ON SERENADES
Voices Rend the Air
BY BOB FI NK
Emerald Columnist
Feb. ’7. 11*53
It was two o'clock in the morn
rig and she was lying somewhat
northeast of center on the
Lambda Pu sorority sleeping
porch. She was a thing of beau
1 y, duplicated ,>n every side by
the sleeping forms of her soror
ity sisters. Her luxuriant hair,
unencumbered by pins or other
machinery streamed luxuriantly
over-her pillow. Her slender fig
ure was swathed in a frothy neg
ligee i we got this part out of
•a booki. By the pale light of the
moon you could see the breath
curling delicately front her
nostrils.
From somewhere down the
street came the >ound of a
• oarse Faugh and the drop of
a l*eer can. Almost instantly
the form of the Saturday Night
Sophomore Serenade Appre
hending Committee chairman, I
which had been motiopleas lie
sides the window, tensed; and
with this tensing, fourteen
beautiful sophomore committee
members sprang from their
t>-ds with hoarse cries.
‘Serenade’ Serenade"’ the
voice of the committee chairman
wailed, siren-like. Another mem
ber was poking sieepmg Lamb
do P'1-?’ in vulnerable places with
8 hairpin.
The Thing o: 3eauty cleverly
put her pillow over her face and
her luxuriant hair and attempt
ed to sink info her mattress.
This worked for approximately
three minutes, after which time
the pillow was snatched up. a
flashlight pushed near her face,
and a ruellow voice broke the
night with “All right ladies,
everybody wants to show their
House Spirit, doesn't Every
body."
They stool, imbued with House
Spirit, at the windows, and they
were lovely to behqld. The com
mittee chairman was peering
nearsightedly down onto the
lawn. The Committee for Ren
dering a Beautiful Song of Reply
was neighing nervously off to
the side.
Down on the lawn one mem
ber of the Triple tireek-letter
w e-h a ve-forgotten-frajemity
leaned against his brother in
the bond, who leaned against
still a third, who found a rest
ing place against a tree. They
mumbled for a time, could not j
agree upon a song, and left, j
There was a general feeling on j
the sleeping porch that this !
had possibly been an Unregis
tered Serenade, and everyone
went back to bed. The commit- \
tee chairman was severely dis- !
appointed.
It was two-thirty o'clock the
same morning when the commit
tee chairman again raised the
hue and cry, and the Sisterhood
again gathered expectantly at
t.he windows. Below on the lawn
five hundred members of the Phi '
Phi fraternity were gathered into'
five parts. Members holding
torches formed an Omega in the
center; a line of men in front
were holding roman candles. The
ON SOPHISTICATION
Four Sophisticates
Congregate in SU
BV BOB FINK
Emerald Columnist
Feb. >7, 1952
They were sitting, four of
them around a table in the soda j
bar. Each had her left elbow o:*>
the table. Each was dangling a;
cigarette between the first arid
second fingers of he; left hand.
It was. they all knew, the ulti
mate in sophistication.
“I'm so awfully tired," sighed
one, delicately filtering some
smoke through her nostrils. "So
beastly tired." The other three
muses looked at her sympathet
ically through half-closed eye
lids.
"Wretched." said one.
“Wretched," the other two
agreed.
They were all drinking small
cokes. It was not sophisticated
to drink large Cakes. Someone
might get the idea that you
actually liked Cokes. You were
not supposed to actually like
anything.
“I was going to New Orleans
BOB FUNK
to the March Gras." said the tired
one, ‘‘but I just couldn't drag
myself away."
“I'm so disgustingly bored."
said a second one, listlessly stir
ring her Coke with a straw,'“why
don't they serve cocktails in this
place anyway?"
“Ah, cocktails," sighed the
tired one.
“Cocktails," the other two
agieed looking coldly down into
their Cokes.
“Here comes someone we
know," said the leader. “Look at
her but don't speak.” They all
looked directly through the ac
quaintance. The acquaintance,
being up on such etiquette,
looked directly through them. It
was all extremely sophisticated.
“She's such a grind,” said one
of the sophisticated ones.
“I heard she actually likes it
here,” said another. They all
sneered slightly in the direction
of the acquaintance.
“Remind me to cut her dead,
not that I won’t.” said the tired!
one. “Really, I would speak to
m.ore people, but it’s -so strenu
ous."
