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10The Daily Tar HeelTuesday, November 22, 1988
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96th year of editorial freedom
Karen Bell, News Editor
MATT BlVENS, Associate Editor
KlMBERLY EDENS, University Editor
JON K RUST, Managing Editor
Will Lingo, aty Editor
Kelly Rhodes, Arts Editor
CATHY McHUGH, Omnibus Editor
SHELLEY ERBLAND, Design Editor
Jean Lutes, Editor
KAARIN TlSUE, News Editor
LAURA PEARLMAN, Associate Editor
KRISTEN GARDNER, University Editor
SHARON KEBSCHULL, State and National Editor
MIKE BERARDINO, Sports Editor
LEIGH ANN McDONALD, features Editor
DAVID MlNTON, Photography Editor
. Kelly Thompson, Design Editor
A welcome condemnation
Thanks are due to Chancellor Paul
Hardin and the UNC Faculty Council,
for finally reaffirming the University
of North Carolina's traditions of
tolerance and free speech.
The events of recent weeks have
given cause to doubt those traditions.
Threats, violence and vandalism have
suddenly become accepted modes of
expression, as UNC suffers a rash of
racially and politically inspired crud
ity. For some reason, intolerance is
rapidly gaining strength on this
campus, and UNC faces internal and .
external threats to its own processes
of freedom of expression.
Examples abound. One political
party destroys another's campaign
literature and posters, calling it "part
of the political process." A group
headed by a Duke professor, in the
interests of defunding the Carolina
Gay and Lesbian Association, advo
cates stripping UNC students of the
right to allocate their own student fees.
Swastikas appear in the Pit on Kris
tallnacht, a commemoration of the
Jewish Holocaust of World War II.
Two student activists find their homes
violated, with death threats and
weapons left behind.
Causes for the outbreak are not
clear, but the University to some extent
has itself to blame. After the incident
at the University Inn early this year,
in which anti-CIA protesters spilled
red paint and followed a CIA recruiter
out of town, students looked at the
protesters' tactics and began to react
against activism. The Board of Trus
tees reinforced this tendency in Feb
ruary by condemning the demonstra
tors, labeling chanting students armed
with red paint as "terrorists."
This hostile attitude toward dissent
and the free exchange of ideas was
fanned by student court proceedings
against the activists. McKinley walked
out on his trial, while the court found
four other activists guilty of disrupting
University business. The perception,
again supported by the BOT's public
denunciation of the protesters, was
that the University was using the
student court as a tool to silence
activism. Whether this view was
justified or not, the issue of dissent was
suddenly spotlighted in the Universi
ty's political arena.
Hardin's remarks and the Faculty
Council resolution are welcome relief.
Both strongly condemn the currents
of repression and racism which have
dominated campus life in the past few
months, and the Faculty Council even
criticized the BOT for its part in
attacking non-violent protest. Finally,
a public recognition that a university's
greatest mission is a free exchange of
ideas without fear of recrimination.
The ever-growing wasteland
Gerald o Rivera. The words conjure
images of neon-orange cheese puffs
and pink foamy hair curlers; of soggy
TV dinners and well-thumbed copies
of the National Enquirer; of a twisted
bleeding nose. On national television.
How embarrassing for Geraldo.
Unfortunately, it's not only Geraldo
who conjures these images of life in
the Park 'n Stay Trailer Park it's
the state of television in general. This
medium, which has incredible poten
tial as an educational, informative tool
in our society, has been abused,
transformed into a seething miasma
of slop. Today's television offers
material that is offensive and insulting
to an intelligent viewer, and therein
lies the problem. As educated,
thoughtful people are turned off by
the offerings of network television and
quit tuning in, the demand for fluff
and smut increases. If it makes money,
The most obvious culprits in this
decline and fall of American television
are the morning talk shows. Sally Jessy
Raphael examined the pertinent issue
of lifestyles of sado-masochists. She
interviewed a woman who led her
boyfriend onstage by a dog collar. The
boyfriend addressed her as "Mistress."
