Page 2/The Battalion/Thursday, June 25, 1987
i
1
Opinion
Intelligence returns to Saturday morning
I’ve heard that the
average American
spends more than
seven hours a day
watching
television. If so, I
must be below
average.
The people who
know me might
thinks it’s strange
but I really don’t
watch that much
commercial television. I make heavy use
of my VCR, but I rarely watch anything
I can’t fast-forward or rewind myself. I
have the basic cable package so
generously offered to us by the local
cable company but I refuse to pay the
extravagant fees for HBO, Cinemax or
the Movie Channel as well.
It’s not that I hate television — I
spent almost five years getting a degree
in broadcast journalism. It’s just that
there isn’t much that I like to watch.
Aside from reruns of classic shows like
“The Beverly Hillbillies,” “Star Trek,”
“The Twilight Zone,” “Barney Miller”
and “Lou Grant,” I don’t watch much of
anything. But there is one show, one
that’s almost brand new, I watch
religiously every week: “Pee-Wee’s
Playhouse.”
I discovered “Pee-Wee’s Playhouse”
one Saturday morning when I had a
hangover. I was at a party the night
before and my brain, on seeing how
much alcohol I was consuming, decided
it didn’t want to be around for the
embarassing activities that usually
happen after that much beer. I thought
the best thing it could do was leave the
party and catch a ride home with
someone else.
That Saturday I woke up to the
sound of the doorbell ringing. No, is
wasn’t the police with a warrant for my
arrest on charges of throwing cheese
dip out of the windows at passing cars or
trying to find out how many women at
the party were wearing underwear with
elephants embroidered on them. It was
just the paper boy with the morning
paper. For some reason he always aims
for the doorbell when he throws the
paper. He always seems to hit his mark
on those mornings when the slightest
noise tends to cause my eardrums to
expand to the point where my eyeballs
want to explode under the pressure
from inside my head.
I opened the door to get the paper
and my brain decided it would come
back in and give me a good lecture
about the evils of drinking like a ’69
Chevy at a gas pump. I was too tired to
take a shower and too sick to think
about breakfast but I didn’t feel like
going back to bed. So I turned on the
television.
I was hoping to find some good old
Bugs Bunny or Road Runner cartoons
but I was out of luck. Quality
entertainment like Bugs Bunny has
been replaced with non-violent, so-
called educational cartoons like “The
Smurfs,” “Jem” and “Muppet Babies.”
Most of the cartoons on today seem to
be aimed at children with the mentality
of breakfast cereals.
Things weren’t looking good for
Saturday morning entertainment until I
turned to CBS just after 9 a.m. (an hour
I didn’t know existed). My life was
changed forever.
In my state of post-inebriation I
wasn’t prepared for the overwhelming
visual experience of “Pee-Wee’s
Playhouse.” Pee-Wee Herman’s
playhouse is located in Puppetland, a
wonderful surrealistic world where the
furniture talks, the windows announce
visitors, the flowers sing, the toys move
on their own accord and a family of
mouse-size dinosaurs live in a hole in
the wall. There is a beatnik puppet band
that plays cool jazz. There is an ant farm
where the ants spend their time farming
and throwing parties. There is a genie
who will grant one wish a day. There is a
talking magic screen where you can
enter the picture after you have
connected the dots. All of the food in
the refrigerator is alive and it moves
about and does crazy things (I’ve seen
that happen in my frig as well).
Pee-Wee runs around his playhouse
and does his best to have a good time.
He talks to Chairry (the chair), Jambi
(the genie), Globey (the globe), Conky
(the robot), Cowntess (the cow) and
Pterri (the pet pterodactyl). Each week
the playhouse gang, Elvis, Cher and
Opal, comes over to play. Each week
Dixie and the King of Cartoons come by
and show some of those wonderful old
disney cartoons from the ’30s and ’40s.
