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University Daily Kansan, January 26, 1983
Opinion
Hard times and hoaxes
Forecasts, newscasts, statistics and legislation all point out the hard times this nation is experiencing, but an incident earlier this week spoke more sadly and cruelly than any Labor Department figures.
It began last Sunday when an advertisement appeared in the classified ad section of the Milwaukee Journal. Bevco Engineering Inc. was offering to train people in electrical control panel assembly.
"10 new employees required for expanding business," the ad said. "5 day work week plus liberal fringe benefits."
Several weeks earlier, more than 20,000 people hoping to find employment had applied for 200 jobs advertised by a Milwaukee business.
Hundreds showed up at Bevoe Monday morning, but this time, no one had a chance of walking away with a job.
Frank Schoenauer, president of the company, put a sign in the window telling job-seekers that they had come to the wrong place if they wanted employment. The ad that had given them hope was a hoax. There were no jobs to be had.
"I've got people coming in from out of town," Schoenauer said.
Whoever placed the ad is guilty of a crime under Wisconsin law, and the Milkwaukee Journal has said it will seek prosecution of that person. That is as it should be.
In their wake, larger, more disturbing thoughts remain for us.
The people who came to apply for the jobs will return home, or go on to other businesses in other places.
Some philosophers have long argued that the essence of man is his ability to reason. But where is the rationality in such an unreasonable act?
From razor blades in apples on Halloween to poisoned Tylenol, we seem, in these desperate times, to be turning on ourselves.
The lines that divide us — unemployment lines, welfare lines and food-giveaway lines - are growing wider. And divided against itself, the house that is our nation is leaning in the wind.
In the name of fear, in the name of hunger, in the name of humanity, what are we becoming?
Clumsy Senate procedures need review and updating
Re STEVE GERSTEL
United Press International
WASHINGTON — Sen. David Pryor of Arkansas husbands his words with great care, which, by itself, makes them worthy of consideration.
He blamed neither the Senate leaders nor the Senate's members but the Senate's "method of doing business."
As last year's "lame duck" session finally staggered toward a close, he chose to unburden himself, putting into words a feeling that must have been shared by most — if not all — of his colleagues.
Prior you did not limit himself to complaint but made specific recommendations that would enable the Senate to operate and escape what seems to be a perpetual stalemate.
"Mr. President, shame, disgust and ridicule have been visited upon this body," Pryor declared.
we're so proud of you. You have been visited upon this body." Pryor declared.
"Americans are bewildered and skened by the way we have made a mockery of a once-revered institution. We have no reason for pride as we slink out of this city."
For a starter, Pryor recommended stricter enforcement of "germanness," permitting only amendments relevant to the bill under consideration. As matters stand now, there is a no-holds-barred rule, which allows any and all proposals to come before the Senate.
Pryor also called for an absolute end to the "gentleman's agreement" under which one senator can put a "hold" on a bill or a nomination and prevent if from coming up for consideration.
A third recommendation calls for a "total reform of the filibuster rules."
Any one of these changes recommended by Pryor, excluding several others he made, could bring some order to the Senate.
But change — any change — is painful for the Senate and far from easy to put into effect.
To show just how slowly change comes to the Senate, take the example of efforts to television proceedings — an idea pushed by both party leaders and backed by a majority of the people.
But Sen. Russell Long of Louisiana does not like the idea. Long made it abundantly clear that efforts to bypass his opposition would mean trouble for the Senate in the form of dreaded
A serious "germaneness" ruke would run into heavy opposition from senators who fear their pet projects may never get a vote except as a rider to a bill destined for the White House.
Elimination of the "hold" provision, especially on nominations, would run counter to the gentlemen's club atmosphere, a state of mind considered very conducive to getting anything done in the Senate. It did, however, get badly frayed during the "lame duck" session.
If you don't like to sink, And any tinkering with the filibuster rule, as the last 20 years have shown, comes only at the expense of a bloodbath on the Senate floor.
But Pryor senses that the time for reform may now be at hand, noting, "I have seldom seen our members as sickened by the process that held us as its prisoners.
"The system has crumpled and fallen on top of us." Pryor said. "As we can crawl out of the rubble, we must begin the painful progress of rebuilding, if the Congress and the country are to survive."
Visions of tights and Simmons
"Personally, I like the two-step shoot up." I heard one woman say.
It was 3 a.m. I awake, delirious, my eyes wide open and my mouth parched. A cold sweat trickled down my forehead as I crept over to the dresser.
The face in the mirror was not a pretty sight. It was, after all, the face of a man who had been awakened three times in three nights by a nightmare too horrible for words.
"Really?" said another. "I've always been partial to the wind-up bounce."
It always began the same way. I was at a party with Jane Fonda. The house we were in was spacious, with plenty of room for a dance floor and a bar, and the waitresses were all wearing black tights with leg warmers.
All at once, I felt someone tapping at my elbow. "May I cut it?" a harsh, unpleasant voice at my elbow asked. I turned around to find Richard Simmons glaring up at me.
Richard Simmons got angry with Sure, be my guest," I said, and started to walk away. They looked at each other and smiled.
smirks.
"No, no, he wants to dance with YOU," Jane said.
I left them standing there and made a break for the bar.
"the bar
"Give me a Bud," I said, glancing over my
collar.
bobber.
The bartender laughed. "Sorry, buddy, all we
get is Natural Light. You gotta drink diet beer if you party with Ms. Fonda."
I took my diet beer and went back toward the dance floor where the music had stopped momentarily. My plan was simple; I had to convince Jane that I wasn't feeling well and that we had to leave at once. I really wasn't feeling well, and that flake Simmons wasn't helping matters any. I think he was born with two sets of vocal cords.
local cards.
