Opinion
D«//) Nebraskan
Since 1901
Editor Sarah Baker
Opinion Page EcStor Jake Glazeski
Managing EcStor Bradtey Davis
Quotes of the week
“I can't stress enough how important out
of-state students are to UNL.”
Joel Schafer, UNL student body presi
dent, on one of the target groups for future
recruitment efforts
“I look at Dave Matthews now and see a
modern-day Huey Lewis. The songs are
nothing but pop drivel. If you enjoy the
music on that disc, you have no soul.”
Columnist Tony Bock, on Dave
Matthews Band’s most recent opus
“We just wanted so badly to beat the team
we weren't supposed to be beat.”
Husker forward Paige Sutton, on the
end-of-season hopes of die team
“A fundamental education has to take us
from the provincial place we all start from,
whether it's geographical provincialism or
ideological provincialism, and then we
enter a world that is supposed to tell us the
world is much more complex than we imag
ined/
English professor George Wolf, on his
unique approach to creating a positive
learning atmosphere
“In the middle of the night, I steal over to
East Campus in my Red Lobster bib with
plastic knives and forks and slice a piece of
cow/
Columnist Dan Leamen, on the luxuries
of college-living
“The festival gets anywhere from 100 to
200 entries in the narrative, documentary,
made for public television and young media
artists categories/
Dan Ladely, Mary Riepma Ross Film
Theater director, on the Great Plains Film
Festival
“Whoa, I seriously cannot believe this/
Jessica Lopez, first vice president-elect,
after it was announced Score! had won the
runoff
“It seemed more of a burden to wrestle
than something to do for fun/
NU wrestler Ati Conner, on a wrestling
slump he has recently overcome
“I'm just trying to get my art out there.
The more people that see it, the better/
Artist Becky Potter, on the non-mone
tary reasons she has opened an art show at
Club 1427
“A public institution of higher learning is
about more than simple statistical informa
tion. It's about exemplifying values and
ideals that are pillars of a just and good soci
ety/
Daily Nebraska editorial, on the impor
tance of diversity in university recruitment
and policy-making
“I use the instrument to communicate
different levels of emotion. It's about play
ing the instrument like a voice/
Clarinetist Richard Stoltzman, on his
approach to music-making
“The possibilities for creative pandering
are probably endless, but the main thing is
to be creative. There is nothing worse than a
boring sin/
Columnist Chas Baylor, on the untapped
potential of the sin business in Nebraska
Edttorial Board
Sarah Baker, Jeff Bloom, Bradiey Davis, Jake Glazeski,
Matthew Hansen, Samuel McKewon, Kimberly Sweet
Letters PoKcy
The My Ntfratfan waioomee brief Mm to «w ecftor and guaat cdumns, but does not guaran
tee tar pufatceflon. The Daty Nebraekan main* (he rif** to edt or reject any material subrrettecL
ButontoBednatoerttoheromea property of ttwOetyNabraefcan and cannot be nehened. Anonymous
aUvrieaianewB not be pubtahacLThoae who aubn* totters must identify themaeive8 by name,
year In acted, major anchor group aflKation, ff any.
Submit malarial to: My Natation. 20 Nebraska Union. 1400 R St Lincoln, NE 685880448
E-mat MknM^nb^oni
Untignadedfcoriale am fteopMoneaflhe Spring 2001 Daly Nebraskan. They do not necessarily
(•fleet *t# views of the University of NabrntaMJnootn, its employees, its student body or the
Utaetafly of Nebraska Does! of Regents. A oofcmi to solely Vie opinion of teatihor; a cartoon is
solely tfreoptiian of Be arttat The Board of Regents acts as pubieher of the Dafly Nebraskan; pot
cy to aat by •» My Nebraskan Edtorief Board The UNL Pubfcations Board, estabished by tha
regents, supervisee •» production of fte-paper. Accosting to pofcy aetby the regents, neeponsr
b«ytoi^adtaltiootanto< toe newapoparles solely in tie hands of Its employees.
Megan Oody/DN
Case of the vending heist
So there I was, standing
knee-deep in a pile of Daily
Nebraskans strewn about
the recycle bin in the lobby
ofHenzlikHalL
Stardate 47988.1, and I
had 10 minutes till class,
uauy. t nao uic iuiu ui ait uc- ---
ation, only I hadn’t studied SinfKHl
for our impending quiz. Ringsmuttl
No matter, though, since mm
this is the last week before
Spring Break. Holley-loo-ya, and please pass the
jetty!