Each week Conky has the secret word —
something like door, that, okay or fun
— and everyone screams whenever
anyone says the word. Sometimes Pee-
televisioi
Wee’s older friends, CaptainCarlJ
Yvonne, Tito the Lifeguard,Conk
Curtis and Mrs. Steve, dropbyfori
visit.
“Pee-Wee’s Playhouse”istheprtq
of the fertile imaginations of Peel j
Herman (Paul Reubens) andSteplij
Johnson. Reubens developedhisf t: [
Wee character over the years in var|
nightclubs and appearances on
“Saturday Night Live,” “TheTomi
Show” and “Late Night with David I
Letterman.” Johnson gainedfamtl
he directed and did the animation!!
Peter Gabriel’s “Sledgehammer”n:J
Rockers Todd RundgrenandDet!!
Mark Mothersbaugh providetherl
WAST
tng exas
Tarmers 1
ting food
tgricult
fightow
ederal h
“The c
he near
e hel]
s washin
ower to!
ee on Hi
1 f s st range bull get up each
Saturday morning to watch “Peel
Playhouse.” Even though I haveaf
and could tape the programwhilel
sleep, I really feel the needtogeiE
and watch it as it happens. It help!! farmers I
the weekend off to a good start
doesn’t have to mean anything,
fun.
Karl Pallmeyer is a journalism
graduate and a columnist forik
Battalion.
The
laid tha
13,000 T
have gor
last year
"Farm
jercent i
987 wh<
aeriod las
ommitte
.eland, E
Do we really want
a unified Germany?
Richard
Cohen
Of all the famous
lies of our times —
for instance, “the
check is in the
mail” — maybe
the most
unrecognized
involves German
reunification. It
has been a staple
of U.S. foreign
policy since John
Foster Dulles and
it was the context behind President
Reagan’s recent taunt to Mikhail
Gor bachev to pull down the Berlin Wall.
But it remains, for both us and our
allies, the scariest of prospects. Uber-
alles, almost no one wants Germany
unified.
And yet, hints of a new arrangement
are coming from Moscow. A recent Wall
Street Journal report about the
confusion Gorbachev has sown in the
West quotes one West German specialist
as speculating about the Russian
leader’s intentions. He might, we are
told, be willing to establish a Central
European neutral zone that would
include Poland, Hungary and a
reunified Germany. “Do the French
want a reunified, strong Germany?” the
specialist asks. “Do the Americans? The
British? The timing is terrible for us,
because it’s Gorbachev’s timing. But
how could we say no?”
In the United States, we are deluged
with so-called “generational”
presidential candidates, almost all of
them Democrats. Gary Flart was the
first to proclaim himself the Pied Piper
of the Baby Boomers. Sen. Joseph
Biden, among others, claims Hart’s
mantle, and commentors have written
reams about how America, at last, is
changing leadership. The old World
'War II generation is quickly fading
.(although both George Bush and Bob
Dole are veterans) and a new generation
is taking its place.
But it is in the Soviet Union where the
generational revolution has really
occurred. Until Gorbachev, the Soviet
leadership consisted of men who
reached their maturity during World
War II. What the Russians call The
great Patriotic War seared that nation.
Russians died in the tens of millions.
Cities were destroyed, some obliterated,
while in some, such as Leningrad, a
fierce cold turned the starving into
macabre ice sculptures. Even today,
reminders of the war are everywhere.
Russia’s suffering was almost beyond
imagination and until now it was also
beyond imagination that it would
countenance a reunited Germany.
Gorbachev lived through that war —
but ;as a youth. (He was born in 1933.)
It’s not possible that he’s forgotten it,
but it is possible that he lacks the visceral
anti-German sentiment of his elders. To
him, the inconceivable may just be
conceivable, especially if it confuses the
Western Alliance and affords the Soviet
Union the chance to revive itself
economically. From the perspective of
relative youth, he may at least see a way
to detach West Germany and,
ultimately, Western Europe from the
United States.
