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The 432 Oct 25, 1995

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 Perpetuating urban myths since 1987.
99
Volume 9 Number 4
25 October 1995
A UBC Ghost Story.
"It was a dark and stormy night...
t>
Gord McVanOlundsky
Roving Correspondent
He didn't say anything at first.
I thought he hadn't heard
my question, so I repeated
it.
"Aren't you the person who
reported seeing a ghost at UBC?" I
said.
"You're a reporter, aren't you?" he
asked suspiciously.
"Yes, I am," I answered, "and
you're Tom Brody, the man who
reported seeing a ghost at UBC in
1985. I'd like to hear your story,
anctmaybe write about it."
Tom still looked skeptical, but after
a moment of indecision he finally
said OK.
Tom settled into a chair in the living room, obviously his favourite
from all the crumbs scattered
around it. I sat across from him, my
notepad and pencil ready.
"I'm going to tell you my story,
once, from the beginning, and I
don't want any interruptions. Got
it?" he asked.
"Sure," I said, "but don't want you
to discuss my printing it first?"
"I don't care what you do with it
after I'm done telling it," stated
Tom bluntly. Tom took a deep
breath and began his story...
"It was one of those dark and rainy
October nights. My friend Jack and
I were returning from a late night
study session in the Library.
"It was miserable out there. We
both got soaked just walking to his
car, so we had the heater on full
just to keep warm We were heading
out along University Boulevard,
just passing by the GOlf Course,
when I saw a woman standing at
the side of the road.
"She looked miserable. She didn't
have a coat, nothing to keep her
dry. I nudged Jack and said 'Let's   •
give that lady a ride home, huh?'
"Jack agreed, and we pulled over.
Boy, was she ever glad to get out of
the rain.
"'I'm Lucy Smith,' she said.
"Thanks for stopping... I've lost my
jacket and purse, so I didn't even
I TOO) you. N07 to
OttH THE FRi&frfL.
have change for the bus.'
'"No problem,' I said. 'Can we
drop you off somewhere on the
way? We're heading out towards
Burnaby, but if you live on the
way...'
"'I'll tell you when we get close,'
she said.
"She looked really wet, and Jack's
car didn't have heater vents in the
back, so I passed her my jacket to
keep warm. We drove on in silence.
"At Broadway and Oak, we
stopped for a red light. Suddenly,
the car door slammed... and there
was Lucy, walking briskly towards
the sidewalk.
"Jack couldn't pull over right
away, but as soon as he could, I
jumped out to get my coat back. I
quickly ran down the street, but
Lucy was gone.
"'Damn!' I said as I climbed back
into the car. 'That was a three hundred dollar leather jacket!'
"Jack handed me a piece of paper.
'This was on the back seat,' he said.
"Sure enough, it was a phone
number and address, with Lucy's
name on the bottom.
"'We might as well call her tomorrow,' I said. 'Let's go home.'
'The next day, I called the number.
"'Hello, is Lucy there?' I asked the
person on the other end of the line.
"'There's no Lucy here." the
woman said, and hung up.
"I called the number again and got
the same result. And again. I called
the number five times that day,
until the woman finally threatened
to call the cops if I didn't stop.
"I was getting frustrated. So I
called Jack and we went to the
address I had.
"We pulled up in front of a house,
and I jumped out to bang on the
front door.
"'Hi, is Lucy home?' I asked the
elderly woman who came to the
door T lent her my jacket last
night, and I*d like it back.'
"The woman went white; 'She's
been dead for twenty years,' she
stammered. 'Whatlkind of sick
joke...'
"'That's not possible,' I protested.
'We gave her a ride last night, and
she's got my jacket!'
"The woman started to get angry.
'Look, I don't care what your story
is! My daughter was murdered coming home from UBC over twenty
years ago, and if you don't believe
me, you can just go to Grandview
Cemetery and see for yourself. Now
get the hell out of here before I call
the police!'
"She slammed the door in my face.
I was pretty confused, and angry
about the lOss'Of myjacfcetrstrt
asked Jack to drive by the cemetery.