Phil Donahue recently exposed the
scandalous world of gay porn stars
(which exist even in Morton Downey
Jr.'s America). And of course, we can't
forget the reigning king of the moun
tain of smut, Geraldo Rivera.
From featuring the Chippendale
male dancers to interviewing teen
prostitutes about the acts most often
requested by their patrons, Geraldo
will tackle anything in his little slice
of America's morning. Of . course,
every once in a while, things backfire
and Geraldo gets tackled instead. A
recent incident on his show rocked
America with almost the same force
as the news that talk show guru Oprah
Winfrey had trimmed her frame to a
size 10. When Geraldo featured white
supremacists and black activists
ensemble, all hell broke loose and a
brawl ensued. Peeling a chair from his
face on national television, Geraldo
assured himself a place in TV Guide's
Hall of Fame.
Television has become a parody of
itself through the broadcasting of such
"tabloid TV." Saturday Night Live and
other such satirical programs have lost
their place in the American television
appetite. They have been replaced by
talk shows which are insulting, hum
iliating wastes of air time.
When more Americans know Oprah
Winfrey's new dress size than how to
locate Israel on a map, the uselessness
of television is obvious. Where will all
this television garbage end? Only
Geraldo nose. Laura Pearlman
The Daily Tar Heel
Editorial Writer Louis Bissette, Sandy Dimsdale, Dave Hall and David Starnes.
Assistant Editors: Jenny Cloningtr and Justin McGuire, university. Staci Cox and William Taggart, state and
national. Felisa Neuringer, managing. Dave Glenn, Andrew Podolsky and Chris Spencer, sports. Brian Foley,
News: Lynn Ainsworth, Crandall Anderson, Kari Barlow, Jason Bates, Jeanna Baxter, John Bakht, David Ball, Crystal
Bernstein, James Benton, Tammy Blackard, Patricia Brown, Charles Brittain, James Burroughs, Sarah Cagle, Brenda
Campbell, Julie Campbell, Lacy Churchill, James Coblin, Daniel Conover, L.D. Curie, Karen Dunn, Erik Flippo,
Laura Francis, Lynn Goswick, Eric Gribbin, Susan Holdsclaw, Laura Hough, Helen Jones, Stepanie von Isenburg,
Denise Joyce, Chris LandgrafT, Jessica Lanning, Bethany Litton, Dana Clinton Lumsden, Helle Nielsen, Glen O'Neal,
Simone Pam, Dana Primra, Beth Rhea, Thorn Solomon, Will Spears, Michael Spirtas, Larry Stone, William Taggart,
Laura Taylor, Kathryne Tovo, Amy Wajda, Sandy Wall, Andrew Waters, Amy Weisner, Leslie Wilson, Jennifer
Wing, Amy Winslow, Nancy Wykle.
Sports: Neil Amato, Mark Anderson, John Bland, Robert D'Arruda, Scott Gold, Doug Hoogervorst, Bethany Litton,
Brendan Mathews, Jay Reed, Jamie Rosenberg, Natalie Sekicky, Dave Surowiecki, Lisa Swicegood, Eric Wagnon
and Langston Wertz.
Features: David Abernathy, Cheryl Allen, Craig Allen, Jo Lee Credle, Jackie Douglas, Mary Jo Dunnington, Hart
Miles, Myrna Miller, Kathy Peters, Cheryl Pond, Leigh Pressley and Ellen Thornton.
Arts: Randy Basinger, Clark Benbow, Cara Bonnett, Beth Buffington, Ashley Campbell. Elizabeth Ellen, Andrew
Lawler, Julie Olson, Joseph Rhea and Jessica Yates.
Photography: Steven Exum, David Foster, Becky Kirkiand, Tony Mansfield, Belinda Morris and Dave Surowiecki.
Copy Editors: Cara Bonnett, Michelle Casale, Yvette Cook, Julia Coon, Whitney Cork, Joy Golden, Bert Hackney,
Susan Holdsclaw, Anne Isenhower, Gary Johnson, Angelia Poteat and Steve Wilson.
Editorial Assistants: Beth Altman, Mark Chilton, Jill Doss and Sandi Hungerford.
Design Assistant: Mary Dillon.
