me MICHIGAN-DAILY

ThurscTay, September '8, M -f

rH~ M1CHlGAr~.VbAILY Thursday, September 5, JTP1

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arspectives
pick - there are countless experiences
you at the University. We're not advo-
articular lifestyle; the choice must be
pe, however; that the personal perspec-
in this section will help you make that
-The Editors
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Thefirstweek
By JAY S. LEVIN tastefully appointed- restaurant, and the next
ONCE UPON A time, the parents packed morning the parents were speeding down Ob-
their son's valises, filled a designer shop- servatory Street, waving goodbye to their son
ping bag from Bloomingdale's with food, load- from the front seat of the sleek new Buick.
ed everything in their sleek new Buick, plopped He was scared shitless.
their son in the back seat and sped off over So, with nothing better to dlo, the son turned
the George Washington Bridge for Michigan_ around and re-entered the charming, tastefully
a state they had never visited, not because they appointed dormitory and headed for his empty
didn't want to, but when you spend your life- dorm room-the one with packed valises and
time on Long Island, you soon learn that New uncertam promises.
Jersey forms your westernmost boundary. Mike Rosenblatt was across the hall.
Nevertheless, Michigan was the state in "Hi," said Mike Rosenblatt, whose valises
which their son chose to continue his edu- also sat in his bare dormitory room.
cation-a decision reached after a bit of whim- "Hi," said the New Yorker, eyeing Mike Ro-
sy and Cornell's terse rejection letter. senblatt, who wore a Michigan t-shirt and a
sy ad Conel's trserejetio leter.similarly petrified \expression. "I remember
So Michigan it was. you from orientation."
The trip was a pain in the ass. From the "Yeah, you look familiar' too," said Mike
front seat of their sleek new Buick, the parents Rosenblatt. "Where are you from?"
unwrapped sticks of Juicy Fruit, unfolded road "New York."
maps, pointed out the mundane scenery along "Right, I remember hearing you. I'm from
wondrous Interstate 80 and thoroughly perturb- Kalamazoo."
ed their already trembling son with tidbits of "Kalamazoo? People live there?"
counsel and warning. "Yeah, a lot of them."

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The son, understandably, was nervous. He
had heard so much about Ann Arbor-the mu-
nicipality which just so happened to house his
chosen institution-and after 17 years of the
predictable comforts of home, he was finally
winging his way to that uncertain location. He
could have gone to the State University his
friends chose-concrete towers of academia
with conveniently located campuses in Buffalo,
Binghamton and Albany. But he chose a cam-
pus he knew nothing about, and was paying for
that decision with pangs of regret as the sleek
new Buick negotiated the interstate.
THAT NIGHT, the parents helped unload
their' son's valises from the 'trunk of the
sleek new Buick and moved him into his dor-
mitlory room at Mosher Jordan Hall, a charm-
ing, tastefully appointed structure. Later that
night, they dined on prime rib at Victor's, a

"Oh.1
THE NEW YORKER hit it off right away
with this Mike Rosenblatt from Kalamazoo.
Mike Rosenblatt knew nary a soul at the Uni-
versity either, and the pair chatted that first
day, ate dinner together and continued to probe
each other's credentials.
Mike Rosenblatt-who would later confide
that his real first name was Eugene-became
the New Yorker's first college friend.
That night, Mike Rosenblatt and the New
Yorker saw signs advertising a "Bagels and
Beatles" night in the basement lounge of the
charming, tastefully appointed dormitory. Hav-
ing exhausted all possible means of one-on-one
conversation, the novices decided to accom-
pany one another to eat bagels (the New
Yorker couldn't believe the bagel bad actually.
found its way to the Midwest) and listen to the
Beatles. The lounge was a dark, tastelessly
appointed room, crowded with groups of stu-
dents who apparently knew many people but
had no interest in meeting the likes of Mike