I reached down for a DN and got a freshman
instead, and after helping him to his feet, he
offered me the yellowed discount clothing insert as
a small token of appreciation. I took it and began to
drool over the prospect of buying a genuine for
mal set of Calvin Klein underpants for only $5.99
when I heard a thump.
'Thump!'* it went and I paid it no mind, think
ing someone had simply passed out from too
much pre-holiday cheer. It was, after all, the
Tuesday before break.
“Thump!’’ It happened again and a little louden
Giving the room a smooth cursory glance so no
one would know I was curious about a thumping
noise (I mean, come on), I discovered nothing.
There were some stray high school students, pre
sumably left for dead after not making it to die bus
on red letter day, a few teachers-in-training and
many studious students like myself eagerly await
ing the start of Health Education 101 in a matter of
minutes.
No frolicking rabbits, no construction workers
and no drum majors were anywhere to be seen, yet
still it thumped. This was becoming
very sketchy.
Luckily, I had my pair of
trusty Hardy Boy Keds and A
magnifying glass, which I ■ ifigfrL ^
tnrew in tne direction or
the freshman I rescued
earlier. Curse him for his
incompetence! Were it
not for him,
would be right
by the lecture
hall door,
smoking
Virginia
Slims and
waiting for
class to start
I turned
around
Scott Eastman/DN
see if I could pinpoint the source of die thumping
sound and lo and behold, I did.
Just beyond die comer of a wall, I saw a guy not
much bigger than me furiously banging away at
(Can you guess? Can you stand the suspense?) a
vending machine. Rather anticlimactic, yes? I
thought so too. I took a random guess (in science
they call it a “hypothesis,” ldds) and figured that
die vending machine had failed to dispense some
candy for which this hungry college student had
paid.
Now, I’ve been educated in public schools since
I was weaned (except for a brief stint in a Catholic
school, but we won't, as they say, go there), and if
there’s one immutable fact I have learned it is that
drugs are easier to come by if you have a stack of
fake hall passes and a high GPA. Nobody ever sus
pects die good guys, or the butterfly for that matter.
Unfortunately, since I fit neither of those crite
ria, I was forced like every other kid in die Lincoln
Public School System to get my drugs from in
school vending machines and only during lunch or
after school. 1 went on to learn that if a machine
decided to break, get stuck or simply be shut off
and not give you what you pay for, there is no way
you can change its mind.
Upon not dispensing any item following the
insertion of money, a vending machine will sit
there and mock die insertion. “Ha!” it will say. “You
paid for stuff that I’m not letting you have! Sucker.”
No amount of kicking, punching, cursing or shoot
ing will ever get those precious litde baggies of
hard, white and sometimes powdery substances
called Lick-m-Aid out of a vending machine.
Your only hope is for some nerd to come along,
put in some cash and pray he selects the same
thing you did. Then you just beat him up and take
what was rightfully yours in the first place, but be
sure to toss him a DN clothing ad for com
pensation.
isacK to tne venaing Macnine
Superstar, or so I had dubbed
him, in Henzlik Hall. He was
probably from some other state
like New York or Canada
because he just didn't seem to
get it He hit that poor vending
machine repeatedly with his
hands, feet and bookbag, think
ing it would make some sort
of difference.
“Oh, I’m sorry," the
vending machine was
probably thinking.
MDid you want that
Snickers bar? I
didn't give it to
you at first, but 1
will for sure let
you have it now
that you are
abusing my frag
ile little
American-made
frame."
He kicked,
punched and wept,
but the machine would
notyield. This guy's dignity
was on die line, and he could
risk losing it all, as well as any
hope of ever getting laid again, if he let
this vending machine get the best of him. Not even
the pinball-machine tactic of tipping and tilting
was working. This poor dude.
Eventually the thumping subsided, and when
the dust had settled, I glanced back at the battle
scene. The machine had won, and squatted on the
tile floor defying any and all undergrads to test
its limits. The Vending Machine
Superstar was out exact
ly 50 cents and was
\\w/
being led from the
building by his
friends, patting
him on the back
for consolation. I
shrugged, tossed
my cioming aa in me
nearest aluminum can recycle
bin and headed off to tackle my quiz.
Write to us.
