Page 4-The Michigan Daily- Weekend etc.- September 17, 1992
Fear &
Somehow, I spiedhim on the other Uni
side of the fraternity house's danger- ing
ously overcrowded third-floor rec wer
room. He lay sprawled out on a worn, five
ver
toc
e h
e, 3
crew c
was su
as if i
sneere
seem t
past, Ij
to the
and I d
of sor
began
Thi
beer-soaked couch, drooling and ap-
parently in some sort of drug coma.
As I waded toward him, through
the foul, sweating mass ofrich, spoiled
loathing on fr,
sity undergrads desperately try- as an opening cleared around my edi-
convince themselves that they tor, whoremained prone on the couch,
aving a good time, a six-foot- soaking up apuddle ofhis own vomit.
00-pound Neanderthal with a "Wake up, you bastard, and show
ut lumbered into my path. He some self-respect!" I yelled, savagely
cking on a smoke-filled bong kicking him in the side with one of my
t were a giant glass penis. I steel-toed boots. Under normal cir-
d athim in disgust, buthe didn't cumstances, I might've been gentler,
o notice, so as I maneuvered but the smell of booze and urine and
jabbed him with a quick elbow pot and body odor and who knows
groin. Nobody saw me do it, what else had put me on edge.
idn't look back until the group My editor rolled off the couch and
ority girls he collapsed upon landed at my feet with a thump and a
to scream. groan. Seconds later, he opened his
s distraction was ideal for me, eyes and blinked up at me. "Jesus,
Mark," he coughed. "What the hell?"
"'What the hell?' is right," I
shouted over the Guns'N' Roses song
blaring in the background. "What the
hell are you doing here? This isn't
your scene." Although editors are a
notoriously sick lot, the meanest bunch
of embittered dipsomaniacs short of
Hollywood and Congress, mine had
always been surprisingly human, a
polite and even intelligent gentleman
who treated his writers with the dig-
nity and respect they deserved.
"I dunno. I was justbored,Iguess.
I mean, everybody's here," he started
to explain, hesitating as he noticed
my eyes light up amidst his blather.
I reached down and grabbed him
by the shirt, pulling his face up inches
from my own. He began to shake,
probably from a combination of with-
drawal and fear, but I continued.
"That's exactly what I needed to
talk to you about: My column pitch,"
SPlayersIwhispered feverishly. "So here it is:
SP aBi-weekly. Entertainment-oriented.
Basically, stuff to do besides going to
D and GET the bar or the movies or renting a
) D OR DE R*video or going to some horrible party
or whatever. I'd be heavily present in
at row
all of the stories, which would more
or less recount what I did or where I
went, and they'd be unusual places
and things, at least for a college stu-
dent, and the whole thing would be
written in a sort of fictional style ..."
"Sounds like a lame Hunter S.
Thompson rip-off to me," a tipsy frat
brat in a Notre Dame sweatshirt
grunted from behind me.
"Swine!" I snarled, whirling
around and spraying him in the eyes
with the vial of Mace hanging from
my key chain. "This'll teach you to
eavesdrop." He howled and staggered
back into the crowd.
"Listen, I haven't got much time,"
I said, turning back to my editor,
who'd retreated a few steps. "These
bastards'll be all over me any minute
now. What do you say? Yay or nay?"
"Yay, yay. I mean, I'll have to talk
it over with everybody else, but it
should be OK."
"Done," I smiled,justas the stoned,
enraged, six-foot-five, 300-pound
Neanderthal clamped me in a full
Nelson from behind.
Luckily for me, the University's
rent-a-cops shot a couple of phospho-
rous grenades through the balcony
window before the animal could snap
my neck like a toothpick. I managed
to crawl out the back fire escape and
avoid the chaos that followed. Later,
I heard from a friend at the ER that
they did a record amount of business
that night, particularly in the areas of
broken bones, toxic gas poisoning,
concussions, and bullet wounds. In
other words, a very ugly scene. I try to
avoid this shit as much as possible.
*Note: The title of this column was
stolen from a John Cale/Brian Eno
song. The "been" is not, I repeat,
NOTmeant to be a pun on my name.
STERLING
Continued from page 1
And they don't hate White people.
They're like mellow, ya know?"
Me: "Ah. I think I get the picture."
That was two months ago, and I'm
Vintage
by Aaron Hamburger
Before Robert Redford became a relic who pops up from time to time in
disposable entertainments like "Legal Eagles," "Havana," and the newly-
released "Sneakers," he appeared in several controversial movies which
were highly critical of the U.S. government, including "The Candidate" and
"All the President's Men."
Perhaps the most audacious of these films was the suspense thriller
"Three Days of the Condor," which basically accused the CIA of a willing-
ness to stoop to the lowest of crimes - including the murder of innocent
citizens - to achieve its ends.
"Condor" came out in 1975, when the Vietnam War had just ended and
the Watergate scandal was still fresh
{' news. Moviw' like "Sands of Iwo
: f::,::i * y Jima'or"Hear- r &R; id"weren't
exactly the rage u; : , "Con-
dor" paved the w" such anti-
government films as fhe . Seduc-
tion of Joe Tynan" and "The China
Syndrome." At heart, hov ver,
"Three Days of the Condor" really wanted to be a "Fatal Attraction" roller
coaster ride which emphasized chase scenes over moral dilemmas.
Redford plays a small-time clerk in the CIA whose job is to read
documents and books from foreign countries to search for information that
might be helpful to the agency. One day Redford receives a strange wire in
code that he cannot fathom and subsequently disregards. He goes out to
lunch and when he comes back he finds that the entire staff of his office has
been killed.
Redford reports the incident to
the central office, but he can't help
feeling as if something is wrong.
Sure enough, within minutes, he is
on the run from his own govern-
ment. Along the way he pauses to
meet Faye Dunaway, a sympathetic
stranger, Max Von Sydow, a cold-
blooded hired assassin, and Cliff
Robertson, a smarmy CIA agent to
whom Redford delivers a long speech
explaining why the series of rousing
action sequences we have just
watched is actually Important.
The sanctimonious speechifying,
however, cannot get in the way of
the sheer entertainment value of the Redford
movie, which actually features a performance from Robert Redford (instead
of his usual bland line readings and cloying grin), and even manages to be
"disturbing," if only for five seconds after the movie.
Redford
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more confused than ever. Since then
I've seen Hole's Courtney Love in
Vanity Fair, the Red Hot Chili Pep-
pers had a number one single, and
Sonic Youth was on Letterman. I can't
decide if this so-called "alternative"
phenomenon is just packaged rebel-
lion sold to unsuspecting youth, or if
the mainstream has finally broadened
its horizons to accept this music as
viable and important. Positive change
or false individuality for a price?
Unfortunately, I'm afraid the an-
swer is painfully clear.
Scott Sterling has been a rabid fan of
the Smiths, Bauhaus, and Depeche
Mode. He's worn eyeliner in public.
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