The pair sat quietly, occasionally turning to
chat and stare at the assemblage.
Dan Hill and Ray Burza sat at an adjacent
table.
"Hi," said Dan Hill.
"Hi," said Mike Riosenblatt and friend.
"This is my buddy, Ray Burza."
"'Hi,",
Dan Hill and Ray Burza, it was later learned,
were roommates who lived on the same floor
"Hi," said the New Yorker ;
eyeing Mike Rosenblatt, who
wore a Michigan t-shirt and a
similarly petrified expression..
"I remember you from orienta-
tion."
"Yeah, y o u 100 o k familiar,
too," said "Mi k e Rosenblatt.
"Where are you fr'om?"
"New York."
"Right, I remember hearing
you. I'm from Kalamazoo."
"Kalamazoo? P e o p I e live
there?"
"Yeah, a lot of them."
"Oh "
~~'
as Mike Rosenblatt and the New Yorker. Un-
like Mike Rosenblatt and the New Yorker, Dan
Hill and Ray Burza came from the burg of
Gobles, Michigan, a sleepy hamlet whose lack
of repute and residents drew chortles from the
tactless New Yorker. Dan Hill and Ray Burza,
however, did not care to risk these two new
friends at the expense of getting huffy over the
New Yorker's tasteless musings. So the quartet

iardes t
spent the night eating bagels, drinking beer
and feeling more and more like, college stu-
dents.
AS THE DAYS WORE on, the New Yorker
accumulated a wealth' of routine college
experiences. The cafeteria had already served
its standard fare--grilled chopped round-a
dish which; would later carve a niche in the
culinary world of infamy. The New Yorker
spent an hour in the tastefully appointed Union
Ballroom, plucking his course books from
crude wooden shelves while gripping his class
schedule between his teeth. The New Yorker
paid for his books by check-the first check to
which he had ever affixed his signature-and
was "chagrined to note that the purchase de-
leted a sizable chunk from the sum his- par-
ents had earlier placed in a checking account.
New friends were added to the New Yorker's
list of acquaintances-friends who mocked him
for his tactless New York accent but ate grilled
chopped rounds with him, regardless. One
night, the New Yorker, the Kalamazooite, the
Goblers, a Detroiter and two woman friends
of the Goblers took a late evening stroll to the
Law Quad-a tastefully appointed structure
whose residents would later earn enough mon-
ey in life to buy a charming, tastefully ap-
pointed split level and two sleek new Buicks.
While rhe group sat on the Law Quad's lushly
carpeted lawn, one wise ass lawyer, no doubt,
set the sprinkler system off, sending the seven
adventurous freshpersons into a giddy flight
back to the dorm. Oh, college life was fun!
Tim Granger came the next day.
The New Yorker had wondered for days what
his robmmate would be like. Why, the resident
advisor had gone to all that trouble to cut out
two construction paper name badges for the
door, and Tim had the'nerve to show up late.
The day before the University was about to op-
en its classroom doors, the New Yorker was
awakened from his afternoon nap by the rude
tampering of his lock.
"Why, I never thought we'd make it," said a
See THE FIRST, Page 7

Daily Managing Editor Jay
has any qu lrns about being
Queens, New York home.

Levin
away

no longer
from his

Rosenblatt of
New York.

Kalamazoo and his friend from

U EI

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VYl
mm

Turbulent past,

16

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By STU McCONNELL
j WAS WALKING behind a
parking structure on Forest
St. the other night when 'I
noticed a spray-painted message
which the management com-
pany apparently hadn't thought
to remove from the back side of
a decaying apartment building.
STOP THE WAR, it said, and
next to it was painted an enor-
mous peace symbol.
Well, I thought dully to, my-
selff, they certainly did it. They
stopped the war, the movie's
over, the good guys won, the
boys are back home. Hooray.
When the epitaph of the Sixties
uprisings comes to be written,
jt may say only HERE LIE THE
ACTIVIST SIXTIES. THEY
STOPPED THE WAR.
But to University students of,
the era, that idea is sacrilege.
Stories of the Sixties grow in
the t el l i n g until one hardly
knows what really happened

