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About Oregon daily emerald. (Eugene, Or.) 1920-2012 | View Entire Issue (May 8, 1943)
SDX PRESENTS Oregon H' Emerald ROY PAUL NELSON, editor FRED BECKWITH, managing editor MARK HOWARD, news editor TEX GOODWIN, associate editor RUSS HUDSON, art editor STAN WEBER, society editor FRED TREADGOLD, sports editor CIIAS. rOLITZ, associate editor, too KEITH JANDRALL, associate editor LYNN JOHNSON, ditto JEFF KITCHEN, not much LEE FLATBERG, a little TED BUSH, went to Portland JOE MILLER, he’s married FRED KUHL, clamdigging and JACK L. BILLINGS, copy boy Vic “Bow, Wow” Huffaker set most of the heads. The business staff operated as usual. Published daily during the college year except Sundays, Mondays, holiday* and final examination periods by the Associated Students, University of Oregon. Entered as second-class matter at the postoffice, Eugene, Oregon. — AHEAD and gripe. So today’s Emerald looks like it had been written in a straight jacket. So what? Okay, so it is a little different from your routine copies. [Yeah, we’ve chucked ethical journalism to the wind, and this issue has set its own style. We have informality. We have flashy make-up. We have—what’s that? Listen brother, you can’t insult our integrity like that and get away with it! Maybe you don’t know who we are. Allow us to introduce ourselves. We are members of Sigma Delta Chi, Men’s National Pro fessional Journalism Fraternity. We know more about jour nalism than—well, a lot of people. Sure, you could never tell it by looking at this paper. But you don’t understand. You see, this paper is an escape. A ND WHAT ARE we escaping from? We are evading the realities of war, maybe. Or maybe it is just that we are tired of studying. We arc tired of hearing how to write, and how to make layouts, and how to set heads. We are tired of conforming to set principles. In fact we are tired. 'Y'OU KNOW, this journalism is an interesting business. \ ou have such wide boundaries for originality. And you meet such fascinating characters on the sidelines. They all congre gate around the shack—the old faithfuls who do all the work, the old faithfuls who do none of the work, and the sundry indi viduals who drop in to get some publicity. Sometimes the methods employed by the latter are a bit un orthodox. Take-4 lie-case of Steve Bristol, for instance. There’s a character who is no Emerald worker but who comes down to the shack, writes a story on the merits (questionable) of Steve Bristol as a softball player, and then stamps “must” and the editor’s name on it and brings it over to the University • • • * * * * * * Kollie “ 1 ombstone Cable, acting as sports editor for the dav, sticks the story in with a Steve Bristol by-line. Arid when Bristol sees it in print the next morning he has the guts to com plain because they didn’t put his name in the masthead as a sports writer. That isn’t the first time instances like that have occurred. Remember when Joe Miller used to write about Joe Miller in intramural sports stories? The sports editor used to put “by Joe Miller" on the top of the story. 1 KRE ELSE BUT in the Emerald offices would you find characters who write stories all afternoon, set heads half the night, play poker the rest, retire at dawn, and get up in time for lunch, but not quite in time for morning classes. Where else would you find a thin girl who writes poems praying to lose weight, a high school kid who comes down and wolfs co-eds from University operators, and a character who is not satisfied with seeing his column in print, but must post it in front of the College Side? "'HAT'S W HY MOST of us Sigma Delta Chi members are regular workers on the Emerald. We have found that the shack is probably the most unusual meeting place on the cam pus. We like it. So today we are putting out our own paper. We couldn't expect every issue to be like this...It is the novelty of technique that makes this issue a good paper...It is a good paper, you know. And if you don't believe us—just ask us. * * * R. P. X I Cover the Campus; i = By FRED BECKWITH It takes a Sigma Delta Chi edition to bring this goo back into print. That’s enough build-up, so down to the dirt .... We wonder what would have happened in the campus po litical battle just concluded if Helen Angell’s airplane had not been grounded at Chicago, when she was en route to Oregon. . . . Phyliss Heber stepped out with a new man and new reso lutions at last night’s Mortar Board affair . . . M. A. Jackson just sniffles this week, cuz the Dee-Gee freshmen showered her. . . . One of the better known en tertainers on campus is some what tangled up in a mystery af fair with a newly initiated Phi Bote . . . Probably the best lit erary collection of thoughts, poetry, prose, fiction, plays, etc., is the paper clipped sheaf of pa pers belonging to “Spider” Dick son. Some of the matter is a bit tepid in nature, but good reading . . . “Iowa” Lindley has taken to wearing that morbid green jacket again, despite the advice of fel low Emeraldites . . . Most sensu ous eyes on campus probably be long to Karolyn Koepke . . . Cute li’l Mary Bush is scheduled to pen a new volume, “The Art of Tak ing Pins.” (Good-lookin’ Warren Smith take notice!)