MORAL: Spleens open in the Chin Nag. Hating: toward the whiteopants guy, the green-eyed girls Purse their thin lips, grin at his sweet fair face, Kill his long-legged lady. Brains whirl in the Chin Wag. Grating: out the long-drawn names, the clipped black mustache Munches ham-and-lettuce, tooths... Show moreMORAL: Spleens open in the Chin Nag. Hating: toward the whiteopants guy, the green-eyed girls Purse their thin lips, grin at his sweet fair face, Kill his long-legged lady. Brains whirl in the Chin Wag. Grating: out the long-drawn names, the clipped black mustache Munches ham-and-lettuce, tooths an overfull pipe, Plans his political parties. Mouths suck in the Chin Wag. Smoking: on a slim rank fag, the grey fakey fur Tilts a corn-blond head, twitches in an orange plastic chair,l Muses on the latticed vent. Chins wag in the Chin Nag. Choking: in the thick ash air, the small silly I Tastes the acid Coke, smells the scorched ground beef, Hears the shallow talk. If you want to shake the earth, Avoid the eat shop's mirth. But if to dally is your bag, Join those pink young chins that wag. Margit Livingston 15 Show less
22 77-0217t-u9o-1336-968 l The Carnival of values M K Mr. T. accompanied by a hearty round of applause. Maddog,the new manager,how holds the spotlight, and I doubt that his antics could be rivaled by darnum and Bailey. Maddog is a handsome man with the sin- gle physical flaw of a glass eye. His... Show more22 77-0217t-u9o-1336-968 l The Carnival of values M K Mr. T. accompanied by a hearty round of applause. Maddog,the new manager,how holds the spotlight, and I doubt that his antics could be rivaled by darnum and Bailey. Maddog is a handsome man with the sin- gle physical flaw of a glass eye. His particular managerial talent seems to lie in the field of personnel relations rather than merchandising. His real de- but came last fall when he began hiring temporary “Christmas help." With his glass eye on the application and the other eye checking out physical quali- fications he managed to hire for his departments a veritable harem. Maddog's latest performance was a terrific suc- cess I have been told by the girl from the wig department. The rest of the em- ployees missed it because it took place behind the locked doors of the stock— room. A talented manager, Maddog has stolen more hearts than the man on the flying trapeze. But audiences are fick- le. and when his department begins to show a deficit Maddog is bound to be replaced. Another nmn who has 'faith in the Nickel organization is Mr. K.. the store manager. He is a walking stereotype of the typical busi- nessman. fat and balding. with a cliche for every occasion. A former school teacher turned rag merchant, he appar- ently snowed sufficient mediocrity to rise quickly to the top. He appears in the store periodically to make sure destroyed my #._r~i 3—: If you like iih-charge it} I that the show goes on and to deliver his "sales-people-are-the-backbOne-of Nickel's" speech. Occasionally he talks to the “little people" just to see that we're "really on the ball" and to re- mind us that "the custoner is always rignt" but that we must "keep that mer- cnandise moving." Until a year ago Mr. K. had managed to hold the show to- gether and to keep cnaracters like Had- dog from foaming at the mouth. Then nearly two months ago an inci- dent occurred which rocked the stabili- ty of the wnole store and doubled my determination to get out. One quiet Tnursoay evening six wonen's depart- ments received calls from a bizarre fellow wno has becone known as the "Phantom Leg Biter.“ He asked for sev- eral salesgirls by name and threatened to cone and nibble on their knees.with- in twenty-four hours the store gos- sips figured out wnicn of Nickel's dis- reputable managers was the culprit. Since then he has been seen lurking in the hosiery department, eyeing the pan- ty hose. I could go on and on with incredible incidents that have occurred in the last year. but I prefer to block them from my memory. by only concern now is to get out of Nickel's before the busi- ness folds or is raided by the Minnea- polis Morals Squad. Show less
«» am he". sfia The Sundial Birthless never to remember the drooping cavern's confines or the startling sun as though squatting in a purse suddenly open tied to an empty cord bundled off on a windowless train from that human room floating floating intoxicated by the bumps and swerves but rolling... Show more«» am he". sfia The Sundial Birthless never to remember the drooping cavern's confines or the startling sun as though squatting in a purse suddenly open tied to an empty cord bundled off on a windowless train from that human room floating floating intoxicated by the bumps and swerves but rolling timeblind and giddy towards the dustwomb of impatient earth waiting unawares the crazed uneven sundial's careening shadow. The hairy nazarite squinting but unchained spreads himself like some great bird swollen oaken arms knotted fingers thrust out marblebound the haunting columns stand too wide apart short-spanned maggotmothered man awaits a hoary god's ancient rage or a weightless sparrow settling witless on the roof to bring the indifferent pillars down John Engman Emmi... ‘lL 5" , A. .' . 4 n y#___‘__- mu‘xr’dmcsrm Show less
