The Wildcat Chronicle was the "Journal of Record" for the Lakeview High School starting in the early 1960s, and I dutifully kept every copy that came my way from 9th grade to graduation. Before that we even had a "special" 8th Grade one-off called the "Quintet Qazette" because the school millage didn't pass and we were on half-days, cutting such "frills" as a weekly student paper (other than that, the half-days were fantastic - I'd get home at noon and set up the outdoors for my brother to get home on his bus and we would make absolutely primitive movies, some of which still exist on 8mm).
My senior year saw me as the voluntary editor of the paper, a role I played as an "independent study" because the new journalism instructor didn't know what else to do with someone who had been on staff for four years without ever taking a journalism class (schedule conflicts!).
I had opinions, I was 17 going on 18. Of COURSE I had opinions. So here are a few of them. I think I would be a problem child today, but they are, frankly pretty mild, considering. But I do so wish I could have thought of that litter box in the bathroom scheme back then. Oh the fun!
Here are a few of my pre-college rantings:
29 September 1972 - “You Can Keep Secrets, But Time Will Tell”
We've been keeping it pretty much under raps, but possibly the more watchful eye has noticed that this newspaper has entered its tenth volume. This merely means that someone many moons ago had the bright idea for a school paper, and what you now hold in your hand is the result of almost continuous work and improvement on the original conception (for one school year, 1968-69, there was no paper because of half-day sessions and a general belt-tightening of everything).
Now don't start running off, dear reader. There is more to this article than a wholesome pat on the back for the newspaper staff.
This paper has managed to stay pretty much free of control and censorship, save for the council of a single, encouraging, advisor. In many schools, all stories must be cleared by the Board of Education or by the Head Office or by Big Brother or by someone. As many of our articles aren't even written until a day before the paper's publication, such a process would be literary suicide at the printing press. I would leap out the window, were it not on the ground floor. But fortunately, this has not been necessary. In fact, it wasn't until we finally wiped out our monumental debt to LHS that the School Board requested to see what this paper looked like. Perhaps they thought we were running a coded Euchre game on page four.
Of course, that is a ridiculous idea. Anything as important as Euchre would go on page one.
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3 November 1972 - “It’s A Matter of Choice”
In the beginning there were two. By 1850, there were one billion. Less than one hundred years later, there were two billion. Today, there are over three and one half billion people on this earth, and their numbers are increasing.
The trouble is, the earth is staying the save size.
The State of Michigan has had the same abortion law for more than one hundred years. This year, the voters of Michigan have a chance to change that law by proposal "B". They will be able to allow abortion up to the twentieth week of pregnancy.
The Opposition to the proposal has brought in some pretty hairy facts, in attempt to shock the public on how "horrible" abortion is. Their stooges stand in front of a TV camera with mouths hanging open, while an off-screen commentator stuffs a lot of "Did You Knows" down their gullets. Granted, the overall effect is rather sickening and in poor taste, as it is intended to “educate,” but no more so than if that off-screen commentator were describing an open heart surgery or hemorrhoid-ectomy in detail.
What it boils down to is that opponents to abortion consider themselves all-righteous; that they have the power to tell someone else whether or not she man have an abortion. The fact is, if the woman wants an abortion badly enough, she’ll get one; and it’s better that she has it in a clinic than in some uncertified back room. Force a child into birth and chances are it will become a ward of the State. Already there are a quarter million unwanted children born in the U.S. annually. Add this to our ever-increasing population and you have a problem Planned Parenthood couldn’t hope to handle.
Our world's population has tripled in little more than a century. If it keeps up, governmental action (the kind we all hate) will have to be taken. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, but one voluntary abortion law is a lot better than a mandatory one.
Or we could just start another war, because Vietnam has been such a success.
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8 December 1972
“Your Lordship, Don’t Reign on My Parade!”
Television has almost come of age, for the most part out of necessity in the ratings war; but whether in spite of or because of that fact, it has nonetheless come of age--almost.
From 1950-1970, television was an oasis of Puritanism, playing to an audience of families brought up by films regulated by the Hays Office and the NCOMP (which stands for the National Christian something or other on Motion Pictures or something like that—anyway, both either censored or rated films many moon ago.) Naturally, these broadcasts hardly represented a complete cross-section of ideas; and, if anything, were often behind public taste, as were most newspapers and movies. PBS broke the tradition with its more innovative programs, most notably, in the mordant-toned "The Great American Dream Machine." Other networks fallowed suit, realizing there are other people than Puritans in the United States.