"I asked a groundskeeper to point
out the grave of Lucy Smith, and
Jack and I wandered in the direction he indicated.
"We walked through row after row
of headstones. Right in front of us
was the big marble headstone, supposedly that of Lucy Smith.
"Jack got there first, and peered
around the headstone. I saw his
body tense.
"'Tom,' he muttered nervously,
'you're not going to believe this...'
"The headstone was granite, with
the words 'Lucy Smith. Died tragically October 23,1963" carved in
it.
"And neatly folded on top of the
grave was my leather jacket..."
This is not an original story. One version was told to me over five years ago,
before I even came to UBC. Other versions have been told since men.
Of course, the conversations are fictitious, as are the names.
According to the Oct. 19 UBC
Reports, mis ghost story was investigated by the Vancouver Museum as
part of their annual Hallowe'en ghost
story tour of Vancouver.
Despite being a widespread story, the
researcher was unable to verify a single
part of the story, including whether or
not a murder actually took place at
UBC in me 1960's.
Don't open the SUS Fridge! Volume 9 Number 4
25 October 1995
Rotting in the Grave
Blair McDonald
Raised from theDead
Jay Garcia
John Hallett
Matt Wiggin
Scribery
Tessa Moon
Ghost Writers
College Printers of Vancouver BC
Our Paranoid Cartoonist
Muktak Akbujkar, Sam Arnold,
Steve Fukada, Nicola Jones, Dave
Khan, Tracy MacKinnon, Kathryn
Murray, Jeremy Thorpe,  Scott
Waters
Other stuff              -
The 432 is published every two
weeks by the Science Undergrad
Society of UBC, offices located in
CHEM B160. All opinions expressed
herein are those of the individual
authors.
Unsolicited articles and cartoons
gladly accepted. Please bring articles on disk (IBM or Mac) and a
hard copy. All material must contain
author's full name and phone number in order to be published.
Submissions from all UBC students
welcome. All rights reserved 1995.
violators will be shot.
PAGE TWO
THE FOUR THIRTY TWO
25 OCT 1995
Another Boring
Editorial, Pt II.
Blair
MCDONALD
I'm not the most brilliant person in the world. If you know
me, you're probably nodding
right now - but for the rest of
you, let me explain.
It's currently October 19th,
7:00pm. I've got a BIOL 351
midterm tomorrow, a BIOL 300
midterm on Monday, a BIOL 406
field project to do this weekend,
and a scientific paper to read and
comment on for a discussion
group first thing tomorrow. On
top of that, this paper needs to be
at the printers no later than
8:00pm Sunday night. I'm also
supposed to go to the movies
Saturday night.
But am I organized? No. Am I at
least working hard right now?
No, I'm sitting here typing out an
editorial that a fair percentage of
you just skip over anyways. And
this after spending a half hour
staring at the wall, wondering
what to write about.
It's a bit of a paradox - the more
you do, the more time you have.
You're supposed to keep piling on
the work until you take On a bit
too much and your brain simply
fizzles and drains out your left ear
while you're asleep at your desk.
But right now, I'm supposed to
be the Editor, whatever that
means.
I've started to think that being a
good Editor is to do as little actual editing as possible. That's what
I'm doing right now - simply
reading the article, maybe proofread it and then toss in the paper
wherever it fits.
Much like making a Caesar
salad. The articles are the
Romaine lettuce, cartoons the
croutons, and all the little bits I
add... the Parmesan cheese.
Mmm... cheese.
One thing I do check for (unlike
my opposite at a paper best left
unnamed for now) is to fix incorrect uses of words most of us
learned in grade three.
1. Your vs you're.
2. Its vs It's
3. Their vs they're vs there
4. Too vs two vs to
Why can't they get that right?
Whhhhyyyyyyy? <a Charlton
Heston-esque plea to the heav-
ens>
Well, I tried to hold back the
dogs of war as long as I could.
Proclamation: On the 25th day of
the month of October, in the year
199S, the following verdict was
reached...