The last Things Hear.my prayer, 0 Lord, and with thine ears consider my calling; hold not thy peace at my tears; For I am a stranger with thee and a sojourner as my fathers were. 0 Spare me a little, that I may recover my strength, before I go hence, and be no more seen. --Psalm 39 The ardent... Show moreThe last Things Hear.my prayer, 0 Lord, and with thine ears consider my calling; hold not thy peace at my tears; For I am a stranger with thee and a sojourner as my fathers were. 0 Spare me a little, that I may recover my strength, before I go hence, and be no more seen. --Psalm 39 The ardent September sun had risen in a gray mist that morning, leading two sundogs, the portents of rain, be- hind it. How the patriarchs took their places on the pink veranda of the Con- tinental and whispered maledictions of the afternoon rains all that cerulean ‘morning. The Hotel Continental had brooded over the corner of Fourth Street and Washington Avenue for as long as I could remember. In a fit of caprice the owners had painted pink the myriad Vic- torian fancies of the huge, decaying building. 0n the ceiling of the lobby, however, a shade of the Continental's vanisned elegance remained, for there, between growths of rotting plaster fo- liage, were daubed the likenesses of goddesses and cherubs clothed in rose and Ultramarine. A bacchanal could be glimpsed tnere between rows of fading Grecian wood; there sanguine Paris judged three undraped, buxom dames. It was eleven o'clock on a Friday VWIHanifloen morning wnen, from the third floor,from the rooms which had once been designat- ed "les suites grandes,“ through the urown halls, down the green stairs, and into the looby with goddesses and cher- ubs painted on the ceiling, where the neat had lulled the old men to wheezing sleep, came a long hoarse cry. The hearse came and the grandfathers whispered and nodded as the mortuary attendants carried the stretcher across the veranda and through the lobby. The chambermaid was calm enough now to lead them up the stairs to the open door. The ragged transient lay face down on the bed; his corpse had bled profusely from the moutn and nose, and the sheets were dyed with blood. Blood had set- tled in the face of the prone body so that when the attendant turned it over, the visage of the dead man was the col- or of dried rose petals and grotesquely bloated. Although the face did not ap- pear human, I, looking into that face, knew that this was how I shall be. wa it is five o‘clock in the after- noon; the autopsy is over,and the coil- ing, black cloud in the west is swal- lowing tne sun. It is silent in the soiled wnite room, for the autopsy is at last over. Une cannot remain unmoved in the presence of death, and, like an incantation, the ancient words spill out: Lord, thou hast been our refuge, from one generation to another. Before the mountains were brought forth, or even the earth and the world were made, thou art God everlasting and world without end. Now the autopsy is over, and the corpse is naked and Split open like a butcher- ed animal, like a beef carcass. Thou turnest man to destruction; again thou sayest, Come again ye children of men. For a thousand years in thy 1. Show less
tne nefarious delson, moved in quickly 'to cut up tne rest of the story: "The author tells too much." "Ah...yeah...rignt...um...puff,"from nlgren. “The writer doesn't say enough about tne past relationship between the moth- er and the grandmother." "Un-nun---uh---puff---that's true.“ "me didn't... Show moretne nefarious delson, moved in quickly 'to cut up tne rest of the story: "The author tells too much." "Ah...yeah...rignt...um...puff,"from nlgren. “The writer doesn't say enough about tne past relationship between the moth- er and the grandmother." "Un-nun---uh---puff---that's true.