Page 1.indd - Wingspan

October 10, 2011
wingspan.lccc.wy.edu
opinion
Wingspan 13
Editor learns friends are like a bag of tacos
co-editor
Will Hebert
After 15 minutes
searching the
liquor store, I
finally went behind
my friend’s back and
asked the clerk where
to find Midori. I wasn’t
entirely sure what
Midori was (turns out,
it’s a melon-flavored
liquor), but it was
apparently necessary
to make some
drink that I probably
wasn’t going to like.
My friend had refused
to ask where this
editor’s
commentary
drink could be found
because, as he put it:
“I’m a man. I don’t ask
where things are.”
I hadn’t the heart
to tell him men don’t
buy melon-flavored
alcoholic beverages,
especially in Wyoming
liquor stores (My
friend grew up in
Wyoming but now
hails from Hunting
Beach, Calif.), but I
did realize something
that night—at some
point in their adult
lives, most people will
realize their friends
cause them a lot of
mild, temporary vexation.
This feeling is very
similar to the feeling
I get every time I eat
tacos. I love eating
tacos. They’re one of
my favorite foods to
eat, and I eat them
frequently. Every
time I do I regret the
decision afterward,
but come meal time,
my mind wanders to
corn tortillas and hot
sauce.
I find the decision
to hang out with my
friends is often the
same. I always look
forward to spending
time with my friends
and look back fondly
on the experience in
due time. But that’s
only in due time.
During the experience,
I find myself regretting
poor choices
and promising never
to repeat them…at
least not until next
week.
Whether the occasion
involves getting
kicked out of a party
“Sometimes I’m the human with heartburn,
and other times I’m the tormenting taco.”
because my friend
just heisted the hosts’
literal tacos or having
a strange guy in a
truck try to sell drugs
to my group because
my friend decided we
should take a bridge
that crosses railroad
tracks (No bridges
crossing railroad
tracks lead to good
places.), I usually find
myself with a bad
case of heartburn
during and right after
events. However,
once my mind digests
the spicy details of
what just came to
pass, I always look
back fondly upon the
experience.
Plus, it would be
blatantly hypocritical
for me to stay mad at
any of my friends because
of any discomfort
our adventures
may cause. It is said
you are what you eat,
and I suppose I am
no exception.
Sometimes I’m the
human with heartburn,
and other times
I’m the tormenting
taco.
Most recently,
my roommate came
home to find a punk
band set up in our
apartment. I was
helping the band
record a song about
zombies in the
limited facilities of
my apartment, and
we had not wrapped
as early as intended.
Drums prevented
access to the refrigerator,
and two large
guitar amps occupied
all available space on
the couch.
My roommate had
planned on going
to bed after coming
home, but just as it
is difficult to sleep
when a loud, unholy
gargling is in your
stomach, it is difficult
to sleep when a loud,
unholy racket is in
your living room.
But like a fit of
salsa-induced sickness,
the band sped
through four takes of
the song they wanted
recorded, and we
were able to finish
within an hour. Still,
I felt bad about the
inconvenience I’d
caused.
Yet the next
day, my roommate
politely waved as I
walked in the door
and never mentioned
the previous night’s
disturbance. Despite
whatever adventures
we get into, I still love
hanging out with my
friends.
Sometimes, it is
just best to accept
delicious tacos cause
temporarily painful
heartburn.
Sometimes, it is
just best to accept
loyal friends possess
occasionally inconvenient
quirks.
I find my fondest
experiences come
from accepting the
bad with the good
and returning for
seconds.
Editor remembers home through childhood hero
news editor
Susann
Robbins
editor’s
commentary
Recently, I
walked through
the hallway of
the Fine Arts Building
and was struck by
lightning; well, at least
that’s what it felt like.
At a poster from
the University of
Wyoming about an
upcoming speech by
Mikhail Gorbachev, I
lost my breath temporarily
and started skipping
down the hall,
constantly repeating:
“I can’t believe it! I
can’t believe it, and I
can’t believe it!”
Yes, it is needless
to say I was somewhat
star-struck, I
mean this is Mikhail
Gorbachev, the man
whom I grew up
watching on TV, and
all lovingly called
“Gorbi.”
By the way, I was
born and raised in
old East Germany.
My grandparents
were German and
Russian, and I got
some African from my
father.
Long story short,
to me this man—
Mikhail Gorbachev—
is a hero. I dreamed
of growing up to be
as influential and
important as him.
I dreamed of meeting
him and shaking
his hand. So off I
went to the Wingspan
office, jumping up
and down, asking
our adviser Rosalind
Schliske (Roz) whom
she knew at UW and
how I could get in.
“I would sell a kidney
to meet Mikhail
Gorbachev,” exploded
out of my mouth. Yes,
others would sell their
firstborn. Considering
I have only one child
that didn’t seem like a
good idea. I mean let’s
be honest; someone
has got to take care of
me when I get old.
So, yes, selling
the firstborn child is
not a good idea, but I
have two kidneys. As
I expected, some of
the staff members had
no clue who Mikhail
Gorbachev was, which
had me kind of perplexed.
The man changed
history in Europe; did
the news not travel
over to the States
Gorbachev was the
president of the Soviet
Union, was the main
driving force for ending
the Cold War and
reunited East and West
Germany. I am sorry,
but what in the world
are you kids learning
in history I thought
it was rather strange
when my friends told
me they actually have
been asked if the
Berlin Wall was still up
while they were here
doing a year of high
school. Having now
lived here five years,
this is not so unbelievable
anymore.
Once again, I am
sorry to say this, but
what the heck The
USA is one of the
youngest countries
in the world, and it
seems not to be interested
much in world
history even though
it is a country of immigrants.
Someone told
me once, “In order to
know where you are
going, you have to
know where you are
coming from!”
So how can this
country know where
it is going without
knowing where its
people are coming
from or without staying
informed about
what is going on in the
world Maybe I am
just sort of prejudice
when it comes to
history, but shouldn’t
it be important Why
do I keep getting the
feeling some people,
mostly stateside, just
don’t care what is
going on in the world
around them
Or maybe, I am
still in some state of
culture shock and just
haven’t gotten over it
yet. Much is different
here compared to
my “old country.” For
example, Americans
don’t have to be afraid
to say they are proud
to be American.
Now for us
Germans, on the other
hand, stating we are
proud to be Germans
is still frowned upon.
Some people even go
so far as to call us all
Nazis.
Well, I am sorry,
but that is stupid and
ignorant at the same
time. This is neither
right nor fair to all the
generations who have
come since World War
II. We have learned
from history and our
mistakes, but did you
Often I miss
Germany dearly and,
of course, my friends
and the little family I
have left. I miss strolling
around downtown
and actually going to
a café.
It is a different culture.
What can I say I
miss all the fairs and
street fests.
I miss four seasons.
I mean, all in due time
rather than in one day
or week. Most likely,
I will never become
used to the wind here
either.
I miss what I call
“real” bread, “real”
cheese, “real” food
and, of course, “real”
beer. I never knew
there is a way to
make cheese without
actually putting
milk into it or make it
with cheese byproduct.
What the hell is
cheese byproduct,
anyway
Why do I have to
pay extra for meat that
hasn’t been raised on
hormones I used to
go down the street to
the butcher shop and
buy my meat fresh at
least once a week. I
know I may sound like
a jerk, but do you even
know what a butcher
shop is
I catch myself
quite often telling a
story or saying something
to my friends
and adding, “Oh, you
probably don’t even
know what it is or who
that is.”
I feel like a jerk for
saying it, but, unfortunately,
most of time I
am right.