Page 2-The Michigan Daily-Weekend etc. - February 6, 1992
Oh, give me a home...
January. The time of year when students search for off-campus housing.
Yes, I realize that it's not January any more. That's the point. It's now
February and I have forgotten to search for off-campus housing. All the
housing is gone, and I am beginning to look into some sturdy off-campus
cardboard boxes. (Spacious GE Refrigerator box for rent - 10-minute
walk from Diag! Parking included. Call 995-3819)
Actually, I wouldn't say that all the housing is gone. Only the housing
where the landlord will tell you where it is when you want to buy it.
This is the best clue to look for when you call up a landlord about hous-
ing. If the place is reasonably close, they will tell you exactly where it is.
But by February, the landlords with poorly located property become des-
perate and refuse to divulge the location to prospective buyers:
"Hello, I'm calling about the apartment. The rent is low, and it has the
right number of bedrooms. Where is it?"
"It's in a very nice neighborhood."
"And this neighborhood is ... ?"
"Well, it's only a 20-minute walk from the Frieze Building."
"But where is it?"
"Just a 10-minute drive to central campus."
"How about if you tell me one of the cross streets?"
"And the property taxes are much lower in that county."
But I have to find a house, because the only other options are staying in
West Quad for a third year, and having to face cafeteria food with names
like "Herb Baked Sole" (Just who is this Herb? And why does he get his
name on the dish when he bakes sole, but you never see, say, "Ed Baked
Pizza?"), living in a co-op, or living in a fraternity.
The last two options are problematic. You don't want to be in the Greek
system because everybody in it is a conservative, Champion sweat shirt-
wearing, beer-guzzling conformist who knows all the lines in "Fletch."
In a co-op, on the other hand, everybody is a politically correct,
Birkenstock-wearing hippie who knows all the lines in "Heathers." So co-
ops offer a lot more individuality.
The basic problem with joining the Greek system is that you're putting
your life in the hands of people who, if faced with a foreign invasion which
forced them to flee to the mountains for safety, and they had a thousand
dollars to spend on supplies to take with them and insure their survival,
would spend it on printing up T-shirts to commemorate the event.
As a result, members of the Greek system have no more individual free-
dom than institutionalized mental patients. My friend, for instance, joined
a sorority, and that was the last time I saw her. We tried to stay in touch;
I'd ask her to come to a tailgate party before football games, but she would
always come .up with sorority-related excuses: "I'd like to. come, but I
don't think the sisters will let me go to the game," or, "Sorry, but we're
not eating solid foods this week." The thing is, she was telling the truth.
At first I thought that maybe her sorority was an exception, run by
former East German secret police agents, but it turns out that they're all
like that. So I never joined the Greek system, and now I spend my days wan-
dering down random streets, my nose emitting a stream of mucous, in a
hopeless quest to get complete strangers to let me inspect their homes and
take their kleenex. So if you see me looking through your house, give some
kleenex. Otherwise I'll wipe my nose on your furniture.
I've never liked clowns. There is something perverse
in their painted smiles and bulbous noses that
reminds me of nuns with grenades under
their habits. All play as work makes Jack
a whack-o. In Killer Cowns from Outer Space, alien
jokers roped humans for fuel, wrapped them in cocoons
of cotton candy which hung from a flying Big Top,
Hubba, hubba. What a pair o' gains!
Wherever you go, it's difficult to get there wit iout your legs. Show 'em
some appreciation. Get them decked out in the brightest, the mightiest
legwear this side of the Yukon.
Fish are important. They keep the plankton population under control, they
provide recreation for lonely wildmen (See page 1) and if you eat them, they
make you much smart. If you're having trouble catching some nice cold
fish, we recommend - the fishnets. a
Men, find your inner hairy beast. Let it all hang out with the sporty well-
look. To go with your snazzy sneaks, we recommend fuzzy tube socks with
three green stripes encircling the calf area.
"w f to"N Whe8Ye- b 9SN N.?Hj
forming confectionary larva. Serious in deadly squirt
flowers, twelve hundred emerged
from a glowing toy car: death squad with a punch (
line for every hit.
To read about Winky was not a shock: clown sentenced
to a ten year sojourn from the ring for putting out
a contract on his wife. To get caught by propositioning
an officer-cum-hitman is something a clown would do. 06
After offering the man $10,000 and a free microwave 4
to make the hit, Winky was thrown into a circus of bars
and stripes. While it is not so surprising that clowns
have a thirst for blood, you have to wonder about Mrs. Winky.
How many banana cream pies must she have baked,
eaten, flung. How many palm readers' daughters
could have predicted this'?
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In A Book of Common Prayer Joan Didion wrote,
"A banana palm is no more or less alive
than its rot." Mrs. Winky asked her new suitor,
Brimstone the Flamboyant, haberdasher of the shrunken
head collection, why he had given her a palm
tree instead of flowers to celebrate her divorce. He
explained that cut flowers were already dead.
Ile had wanted to give her something greening,
like his love. And not just any palm, this
was a true Jerusalem, what the palms they passed
out at mass on Palm Sunday were supposed to be
but rarely were, costs outweighing authenticity. "I lie
at your feet. Please pass over my fronds, gently pluck
my leaves from their stem with your toes.
Bare me," begged.
But Mrs. Winky found nothing funny in this. She'd received
a letter from Winky in commemoration of the occasion
of their official demise. He spoke indulgently of prison as
toots and pants around the ankles. "Life's as hard as your head
in here," he said, "but here's where it's really
funny. Applause, applause, applause. They love
me more than you ever did." Running a hand
down her microwave, she thought, "If I'da known grease
paint and a little honka honka's all you ever needed,
I'd've offed you long ago. And as for hats and greening
spawns, I'd as soon as have me a fly-trap with a firm
grasp and quick snap as I'd have you. And my name's Hope,
for Christ's sake. Winky ain't no kinda name for someone
who's always got their eye open."
- Leisha Jones
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