When I arrived at the dance floor, I was
"One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four,
come on, everybody count!" he shouted. "All right,
let's go, count, count, count..."
Everybody was clapping and counting along, and Jane and Simmons started jumping up and down, counting as they went. Suddenly, I could hear the thunder as the far-off toms in those old Tarzan movies.
Slowly, it grew louder. There was something dreadfully familiar about that beat, and I knew what it was. My beerglass shattered as the sound of the loudspeakers, and I raced for the bathroom.
I must have thrown up for hours; my gut ached from the effort. When I came back to the party, everybody was lined up in rows and Simmons was leading them in dance steps. "Bounce-
kick-sway, bounce-kick-sway"! he shouted over the megaphone, though he hardly needed one. "We now I had a headache, too, and was looking
By now I had a headache, too, and was looking for a soft chair when Jane came over to me.
"Come on, Matt, join the gang," she said. "We're all having such fun getting our bodies in shape. We're even going to go jogging when the sun comes up."
I tried to explain to her that I wasn't feeling well, but she wouldn't listen.
"You've just got to try it," Jane said. I said I thought I'd sit down for a while (maybe a year or two), but just then a group of five fat women in khaki knits began edging toward me.
I don't like the look in their eyes as they took up positions all around me.
"You don't understand," Jane said. "You just HAVE to try it."
I began sizing up the pentagon of flab that surrounded me. I tried to squeeze through the women, but they closed ranks. I became one. I kissed them on their chests and stack of pillows, and they were going to force me to dislace.
"No, no!" I shouted, "anything but that! I can't stand being out of breath! I can't bounce, I have two bad knees! I'll do anything, I'll even —
The last thing I remember before waking up was Jane and Simmons reassuring me. "Everybody's doing it, it's all right. Do you have any tights?"
And that was it. For three nights in a row I had been forced to disco in my dreams, and I had awakened with the same parched mouth and eyes. I entered the amulet, and I knew there was only one way out.
I took a sip from my cup of coffee. I had to stay awake. If I tell asleep, they would get me. I just couldn't let it happen again . . .
Senior preparing to leave college behind
The only thing preventing me from having a fantastic final semester of college is school
How long my parents have dreamed of this semester! Finally, they would be able to hold their heads high when friends asked what I was doing and had a job "a job!" Assuming, at 4 o'clock, I will find one.
college. How! but I have dreamed of this semester!
Drew my second year of college, the five-year plan seemed like heaven on earth. Last year,
during my first senior year (hereafter referred
to as Senior Year I), I began to see the error of my ways.
It's not that I don't want to get out. Obviously, I am tired of school. What would make more sense to than graduate? Dropping out, maybe. But that seems like a lot of money down the drain.
seen,
tun told all seniors feel this way. Most that I
am told blended in with the fervent, quasi-
religious desire to get the hell out of Lawrence is
the intense, numbing, nauseous fear of leaving
the mature, naming him as the teacher. The final semester of your senior year is a time of de ciences — not necessarily life-threatening decisions, but decisions nonetheless. Suddenly, it's time to apply for a degree (or two), choose senior pictures, order a cap and gown and an
nouneements, compile a resume and, above all,
find a job.
I agonized over the senior picture question during Christmas break. One made me look too young — who would hire a teenager? The clothes that seemed appropriate for campus wear suddenly looked far too collegiate. I finally closed
Then my parents talked me into getting into physical shape before graduation. I don't mean weight-lifting. They suggested I see a dentist, which seemed like a good idea. Then they decided I should see an ophthalmologist, too, that I could someday wear contacts again. Next came the prompting to get clothes suitable for job in
my eyes and threw all the proofs in the air. The one that landed closest to the sofa was my choice.
TRACEE HAMILTON
immediately trying to get the contacts and the clothes are slightly down the road, thank God. The trip to the dentist, unfortunately, has already taken place. The first one, that is, I am so badly in need of an oral overhaul that I will be returning for six — count 'em, six — fillings next month. How I'll pay for them, with no job, is an other question entirely.
terviews. I feel like an Edsel, and my owners are frantically trying to pass me off as a Cadillac
Now, my resumes are starting at me from the floor of my room. I have a neatly typed list of the Top 30 Places At Which I Would Like To Work. But unless the resumes fuse themselves to the envelopes and produce a neatly typed cover letter, I may be using them for scratch paper.
and of course, every copy in Lawrence is swamped now with that Senior Year ritual — resume printing. It's exciting, at first, to chose the type and the style and decide which sections should be bold and which should be italic. It's fun to choose the paper and to get extra paper for the cover letter.
actions for the telltale signs. Senior Alienator begins in late March or early April, when the graduating senior comes to the frightening realization that he or she soon will be leaving virtually all of his close college friends. Even if they, by chance, end up in the same state or town, it will never be the same. You can't go home again, they say.
But perhaps the most prevalent of all these Senior Year activities is the one I call Senior Alienation. It hasn't begun yet; I haven't even started it, although I'm carefully monitoring my
So the senior will start be ing an absolute jerk to all those who are closest to him. He figures that if he tries hard enough, his pals will begin to hate him, and it won't be nearly so hard to sweat his way down the Hill in May.
And after a few months away, he'll gradually realize what he's done, and make a few phone calls and write a few letters. All will be forgiven except perhaps by a few of his stodgiest friends.
Graduating seniors, good luck. Get your teeth cleaned, your eyes checked, be fitted for a cap and gown, buy new clothes, party massively, apply for jobs and try not to become suicidal. Nongraduates, be sympathetic.
Bob
graduates, be my mentor.
They say that one day we will miss all this, that we'll want to relive these golden days. But six fillings? I doubt it.
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