:
necked pig, giant wiener and - as a
sort of added bonus - a whole school
of black-and-whites with “To Protect
and Serve” stenciled on the side.
io protect ana serve wnat, t won
dered. Wienerschnizel?
The moment had all the markings
of the classic television-will-eat-itself
event and for those lucky enough to
have attended in person it offered up
the stink of a county fair as well.
I tried to record this, to distill it
all onto 8mm video tape. My footage
would have that low-tech, hand-held
look so in vogue since Rodney took,
his beating.
I ran around a lot, played with the
zoom some and pointed die camera
at people; it was fun.
Fun enough that I wasn’t the only
one shooting. The journalists were
out in force that afternoon; I counted
at least three other TV crews in oper
ation. Clearly, the media were having
one of those field days they’re always
having.
And when a mysterious, fat-faced
Mr. X representing the property own
ers - you know, those faceless fel
lows who own, not Bakers itself per
haps, but die entire property : strip
mall, parking lot and all - and told
the protesters to beat it, he was
backed by the full force of the
Omaha Police Department.
“They’re here to make money,”
one protester whined, indicating the
> ( V ’ -f
Oscar Mayer compound.
“We just wanna show compas
sion.”
“You’ll have to do that some
where else,” an Officer Wesack
explained.
“Otherwise we’ll have to arrest
you all, and its too hot for that”
The protesters protested no more,
but shuffled off toward the public
sidewalk.
No one had asked me to leave, I
was not with the vegetarians, and nei
ther did the other members of the
media budge. In fact, they cut a deal:
The protesters were escorted by
police back onto private property.
This was expressly so the press
could get some final statements,
wrap up - a few sound bytes to quip
it all off with.
I stayed behind and mopped up
the colors: black, white, pink, blue,
and the weird half-flesh-tones of the
gigantic fiberglass hotdog.
I had come to witness the news.
In my own way, to report it. I was
about to become it.
“Who are you here with?”
“I’m here with no one,” I tell Mr.
X. His face fills the screen: pale, pit
ted, jowly.
l nave my own came access l v
show,” I tell him. “And what is your
name, sir?”
“You don’t need to know that,” he
turns away.
In a matter of seconds it’s over:
Thirty seconds. ,
“I’m giving you 30 seconds,” the
cop is telling me, “to get off this
property.”
I turn off the camera, a mistake.
“Look, I’m turning off the cam
era,” I say, “I just wanna go over
where the other news crews are, get a
few names, a couple close-ups ... ”
The other film crews have
stopped doing this and are focused
now on us. We can see them from
where we stand, facing one another.
I imagine I look as ugly to this
cop right now as he looks to me.
He is thick-lipped, bald, with
slicked back strands of sandy-colored
hair. The worst kind of permanent
summer sunburn. A big black gun
hangs on his hip.
And here I am, goateed beatnik,
potbellied and Birkenstocked, wield
ing a potentially dangerous camera.
“Thirty seconds.”
And now I’m not sure when to
start counting, from before, or from
right now?