Cartoonists: Jeff Christian, Adam Cohen, Pete Corson, Trey Entwistle, David Estoye, Luis Hernandez and Greg
Business and Advertising: Kevin Schwartz, director; Patricia Glance, advertising director; Joan Worth, advertising
coordinator; Chrissy Mennitt, advertising manager; Sheila Baker, business manager; Dawn Dunning, Beth Harding,
Sarah Hoskins, Amy McGuirt, Maureen Mclntyre, Denise Neely, Tina Perry, Pam Strickland, Amanda Tilley and
Joye Wiley, display advertising representatives; Leisa Hawley, creative director; Dan Raasch, marketing director;
Stephanie Chesson, Alecia Cole, Genevieve Halkett, Camille Philyaw, Tammy Sheldon and Angela Spiney. classified
advertising representatives; Jeff Carlson, secretary, and Allison Ashworth, assistant.
Subscriptions: Cody McKinney, manager. Ken Murphy, assistant.
Distribution: David Econopouly, manager; Cindy Cowan, assistant.
Production: Bill Leslie and Stacy Wynn, coordinators. Anita Bentley, Leslie Humphrey, Stephanie Locklear and
Leslie Sapp, assistants.
Printing: The Village Companies.
Giving thanks for Bos Equis and Domino's
My brother Andrew and I play the
same trick every Thanksgiving.
Andrew is at Connecticut
College, one of those frostbitten little
schools tucked away on the Eastern
seaboard, at least as far away from our
home in Los Angeles as I am. Three
thousand miles is a nice comfortable
distance from home it means we're
welcomed home with open arms at
Christmas, but dont have to feel guilty
if we donl make it home for the minor
holidays. Mom and Dad told us when we
went away to school that they wouldn t
be "able to fly us home for any holiday
With the price of two tickets to Cali
fornia, a five-day Thanksgiving vacation
with their sons would cost my parents
almost $200 a day. I'm sure they'd love
to see us, but I cant blame them for waiting
three weeks until the rates are cheaper.
After all, I don't call them until after 1 1
p.m. who am I to complain if they dont
fly me home?
But this doesnt stop Andrew and me
from indulging in a little filial sadism. At
about noon, California time, I call home.
I know the turkey has just gone in the
oven, Dad is at work with the gravy, Mom
is dealing with the salad. The conversation
goes something like this:
B (wearily): "Hey. It's Brian."
M&D (cheerfully): "Hi! Happy
B (pleasantly surprised, yet melan
cholic): "Oh, yeah. That's right, it's today."
M&D (jokingly concerned): "Come on,
you didnt forget, did you?"
In the Funhouse
B (distantly resolute): "Now it all makes
M&D (baffled, with a tinge of paranoia):
"What makes sense?"
B (resigned): "Oh, nothing. Just that all
my friends have gone home this weekend
and there's nobody in Chapel Hill and my
refrigerator is empty. I should have
remembered that means it's Thanksgiv
ing. Silly me."
M&D (desperate): "Well, um, you can
cook something up, can't you? A really
B (stoically): "Yeah, well, I'm a little low
on funds. End of the semester and all."
M&D (panicked): "Look, just buy
whatever you want, tell us what it costs.
This one's on us."
B (grateful yet fatalistic): "Thanks, but
I think IH just order a pizza. A small pizza.
Maybe I can even afford two toppings."
M&D (hearts aching): "Are your house
mates there to eat with you?"
B (sighing): "No, they all went home for
the holiday." Here it should be added that
my housemates live in Florida, London,
Hong Kong and Argentina.
The conversation dissolves into a
gratuituous display of martyrdom on my
part and weeping guilt on theirs. We hang
up, after they've extracted a promise from
me to buy a nice dessert or some good
Then, the kicker. The phone rings at
their house at 12:30 p.m.
"Hey. It's Andrew."
"Hi, Andrew! Happy Thanksgiving!"
"Oh, yeah. That's right, it's today . . .r
and the parental nightmare continues.
