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February 23, 1969 - Image 4

Resource type:
Text
Publication:
The Michigan Daily, 1969-02-23

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r U1r41, klu
Seventy-eight years of editorial freedom
Edited and managed by students of the University of Michigan

Didn't we contribute

420 Maynard St., Ann Arbor, Mich.

News Phone: 764-0552

Editorials printed in The Michigan Daily express the individual opinions of staff writers
or the editors. This must be noted in oil reprints.

SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 23, 1969

NIGHT EDITOR: NADINE COHODAS

On the seventh day
SUNDAY MORNING IS the day for resting, rejoicing, reflecting, restoring, reliv-
ing, redreaming, reminiscing and radiantly radicalizing-the day after Satur-
day.
As Howard Kohn and Walter Shapiro wrote almost five months ago, "Today
dawned as callous and imperturbable 'as yesterday."
So out of a need to escape the editorial pomposity of the rest of the week which
often made little of much and vice versa, "sunday morning" was born.
On "sunday morning" karate is as important as Korea's parallels and im-
pounded cars as relevant as price-fixing at General Motors.
DENY WHAT "sunday morning" has been saying would be to deny what we
feel and think every day.
Despite the mornings when there was too little to say about nothing, "sunday
morning" has. been an experience as well as an experiment. Yet first-person per-
spectives on our daily lives have become jaded after five months of "sunday morn-
ings". And the living value of any experience or experiment is that it change and
evolve and grow within itself.
Now Howard has another idea: first-person perspectives on your lives and the
lives of others about you, a feature page entitled "The Sunday Daily."
So next week "The Sunday Daily" will rise out of the ink of "sunday morning."
And if you don't notice the change, "What the hell?"
-THE EDITORIAL DIRECTORS

at the ofie,
By DAVID FAUMAN manager wo
HE WAS AN amazingly ugly old man. Dirty and man and he
dripping saliva from between his split lips, The man re
he approached each new face .that entered the band-aid on
supermarket. He appro
"I hurt myself," he would say in an anguished "I don't
voice. People would look at him with an embar- off. Please v
rassed stare. Then the wrecked, stunted old man lost in a co
would stumble away. not embarra
He finally approached me. I sat on the window fronted emb
sill waiting for a ride home. I was horrified, em-
barrassed, afraid, and perhaps a little ashamed AS THE
as he stumbled in his pigeon-toed manner across man, eachg
the floor toward me. I felt cornered and ashamed figure. None
that I should fear and wish to escape from such like cries. Az
a pitiful specimen. ried away a
"Wvhat will I do?" he asked me. He drooled and Some fre
shoved his face into mine. rnan approa
even noticed
"JUST LEAVE it alone and it will heal all by she did not
itself," I mumbled. the warmth
He continued to pick at the sore with a piece The man
of cardboard scavenged from the floor of the customers'N
super-market. "Leave it alone, go away," I wanted through the
to scream at him. "Take your misery out of my appeared. H
life." scrubbed mii
He approached the manager of the store. The he had neve

'as obviously no stranger to the old
herded him child-like into his office.
appeared several minutes later with a
his hand.
oached me.
like the band-aid. I want to take it
will you tell me what to do?" He was
nfusing maze of adult faces. He was
assed. But he made each one he con-
arrassed for him.
LINE of customers passed the old
glanced sideways at his dirty twisted
stopped or heeded his painful child-
rd if he approached them they scur-
s if he were a leper.
aks came into the store and the old
ched them. Only the girl in the group
L; she looked with immense pity. Yet
speak or stop: she could not extend
of human recognition.
nager kept the old man out of the
way. Finally while I was looking
window for my ride, the old man dis-
le is gone now and the carefully
rnds that entered the store left as if
er entered their lives.

41

dear?;

sundaty

olb

morning

*

My brain lay on the cold, cold ground

By NADINE COHODAS
ILOST MY brain last Friday.
It must have fallen out some-
where between the Micligan
Union and The Daily. For as I
was walking past what used to
be the Administration but is
now the LSA Bldg., I noticed a
sudden lightheaded feeling come
over me.

"Hmm," I thought, "my head
certainly does feel light." But
thinking nothing of it, I kept on
my merry way to The Daily.
As I went up the stairs, how-
ever, something was amiss, for
there was my left ear smack on
top of my right.
"My, oh my," I exclaimed. "I
do believe. my brain has fallen

out." Quickly I hurried b a c k
toward the' Union in search of
my lost cerebral parts. I ran
up to the Union Lost and Found
and breathlessly inquired if
anyone had turned in a cere-
bellum, cerebrum or any of the
four lobes once inside my skull.
NO LUCK. But on my way

back to The Daily I spied a mass
of convoluted material just 12
and one half feet southwest of
the cube on Jefferson Plaza.
"Yahaa," I rejoiced. "It's my
brain." Anxiously I ran over to
the mass of convolutions and
was damned to find out it was
only a group of spaghetti.

"Fooey," I was consigned to
mutter.
And here it is Sunday morn-
ing and what am I to do with-
out my brain? Not only, do I
have a midterm and two pap-
ers coming up, but my glasses
keep falling off and my hair has
no place to go.
Sush a dilemma.