A central European neutral zone is
not a new idea. For example, it was
suggested as early as 1957 by the
American diplomat George Kennan in a
series of BBC lectures. But neither the
Soviet Union nor the United States
wanted a united Germany. Both feared
its strength. Both powers had invested
such in their respective security
arrangements — NATO in the West,
the Warsaw Pact in the East — and
viewed each other with incredible
suspicion.
Gorbachev has changed all that. He
poses as the peacemaker, a sunny man
who has as many disarmament plans up
his sleeve as a magician has colored
kerchiefs. He has clearly captivated
Europe. British and Dutch public-
opinion polls show he is perceived to
want peace more than Reagan does.
One word promiscuously used in
Washington is “isolationism.” It is meant
to characterize those who question U.S.
military involvement in such places as
Nicaragua and Angola or, more
directly, in the Persain Gulf. But if the
word has any real application in the
modern age, it is in Europe. The
maintenance of our forces there is a real
burden.
We constantly ask our allies to do
more, but after listening to Gorbachev
they might well conclude that less is
more — that a benevolent, suddenly
reasonable Soviet Union is no threat.
Given the choice between the United
States and the Soviet Union, they might
choose neither. The appeal of
neutrality, of isolationism, is hard to
deny. So, too, are its economic benefits.
To the Soviet challenge of
imagination and energy, the Reagan
administration responds with historical
halitosis — stale language and stale
formulas. Seemingly oblivious to what’s
happening in the Soviet Union and
Western Europe, the President went to
Berlin for a photo opportunity. He
challenged Gorbachev to pull down the
wall and, earlier, suggested he favored
German reunification. An old man,
doing an old routine, clearly expected
the old results. He implied the check
was in the mail, but it’s a lie. We don’t
have what it takes to cover it.
Copyright 1987, Washington Post Writers Group
The Battalion
‘ (USPS 045 360)
Member of
Texas Press Association
Southwest Journalism Conference
The Battalion Editorial Board
Sondra Pickard, Editor
Jerry Oslin, Opinion Page Editor
Rodney Rather, City Editor
John Jarvis, Robbyn L. Lister, News Editors
Homer Jacobs, Sports Editor
Robert W. Rizzo, Photo Editor
Editorial Policy
The Battalion is a non-profit, self-supporting newspaper oper
ated as a community service to Texas A&M and Bryan-College Sta
tion.
Opinions expressed in The Battalion are those of the editorial
board or the author, and do not necessarily represent the opinions
of Texas A&M administrators, faculty or the Board of Regents.
The Battalion also serves as a laboratory newspaper for students
in reporting, editing and photography classes within the Depart
ment of Journalism.
The Battalion is published Monday through Friday during
Texas A&M regular semesters, except for holiday and examination
periods.
Mail subscriptions are $17.44 per semester, $34.62 per school
year and $36.44 per full year. Advertising rates furnished on re
quest.
Our address: The Battalion, 216 Reed McDonald, Texas A&M
University, College Station, TX 77843-4111.
Second class postage paid at College Station, TX 77843.
POSTMASTER: Send address changes to The Battalion, 216
Reed McDonald, Texas A&M University, College Station TX
77843-4111.
ourage
Kilgarlin
The ca
The r
which Ki
ycle on
ruck inj
The m
Six mi
imberly
Kimbe
rusband
Why my mother always told me n
“Isn’t he cute? Can
I have one?”
When I was 6-
years-old, I never
understood why
the answer was
always “no” when
e n n y
Hynes
Guest Columnist
I wanted to take home a puppy from the
pet store at the mall.
Now I understand.
After just two weeks of listening to
my puppy whine all night, two weeks of
brushing layers of creamy-beige fur
from my clothes and cleaning up God-
knows-how-many “accidents” from my
kitchen floor, living-room carpet,
bedspread and every other puppy-sized
space in the apartment, I understand
why Mom never let me have one. She
knew who would have had these
pleasures.