We, the editorship of The 432,
hereby Summarily rule against one
Trevor Presley and Craig Bavis, currently responsible for the paper
known as The Underground, on the
following counts:
Item one. Whereas The
Underground consistently refuses to
follow the Third Conventions of
Grammar, despite several pointed
warnings from this board, let it be
known that the defendants have be
found guilty of the Crime of Basic
Grammar and Believing Your Spell
Checker When it Says Everything's
OK.
Item two. Whereas The
Underground insists on using the
most hideous titling font known to
man, namely Groening, and persists
with their "big-assed font" page,
known by all to be an eyesore and a
waste of good space, let it be known
that the defendants have been found
guilty of Font Crimes Against
Humanity.
Item three. Whereas The
Underground, supposedly a paper
with all the rights and privileges
thereof, has continuously advertised
for the Arts County Fair, despite
being over eight months away, let it
be known that the defendants have
been judged guilty ofThrowing
Away Their Editorial Right to Say
No to Blatantly Useless Advertising.
Item four. Whereas The
Underground is currently running a
Star Wars spoof, and as as mat idea
has been already done by writers of
a superior category, let it be known
that the defendants have been found
guilty of Stealing a Good Idea
Already Done but Ruining it in the
Process.
However, as we of this board are
both just and humane, let it be
known that the defendants have one
last chance to change their eviX and
wicked ways. Failure to do so will
result in a jihad declared against the
defendants and all who follow them.
You have been warned.
UBC Declared First
Nations Territory!
Muktak Akbujkar
Columnist
An unforeseen decision by the Supreme Court of B.C. has UBC
reeling. On Friday, October 13, the court declared that UBC was
built on sacred ground belonging to the Chutzpa'a nation. An
obscure contract dated 1918 proves that the Chutzpa'a elders agreed
to allow a university on their land on four conditions. The document
reads:
We, the Chutzpa'a people of British Columbia, give our permission for the
University of British Columbia to be built, constructed, and erected upon
any territory, region, or tract of land which is sacred to us, as long as the following four landmarks are kept unchanged:
(1) tiie sacred burial ground, where it is a sin to tread lightly,
(2) the ancient sauna, an Open sanctuary and stress-free zone,
(3) the banishment area, reserved for persons convicted under aboriginal
law,
(4) the tobacco field.
The Chutzpa'a contended that all four conditions have been violated:
Thunderbird Stadium is built on the burial ground, WESB 100 has
retained the anaerobic conditions of a sauna without the relaxing
atmosphere, the banishment area has been replaced by B-lots, and the
tobacco field is now the environs of Sedgewick Library.
Moreover, Chutzpa'a oral tradition has a different story. According to
Delilah Crowsfeet, a Chutzpa'a elder, her grandfather, Simeon
Porcupine misunderstood the question, "Your land campus?" as a sentence with a verb, and agreed to let the people who asked so politely
put up some tents. "The treaty came later," Crowsfeet explains. "My
grandfather was tricked into signing without reading the terms. You
see, he was invited to Wreck Beach..."
Recognizing that UBC has breached the contract, the Supreme Court
has ordered compensation to be paid. The exact amount has not been
announced yet because the Chutzpa'a nation's legal fees are to be
included, and their lawyers are having trouble figuring out how many
Chutzpa'a Nation    	
continued on page 7
O.J. Referendum!
Scott Waters
Columnist
California Governor Pete Wilson announced today that, in light
of the numerous judicial errors in the Simpson trial, the ex-football star's guilt will be determined by way of referendum.
Wilson made the announcement flanked by former LAPD detective
Mark Fuhrman, back from retirement to serve as leader of the Guilty
side.
"Polls show this is the way the American people want justice to be
dealt," said Wilson. Wilson refused to say whether all residents of
California would be eligible to vote, or if the voting would be limited
to inner-city residents, women, or racist LAPD officers. Over 1000 people are expected to vote regardless.
President Clinton refused to respond to the announcement, and possible Presidential candidate Colin Powell produced a ten-foot pole
from his pocket and backed slowly away when challenged by
reporters.
When asked if the referendum was just a cheap political ploy to further his bid for the 1996 Republican nomination, Wilson merely
smirked. 25 OCT 1995
THE FOUR THIRTY TWO
PAGETHREE
First
Drawer
Dave Khan
Our Jaded Senator
Well, here's yet another Senate report.
