Opinion
Monday, April 11, 1994
The Battalion
Page 9
The Battalion Editorial Board ^ \ Just stop and smell the bluebonnets
JULI PHILLIPS, Editor in chief I
MICHAEL PLUMER, Managing editor KYLE BURNETT, Aggielife editor
BELINDA BLANCARTE, Night news editor DENA DIZDAR, Aggielife editor
HEATHER WINCH, Night News editor SEAN FRERKINC, Sports editor
TONI GARRARD CLAY, Opinion editor WILLIAM HARRISON, Photo editor
JENNIFER SMITH, City editor
I .
Small town hospitality puts worries into perspective
EDITORI
KJJI
Choosing justice
Nomination shouldn’t be political
There is only one issue President
[Clinton needs to keep in mind
when choosing a new justice for the
Supreme Court: qualifications.
Since Justice Harry Blackmun an
nounced his retirement last Wednes
day, there has been much talk about
who will be successor. Many people
are saying President Clinton needs to
make the court look more like
America by appointing a minority
member, possibly the first Hispanic,
to the high court. Others have said
that retiring Senate Majority Leader
George Mitchell would be a good
choice because Mitchell would face
little or no opposition during the
confirmation process.
Politics should have nothing to
do with the president’s choice for a
lifelong member of the Supreme
Court. The founders of this nation
created the court to be an indepen
dent and nonpolitical branch of
government that would interpret
the Constitution. However, it is a
sad truth that no governmental enti
ty stands free from politics.
Although presidents try to
choose justices who share their ba
sic political ideology, nominations
do not have to become a part of
political game playing. Clinton has
been given the responsibility to
choose a replacement for the most
liberal member of the court. In
light of Clinton’s own beliefs, it
would be foolish not to expect a
like-minded justice to be appoint
ed, but it is not too much to expect
that the future justice will be quali
fied, not just convenient.
Since it is a lifelong appointment
and justices are accountable to no
one other than the American people,
the president should rely on more
than the appearance of the appoint
ment. The replacement’s integrity,
intelligence and experience as a ju
rist are just some of the qualities that
really count. After all, the public
opinion of the president’s appointee
will not last nearly as long as that
justice’s decisions and their effect on
this nation’s interpretation of justice.
Whether the appointee is red,
yellow, black, white, green, man or
woman should be of secondary
concern. It is Congress, not the
Supreme Court, that was designed
to be the representative branch of
the government. The less political
the appointments to the court re
main, the more Americans can
count on the Supreme Court to do
the job for which it was created.
G raduation looms around the corner. I
stare endlessly into the computer
screen at my resume, an X-ray of my
professional life, twisted and contrived to
convince some poor sucker that Tm the best
person for the job. I leaf through the want
ads, trying to avoid the clerical section, sure
that I will be forced to tap that market even
tually. Until then, I’ll keep looking else
where. Always avoid the inevitable. Never put
off for tomorrow what you can put off forev
er. And to think, I’ve been looking forward
to this point in my life for the past, oh, cen
tury or so.
I was telling my friend, Jason, about how
my sky was falling when he said, “Oh, be
fore I forget, I’m inviting some friends to my
parents’ home in Breckenridge for Easter
weekend. Do you think you can make it?”
I looked at him for a second. Was he jok
ing? Had he heard a word I’d said? “Time!
Time! I need more time to get everything
done,” was what I was saying. And he was
asking me if I wanted to leave town for three
days (72 hours — 4,320 minutes) to sit
around and do nothing.
“OK,” I said. “That sounds like fun.”
The road to Breckenridge, Texas is a lot
like “War and Peace,” only longer. And with
more twists and curves and hills and bumps.
Instead of gas stations and fast food restau
rants, we passed sprawling fields dotted with
cattle grazing in the distance. Everywhere we
turned, we saw rolling hills littered with
bluebonnets and Indian paintbrush. The
backdrop was a vivid, deep green that spread
out in all directions until it reached the hori
zon, where the brilliant blue of the sky be
gan. White clouds drifted above, casting an
ROBERT
VASQUEZ
Columnist
occasional shadow on the fields below. And
suddenly, I realized that I wasn’t thinking
about all the things I needed to do. Like the
cattle wandering across the open plains on
either side, I was unaware of deadlines and
requirements and all the snares of ambition.
Ignorance is bliss.
The sign outside of Breckenridge wel
comes visitors, and announces the grand
population that recently exceeded 6,000. An
old oil town that boomed and went bust with
the rise and fall of the price of crude, Breck
enridge, to many, is simply a collection of
buildings on a highway. But this was our des
tination, and home to the family who wel
comed us there.
