The Rice Thresher (Houston, Tex.), Vol. 69, No. 6, Ed. 1 Friday, September 18, 1981 Page: 2 of 16
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Playing musical deans IN THE CHEEK/byJohn Heoner
Over the course of the past six years, the Shepherd School of
Music has gone through two official deans, two assistant deans
and several interim deans. The faculty, amazingly, has
remained mostly intact through this process of musical deans,
and once again they are faced with the prospect of starting all
over again.
"Unfufilled promise" is the best way to describe the history of
the Shepherd School. It was hoped by establishing such a
school at Rice, a new high breed musician would be created—a
musician that could not only play, but play with intelligence.
The basic concept still makes sense, but the school lacks
credibility everywhere beyond the Houston city limits.
One major drawback for the school (besides the deans) lies in
the financial set up: cost-center financing. Cost-center means
that the school must pay for all of its own costs from its own
endowment, a chunk of money which is separate from the hugh
general endowment of the university.
The idea was financially sound, but the development office
imposes strict guidelines on the school's solicitation privileges.
Thus they have just enough money to get by, but not enough to
really take off. Until that fundamental problem is solved it
doesn't matter who the dean is, the problem will still be there
when he steps in.
—Bruce Da vies
Environmental debacle
The Rice Thresher may not pull the clout of the Maryland
Audubon Society, but the conclusions of Gary Trudeau's
comic strip society deserve support from real people: As
Reagan's hatchet man, James Watt has proved to be disastrous
as Secretary of the Interior.
At 70 years old, Reagan may not be too worried about the
future of the environment, but for those of us who have to put
up with the world for another 50 years or so, the issue is crucial.
One need hardly remember that a little over a year ago Reagan
boldly asserted that trees cause pollution to appreciate
Reagan's ignorance and insensitivity to environmental
concerns.
Although I presume someone has enlightened Ronnie about
the wonders of photosynthesis by now, the policies of his
administration as carried out by Watt do not indicate any new-
found knowledge. Watt has already opened up many of the
country's valuable forests to commercial exploitation that will
likely destroy them and has offhandedly opened offshores
waters for drilling, without thinking twice—nay, even once—
about possible environmental effects. He has halted the
acquisition of park lands and plans to turn some of thg lands
over to the states, while giving concessionaires a partial control
of some National Parks.
Watt is not the Blue Meanie determined to destroy all
happiness in the world by taking away America's playgrounds.
But Watt's emphasis on exploiting what we have over finding
alternatives is finally self-defeating. Yes, the development of
park lands may benefit the economy in the near future, but
America will only have to face the same problems later—when
there may not be time to solve them.
Watt, however, is only thinking in terms of the next 10 or 15
years. As he indicated in an interview a few weeks ago, he-
thinks the Apocalypse may come before he and his business
friends can use up all the natural resources in this world. And
that would be terribly inefficient, wouldn't it? , ^
—Richard Dees
Write me a verse, my old machine-
I lack for an inspiration;
The skies are blue and the trees are
green,
And I long for a long vacation.
—Edwin Meade Robinson
No curtain. Lights come up on
the sumptously rubbished room of
Ichabod Profligate and Bear
Stockman. The room is of the
typical college dorm variety; two
chairs and desks at right and a two-
tiered bunk at left define what is
otherwise a random dung-heap of
dirty clothes and banana peels.
There is a door, center stage that
leads to the outside world, and
another door up stage right leading
to the adjacent room in the suite.
It is early morning (10 a.m.).
Ichabod is sprawled in the chair at
his desk, drinking Dannon banana
yogurt through a Krazy Straw and
perusing the morning Post. He is
wearing earphones; the muffled
strains of Bing Crosby's White
Christmas drift over the dung-
heap. After studying the Travel
section for several minutes, he
speaks.
Ichabod: Fiji? (Silence.) For
$119?! (Double silence.) Hey,
Bear... (He sucks violently at the
Krazy Straw, creating a patently
profligate slurp. There is a sudden
movement in the upper bunk, and
a ' cascade of cigarette butts,
crusted underwear and hard-core
pornography announces the
presence of Bear Stockman. After
hurling a Lone Star bottle at
Ichabod and striking him squarely
in the back of the neck, the 300-1b.
scho/arshiped linebacker yawns
and speaks.)
Bear: (With
Growlf.
much emotion.)
^Ichabod, bleeding profusely
from wounds to the neck, scalp
and medulla oblongata, staggers
left to his bunk carrying the empty
yogurt cup. After unearthing a
soup spoon from a pile of
breadcrumbs and ergot, he sits and
begins rhythmically scraping the
remaining yogurt globs that
stubbornly adhere to the side of his
cup. After two minutes of
vertiginous near-silence, marred
(Juki ^ssWSydictke-
CM? SOONER OR LATER EVERyBOW
FINDS OUT ABOUT SANTA CLAU5-
mmm
only by his splenetic spooning and
Crosby's special crooning, he
speaks.)
Icabod: Well, scumbag?
(Pause.) Does that mean you want
to go to Fiji or not? (Bear growlfs
rhythmically but unintelligibly,
punctuating the following
distended monologue whenever he
damn well feels like it.)
Continental Airlines is advertising
"an 8-day Nadi Holiday for just
$119" and I'm going over, fall
break, by jingo. (Pause.) I don't
know about you, but I've got to get
away from this place. Four weeks
of Comp 321 have reduced me to a
blithering mass of protoplasm. I'm
out of clean clothes. (Silence.