This liberalization, letting up both on topics and language has, as would be expected, drawn criticism from those whose idea of an evening of humor is watching re-runs of I Love Lucy. Movies such as Love Story, Patton, and That Certain Summer drew complaints from parents who said they were shocked (!) or were so embarrassed (!!) that their children (!!!) saw and heard such things (!!!!) on television. Since Patton and Love Story were both presented on Sunday evenings starting at 9 p.m. and running past 11 (Patton went on, even in its abridged form, to 12:20 Monday morning), one would wonder what kind of parents would let their children watch a program that late and then gripe about it, rather than send the little urchins to bed.
As far as That Certain Summer is concerned, it was a mature, well performed story of two homosexuals, without any of the banal cliches typifying a program of, for example, All in the Family. That program also drew complaints. One viewer wrote that she was "shocked after the first 15 minutes," that she "was never so disgusted." All the aforementioned programs were publicized on their content well in advance of the showing date, and each viewer was given a choice of at least three different programs on at least three different networks. Even if none of these choices had proven appealing, there regained one more option, a choice that never occurs to some people.
She should have turned the set off.
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26 January 1973
“The Ship That Launched a Thousand Faces”
The smoke didn't seem to bother the man. In fact, he relished on it; it was his life-blood. He breathed it in deeply and exhaled it reluctantly. He walked to the other end of the room where he stood and had been standing for nearly a week. The smoke was thick now; he could barely see his reflection in the mirror across frcm him. Then he smiled. This room was his stable. His horses and mules came here to his stalls to feed,
At first, he feared that his animals might be too intelligent—that they wouldn't respond to his heavenly promises—but, bit by bit, he won them over, and now they, too, came to relish the smoke, to inhale it and reluctantly exhale it. But, unlike the man, they would eventually choke.
He felt that his work was completed now. Slowly he left the room, entering an open hallway with its lockers graffittied and dented. The man passed a boy and a girl entwined about each other. "Good," he thought, "They've cut a class." He glanced back at the hallway. He saw more of his animals making their way to his room, for it was his room now. Such nice pets he had. They'd spread the gospel of his smoke. The man wanted to return to his room, to fill his lungs one last time, but he had more work to do, so he left.
Outside, he turned and looked at the building. He had waited only three years, but it was already his. The man took a black book out of his pocket, opened it, I under a column marked "received" wrote - LAKEVIEW HIGH SCHOOL - then he smiled, and headed for new territory.
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16 February 1973 – “The Lost Toothpick”
"If I'm not here tomorrow, I won't have to remember it. If I'm not here today, I won't have to hear it. And if I'm not here yesterday, I won't be here today and tomorrow to begin with."
—Carved on the Tomb of the Unknown Tomb
This issue is in commemoration of Valentine's Day—you all remember Valentine's Day from your history books, no doubt. This is the day that marks the thaw of the winter frost into the spring fever; the day when wandering eyes bump into each other and run home screaming to Mom; the day when love rears its head, looks around, and dashes to the drugstore for a sweet, innocent Cherry Danish; the day when boys jump for joy and Joy hides in the closet; the day when—oh, I could go on forever. 'Tis the Midsummer Madness throbbing in my temples. Whoopee!
I believe I overshot the runway there.
By job is to make a message out of this. Up to this point I haven't done too well, I must admit. But let's be fair—if you were up to this point, dear reader, what would you do? Slip into a dry martini? 1'd like to try it.
Frankly, I'm rather sick of Valentine's Day. This is a trait probably ingrained into most of us who, in the second grade, had to run around delivering Valentine hearts in class. I went one better and used chicken hearts in fourth grade. Although the reaction must have been overwhelming, all I can remember is that they were so hard to sign. However, I do know that our class never celebrated Valentine's Day again that year.
But there's at least one good thing about Valentine's Day: it gives us an excuse to use up the pink
paper that's been piling up in my office since last year.
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2 March 1973 – “To Err is Human, to be Certain, Form a Committee”
Madison Avenue has developed the idea that the average American family is a pack of goons. As proof, watch almost any commercial. While their idea may be true, commercials are hardly the best place to smear the the fact into our faces.
Some man—or group of men, for that matter—has dreamed up the perfect family; perfect in the sense that it is imperfect: Dad loses sleep at night, worrying about Mom running around with the mailman. Mom can't sleep either; she's worrying that Dad might know that she's been running around with the mailman and will hire a Swedish (always Swedish—why not a good Dane now and then? There must be some.) maid and run around with her to get even with her—the wife, I mean. Maybe the maid, too.