—What would Ruthie say? Joan Woodward’s number one thrill has returned from overseas to Los Angeles. She’ll finish out the rest of the term up here, how ever . . . Two nights before Bar bara (Betty Hutton) Bock took a pin, she fell down and gave herself a bad knock on the head! . . . Such is life . . . Betas Ted Loud and Curt Lindley (riyacou sin!) got into a little mix-up over the same woman . . . Ray Far mer evidently gave that luscious Kappa the breeze, much to her astonishment. . . . Just Questions: What would Dick Smith do without those dark glasses? What would Ai Larsen do without Westminster house ? What would the campus bar ber shops do without that blond Theta Chi’s business? What would Virginia Bryant do without letters from Whitman college ? Just Chatter and Patter: I know where there is a brand new pair of men’s saddle shoes with red rubber, sellihg for the re markably low price of $4.95. (Anyone interested ask the phone operator for 703) . . . Les Ander son’s beauty sleep was not inter rupted the other night despite the fact that Merrit Kufferman and his entire troupe of'Mothers’ Weekend performers were re hearsing their skit under his nose . . . New combination on campus might be the Reba Nixon-Bud Putnam duo, although the young lady was escorted by Spider Dick son’s drummer at the Junior Prom . . . NEWS FLASH! Jo Hemenway moves to LA. Dr. Bryant may go further south to San Diego . . . Anyone desiring a pair of bruised arms, see C. F. Powers for the fascinating new (Please turn to page seven) By TEX GOODWIN Dr. Lesch (Edward Christian Allen Lesch, Ph.D., Associate Professor of English), never talks for publication. In fact, he once declared that the Emerald stinks and that journalists were a bunch of poltroons. Assuming that a poltroon, a very nondescript one at that did interview Dr. Lesch, this is about the way it would sound. Poltroon: “Dr. Lesch, what do you think of the Emerald?” ECAL: “It stinks.” P: “What do you think of vic tory gardens?” ECAL: “They st . . . well, no, they are just useless. Why plow up a nice flower garden to plant carrots even if the mortar board women do want to use them for corsages ? P: “What do you think of the war?” ECAL: I agree with Sherman.” From there the conversation would drift to the U of O libe. Dr. Lesch becomes again human. His voice quavers with tender emotion. He is a man who loves books and other beautiful things. He is a man of profound thoughts and in books he finds the escape he needs from the insipid, the mundane, the paltry ... in short, every thing that is typical cam pus coed and joe college, even the Emerald. He tells how he helped secure the University’s extensive col lection of rare books, one of the finest on the coast. In fact, the professor didn’t say so but we know that some of these books could now be sold for many thousands of dollars. The libe houses a magnificent collection of rare volumes, both incunabula and post incunabula. Dr. Lesch was one of the boys Linoleum block by . “Scotty” Mindolovich that rounded up this pile of leath er and cloth bound gold. If there are any words here that you are not quite sure about, look them up. I had to. In spite of his love for books, Dr. Lesch is not bibliomanicai, he once said as much. He loves the simple things of life, putter ing in his flower garden. He has one of the most attractive homes in Eugene because of his work with plants and shrubs. We came not to either bury ECAL or praise him, we merely turn him over so we can look at him through the eyes of a pol troon. We are safe, too. for Dr. Lesch never reads' the Emerald and were he to gripe about this, it would be an admission of hav ing read and taken notice of a poltroon. Catsup should be exterminated from the tables of the earth. This sickening red drool of tomato tears, demi-god of .the living organization table, (£ as i done more than any one thing to undermine the good intentions of ; American cooking. In campus cooking, where good | intentions have for centuries been non-extant-. catsup has set out to blanket [everything from peas to prune whip, and to pro vide a steady inaome for Sal He- i patica. Without catsiip no housewife would dare to serve burnt, damp toast, slightly sooty scrambled eggs, disgruntled “this is my sixth appearance” meatballs. Gone would be .the hash Rover refused to stoop to inhale, creamed corn that neither creamed nor corn, and mashed potatoes slightly damped by that trip to the Johnstown flood. But Utopia is still reserve/^ .or ; people who believe in classroom cocktail bars, think that draft notices are invitations to the President’s birthday ball and that Hedy La Marr is Mrs. Santa Claus. Catsup continues to engulf the living organization table. It is the house-cook's darling. .With a quart of, catsup to the man she can get away with mur der (the literal sense may well be applied here).:' She can continue burning toast, cut up old shoes! to - mingle with the hamburger in the “spaghetti,” ; substitute shredded test papers for lettuce salad, or broil FDR's j old fishing hat fo)r salt mackerel. Why will know the difference (gasp?) If Who cares (choke) ? Finnan haddie ‘tastes like cat sup under catsup. Roasta beef J tastes like catsup under catsup. Mac the Roni tastes like catsup under catsup. Why the hell use food! * * J But the saddest result of King j Catsup’s rise to infamy and o’er blanketing success has been the emergence of the catsomaniac. ; This pitiful creature, so well j known to Greek, chapter houses, is the tragic result of the degen eracy of 20th century boarding house cookery. He has been given lip as hopeless by psychiatJS'-ts j from Bellevue Annex to PitSnrn Island. State hospitals have re fused to even grant him weekend privileges. There.is no remedy for his insatiable lust so long as the red plague glubbers forth under (Please turn to page seven)
