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Show PHIL CHIDESTER COMMENTARY COMMENTARY Tell me the three puercos story T he world has indeed changed since the days when I was a lad. Just yesterday I was reading a bedtime story to a little girl and the mom en t promised to be a r ar e t hrowba ck t o the care fr ee da ys of yesteryear. Everything was perfect: the soft reading ligh t, t he can opy be d, a b la nk e t of s n ow fa lli n g outside the bedroom window. It wasn't until I was four pages into the book that I realized this was, in fact, a hopelessly perverted version of my own favori te bedtime tale, "The Three Little Pigs." Here, with the permission of the author, is the modern, sensi tiv e version of this timeless fairy tale without pictures. Then ask yourself, is th is the brave new world we all imagined? Once upon a time, t h e re we re th ree puercos living in a tiny village in Fairy T al e Land. T hey weren' t "little " pigs because no one should be judged on the basis of he ight alone a nd "pigs" h as beco me such a negativ e t e rm n o wa day s. Th ey calle d themselves "puercos " instead, reminding us all that just because this is America, we shouldn't assume that everyone embraces our egocentric language system as their own. Anyway, due to the fiscal whims of an elitist government, the puercos found themselves out of doors, and decided to build houses. The first puerco quickly threw together a house of straw, the second one of sticks and the third puerco, consulting the local building Superhighway a new road hazard inspector, cons tructed a sound h ome with a proper easement, then paid his hook-up fees and sat back to wait for winter. Onto the scene ambled a big, bad wolf, who was al ready justifiably upse t abo ut the treatment he had received from the powers that be. "I didn ' t ask to be here!" t he wolf bellowed. "Your people brought my people here to Fairy Tale Land. You owe me!" and he set out to look for an easy meal. "Puerco, puerco, let me come in!" he demanded at the first animal's house. " Not by the feel of my baby-smooth chin," re plied the puerco, who was facially disadvantaged in a follicle sense. So the wolf blew, the house fell apart and the puerco ran. Fortunately, the puerco had E-mailed ahead to Social Services and easily qualified for government assistance in constructing a new home somewhere else. Things didn't go any better for the second puerco, who finally convinced the wolf to leave h im alo ne an d take a cut o n the insurance payment for the destruc tion of the h ou se of stic ks instead. Since w ise M r. Pu erco h ad insured everything in the house for double its real value, he made out like a bandit and could afford to move into another, safer fairy tale"Jack and the Beanstalk". The hungry wolf blew and blew at the third h o u se, but beca use of the facility ' s reb ar r ein fo rce m ent and ergono mic des ign, h e couldn' t find a way in. The third puerco was safe-that is, until he heard a knock at the door later in the afternoon. " Sorry t o inform yo u of this, " the two environmentalists from back East said as they stood on the doorstep, " but you're common barnyard s tock, while this wolf is on th e endangered species list . You are hereby ordered to let him into your house." A little time lat er, the wolf burped his satisfaction as he sat on the puerco's kitchen floor and smiled. Justice had finally been served. He stood on the com er talkin g into a portable telephone. A tweedy sort of guy with the kind of slightly graying hair that is considered distinguished. As he talked, he nervously shuffled his feet, turned this way and that, and gazed up at the sky. I idly wondered if he was working on a big business deal or setting up a power lunch . Could be. He wore the kind of well-cut duds you see in the windows of men's shops in downtown Chicago. Whatever it was, it had to be importan t . You don' t stand on a com er at 11 a.m . on a blustery day tal king into a hightech telephone if you're just calling the weather bureau. The light t urned green, and I moved slowly forward while glancing to my left to make sure no dawdlers were still crossing the street. At that moment, I heard a slight thump and suddenly the tweed guy was sprawled across-of all places-the hood of my car. He was close enough so that we were almost face to face, separated by only the windshield. And he still had the phone jammed against his ear. Suddenly I felt sick. After more than 40 years of driving in Chicago, the thing any motorist dreads had finally happened- I hit someone. My brain raced. I expected to see him fall backward to the pavement, screaming for a doctor. Or worse, a lawyer. But he didn' t fall to the pavement. He suddenly pushed himself backward with one arm, leaped nimbly onto the sidewalk, and started talking into the phon e again . I sat there for a few seconds with my jaw hanging open. He was now doing exactly what he had been doing before he landed on the hood of my car. I hadn't hit him, he hit me. In that split second when I h ad gl an ced t o t h e l eft, he apparently turned, stepped off the curb while still jabbering on his phone, thus running into m y car an d landing on the hood. He just went on talking. And I wondered what he could be saying. "Uh, give me the costs on those municipal bonds again. Yes, I was distracted for a moment when I landed on top of the hood of a car." Then the light changed, and he strolled across the street, the phone still glued to his head. That's what I call real concentration. And a fine example of a real goof, fine clothes and all. On the other hand, he had done m e a favor by exposing me to a new m enace of the electronic information highway that I hadn' t seen before - the high-tech jabbering jay-walker. And if that tweedy guy reads this and decides his back hurts and he's going to sue after all, forget it: I've already rounded up 10 witnesses who will swear you had a pint bottle of muscatel in your other hand. Phil Chidester is a communication lecturer for SUU. Mike Royko is a syndicated columnist writing for the Chicago Tribune. LETTERS II An article in m y edition of the Un iversity fournal of Monday, Nov. 14 upset me. The article began, "N ovember 11, 1945, an armistice is signed marking the end of World War II." [The end of] this country's greatest conflict was not brought about by an armistice. An armistice is defined as "a truce preliminary to a peace treaty." Unconditional surrender was the only option the Axis powers had. The end of World War II in Europe, May 8, 1945 (VE Day), was an unconditional surrender signed by the survivors of the German arm y, not an armistice. The Armistice was a result of the Treaty of Versailles ending the fighting of World War I. It was s igned at 11 a .m ., November 11, 1918. As a survivor of the Japanese attack at Pearl Harbor and other ca mpaigns in the Pacific theatre, I sometimes regret that I fought a war to save this great country for the many young people who don't appreciate it and take for gra nted the inalienable right to live free. Many, many good men and women paid the ultimate price to insure our freedom. Howard Fields I • I am writing this in regards to t h e ar t icle in t h e Nov. 3 0 University fourn al entitl ed "Concert brings new sound." Please let someone wh o knows a little bit about music if you are going to have t h em write about shows taht come, or music in general. Jennifer Duncan 's article was good at stereotyping music into categories, and showed quite a bit of ignorance. Jennifer, I do see where you are coming from in this area of "moshing," and if people were doing this in the pit Monday night I would have been rather disheveled also. The majority of people in the pit Monday were dancing, s k anki ng t hat is, which, incide ntally, does contain a certain am ount of bodily contact. This phenomenon is not strange to ska shows. In fact, every ska show tha t I h ave been to has h ad people skankin' like crazy. Th e very few people who did come to "mosh" Monday night s hould h ave been in Vegas Wednes day night for t h e Helmet/Sick of it All show that had a painfully real "mosh" pit. As for not having enQugh room to shake you r little bootie, Jenn, if you didn't notice, over half of the P.E. Building "dance floor" was empty. Oh, and kudos to the sound people. You did a great job with the cards you were dealt (ie; the P.E. building acoustics). Chet- Rowles |