Someday well tell Mom and Dad the
truth, that we have never been without
offers for a huge Thanksgiving dinner, that
usually we have more invitations than we
can accept, that both of us really enjoy
hanging around our deserted campuses for.
a few days, catching up on work and going
But for now, the guilt trip continues.
"Brian, this is Andrew."
"Hey, Andrew. Happy Thanksgiving." .
"Yeah, Pappy Thanksgiving. What did;
Mom and Dad tell you to buy?"
"Sixer of Dos Equis. You?"
"What are you doing for dinner?"
"Pizza, man, what else?"
We say goodbye and hang up, grinning.
I finish up that late paper on the
Mexican Revolution arid head for the Ram
Triple to catch "Fresh Horses," the latest
sordid equine entangling of Molly Ring
wald and Andrew McCarthy. On the way
home I pick up that six-pack of Dos Equis.
At home, I call Domino's for a large
pepperoni, sausage, mushroom and pepper
pizza, and wash it down with the beer.
Turkey never tasted so good.
Brian McCuskey is a senior English
major from Los Angeles.
To the editor:
I was recently (Nov. 16,
around 11 p.m.) offended by
loud, inept singing in the
Undergraduate Library. Sev
eral white males in respectable
looking suits left the library,
single file, immediately after
wards, still singing. This was
disruptive, and their choice of
material was tasteless
"Dixie," a confederate favorite.
Maybe I am jumping to con
elusions, interpreting this act as
racist and elitist; if so, please
correct me. Could the persons
responsible please carry on
their little capers elsewhere? If
not, the next time my ears are
offended this way, I will call the
The second and third para
graphs of the Nov. 21 column
"Hatcher is no spokesman for
conditions in Robeson
County" by Donnie Douglas,
news editor of The Robesonian
in Lumberton, were hopelessly
garbled due to a production
error. With sincere apologies to
our readers and the author, The
Sick of 0 War and RmzmPMcz "?
HOW ABOUT MORE JF SPiCAlS?,.,
M A A..VJILL BE
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WHO'S BURIED AUTOPSY! i
WE'LL DIG HIM UP M ( PB4UY FIND?
iunuKftow on a Ov turwttfow on
-Isz Y Jfn AFFAIR'
Daily Tar Heel is reprinting the
first three paragraphs of the
column as they should have
As a graduate of the greatest
university and the news editor
at Lumberton's newspaper The
Robesonian, I was-doubly
distressed to read that Eddie
Hatcher spoke at a forum that
was part of a four-day event
held in conjunction with
Human Rights Week.
Hatcher and Lewis Pitts gave
a lecture on "What is happen
ing in Robeson County." It
would be amusing if it were not
so sad that Mr. Hatcher could
be asked to appear in any event
that has to do with human
Mr. Hatcher, as we all know,
denied up to 20 people at The
Robesonian their human rights
for approximately 10 hours on
D Students should include
name, year in school, major,
phone number and home
a All letters must be typed
and double-spaced, for ease of
a All letters must be signed
by the author(s), with a limit
of two signatures per letter.
ECennedy's death left Chapel Hill shocked
"TX "Tov. 22, 1963, was a Friday. Fridays
lV were always great in Chapel Hill.
X N This one was soft and sunny with
few clouds. The air was calm but all else
was astir with excitement in anticipation
of the game with Duke just 24 hours away.
I was a freshman living on the then-outer
rim of the campus universe, Ehringhaus,
and was a small part of an otherwise
wonderfully talented freshman football
team. For me and my teammates life in
the "southern part of heaven" was just that. .
At around 1 p.m. EST, my teammates
and I were eating lunch at Ehringhaus
cafeteria. "Doc" was in charge of the place.
I forget his full name, but he was very
good to all of us and would delight in how
we loved his. food. Anyway, Ray Ferris,
the QB coach and a fine gentleman, was
sitting with us when one of the guys
I can't remember who came over to
our table and said, "Kennedy's been shot."
