1.,
Opinion
ly 14,1993
NBA
I basketball
aing to im-
free agent
Wednesday, July 14,1993
The Battalion
Page 5
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The Battalion Editorial Board
Jason Loughman, editor in chief
The Battalion
Mark Evans, managing editor
Stephanie Pattillo, city editor
Dave Thomas, night news editor
Mack Harrison, opinion editor
Kyle Burnett, sports editor
Susan Owen, sports editor
Anas Ben-Musa, Aggielife editor
Billy Moran, photo editor
100 years at
Texas A&M
ag if the law
ast summer
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Editorial
Drug war casualties
Mandatory minimums unjust
One weapon currently being used
the government's "war on drugs"
seems to be producing nothing but
:ollateral damage.
This weapon, mandatory mini
mum sentencing for drug-related
crimes, is a part of the Comprehen
sive Crime Control Act of 1984. It
•as intended to create rational, uni-
iirm sentences and stop what politi
cians saw as leniency in sentencing
ly liberal judges.
Its effect has been
fill federal pris
es with non-vio
lent first-time of
fenders serving
larsh prison sen
tences with no pos
sibility of parole.
In fact, the feder-
prison popula-
>n has more than
tripled since 1981,
mostly due to fed
eral drug charges
' their attendant minimum sen
tences.
Consequently, perpetrators of vio-
it crimes unrelated to drugs are be-
g squeezed out of the prison sys
tem, receiving shorter sentences and
earlier parole.
More murderers and rapists end
) on the streets; more small-time
drug offenders clog up the justice
and prison systems.
Many judges hate the mandatory
minimum sentences, which eliminate
judicial discretion and allow "acces
sories" to be given the same prison
ANGEL
terms as actual perpetrators for even
the most tenuous connections to
drug crimes.
In one such instance, a married fa
ther of two in California picked up a
hitchhiking teenager he knew who
flagged him down for a ride to a
restaurant.
When they arrived, the teenager
got out and a stranger hopped in to
grab a bag of crack left on the front
seat.
The driver, who had
been on his way to a
birthday party, was ar
rested and sentenced to
a mandatory 10 years
without parole for his
"part" in the crime.
The judge in the case
called the sentence a
miscarraige of justice,
but could do nothing as
the mandatory mini
mum could not be over-
KAN/The Battalion
Tire mandatory minimum law was
intended to ensure that drug king
pins spent more time in prison.
Instead, it has sent small-time of
fenders off to prisons to be converted
into hardened criminals and to dis
place robbers, murderers and rapists
who are usually eligible for the pa
role denied to mandatory minimum
convicts.
Mandatory minimums must end;
sentencing should be left to judges,
in waging our war on drugs, let's not
let all citizens get caught in the free-
fire zone.
Sometimes you just want to sing
Don't let others tell you to keep your feelings inside
T he urge to kill overcame me one
day as I walked to class and was
forced to listen to some mania
cal student who apparently was hav
ing a much better day than I. He
chose to let everyone within a 5-mile
radius know about it by whistling at
the top of his lungs.
It wasn't just his whistling,
though. There was something pro
foundly excruciating about this man
as he gave a very poor rendition of
the theme song from The Andy Grif
fith Show, spittle flying frantically
from his mouth, all the while manag
ing an obnoxious grin . This man
wasn't just whistling "Dixie."
Though he was walking about 20 feet in front me, I felt
as if he were aiming his voice directly at my ears, his bro
ken stream of bad breath specifically at my face.
Of course I knew that he was simply enjoying his right
to free expression, a right guaranteed by the Constitution of
the United States of America. A right conceived and pre
served by the forefathers who founded and loved this great
and mighty land. But this man was really hacking me off.
So 1 guess I should understand why some people don't
like my singing. I've never considered myself a great
singer but, lately, more than a few people have told me,
well, to shut up. Everyone's a critic.
I'd be singing at work, or at play, or in the shower, and
someone would turn around and request the silent treat
ment from me. But not in so many words. It went more
like this:
"Robert. I wish you would stop singing. It's not that I
don't like the songs you sing. It's just that I hate your
voice. You can't carry a tune. It's nothing personal. I still
love you. It's just that your singing sounds like fingernails
on chalkboard to me. You understand, don't you? Could
you pass the soap, please?"
Subtlety is not a common trait among my friends. And,
their good intentions aside, I found their comments nearly
as annoying as they found my singing.
It's not like I'm imitating Julie Andrews. I don't run
along mountainsides screeching at the top of my well-de
veloped lungs about female deer and needles pulling
thread. I simply whisper some song that happens to be
lingering in my head ... and is begging to be freed ... yes
freed, released into the atmosphere where the hills of
Switzerland can rejoice with the song that fills my soul.
But I digress.
I'm no Star Search wannabe. I just sing. My friends say
they'd prefer that I smoke twelve cigarettes at once and
blow the clouds of carcinogens into their faces, leaving a
charcoal gray film and ashes in their lungs. "Just don't
sing," they say. "Please, Robert, just don't sing."
Singing in public is no different from smoking, some
friends say. "It's inconsiderate and violates other people's
space. The people who can sing are already singing — and
they're getting paid for it."
Other friends who have the same affliction as I have —
singingus en publicus — say there is nothing wrong with us.
"Singing is the mark of a happy person," said one friend
(who asked to remain anonymous). "It shows that the per
son is feeling good. And to ask that person to stop singing
is downright rude.
"You wouldn't ask a person to stop laughing, would
you? I think the people who don't sing and who ask others
not to sing are just unhappy people."
"Maybe the people who sing are the ones who are un
happy and they're just trying to cover it up," another friend
answered.