Tell us what you think.
Ietters@dailyneb.com
Jesus calling
us home
Remember
when you were a
little kid and your
parents punished
you, and you
would throw the
most awful tern
per lamrumsf
You sobbed
and sobbed. Your
heart was broken.
'four parents didn't love you! If they did,
they would have seen things your way.
You kicked and screamed and wailed.
In your head, maybe you realized you
were bang a little ridiculous. Ibis wasn't
going to get you anywhere. But your
heart was crying out feeling real betrayal
and longing for something warm, sooth
ing, safe and free. Someplace you could
almost describe as... home?
Maybe you’ve never experienced
this. My roommate andlhave, and we've
talked about it but we tend to be a bit
kooky anyway.
But then again, maybe you did this
last week. The circumstances behind it
get more sophisticated, but the heart
issue doesn't change. The heart says,
“This is not my life. This is not the way itfs
supposed to bie. This is not my home."
For die first 16 years of my life, I told
myselfthat my home was with my family
on the farm outside oflincoln. My sisters
and I did well in school, didn’t get
involved with drugs, sex or drinking and
joined our mother for church on Sunday
There I learned that if I continued to
be good I could go to heaven when I died,
and I could be with God and all the other
good people. That seemed like a good
idea
But when I was a sophomore in high
school, I heard something that didn't
seem so good. I went to a Campus Life
meeting, and during the group discus
sion they asked the question, “Who gets
to go to heaven?*
I said I thought everyone got to go to
heaven if they were sincere in what they
believed. One of the more regular atten
dees shot back, “Nuh-uh. Only a
Christian gets to go to heaven." I was
somewhat offended and didn't return to
Campus Life for a while. That view
seemed much too narrow-minded con
sidering the diversity of the world.
The next chapter in “The Journey
Home* found me sitting on the hood <rf
my Volkswagen, parked on the side of die
gravel road the summer before my senior
yean My boyfriend was explaining to me
why he didn't necessarily believe in God.
The things that he said made sense to
me, and I started to cry. If there was no
God, why did we go to church? Why be
good? Why bother with anything at all?
That night before bed I prayed, “God, if
you're real, please show me.*
Betsy
Severn
i dpuuaiui ui umc wuiiaiig ai a uxlu
place that summer. One of my co-work
ers, Kevin, was a real character. He was
always talking about Jesus. He told us
that a month ago he was dealing drugs,
and Jesus had changed his life.
He asked the customers if they knew
Jesus. He’d quote Bible vorses to die guy
who delivered die tomatoes. Not many
people got mad at him, and I probably
woukl have written him off as justagoofy
guy. But when I looked in his eyes, I saw
something different Something called
peace. It was intimidating and unfamil
iar, and for some reason, I wanted it
One night some of us went to Kevins
home to hang out. His step-dad was
there and started telling us about Jesus
He said that all people committed crime!)
against God (sin), and God couldn't let us
into heaven because it wouldn't be just
But since He loves us so much He sent
His son, Jesus, to come to earth, live a
perfect life and then be killed to pay die
penalty for our sins. In order to have a
relationship with God and go to heaven
when we die, we have to believe that we
need Jesus’ sacrifice in order to go to
heaven, not our "good” deeds. Kevins
step-dad asked us ifwe wanted to put oui.
faith in Jesus and ask Him to come into
our hearts. I said yes.
And when I prayed that prayer,
something changed in me forever. I
knew, in a way I had never known any
thing, that this was right. This was the
way it was supposed to be.
When 1 look back on my story, it
seems pretty choppy. How did I go from
refusing to believe that Jesus was the only
way to God to accepting just that? I don't
really know
If someone told you when you were
12 that you were going to fall in love with
and marry the neighbor kid, you would
pay attention to little Bobby. You would
be able to tell the exact day you decided
he didn’t have cooties. You would
remember the flannel shirt he wore and
how disappointed he was when he didn't
make the team and the day he finally
asked you to go to the movies.
Most of the time in life, we don't know
what’s going to be significant later.
Because of that, I don't remember God
romancing me. I don't remember Him
calling me to Himself through lyrics from
songs on die radio, my baby sister’s grin
or my countless broken hearts. Maybe
someday I’ll get to watch it all again,
when I finally go home. Because our
hearts are right about something when
we throw our reckless tantrums - this
isn't home Heaven is home
Hope to see you thee