I like karate best; you will too

$

By NEAL BRUSS
SOME OF OUR BETTER scholars have the
mind-body problem. That means that they
know themselves only as minds and have never
made any extended experiental contact with their
bodies. One sees them in library and classroom,
their stomachs hanging over their belts, small
knots of chronic tension dancing on their necks.
This is unfortunate for them for several
reasons:
--Because they do not understand the possible
uses of their bodies they deny themselves large
areas of experience, which they'd probably enjoy
analyzing, critiquing ;nd using in their disser-.
tations.
-They come to conceive of the physical, sex
and violence, as magical. They are scared silly
of being mugged, and if they are ever called
upon to use their bodies they either panic or freak
out in muscle cramps. Thus they become uptight.
THE LIFE OF the mind is not worth living if
the body is dead. And if the mind is incumbered
by fears of physical force, the life of the imagina-
tion becomes a horror show.
Tae Kwon Do, korean karate, taught most
evenings and Saturday morning in the gym of ,the
Jones school provides a remedy for all this. If
one merely shows up twice a week, one will be
provided with a regimen of creative body move-
ments.. One can be fairly comfortable with the
basic kicks and punches in a few weeks. One can

aim at becoming a master of the martial arts of
self defense. And as long as one trains, one gains
Chase Manhattan banks of physical strength,
self-confidence and mental serenity.
TAE KWON DO, along with Romantic poetry
and phenomenology, has changed my life. Nearly
everybody' I know has some sort of mind-body
problem, and my own was serious enough. From
sitting at desks for 16 years and slumping around
in general, I have developed huge dysfunctional
muscle globs around my kidneys. But I have been
attending sessions at the Jones School since
August, and the muscles have begun to go away.
Also I'm no longer 'threatened by robbers. Or
cops.
Sure I know how to wound in several different
ways. But this knowledge has reduced the threat
of violence. I imagine that getting into a fight
on South University or someplace would not be
much different from the stuff I do at class. So it
would be no big deal. I am placid, good natured
even. This wasn't the case before Karate.
So this is an utterly unsolicited plug for all the
brothers and sisters in the world of the imagina-
tion, as physically neglected as some are to join
the Ann Arbor Tae Kwon Do Association for a
couple sessions a week. One of the instructors
tells us to aim for the throat. Another says to
aim for the Absolute. Me, I strive for the day when
I will be able at least to knock out street lights
with a side jump kick.

0I

A glorious quest
in search of whores

DEAR OFFICER FLEMING1
In defense of 23f1458604dx90

By MARTIN HIRSCHMAN
THE WAITING ROOM at Ann Arbor
police headquarters at 8:15 a.m.
seems like a dentist's office.
Not only do the halls have the steril-
ity of the fluid Jerome Sobel, D.D.,
D.D.S. always squirted into my mouth
after drilling, but my old dentist and
Police Chief Walter Krasny seem to
have an affinity for the same maga-
zines.
So I sat there at 8:15 a.m. staring
at a pile of Reader's Digests, McCalls,'

I SAT THERE in the headquarters
of the Ann Arbor police waiting to talk
to Officer Fleming (no relation to Rob-
ben).
In my left coat pocket, I had a new,
shiny pair of pliers. In my right coat
pocket I had a new, shiny screwdriver.
My car was parked illegally when the
police towed it away because I couldn't
get it started. It was broken.
And when I paid my fines in e a r l y
Octoher and went dnwn to the nound

"Hi son. Where's the car?" My father
always got to the point quickly.
"I made a deal."
"OK, send me the license plates."
"What do you need them for?"
"'So we don't have to keep paying
insurance."
I SAT THERE in the waiting room
at the Ann Arbor police headquarters at
8:25 a.m. I felt the firm cold handle of
the pliers with my left hand and the
firm, lukewarm plastic of the screwdriv-

thing to prove they were destroyed, to
give to the insurance people."
Officer Fleming had gray hair. He
was a friendly man. Perhaps he was
just friendly with me because I am not
a hardened criminal.
But come to think of it, aln'ost none
of the people the Ann Arbor police deal
with are hardened criminals. They are
all hardened illegal parkers.
I described my car to Officer Flem-
ing, "Oh that one," he said. "I think it
Tz~a znlr in nniarv

By JOHN IGNOFFO
HAT SUMMER evening was a senseless creature
laughing at itself and pawing at our dreams. We
groped for a drool of sex. With such a deceitful
beast of pleasure as our mascot, we, a small band
of inundated clowns, pranced into the neon of an
urban circus, a decadent metropolis of four million
dead or dying souls. We dunces danced among the
unliving, laughing and joking, pushing and shout-
ing, like so many mindless goldfish darting about
the confines of their glass prison.
We huddled together for protection as a tribe
and drifted through the wastes of the crowded,
noisy streets, hunting for pleasure under the dirty
scraps of yesterday's and tomorrow's newsless
papers, which rustled down the alleys of our mis-
guided journey towards bliss. We trekked deeper
and deeper into the fog. There, the darkness
blazing with the lightless fires of artificial lights
dissipated our mirth. We were lost in an asphalt
valley of emptiness, walled-in by concrete and
steel mnnnlithsc overed with Marina, lidless ees

plying their clientele. Our lips smirked at those
who had girls when we didn't.
And when the guilded cars squealed away
down the alley, the wind stripped us of our
babboon fur and left us naked. And trembling,
we were forced to look at a world that pecked
at our nakedness, a flat, brassy picture postcard.
We reached cynicism and despair and hatred
of ourselves and of each other. We staggered off
the sidewalk and tumbled headlong upon the
soft bossom of a deep and thoughtful lake. The
survivors of the shipwreck of our lives had
washed upon the quiet beach of a city's edge.
WE WERE exhausted by the long swim to shore
and bitter with ourselves for the aimless course
we had so cheerfully plotted. Our bodies writhed
and twisted in the sand. We now only knew that
the course of our lives demanded redirection.
Hereafter, we resolved, we would navigate not by
diamonds ofdtransient worth but by the gentle
eyes of a deceitless God, twinkling above our

*I

a

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