Noticing that their cigar
ettes were not too far along,
they all puffed feverishly, put
theut out, and casually lit new
ones. The tired one, having
grown bored with her Coke, i
quietly slushed it onto the j
floor. “I wish one of these I
peasants would come and mop i
this up," she said,
“Yes," said - one of her com-1
patriots, “it's such a beastly j
place.”
“So boring," said another.
“So unsophisticated,” said the
fourth.
They ail inhaled a great deal
of cigarette smoke and exhaled
it through their noses, choking
only slightly. They were all so
very tiled.
members refreshed themselves
with last gulps of Coco Cola, and
then began roughly as follows:
“Take, O take those lips away;
Should 1 not live another day
I should expire surfeited, re
plete.
With love of you, who an* so
neat;
With love of you, who are so
fair.
For whom you know I really
care;
With love of you who would
not go
With any other blackguard,
schmo
But me (but I) of frat rhl l*hl.
In summary, even should 1 die
You’d stilt possess my i*hi I’hi
pin
Which, on this campus, means
You’re In.’’
The song of reply was all about
the beautiful, gorgeous, and re
dundantly charming members of
Lambda Pu being the people
everyone wanted to pin, even the
cross-eyed ones, and so this sere
nade was no' surprise.
The, gil l being serenaded was
receiving her eighth serenade in
as many weeks, and was hoping
to break the existing record and
receive the Serenade Cup on
Founders’ Day. On the .sixth
serenade a small group of dis
gruntled sisters had attempted
to thrust her bodily from the
sleeping porch onto the blazing
torches of the serenading fra
ternity. This plan had been frus
trated from fruition only by the
tact that the lady in question
had lodged on a first floor awn
ing.
Since then she had kept her
self chained to the house presi
dent on tile rather naive sugges
tion that no one would throw the
house president out the window
too.
As the Song of Reply ended
there was an ecstatic breathing
on all sides, and the Most Sere
naded cut another notch on her
bedpost.
“Beautiful.’' the committee
chairman sighed.
Down on the street a beer can
clinked. The committee chair
man tensed expectantly. And by
the dim. romantic illumination of
the moon, a member of the senior
class of Lambda Pu sorority. Al
pha of Oregon, shot herself with
a small revolver.
ON INTELLECTUALS
Gertrude, Woman
Compete for HIM
■
BV BOB FI NK
Fmeruld Columnist
Oct. 16. 1953
They were sitting at the Stu
dent Union, looking at each
other. It was nice there, she sup
posed. but crowded. She kept an
swering questions asked in the
conversation next to her. The
juke box started, making con
versation impossible: she fol
lowed the song for awhile, but it
was all about somebody loving
somebody else who was no good,
same old story, and she lost in
terest.
He was a member of the avant |
gards. He had become a member 1
so he wouldn’s have to take
baths anymore, or something.
They had met in a literature
class. She had turned around. ;
and there he was, breathing on
her. She hadn't ever had a chance
1 to introduce herself, since he was
| always expanding on his relation
j ship to art. which was complex I
j and as far as she could gather,
j almost non-existent.
He was a singer. Some day he
! was going to be great. He was
| working up a new kind of music I
without rhythm or harmony or
any of those restrictive things.:
| and he was going to sing in Car-;
, negie Hall some time if the rats
(hadn't gotten it first. His actual
j vocal range was two rather pleb
j lan notes, anything above or be
low them was accomplished by
pure gall.
Gertrude came ploughing
across the room toward them.
, Gertrude was the big eompeti
| tion for the heart of the bathless
member of the avant gard**. Gert
rude was avant garde, too; may
I be not enough, though,
j Gertrude sat down tragically,
i She was carrying a l>ook en
titled "How To Write Good.”
"What do you think of Scho
penhauer?'’ Gertrude asked.
Gertrude was a genius at small
talk.
"I think he's Nietzsche.” said
the singer, looking around with
an aren't-I-the-one smile, which
was unbecoming as well as un-!
grammatical.
“Schopenhauer has changed
my whole life.” Gertrude stated
gravely. “Yesterday he was just
another name; today today I'm
a new woman."