Actually, Senate has
been really interesting this
year, what with the disgraceful PoliSci department, the
MacEwen report, and ali....but
it's been way too much reading. Anyway, by the time you
read this, the vote will have
been made as to whether
admissions to the Political
Science department at UBC
should be reopened or remain
closed pending department
"restructuring." As I write
this, I ponder the big vote and
how my life will be so empty
and devoid of substance and
good reading....oh sorry, I
think I lost it there for a second. I'm FREE! FREE at last! I
shall burn all my Senate mate*
rials In a fit of evil, devious,
frolicking laughter! Bubbye,
The most Important thing (so
I'm told) Senate will do this
year is pick a new President.
YEAH! (cheering and yelling)
No more STRANGWAY! No
more illegal tuition hikes! No
more hobnobbingin Europe
with Heads of State on
University money! No more
conflict-of-interest MacMillan
Bloedel Board appointments!
No more $200,000 interest-
free loans to buy a retirement
home because the guy ONLY
makes $250,000 a year + private Board honorariums and
has his house and car and
other expenses paid for! No
more renovations of the
Presidential Mansion because
some gays are coming over for
a party {what were their
names? Billy Clinton and Big
Boris Yeltsin?)!
ADDENDUM: Yesterday
Strangway and the Deans and
the Head of PoliSci had a
stealthy, zero-hour meeting all
morning and came up with a
mutually productive and
acceptable end to the ban on
admissions. Consequently,
the vote in Senate was eliminated and all our hard work
was for nothing. The meeting
was Interesting, though, with
the booing, hissing, hanging
effigies, and TV cameras. Oh
well. If any of you Science
students want to go into graduate studies in PoliSci, go
right ahead. I can't guarantee
there will be any real reforms
in the department, however,
because there is no student
representation on the review
committees. I guess that's a
problem for the grad. students
to deal with.
Colour Coordinated
Camping.
Nicola Jones
Columnist
We live in a weird world.
I know everyone who
reads this paper already
knows that, but I truly feel you
can't actually say that too many
times. Specifically, I seem to live
in a world where even I am subject to the MEC mentality -
emphasis on "mental", ie. "certi-
fiably insane". Honest -1 have
the certificate. I'm a share holder.
Doesn't it seem odd to anyone
else that in performing the most
cruel-to-your body feats - such as,
oh I don't know, burning off
exterior bits to extreme cold
while huddled over a storm-proof
lantern on a ledge that's about to
give way to 6 vertical miles of
rock-strewn, death-infested ice -
we're all colour co-ordinated?
Honestly, isn't that weird? Face
to face with death, but dressed
properly for the occasion; and
not only does my fleece match
my sleeping bag, but my pack has
special ice-pick hooks and sports
the same pattern as my tent.
Great!
Not to suggest I don't think it's
all spectacularly wonderful, but I
do wonder sometimes why I get
myself into some of these things.
My friend recently handed over
"Hiking the Edge", a chronicle of
the West Coast Trail, which
served as pretty inspirational
Thanksgiving reading. So I find
myself convinced that if I break a
hip, hah, doesn't matter!
Someone'll be along in a jiffy to
cart me right out on a co-ordinated stretcher! And I'm staring at a
gang-greened blister foot In complete awe and envy when Grit
comes on the radio.
I can't remember the guy's
name, but he's insane so maybe
he's forgotten it too. Grit comes
on CBC, after his harrowing experience hiking out of the arctic
wilderness (which sounds more
like the sound of music in the
Canadian Alps, with judicious
"eh"s instead of yodels), to tell
his tale. Now, this will lose
something in the translation, but
imagine the original Canadian
coming over the air waves - the
guy who grew up on street hockey and ice pucks for breakfast,
who would know "eh" is in the
dictionary if he was sober enough
to remember what one was. Grit
stumbled for weeks through ice
fields, and wetter bits that he'd
hoped were ice fields, without
laced shoes, without food, without water, but with a Pepsi (not a
Coke, UBC) that he could suck
the unfrozen bits of if his fingers
had enough unfrozen bits of their
own left to get the tab open. Big
if. After 6 more days with fully
half a glass of water, a showdown
with a polar bear, and daily involuntary swims, the guy collapses
in a comatose heap and gets rescued. "Oh, but I would'a made
it". Ya Grit, that's good. Go with
that theory. "No, I mean, I
wouldn't have no arms or legs left
or anything, but I could'a made
it. The nasty bit would be the
last two miles - that's when I'd
have to wait a week or so for the
river to freeze over. That
would've sucked. But I would'a
made it."