Ichabod produces a meerschaum,
packs it with breadcrumbs and
ergot, and smokes and hacks
through the rest of the obtuse
monologue.) The ad says that $ 119
covers just about everything
except food. Shit, eight days of
fresh mangoes and vienna sausages
still only raises the total to $130. I
wonder if Francine might...(Slight
pause.) Hey, Bear. You got any
clean condoms? I still haven't done
my wash. (While Ichabod has been
coughing and musing, seepage
from his wounds has begun to spill
onto the floor in a thick scarlet
stream. Silence.) Hey, Bear. You
got a styptic pencil? Shit...
^Ichabod rises and staggers
apoplectically to the door stage
right. He shouts off) Does
anybody want to go to Fiji over
break for $119 plus tax?
(Enter Chorus from center stage
door. The Chorus is composed of
five basketball players and a
Medicine Ball, each dressed as a
member of the Harlem
Globetrotters. They form a
carefully contrived tableau, and
there is much consternation and
heavy-handed dribbling.)
Chorus: (to the tune of the
Hallelujah Chorus,)
Read the small print!
Read the small print!
Read the small print.
Read the small print.
You vegetable.
flchabod wheels around, sees
the shining eyes of the Chorus, and
follows their advice without
hesitation. Ashe rereads the ad, his
countenance falls and blood begins
squirting violently from his neck.)
Ichabod: (with much emotion)
AIRFARE NOT INCLUDED?!?
(He removes his headphones,
drops the Travel section with an
imaginary thud, and dies.)
Chorus: (lamentingly, to the
tune of the climactic strains o/The
Sound of MusicJ
The room is alive with the stench of
ergot (Da da da da)
But Ichy is dead, and he cannot
hear.
He thrilled to the ad, but he must
have forgot (Da da da da)
That it's always a sin to arouse a
sleeping Bear.
(The Medicine Ball rolls center
stage from her place in the
carefully contrived tableau and
speaks.)
Medicine Ball: Take heed, my
friends, and not offense,
A t this tale so cheap and sleezy.
Just remember, friends, beware'of
ads
That sound a little Fiji.
(Abrupt Blackout)
Editor's note: Mr. Heaner's
column this week. Tragedy in 21
Inches, marks his farewell to page
2 of the Thresher. Increasing
demand for apt and true political
commentary has necessitated that
"In the Cheek" (and Ronald
Ehmke's "Designs for Living"J be
relegated to the bowels of this
filthy campus rag. In the-future,
interested parties simply will have
to scour the entire issue to glean
these gems of iconoclasticism and
Dada. We apologize for whatever
jubilation this decision may cause
our readers.
S IT BRUCE DAVIES
jj EJ,.,
flRESHER BRENT WILKEY
Business Manager
Jay Grob j News Editor
Ruth Hillhouse Advertising Manager
Mike Dishart Managing Editor
Mike Gladu Photography Editor
Jeanne Cooper Sports Editor
Deborah Knaff Fine Arts Editor
Kelvin Thompson Back Page Editor
Richard Dees Senior Editor
Norman Furlong Copy Editor
John Heaner Associate Editor
Assistant Editors . Tom Morgan (News), Chris Ekren, Lisa Yce (Typesetting),
Cecelia Calaby (Business), David Potash (Production), Eden Harrington (Fine Arts)
Contributing Editors David Butler, Steve Bailey,
Ron Ehmke, Michele Gillespie
News Staff Alison Bober, John Hulme, Jonathon Berk, Sumit Nanda.
Patty Cleary, Joan Hope, Michael Trachtenberg,
Rob Schultz, Chris Chavez, Robert Morrison, Ian Davidson,
Michael Tinkler, Drew Sutton, Walter Wells
Fine Arts Staff Loren Fefer, Steve Bailey,
Scott Bodenheimer, Dan Borden. Andrew Tullis,jChris Boyer,
Hal Kohlman, David Steakley, Terri Herrman, Harry Wade. Valerie Mattioli, R^ Simmons. Eddie
Burke
Sports Staff. Steve Bailey, David Steakley,
Riaz Karamali, Eric Hough. Dave Chilton
Photography Staff Chip Clay. Scott Caddes. Robert Cruz, Steve Bailey.
Naomi Bullock
Production Staff •. Patti Wuerz, Howard Shapiro.
Steve Bailey, Joseph Halcyon. Mark Meiches. Gene Vaatveit
The Rice Thresher, the official student newspaper at Rice University since 1916, is published weekly on
Thursdays during the school year, except during examination periods and holidays, by the students of
Rice University. Editorial and business offices are located on the second floor of the Rice Memorial
Center, P.O. Box 1892, Houston, Texas 77001. Telephone (713) 527-4801 or 527-4802. Advertising
information available upon request. Mail subscription rate: $20.00 for one year (via first-class mail). The
opinions expressed he ein are not necessarily those of anyone except the writer Obviously.
® 1981, The Rice Thresher. All rights reserved.
The Rice J hresher, September ?x. 1981, page 7
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Davies, Bruce. The Rice Thresher (Houston, Tex.), Vol. 69, No. 6, Ed. 1 Friday, September 18, 1981, newspaper, September 18, 1981; Houston, Texas. (https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth245478/m1/2/: accessed July 18, 2024), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, https://texashistory.unt.edu.; crediting Rice University Woodson Research Center.