“But I’ll teach him to be good, Mom!”
Yeah — right, kid.
OK, so I’ve only had Sebastian two
weeks and the little monster is only eight
weeks old. But after being told a
minimum of 16 times per day to “DO IT
ON THE PAPER!!!,” wouldn’t you
think he would have the idea?
I take him for walks twice a day,
hoping at least to give him the idea of
where he’s supposed to “go.” He likes
these walks — has a great time playing
with the other dogs in the
neighborhood, harassing the cats (all
twice his size) and rolling on other
people’s lawns.
This doesn’t get the job done,
though, which is to . . . well. . . you
know. All it does is provide me with
muddy paws to wash and more
“accidents” to clean up later.
And about that creamy-beige fur on
my clothes: that’s not the only damage
he’s done to my wardrobe. I also have
holes in my socks, tooth marks on my
shoes and shredded pantyhose. My
“bargain” of a dog, only $100 and an
AKC-registered cocker spaniel, is
getting more expensive every day.
Even more expensive than the clothes
are the veterinarian’s bills. Sure — he
had already had his first shots when 1
bought him, but what about the
treatment for fleas, tapeworms, ear
mites, the second set of shots and the
“puppy checkup”?
Yes, so far he’s worth the cost, but this
has all taken place in the first two weeks!
“I’ll feed him every day, and give him
water— I’ll do everything, Mom!”
Who can afford to feed a little guy
who eats food that costs $10.99 for a ten
pound bag and doggie treats at $ 1.67
for a TINY box? How can a 6-pound
mutt eat so much food? Sure, he needs a
lot because he’s growing, but even
infant humans don’t eat one-third of
their body weight daily.
“And he won’t be any trouble because
I’ll teach him to be good, and not to
bark, and to clean up after himself, and
he’ll never get in the way when you’re in
the kitchen, and . . .”
It’s been difficult, but I can now walk,
climb stairs, vacuum the apartment and
fix a romantic dinner for two with a
puppy following my every move, getting
under my feet and attempting to crawl
up my legs.
Adopting Sebastian seemed like such
a good idea at the time. I had finally
moved out of the dorm, my roommate
had just gotten a kitten — and seemed
to be enjoying it — and I had my $200
housing deposit in my hands with
nothing to spend it on.
What could be more fun than to buy
that adorable little puppy that I’d always
wanted?
And it was fun — until that firs:' j
on the carpet, that first sleeplesstf
listening to what sounded likeair-u
sirens in my kitchen and thatfirsi
torn to a soggy, hole-filled wad.
We did have fun naming him,
though. He couldn’t be calledany
obvious like Spot or Rover or Mul
But what fit that cute smiling face'
ears hanging down halfway tothe
ground, the soft, curly hair?Rodrt
didn’t fit, or Eddie (Murphy),ore' 1
Marmaduke.
Finally, it happened! VVeweres'
on the couch drinking Sebastiani'
Zinfandel with the monster in frot
us — on piles of newspaper forsalf
“I used to know a cocker spaniel
named ‘Cognac,’ because her fur*
the color of that drink,” I said.
“Then how about calling thisgu 1
‘Sebastian,’ after this wine?”my
boyfriend said.
“A little monster like this needs'
more descriptive name, likeShrf
or Piss-head,” I said, glancingaron'
my mess-of-an-apartment. “Peopl 1
to be warned when they meet him
“Oh, I think they’ll figurehii#
pretty quickly,” my boyfriend said
But sometimes they don’t.
I took Sebastian to worktheodi f
night, and everyone oohedandaa?
at how cute he was. When I tossed
little guy to the other side of then*
out of my way so that I could wod
someone grabbed him to give hi® 1
hug, saying, “How can youpusha*
such a cute one?”
(
“Read my column!” I said.
Jenny Hynes is a senior biomtf l:
science major and a guest coin' 11
for The Battalion.
D
Ti
PI