If you think this is confusing, try reading an analytical geometry book.
Well, anyway, Sis can't get a date because of her acne, body, odor, and bad breath, and Mom and Dad won't help because they are too busy worrying, Nine-year-old Junior has a fun time, putting itching powder in the mailman's pouch and writing it all up for Dear Abby or Mr. Wizard.
As it turns out, Junior is the one who solves the problem. His solution? Have Mom, Dad, and Sis take a round trip to Bermuda, flying the friendly skies of United. If, after that, they still can't solve their worries, they can end it all by jumping out, or catching their death in Bermuda shorts. Then Junior gets the insurance. Those nine-year-olds are pretty smart.
A lot smarter than Madison Avenue.
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27 April, 1973 – “Silk Underwear”
These days, Colleges are torn between academic necessities and athletic imperatives; they can't decide which is less important . However, academic necessities seem to have lost out. A recent news story (from the Grand Rapids Press) disclosed that 14 year old Gregg Wellman, a "bona fide child genius" with an IQ of 160 plus, received a whopping $50 to attend the University of Michigan. The financial aid director there explained that Gregg couldn't get more because "at a time of limited funds, you have to establish priorities." What priorities? Considering the U of M (as well as most colleges) spends thousands of dollars on students who will major in making whoopee, most of which is that "free" State and Federal money, one can wonder where that college places its priorities.
The days of education’s value have apparently passed. Scholarships are based on “need,’ not merit or ability; high schools and colleges have become the breeding grounds of mediocrity. “Excessive” intelligence (as if there could be such a thing) is looked upon as odd (ie, in Gregg’s case, he was sent to the school psychologist by his third grade teacher because he was “interested in the wrong things, not regular classroom work, but odd things like stars and reproductive systems.” With teaching like that, who needs ignorance?).
So, who remains? What are the New Priorities?
Athletics!
Zip—id—dee—doo—dah.
Colleges in the pastused discreet underhanded methods to get their wrestlers, their basketball players, their football teams. Now there methods come under the antiseptic title of an "athletic scholarship." High schools aren't much better. Thousands for defense, but not one cent for test tubes!
Ancient Sparta based its civilization on muscle power; Athens combined sport with education. Athens gave the world a culture. The Spartans? They're just a name on a grocery store's door.
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11 May 1973 – “Send this Boy to Camp David”
Excerpt from the May 4, 1993 issue of The Wildcat Chronicle
MOVIE REVIEW - “No White Wash in the White House,” an early short by Richard Nixon, restored and distributed by UFA, ca 1973
Last night, old movie buffs were treated to the rerun of "No White Wash in the White House," created back in '73 by producer-director-writer-actor Richard Nixon. This is one of his earliest and best films. While his level of humor may not be regarded with as much respect as, say, Chaplin's and Lewis's, his stunning ability with the innuendo reaches peaks reminiscent of Groucho Marx. The whole subject deals with corruption in politics, and was obviously (and surprisingly) done with a low budget, as only one camera was used (which, to be fair, showed the mobility of a frozen fire hydrant) and the whole film shot in one take, with no attempt made at editing (Richard seems to have gone over his dialog so often that there are many audible slips in delivery—as happens in none of his later films). His timing was perfect—tapping his fist on the microphone to emphasize a point, smiling nervously while he talks about the Watergate (which
won an Oscar for its film version—after a three year run on Broadway—in '82). His magnificent parody of every politician's speech included such hilarious phrases as, "Two wrongs do not make a right," and, "There will be jobs for everyone who wants to work."
One can readily see how he earned his great reputation.
Who can't help but laugh without reservation when he tells of the goals he wrote down on a Christmas Eve, starting with "peace for our children and cur children's children," and ending up with making America "the land of the fulfilled dream." Chaplin's influence is apparent here, as the goals come practically from his ending speech in The Great Dictator (1940).
The image of the nervous politician is" complete to the detail of including a picture of his family and a bust of Lincoln at his side. And at the end comes with that now classic sequence when Richard cannot clasp his hands, so he merely crosses them and fumbles with his notes while the scene dissolves into perfect peace. It is a very forceful ending. One could almost imagine a narrator evoking Shakespeare - “We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep.”
Nixon’s career skyrocketed after he left the white house and indulged in more serious, ironic comedy. He now lives a millionaire’s life (he retired in 1987) in the Bahamas.
For a long run of scanned, searchable Wildcat Chronicles, they have been uploaded to archive.org at -
