Hack Attack

Go Ahead, Thwart Me

I don't like the Emerald. Really. I'm serious. No, I'm not kidding. I really mean that. I don't like them. Never have. Jackass.

There are a lot of guys out there who would like to have sex with Alicia Silverstone. But let me tell you, she's a really big girl waiting to happen. Sure, she's cute now, and she's in all those B-movies and Aerosmith videos in those short skirts, knee-highs and saddle shoes, but soon she's going to be one big, bloated, Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade Balloon.

I think that tuning the piano is an important part of any good piece of writing. I think that tuning the piano is also an important part of any bad piece of writing, perhaps a piece of writing not unlike this one. I am tuning the piano right now, in an effort to overcome this growing sense of impending doom that is overcoming me right now, even as I typed that last punctuation mark that will, for you, be read as a nice, brief pause. Maybe it will add some sort of emphasis for you, when to me it is only an issue of grammar and punctuation and overarching unhappiness with the state of the world.

I can feel the entire weight of the student body sitting right on top of my lungs. Not as a sense of responsibility to any higher end, but rather as a sense of just weight. I feel heavy. Kind of like Alicia Silverstone will feel some day. But, if she ever were a Thanksgiving Day Parade Balloon, I don't think she would run into a building and knock debris on innocent lookers-on, leaving them in comas for months, or even years, while leaving scores of others unscathed. I think Alicia would be more judicious than that. I think she would aim for the Oregon Daily Emerald. I have that kind of faith in her, and in the balloon that would be created in her likeness.

I never liked that newspaper. No. Not since the good old days, when troglodytes, hobbits and trolls walked the hallowed halls of the EMU with some sense of authority. Nay, not even in the days of meaningless sex with student government whores did I like that collection of flimsy newsprint.

Legend has it, however, that even the Emerald had its heyday. Once, an editor refused to kowtow to a student union who made demands on the demographic makeup of his staff, on the content of his publication and on his sense of journalistic integrity. And, he liked squirrels.

He wasn't a bad shot, either.

Ah, yes, that Jake Berg was really something. Cute kid, I guess. Sure could kiss. Squirrels. But he was a bit before my time, and I'm not sure what the point was after all.

Which brings me to Kaly Soto, Jake's successor, a lovely, Tolkien-esque creature. I'm not sure there was ever an original piece written by her stipend-earning staff during her tenure. And I can't remember a single Emerald controversy, either. And that's too bad, because only no press is bad press. Come to think of it, I can barely remember Kaly, except to have the faint impression of Bilbo Baggins, and to recall that she went on to fame and glory at the Statesman-Journal when she witnessed an execution and wrote about how she felt. As I recall, she didn't feel much.

And neither do I, most days. It's the scotch that keeps me numb. That and the effect of listening to Ed talk about being Asian.

But then, there was Dave Thorn. He was a man's man, which is to say, that he belonged to a man with a goatee and a staff. He, too, had something Tolkien-esque about him. It was either his small stature, or his facial hair, or perhaps it was the old wizard that followed him around grunting and casting spells. Once, he bought a pitcher of beer that I drank the most of. He disapproved of my use of prepositions at the end of sentences, as I recall. But he did accept the fifth of Jack Daniel's that we bought for him on Valentine's Day. We stormed into his office, only to find him sucking on a lollipop, with his urchin face grinning sinisterly.

I loved him, once.

The year after that, there was only one applicant, a young go-getter by the name of Steve Asbury. Steve had good intentions and no stamina. Once, in a visit to the Multicultural Center, he and Jennifer Carter were moved to tears. They were very good, the two of them, at escaping responsibility, printing retractions and apologies, and letting Ashley Bach run amok. Really, Ashley can only ever run amok. But perhaps I've descended into the realm of something a little too poignant, a little too literary.

I'm getting a little misty.

Today, Sarah Kickler runs the show up there. Or, more likely, Sarah Kickler is the sad clown taking over the role of the ringmaster at the circus. She's done all right up there, except that she lets Mike Schmierbach exercise his questionable logical prowess in questionable editorials about issues ranging from the expansion of NATO to immigration policies, to the nutritional well-being of squirrels in their natural, primordial habitats--college campuses.

But no one can love squirrels in the same way that Jake Berg loved squirrels. No, sir.

I don't want to be mean to the editor of such a prestigious publication as that, that, that thing. But, I simply can't abide by timidity in journalism. How can one be the editor-in-chief of a daily newspaper, nay, a paper of record, and have no desire or ability to track down information on important issues pertaining to students, the core readership of the paper? Further, how can one not encourage one's employees to earn their keep by doing that type of investigation themselves?

Most importantly, how can one not love firearms?

I suppose, in the end, that it doesn't really matter. Her employees are happy there, and are generally disgusted by the likes of myself and my cronies. We sit around tables at Rennie's, drinking--well, anything, really--beer and telling stories about accidental group deaths with the same kind of glee normally only afforded small children on Christmas morn.

There's no punch-line quite like, "And they died."

Some heed should be paid to the content of the Emerald. I had to consult the current issue to be sure of what goes in a normal installment. The front page, one might assume, has important, timely, relevant information that students care about and can use. And sometimes, by the grace of God, there actually is some of that stuff.

Once you open the paper, however, the terror begins. First, we enter into the sad dimension of the mind of Chris Hutchinson. While it's true that we have belabored the frightening nature of his "art," it's not because we know and don't like the man. We don't know him from his own golem.

But I must say that he really has a dark side to him that, if not channeled properly, could lead to the serial murder of dozens of innocent marmots. That's so clever, I'm told, that we could slap a tail on it and call it a weasel. It's stolen, of course, but Mr. Bean isn't an avid reader of the Commentator. But then, who is? I certainly never read this thing. Hell, I won't even go back and read this article, if it is an article.

When it comes down to it, I just don't care. The Emerald has only ever done one thing to make a difference in my life. They print Duck Bucks once a term. And I love the Pipeline. I love the Pipeline.

The Oregon Daily Emerald has long been the bane of my existence. It's true. The first time I ever felt the heavy, drunken breath of gender discrimination was after reading a column in which I was referred to as the "epitome of Clarence Thomas tokenism." One of many instances in which I felt personally betrayed by a friend was after reading another column by a former editor of the Commentator, in which he claimed that we failed in our task.

And in general, the reams and reams of paper that are expended on the printing of meaningless and trite wire reports, and the coddling given to reporters who simply rewrite press releases, and the ease with which editors are made to cry has always left me vaguely nauseous.

So there.

Farrah L. Bostic, a senior majoring in Journalism is Publisher Abroad for the Oregon Commentator