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About The daily Nebraskan. ([Lincoln, Neb.) 1901-current | View Entire Issue (Oct. 1, 1999)
OF THE WEEK
I plan to become a native Nebraskan.
Much-mourned Melvin Jones, vice chan
cellorfor business and finance, who died
'Tuesday in Washington D. C.
City campus is landlocked. You can
Stan Campbell, representing the University
Association for Administrative
Development on the pros of building a
He called me by name. I was pretty
UNL student who received anonymous
threatening phone calls
I thought that was really strange, and I
told my older brother. He asked me
what it meant and said fate could not
have been talking to me, so I went back
Sun Chi-kwang, survivor of Taiwan s killer
quake, buriedforfive days, dreaming he
would be rescued
Washington is not an edifying spectacle
in terms of government and politics.
Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist David
I am told that there isn’t anything more
painful to suffer than death by burning.
Assistant Attorney General Kirk Brown,
seeking the death penalty for Francis
Seberger, convicted of killing his wife
There’s been this stairway upward since
the death penalty was reinstated.
Richard Dieter, of the Death Penalty
Information Center, on the increase of exe
cutions since 1976
A loss like this -1 thought it was part of
RobRiti, Missouri’s All-American center,
after his team s inevitable loss to Nebraska
I’m pumped! I made Web.
Sam Donaldson, after the launch of a his
toric Web-based news show
We’re pretty broad. We don’t subscribe
to a certain point of view on women’s
Tagi Adams, women s studies graduate
We get to a certain point in the game or
the match and think that, because we’re
Nebraska, we are going to end up win
Jill McWilliams, setterfor NU’s volleyball
team, on a possible cause of recent losses
In the trenches, though, it’s just pure
hate. There’s pulling and scratching and
eye gouging and whatever you’ve got to
do to get the job done.
Dominic Raiola, Husker center
AND IN THIS ISSUE:
You hear of guys scratching out each
other's eyeballs, although that's never
happened to me. I know it goes on,
Nebraska rush end Aaron Wills on play
inside the trenches
— - - |
Unsigned editorials are the opinions of
the Fall 1§99 Daily Nebraskan. They do
not necessarily reflect the views of the
University of Nebraska-Lincoln, its
employees, its student body or the
University of Nebraska Boaid 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.
The Daily Nebraskan welcomes brief
letters to the editor and guest columns,
but does not guarantee their publication.
The Daily Nebraskan retains the right to
edit or reject any material submitted.
Submitted material becomes property of
the Daily Nebraskan and cannot be
returned. Anonymous submissions will
not be published. Those who submit
letters must identify themselves by name,
year in school, major and/or group
affiliation, if any.
Submit material to: Daily Nebraskan, 20
Nebraska Union, 1400 R St. Lincoln,
NE. 68588-0448. E-mail:
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FROM THE EDITOR
No Money in My Pocket,
No Whiskey in My Jar
I’m down to loose change, again.
Counting pennies from ajar, one at a
time, trying to make a buck so I can
cram another burrito down my sorry
When the change finally gives out,
I have a couple old buttons I leave in
there to clank together; you know the
devil loves the silence of an empty
I guess I’m supposed to be grateful
to have as much as I do. By some stan
dards, I am fabulously wealthy.
You know, I spent Monday night in
a cardboard box.
It was part of that “Shantytown”
fund-raiser you may have noticed on
campus (DN, Wednesday), and I was
Cold and wet? Sure, a little.
I think I could live in a (water
proof) box, no problem.
Dear Daily Nebraskan
I am the rocking horse winner. I
can see the future from my teetering
Childish tricycle I pedal furiously,
making the sound of a motor with my
mouth. Vroom! Vroom!
How long have I strutted this tiny
stage, black and white and read all
over, runs in my stockings, clutching
this preposterous paper skull?
Letters From the Editor?
That’s right, “Yakkity Yak, Mark
Writes Back!” Come here, I’ll give you
I just woke up one day, and there I
was, editing the opinion page, not at all
sure how I’d gotten into such a sticky
position - for a second time - what a
I’d always suspected the universe
was an endless loop, God’s favorite
eight-track, turned on some time ago
and left turned on forever.
If I’m doomed to repeating parts of
my life, at least they could be better
By the Time You Read This
I Will Be Dead
Sort of protracted, for a suicide
note, don’t you think? I’ve Been at it 10
years now, almost. At this rate I’ll live
to be a hunnert.
And so what if I’m taking my time?
The world at large goes swimming bf.
I’ll drop myself in the drink when I’m
good and ready, sink or bob.
I’ll have no need for a life preserv
er then; I’ll dog-paddle till I dip
beneath the surface, panting.
Whether I “make it” before then is
no real concern of mine.
I know the last bubbles of my
breath will spell out, in cartoon sound
effects, the strange final notes of my
I Got You, Babe
Where is the Cher to my Sonny?
The Barbara to my George?
The mouse to my trap ...
My home is a factory, frozen in the
moment just before the boiler blows, a
static chaos about to erupt into motion.
I step over unffesh strata of laundry
to the door, close it on a sandal and
edge my way out onto the darkening
fire escape to stare at the Capitol.
As the trees go bare it will slowly
emerge, an annual striptease that
leaves me erect with desire for a city
with no more use for me than to make
me wait my turn as a stick figure in its
perpetual game of hangman.
I will take longer and longer walks
as the nights turn colder, my coat grow
ing more threadbare with the moon,
my teeth, more and more yellow.
... slinking like a dog between
A Musical Interlude
I perform with a band no one
understands. It’s like we’re
playing in Chinese, ferpete
ing girls in
skimpy costumes glowing in the dark
(the girls, not the costumes) and a
silent, “manster” movie from 1920 (ah,
those German expressionists!), plus
If you set up your jazz combo on
the floor of that factory, you know,
where they build the UFOs, it might
sound a little like HOWLOOSEANA
TION, and then we’d have to sue you
for ripping us off.
Anyway, Oct. 8 & 9, 8 p.m., 504 S.
Seventh St. And I promise not to show
my penis (this time) except by appoint
What will be this year’s “THE”
costume for Halloween? The Y2K Bug
of course. Stock up on wiggling anten
nae headgear, and you’re sure to make
That’s “Mr.” Baldridge to You
What is Mark Baldridge up to? His
column (DN, Today) was even more
wangdangly than we’ve come to
expect from the wangdangliest of the
DN’s remarkably wangdangly colum
nists. Can’t something be done to stop
his maddening diatribes?
a disgruntled reader of the Daily
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