and what people only wished,
had happened.
"Yessir, I was down on South
University the night they threw
bricks through the bank win-
dows. I didn't throw a brick or
anything, but once I almost got
hit by a cop in a demonstra-
tion over at the Ad Building
and a friend of mine got
arrested."
"Did he really get arrested,
dad?"
"Yep, yep, pigs dragged him
right off. Not like the students
out there now."
It all reminds me of my grand-
mother talking about surviving
on soup during the Great De-
pression.
VOU \SEE, while daring stu-
dents were confronting the
pig capitalist state on the streets
of Chicago, I was 12 years old
and busy confronting the pig
capitalist teacher of my eighth
grade class. 'I saw the demon-
strations on television; I won-,
dered vaguely what the mora-
torium was all about in high
school. But by the time I came
to school in Ann Arbor, the radi-
cal left show was all but over.
The boys had all gone home.
Does anyone remember the
phrase "alternative culture" (I
even sound like my grandmoth-
Stn McConnell is a D a ii y
Managing Editor.
DISTINCTIVE
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unclear future
er-) Nobody talks about alter-' er academic standards". are a
native culture much anymore, priority, how the local revolu-
the idea of another American tionaries can't get fifteen people
way of life with new values, new together to protest anything less
morals and new ways of doing than World War III.
things. But alternative lifestyle It seems to me that what the
-that is, doing the same old revolutionaries of the last dec-
thing in a new way-has never ade envisioned as a mass upris-
been more popular, in fact, it's ing of the downtrodden has ac-
almost a must for the intellec- tually become a slew of individ-
tually aware young bourgeois. ual, more personal battles.
Transcendental meditation, or- I have one friend who thinks
ganic food, progressive jazz, pro- the height of youthful revolt is
gressive film, home-grown dope, ripping off the phone company,
encounter groups, backpacking and another who thinks that if
in the woods-the list goes on .everyone in the world would
and on. just smoke dope everything
The point is, many of us would be fine. Irn another age,
would like to be a part of a new, one would be a corporate guer-
Sixties-inspired culture, but we rilla and the other a martyr of
simply don't have time because the counterculture. Now they
we'd all like jobs in the old, not- are simply a man who hates big
so-inspired, pre-Sixties culture. companies and another man who
The Sixties have become a hob. thinks the dope laws are unfair.
by, something to reminisce
about (or ini my case, invent) PUT THEY'RE still out there.
on weekends, something that Maybe Vietnam was the only
comes once a month in any one thing that made the "new left"
of the stylish new "left".maga- go; maybe the war really is
zines currently invading the over. But I don't think so.
newsstands-New Times, Moth- Tom Hayden, 'an alumnus of
er Jones, High Times, Seven both this university and this
Days. newspaper, was .in town this
Canned Sites. How Ameri-..: spring to talk about the ,Sixties

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iBell Service Bulletin


can.
Somehow I feel cheated. The
most radical thing I ever got to
do in high- school was found an
"underground" paper with a few
friends one night after an over-
dose of Vonnegut.
QO NOW I sit around depressed
because there's no action on
campus, writing stories about
how fraternities are coming
back, how students think "tough-;
raf

and the Seventies. Hayden said
students in 1977 aren't any le's
radical or more apathetic than
those of 1967, simply that times
had changed. Different times
call for different types of. action.
This is a bit like saying 1789
was a good time for the French
to have a revolution or 1860 was
about right for an American
Civil War, but there is some
truth to it. All those people who
fill up the subscription rolls of
leftist magazines and work for
leftist political candidates (like
Hayden, for example) are sim-
ply waiting it out, waiting for a
time to seize.
The radicals of the Sixties
failed to seize the time. But they
did stop .the war...


Student s: .Order
your phones -now
the rush later..
We try pretty hard to make it easy for
students to get through to people.
For example, we've set up a special
system so-that you can order your
phones before you arrive for the fall
term.
You simply call us collect. Dial
(313) 761-9900, and tell us your
address, apartment number, student
I.D. and Social Security number and
when you will arrive.

Please be sure you make an appoint-
ment on a day and at a time when you
will be at your apartment. And we'll
have your phone connected on time.
If you're in town, you may visit
our business office at 324 East Huron,
anytime between 8:30 a.m. to 5 p.m.
Monday through Friday. On Saturday,
September 10th, we'll be open from
8 :30 a.m. to 5 p.m. for your added
convenience.
This year we again will offer a
variety of services with your new
phone equipment including Call
Waiting, Call Forwarding, 3-Way
Calling and Speed Calling, Touch-
Tone® Service, Design Line
Telephones*, and many more.
But don't forget. Order your
phone service early and you iron't
have a wait problem.

DASCOLA
Arborland ...
Maple Village
E. University
Libertv at State

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Setemb~er [13Mh
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