As we drove up the long rock driveway,
family and friends waved from the fields in
the distance, walking toward the house to
greet the guests.
Dinner was fish and shrimp and a corn
salad that reminded me of something I loved
when I was a child. I don’t normally enjoy
seafood, but this fish was delicious. I had
three servings. And then cherry cobbler. It
tasted like nothing from McParts, Jack in the
Crack, or Taco Belch. It was wonderful.
Easter Morning we went to a quaint brick
church that was probably smaller than any fd
ever seen. And nicer, too. The organist was a
little old lady who smiled when she saw that
Jason was home and would be able to sing in
the choir.
“Nice to meet you, Robert,” she said.
“Can you sing?”
“Not really,” I said. “It’s been a long
time.”
“You’ll be great,” she said, handing me a
hymnal.
Staring down at the congregation as we
sang “Aleluiah, King of Glory’ I tried to re
trace the steps that had led me to sing in a
choir to people in a church in a town fd
never heard of only weeks earlier.’ They
weren’t my friends kneeling to pray. It wasn’t
my church where we worshiped. It wasn’t
even my religion. Yet the smiles and yawns
and occasional tears reminded me of the ser
vices I’d attended on Easters past.
I turned to look at the rest of the choir.
There were children and adults and elderly
people. They all sang to the best of their abil
ity. Some reached the notes, some couldn’t.
But they all tried happily. And I sang with
them.
On the ride home, my mind raced with
thought. We would be home soon. Back to
the deadlines and requirements and all the
snares of ambition. But it was the events of
the weekend that filled my mind. I was
thinking of the simple things I had lost in my
race toward success. And my only thought of
the future was the hope that one day I could
be as happy as I had been that weekend.
Robert Vasquez is a senor journalism major
r HBC>Kl£S A \S
y
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Mom and Pop stores quickly, sadly fading from reality
A mericans today are trading the ro
mance of Mom and Pop businesses
for the continuity and conveniences
of franchised and chain ventures. Family-
owned businesses are becoming a thing of
the past. Many college students claim to
want to start their own businesses. But own
what? A grocery store? A small dress shop?
A gas station?
The basic needs of our society are already
being met — by huge corporabons, con
glomerates and franchising networks. They
do market research to determine where
people would be most likely to buy their
auto parts, greeting cards, hamburgers and
100 percent cotton sweaters. Small business
es have trouble competing, and when they
do become successful, they are approached
by investors who encourage them to ex
pand, get rich and open hundreds of shops
across the country.
Remember those commercials featuring
Mr. Whipple, the friendly corner grocer
who became slightly disturbed when people
squeezed the toilet paper? Grocery stores
now have department managers, assistant
managers, night managers and general man
agers, none of whom guard the paper prod
ucts. Finding a grocery store that is willing
to deliver to your great-grandmother who
can’t get to the store no longer involves sim
ply calling Mr. Jones and asking for a favor.
Gas stations where the owner or his goofy
nephew checks your tires and oil and cleans
your windshield have become a part of
1950’s nostalgia. Tom’s candy stands and
moon pies are next to impossible to find.
Today, rather than going to the town
square where we know the clerks at the
drug, shoe and furniture stores personally,
we head out to the mall whenever we need
anything. Malls across the country are clones
of one another - each with a couple of an
chor department stores, a food court and
Guest column shows
reader error of ways
First, I would like to congratulate
Will Haraway on his biting guest col
umn. His reference to the editorial
writer as “Beavis” was a literary stroke
of genius. But if I may be so bold as to
make a suggestion to the man who
hands out Pulitzer Prizes, perhaps “doo-
doo head” and “booger brain” might
have been equally effective.
I would also like to take this time to
thank Haraway for not blaming us, the ig
norant, misled readers of The Battalion.
His wisdom has set me free. Many readers
may have questioned the direct quote, “I
can say whatever the hell I want,” think
ing that as a person’s position and power
increase, so must the temperance of his
or her tongue.
The readers may have imagined a
homeless person and President Clinton
each saying those words — and the reper
cussions. Fools! All of them fools! They
are uninformed. The Corps does not live
by the same rules as everyone else. On
behalf of society, I would like to offer my
sincere apology and beg forgiveness.
My faith in the Corps has been af
the national chains that infiltrate every such
center. They vary in size from the modest
small town center to the obnoxious new
Mall of America that could engulf a small
state. Some feature ice skating rinks, others
have fancy marble floors and valet parking.