She looked at Gertrude rather
carefully. The new woman was
well concealed. Gertrude wan
possessed of a grooming all her
own. Her hair was a startling
example of indecision. The part
in front had once started out to
be bangs but was now just hang*
ing there* the middle part had
not yet recovered from having
been in contact with the pillow
all night, anil the back part had
obviously given up long ago at
any attempt to be anything but
a lot of hair.
"You're looking very nice to
day, Gertrude," she said polite
ly, hoping that Gertrude would
forget about Schnopenhauer.
Gertrude, who evidently hadn't
looked at herself in the mirror,
acknowledged the compliment
and then started to work on the
singer.
"Have you sung anything late
ly?" she whispered intellectually,
leaning close to him.
"He's got a cold," the other
lady put In. attempting to push
Gertrude back off the table.
"Ah, you don’t know any
thing,” the singer said. "I haven't
been singing because nobody's
written nothing worth singing."
Needless to say, she thought not
very many compositions of any
noticeable length had been writ
ten for a range of two notes.
"If Schopenhauer had only
written music," Gertrude began.
"He still ought to go to the
infirmary."
Gertrude and the si n g e r
cringed at the word. It was so
material.
"Unartistlc," mumblpd the
singer. "She don't know nothing.'*
The juke box started again,
and they all three sat there, look
ing at each other. Somehow she
was going to have to become a
member of the avant garde. May
lie Gertrude would help her with
her hair. Maybe she could stop
pressing her clothes, or give up
baths. It would take a wdille.
The juke box was singing some
song about a man that some fool
ish woman had loved and who
had subsequently run away for
some reason (possibly her sing
ing voice) and left her in a very
displeased mood. Same old story.
It Was a long way, she felt wear
ily, from here tg Schopenhauer,
ON SOCIAL REGRESSION
Fraternity Still Safe
BV BOB FUNK
Unit-raid Columnist
Oft. 9, 1953
It was evening in the fraternity
house, and there was an oppres
sive sense, of intolerance in the
air. Members of the censorship
committee were meeting in the
dining room, blacking out intel
lectual articles in the newspapers.
.Several members, reeking of alco
hol, lay passed out on the floor.
A cki'ion sounded, and there
ua-> u clatter ol' uncut toenails
on the floor. The bondsmen,
wearing identical cashmere
sweaters, uniform haircuts, anil
low foreheads, rail in a mut
tering par k into the chapter
room.
The chapter room was simply
decorated. There was a banner
declaring “WHITE IS MIGHT
WHITE IS RIGHT" dominating
one wall.On the opposite wall was
an array of whips and old Ku
Klux Klan uniforms. The mem
bers sat down on various assorted
beer kegs.
“The meetin till now come ta
order," snarled the Grand Drag
j on. The Grand Dragon announced
; the agenda. It was as follows:
1. Report of the committee for
I corruption of public morals.
2. Report of the committee on J
| the 1953 Christmas Project Rae
j ial Discrimination for the chll
j dren of Eugene.
3. Hallowe'en vandalism torn
| mittee report. j
4. Report on the committee for
j rephrasing the ritual in obscene
i language.
5. Proposals for pledging.
As usual, committee chair
men for most of the committees
were either too intoxicated to
report, or were doing time. The
meeting grated discordantly on
until it was time for the fifth
item on the agenda.
“There’s this real nugget,”
slobbered the Grand Dragon, “and
he don’t eat much, so maybe we
oughta nail a pledge pin on 'im.”
The standards chairman arose.
“Whut color is he?”
“Sort of dirty tan," replied the
Grand Dragon.
“A NON-CAUCASIAN?” asked
the standards chairman incredul
ously.
I
"Naw,” sneered the Grand
Dragon, “he just doesn't wash.’’
Everyone snarled with relief,
and the proposed pledge was
promptly voted in.
"An now," the Grand Dragon
said, almost in a normal speaking
voice, “we’ll sing the Closing
Song." The bondsmen stood, and
peering at each other-malignantly
through the thick smoke, they
shrieked—
"Dear old irat dub, we hereby
pledge
To never leave 1 his narrow
ledge
Of intellectual degradation
To which we cling in fond stag
nation.
To never read a elassie hook;
To never ever bear or brook
The slightest racial deviation
From pure Caucasian pigmen
tation;
To never know no English Lit.,
Or when infinitives are split.”
As this ended, there was a tear
(maybe from the smoke) in every
eye. The members file out, gulp
for fresh air. Social regression
was safe for another day.