After being told a number of times to kindly shut up, I
asked my friend what I should do. I never knew that my
singing offended so many people and I figured that maybe
I should indeed stop singing to appease these would-be si
lencers.
"Sing louder," he advised. "There's no reason for you
to stop singing just because they don't want to hear it. A
very wise and thin woman once said, 'Sing a song .... Don't
worry that it's not good enough for anyone else to hear.
Just sing a song.' And that's what you should do."
He's right. If people have the courage to sing in public,
then they should should be allowed to do so. They're not
jeopardizing anyone's health. They may cause an upset
stomach or two, but nothing serious.
So, the next time you see me in the hallway, or in class,
or taking a shower, and you hear me singing, don't ask me
to stop. I may return the sentiment and tell YOU to keep it
to yourself.
Vasquez is a senior journalism major
(a\
ROBERT
VASQUEZ
Columnist
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Soda splash and bladder breathers:
! 'ust what is a
vacation sup
posed to be
yway? Web
ster's considers it
freedom from reg
ular duties, but if
you really think
about it, vacations
are anything but
free and at least
twice the effort of
academics or a
tegular job.
We've all done
it. Even making
plans for a week-
aid road-trip can be an unbelievable
tusk, especially if the trip involves more
than one person.
First, the driver usually sets a prelim-
uiary itinerary and establishes a rough
time of departure. The passenger(s) are
§iven an opportunity to throw some
riothes together, pick up some cash,
turnin a paper, or find their wallets.
With luck, two or three hours after
ifie proposed departure time, the show
Hutson the road. By the time gas, chips,
^er, soda, and cigarettes are purchased
factual travel begins, vehicular
■peed must be recalculated to 94.2 mph
in order to reach the destination on
schedule. No problem.
After the state trooper drives off, and
the sweat drips off your chin onto the
tickets in your hand (inspection stickers
are always expired), intense furor
steadily subsides — with a few choice
expletives — into a beaten-helpless
state of "law abidance." You distinctly
remember saying, "see you around din
nertime" on the phone just a few hours
ago and now you must rationalize that
you really meant dinnertime in Tokyo.
Once under way, the passengers ral
ly around the driver and confirm the of
ficer's anal retentive personality com
plex; all but the one girl in the car who
is very silent. She foresaw and repeat
edly forewarned. She knew. Girls al
ways know. Why is that?The remainder
of the trip is usually eventless aside
from the occasional bladder breather or
soda splashing.
Sodas splash constantly all over the
world, but none are more disconcerting
than the automotive variety. The driver
gets a little cocky while steering and
sipping simultaneously and places the
soda carefully between his or her legs
in such a manner as to prevent spillage.
I'm not quite sure of the physics in
volved, whether the motion of the car,
gravity, or the squirming of the driver
is responsible, but the soda, without ex
ception, will spill backwards directly
into the individual's crotch and contin
ue its trek rearward.
For the driver, all possibilities of a
pleasant voyage are destroyed at this
moment. Because of the lives involved,
the car will only swerve a lane or two,
followed by spilt Cheetos, more cussing
and a frantic, futile attempt to flick al
ready absorbed soda off an already sat
urated, sticky lap.
The bladder breather is distin
guished from the conventional pit stop
in that there is no restroom. Invariably
some idiot in the car (quite possibly
you) with a bladder the size of a
Hacky-Sack, who insisted he or she had
no need for the facilities at the last gas
station but now emphatically states, "I
really need to go ... I mean NOW."
Finding a private, secluded bush
alongside a major interstate on a week
end is an impossibility, forcing the car
to the shoulder for the ol' "we're just
checking for cargo shifting" charade for
passing motorists. Generally, an open
car door will do for privacy, but fe
males who ordinarily might scream at
an apartment spider will venture like a
commando across waist-high thistles in
a swampy, stagnant, arachnid-infested
drainage ditch and clamber over a
FRANK
STANFORD
Columnist
anatomy of
rusty, tetanus-teeming barbed-wire
fence in shorts and sandals to find that
perfect potty amongst the rattlesnakes.
Always honk at these people.
In spite of the wet upholstery,
doughnut crumbs (you know, those lit
tle white ones which have now turned
to paste in the seat), orange Cheetos
dust covering your fingers and the fact
that your damp jeans are now glued to
sensitive leg hairs, the post bladder
breather bliss will emotionally carry
most motorists on to their destination.
The above scenario — having oc
curred to me more than once, and prob
ably to most of you — prompted me to
sell my car and proclaim, "Never
again!" Struck by brilliance, I purchased
a large touring motorcycle to eliminate
all traveling headaches.
All automobile headaches that is.
First, no passengers. It's difficult to find
travelers with death-wishes. No
doughnuts or soda, unless you can
puree the two and suck it through a 27-
inch flexi-straw while driving 75. No
seat spillage (no soda). No bladder-
breathers (no soda) and no tickets. Cops
apparently assume you're an eventual
road pizza, and a citation would only
prolong your fate. Sounds great,
doesn't it? Freedom, and all that stuff?
After six hours on a bike, your butt
a road trip
goes numb, you're as drenched as if
you showered in soda, peeing isn't nec
essary because you're medically dehy
drated, and all those bastards in air-
conditioned cars are trying to kill you. I
even unintentionally power-swallowed
an insect once. Finally, the damn thing
will break down in Caldwell at a barbe
cue stand, forcing you to hitchhike to
College Station dressed like a biker
thug. It is still there.
After living on a boat for two years, I
can tell you marine travel is no picnic
either ....
Stanford is a graduate philosophy student
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