But ultimately, they are difficult to differen
tiate. Once inside, it is virtually impossible
to determine which city or state you are in.
In north Dallas, on Beltline Road, the
number of restaurants on a roughly two
mile stretch is truly amazing. At one inter
section I counted eleven restaurants. You can
get Chinese, Mexican, Italian, seafood or
even Chicago-style pizza. The restaurants are
large, fairly well decorated, have decent
food and service and can be found through
out the southwest. The waitstaff is usually
made up of high school and college stu
dents who view their positions as tempo
rary employment at best. Sixty-year-old pro
fessional waiters, the ones who know what
you want without having to take your order,
seem like fossils at the few restaurants across
the country where they remain.
One bakery in the western suburbs of
Chicago personifies the Mom and Pop busi
firmed. Like the Corps members who
supported Trent Ashby, I supported a
non-reg and am therefore not an Aggie.
What was I thinking? The next Will
Haraway may have been in the list of
cadets I passed over. I would not be able
to live with myself if I did not place his
kind of leadership in office again.
Martin Leifker
Class of ‘95
Grime victim finds
bad guy to be idiotic
“Got a little story for you Ags ...”
Something glorious happened to me just
the other day: the bad guy was an idiot
for a change.
My bicycle was stolen from my off-
campus apartment complex on Wednes
day of spring break, March 16. This bicy
cle was my only transportation and of
ness. I worked at Ben’s Bistro and Bakery for
three summers.. Ben, the owner, baker and
chef, would greet his customers and call
them by name.
Today, rather than going
to the town square where
we know the clerks at the
drug, shoe and furniture
stores personally, we head
out to the mall whenever
we need anything.
His wife, Mary, and I would take orders,
discuss local polidcs and the weather with
the diners. Ben, who was once the head
chef at a major Chicago hotel, then prepared
their salads, pasta and vegetables exacdy to
taste. He knew that the guys from the insur-
ance company didn’t like garlic and to al
ways put extra fresh jalapenos in my moth
er’s fritatta. The back table in the restaurant
was never set. When Jason and Tommy,
priceless sentimental value, as I built it
myself out of old parts. It was the very
center of my being, Ags.
I reported it stolen to College Station
police Department, not really expecting
to ever see it again. I firmly believed it
was not an Aggie who took it. There is
that Aggie Code of Honor thing, I
thought. So, I fully expected it to be
halfway to, like, Alaska, in the hands of
some off-campus spuzz.
Tuesday, April 5, I went to the library
and guess what. Parked illegally on the
concourse, right there in front of my face,
was my bicycle. The schmo who took it
did not even try to conceal the fact that
my bike had two different shifters, un
mistakable rust spots and a flat-tread tire
on the rear.
Would you not suspect that a bicycle
you stole in College Station might be
long to a student who might have to go
to the library? Not only did he park it
directly in front of my place of employ
ment (I have worked in the library since
1988), he put a shiny new lock on the
Ben’s sons, came in for the afternoon, they
sat in the back and colored or played with
their Nintendo Gameboy. When business
was slow, Ben and I sat there and read
Newsweek or the daily paper.
Many of Ben’s customers ate lunch at the
bakery four or five days a week. They would
ask about how I was doing in calculus md
would invite me to sit with them and eat
whenever I had the time. Ben encouraged
such behavior. He never let me leave until
he had made me a full lunch. He gave me
advice on college and hosted a graduation
party for my younger sister. And he never
would reveal his secret chicken salad recipe.
Although the neon signs of chain restau
rants, shops and services are easy to find
and are alluring with their promises of con
sistency and convenience, they can’t com
pare with family businesses built on pride
and hard work. When shopping or going
out to eat, we need to remember to search
out small Mom and Pop stands. If we don’t,
they’ll soon be gone.
Mdissa Megliola is a senior industrial engineering
major
thing - final evidence of its new change
of “ownership.”
Looks like he messed up. I would like
to thank the little criminal for making it
so easy for me to recover my bicycle. I am
surprised I did not find it sooner.
Whoever he is, I hope he realizes he
makes a really rotten thief and gives it up.
If you see me riding around on my cus
tomized — and now completely registered
with PTTS and marked by an engraver
from the UPD — rusted out Murray Eagle
River Bike, remember this, Ags: some
times justice strikes back.
Thanks to the UPD and to the College
Station police department for their under
standing and help. Let me take this op
portunity to encourage everyone to get
their bikes registered with PTTS, engraved
with an ID and have your bike’s serial
number written down somewhere.
Of course, this does not protect me
from the guy smashing it now ...
Julia Stavenhagen
Class of ‘93