“ "me didn't decide wnat attitude the reader snoulu take toward the charac- ters." "Right again...,” flick-flick of asnes. Stupified, I nau ceased to listen to tne voices and tried to imagine why Al- gren snoulu naVe taken such a dislike to the prize-winning story. I was dis- illusioned anu uisencnanted with the conference, the conferees, and Algren. why tnis story? Why? I kept asking myself. Just in tine to hear the now uis- tinctly villainous-looking Algren lac- erate tne last page of nw sister's work, I awoke from my reveries: “An...it's got a prosy, flat tone... un...someone telling you all about the Characters in a monotone," he raSped. “All in all...an, un...it's a dra-a-gi" n drag! I was seething. The class ended, and I vaguely remember leaving the classroom building and seeing nw sister stay behind. A few minutes later I founu myself in the residence hall lobby, and I caught a glimpse of Miss humpnner as I started upstairs. I stopped snort. Algren! I thought, and I turned arounu and headed down- stairs, hoping to overtake him. Hor- mally, my inherent timiuity would have precluded my even greeting such a fam- ous personage. but my wrath drove me on, and I stalked toward Nelson, who was sitting in tne lobby skimming a manuscript. Ifly consternation must have showed in every pore of my face, for upon see- ing my insignificant frame in front of him, Algren remarked a la Miss Humphner “You looked troubled. Is there something I can do for you?“ "I didn't at all agree with your re- marks aoout the story you discussed in class just now,...sir1 I sputtered. “Un....“ he repliEd paternally. "And why not...?," and he wanted to add "little girl," I could see. "I thought it was a good story--well written. interesting,“ I answered al- most peevisnly, his vicious attack on "The Last Enemy“ still fresh in mind. Algren's eyes glinted as he moved forward in his chair. "Did you write the story?" he asked. "No. I did not! I said. descending smile-Vanished. “Uh,...an, er...“ He was off bal- ance. but he recovered. "Nell...I still think tnat story is boring and trite.“ “Boring and trite! That sounds more like 'Mrs. Peters' Paramour'," I coun- tered, recalling that tiresome tale of the day before. "Oh, no," Algren said in his most patronizing manner. "That has real pos- sibilities--and I mean, market potenti- al... Suddenly I realized why Nelson had torn apart my sister's story so thor- ougnly and had left "Hrs. Peters' Para- mour" relatively intact. It was very simple--he had not picked the stories himself but had asked the 'conference director for some representative pieces When he had read “Mrs. P." and “Venus and Adonis“ for the first time the day before, he had decided that the former was tne good story and the latter the mediocre one. Thus by elimination my sister's must be the worst. I turned % E His con- Wei W l%l Show less
career at Moorhead. After my mother re- ceived her degree there in l928, she proceeded to produce nine offspring, seven of whom would become future Drag- ons.* Therefore, when I in the fall of '65 embarked upon my educational adven- ture at Moorhead State with what I thought was a "clean slate"... Show morecareer at Moorhead. After my mother re- ceived her degree there in l928, she proceeded to produce nine offspring, seven of whom would become future Drag- ons.* Therefore, when I in the fall of '65 embarked upon my educational adven- ture at Moorhead State with what I thought was a "clean slate" under my collegiate arm, I was immediately placed into an overcrowded classifica- tion with the rest of my siblings. I became, as my sister's swimming in- structor at Moorhead so aptly phrased it, “another sinking Haugo." The ster- eotype was inescapable. Five of ny brothers had played football for the mighty uragons, and for some reason it just seemed that I,female or not,should also take to the gridiron. Everyone from Vince the janitor to Mr. the football coach looked at me askance and sized me up for defensive left end. Not only was I in danger of losing my identity but my femininity as well. I knew I had to leave. While at Moorhead State I was con- stantly troubled by the fact that I was, perhaps, receiving an inferior ed- ucation. This anxiety arose from vari- ous spirited debates--in which I was always far outnumbered--with students from Concordia, a small private college two blOCKs west of M.S. The debate in- variably ended with nw humble accept- ance of the obvious inferiority of state schools as opposed to private. *Dragon is the name given to the school mascot at Moorhead State. Danick_ The very fact that 1 humbly conceded defeat time after time proved the medi- ocrity of Moorhead State to them and eventually to me. I became paranoid and finally took any mention of the differences that exist between state and private institutions as a direct attack on my school, my education, and finally my mind. The matter disturbed me so much that I decided I had to dis- cover the differences for myself. I not only had to verify the quality of my education but the quality of my mind as well. Thus I sought out a private college. And it