My instant reaction was to dismiss the
comment as part of the relentless raillery
occasionally tasteless in which we
all gladly engaged. I felt just a tinge of
discomfort and anger. After all, President
John Kennedy was not held in universal
esteem. My dad, who had known him well
for nearly 30 years and worked closely with
him for 17, then as special assistant for
Cabinet affairs, had sent him off from the
White House to Dallas with great misgiv
ings due to the explosive political climate
existing there between the two wings of
the state Democratic party. Even I had
gotten to know the president well, and
regarded him with the greatest respect and
affection. But assassination nah
imagine the madness of it, I thought.
Coach Ferris, one of the very few who
knew anything about the closeness of my
family to the president, rebuked the boy
for his insensitive humor, but my teammate
rejoined, "Coach, it's no joke. Kennedy's
been shot down in Dallas." My heart sank
and my stomach turned. I excused myself
and rushed to my room (521) where, tears
welling, I was joined by my roommate,
We turned on the radio, pulled down
the shade and in the dimness listened with
hope but in . horror to the avuncular,
trustworthy Walter Cronkite as he broad
cast a series of program-interrupting
bulletins. We learned that there had indeed
been shots fired during the president's
motorcade through downtown Dallas;
then, moments later, that the president
apparently had been hit at least once and
was being taken to Parkland Memorial
Hospital where he was being "treated."
I parried each new dark revelation with
new hope maybe he hadn't been hit,
or if he had that the wound was minor,
or if not minor, it would be treatable. ,
Mr. Cronkite repeatedly stated that the
president's condition was unknown.
Sobbing in the darkness, I kept trying to
squeeze hope from uncertainty until finally
Cronkite, his voice breaking, announced
that President Kennedy had been pro
nounced dead at Parkland.
Crushing sadness followed. He could not
be dead. I went to the pay phone on the
fifth floor lobby and called collect to home
hoping against hope to learn from an
even more reliable source than Cronkite
that there had been a terrible mistake or
perhaps a master plan of deception.
Mother answered the phone .crying I
knew then. But I asked anyway. "Did you
hear? Is it true?" "Yes it is, isnt it terrible?"
she wept. I told her I loved her and Dad
and would come home in the morning.
Peter and I then stood outside on the
balcony facing the campus everything
was completely still and quiet. I do not
remember seeing anyone. We decided to
make a visit to church and walked through
the rocky field that is now Boshamer
Stadium up the hill to Ridge Road around
to the intersection where South Road turns
into 15-501. We saw few people and fewer
cars in the unique stillness of that day. On
South Road, a cluster of brightly colored
crepe-filled floats stood in stagnant
readiness for a parade that was not to be.
The Duke game would be canceled. We
continued on Ridge Road, went right to
Gimghoul Street to its end, where we found
the doors to St. Thomas More Church
locked. A priesi from the rectory opened
them, and we went in and prayed. v
After a while, we left the church and
proceeded to the nearby Gimghoul Castle
overlook, where the tree-filled plain below
lay in exquisite reverent peacefulness as far
as the eye could see under the now softly
overcast Carolina sky all in stark
contrast to the unspeakable violence that
had just been released upon us all in Dallas.
Billy Darnell drove me to the airport
the next morning. Thanks, Billy, wherever
you are. We had a nice talk on those
country roads. I just cannot remember
what it was.
What none of us back then could have
known is that President Kennedy's death
not only marked an end to an era of great
promise but a beginning to great turmoil.
During the next decade, specters unknown
to us then, based on the increasing reality
of assassinations, war and civil strife would
weigh upon all who would follow us. An
age of innocence had suddenly, violently
ended. It would be a far different world.
Now, 25 years from that awful day, my
beloved daughter Sarah is a freshman at
my Chapel Hill. She loves it now just as
I did then. Her sister Samantha and three
brothers Tim, Joe and John envy her
greatly, since it is not yet time for them
to live in Chapel Hill. Sarah lives in Hinton
James, even further than I did from the
Old Well, but in the post-Dean Dome
configurations, she actually lives closer to
My thoughts and prayers will be with
her and her classmates in the class of 1992v
on this Tuesday, Nov. 22, 1988, as she;
remembers her father's experiences 25
years earlier, just across tha street.
Timothy Reardon, a 1967 UNC grad
uate who now lives in Washington, D.Cj
is special assistant to the assistant attorney
general in charge of the criminal division,