had to be away from home and without family precedent. This past summer I was once again a lifequard and counselor at a--excuse the misnomer--Bible camp. Due to the machinations of fate, the Holy Spirit, or the Augsburg Alumni Association our camp was deluged with former Auggies, now gone pastor. Tney shared with me their nemories of past days of glory, viewed through the scarlet-hued glasses of retrospect, and I became convinced that Augsburg was the place for me. It was away from home, private, and untar- nished by the family name. Now when I see a high school student roaming about our unattractive little campus and scrutinizing this building or tnat campus house with a sardonic sneer on his face, I want to walk up, put a guiding arm about him, and with the voice of experience say something to the effect that “beauty is only brick deep.“ However, in the better interest of my stomach and its capacity to eat crow, the already confused state of the high school student and the col- lege admissions office, I restrain my- self. That high school senior will have to decide for himself just what he wants form a college and then, like HE, be prepared to answer that ever-popular question, "Why?" M W. 0% Show less
12 grievances against me yet, however. The indignities have just begun. ...and when I pass my fuzzy-haired draft counselor on the street I shall cast my eyes to the ground and blush. My papers are checked, and I follow, obediently, a blue line that takes me to a locker room. I take down a wire... Show more12 grievances against me yet, however. The indignities have just begun. ...and when I pass my fuzzy-haired draft counselor on the street I shall cast my eyes to the ground and blush. My papers are checked, and I follow, obediently, a blue line that takes me to a locker room. I take down a wire basket and deposit in it my shirt, t- shirt, pants, and socks. I remember the difficulty I had that morning choosing my attire. I mean, what do you wear to a draft physical? 0n the wall of the locker room is a sign saying: "We Cane not Be Responsible for Lost or Stolen Property.“ If they aren't responsible, who is responsible? I enter a line to be weighed and measured. My group stands clad in shorts, shoes with no socks, and papers in hand. The more modest use the pa- pers as fig leaves. There are fat pink bodies, a few lean tan beach boys and myself,a bit conspicuous with red stal- lions galloping across my boxer shorts. My group, a rather curious lot fully clothed, is now totally inane. Also a- bout this time the last remnants of my rational processes escape me. A soldier scribbles down my height and weight. I read the figures, and I am once more a- mazed to discover that... I occupy Space. Farther along the blue line I take a position at the end of a long, slow- moving procession. I finally arrive at a device to measure my vision. My left eye betrays me by not being able to read lines four or five, and I have to settle for the large print in line six. I then take a seat on a long narrow bench for another long wait. At this station groups of seven are led into a large black box. It has a heavy door that swings shut and locks with a metal latch. It looks like a meat locker. I am with the last group to enter. The heavy door swings securely me. There are no windows. from small dim bulbs. I sit on a small folding chair and stare blankly for- ward. So this is it. An inglorious end. I look about for shower heads. Six mil- lion Jews and a Swede. There is a sign on the wall: “Remove the headset from the wall. When you hear a tone, depress the button on the ledge in front of you. Release when the tone ends.“ A temporary reprieve. I put on the headset. Beeeeeep. Presss. Beep. Beep. Press press. Softer. Beep. Press. Softer yet. Beep. Beep. Those clever draft people. No fooling this machine. Press press press. Beep. Press. Almost imperceptible now. Beep beep. Press press. I sit for some time pushing the button in a Skinnerian manner. Where are my food pellets? Must be piling up under my chair. I'm very good at this. There is a tap on my shoulder. Every- one has his headset off and is looking in my direction. I remove my headset and put it back on the peg. I sit star- ing at the wall in front of me. In the silence I notice a faint ringing in my ear, a sound that must have caused me to keep depressing my button. The door opens and we file out. In the next room are more grey benches for more waiting. The corridors and rooms are all painted monotonous cream colors. The ceilings are low. It is very surreal. I am entirely disori- ented. No sense of direction. Wander- ing deep in the bowels of this building I could never find my way out alone. I shut behind Light comes Show less