I think I blocked this from my
mind at some point, since the
next thing I know I'm actually
climbing "the Edge", flying off
one rock face and careening into
another, with a crowd screaming
"stem, stem!" below me (and I'd
know "stem" is in the dictionary
if I was coherent enough to
remember what one was). So as
I'm winging my sightless way
from eave to eavel flailing for the
same damn hold and just plain
not making it past the next clip, I
resign myself to gravity (hell, I've
taken physics. Who can argue
with gravity?) and walk back
down the wall, beamers hung in
shame. Out of the defeated
silence, my belayer suggests I just
need a colour co-ordinating MEC
chalk bag.
But I would'a made it. Honest, I
could'a. And that's the weirdest
part.
1 obscure Python quote, inserted
simply to isolate those of you
without the British Bug, and
squash the pride of those who
think they know everything simply because they can recite the
essential bits of the holy grail.
Go hard or go home.
Let me get this straight. If you're
out in the wilderness, you need to be
colourcoordinated, preferablyin
teal. Whatever happened to good ol'
red and black checks?
Death isn't a major concern. But
god forbid if your hiking boots clash
with that large puddle of blood...
Only in Vancouver.
DK
The only way to trap an Engineer. PAGE FOUR
THE FOUR THIRTY TWO
25 OCT 1995
Jay,-, the sicko.
*^J&rcia™
Fall is a sick season. The
inclement weather tends to
force people indoors.
Unfortunately, it's these same
people who are usually only
slightly under the weather (you
know the kind, the ones sitting
next to you who just sniff periodically — and oh-so-hygienically
re-inhaling that phlegm of
theirs). Now, yOu take all those
people, and those little sniffles,
and then you've got one massive
cold migrating around the ventilation system. And eventually
you will get sick. Sooner or later
that cold will get your number
and come a-knocking (most likely
calling out "candygram"). Face it.
The little bugger's smarter than
you, faster than you, and far
more likely to evolve. So, sit back,
politely ask your Significant
Other to make you lots and lots
of chicken soup, and prepare to
be horribly ill for the next two or
three days.
(For those of you who wouldn't
know what a fall cold feels like,
because you're one of the lousy
fargin... ahem, uh, lucky people
who never get colds. A fall cold
makes you horribly tired, sore,
headachey and light-sensitive (so
light-sensitive, in fact, that if you
are sleeping in a completely darkened room and someone were to
light a match, you'd roll violently
in bed, all the while screaming
"Turn off the bloody light"). In
addition, you'll feel hungry as
hell. And you'll be far too nauseous to even consider food.)
So, anyway, a fall cold will have
you sick in bed for the next little
while with nothing more to look
forward to than Saved by the Bell,
various daytime soaps, and Oprah
and her evil clones. Forget The
Learning Channel, The Discovery
Channel or even PBS. Your mind
will be too overheated for you to
absorb anything more stimulating than the aforementioned programs (with, perhaps, the notable
exception of any of the This Old
House reruns). In fact, your general mental state will experience
significant decay, and that means
that no one will enjoy spending
any amount of time in your presence as you alternatively whine
and mutter dire imprecations
about the hideous fascist pigheaded fools who would dare
to attempt to minstrate to
your needs in that feeble
manna: etc. etc. Pretty
soon this will grate on the
nerves of your Significant
Other, or any others that might
be around you, and they will be
forced to take you to the doctor.
Once there, you can look forward to a long and painful wait.
Weak and nauseated as you are,
you'll also be in surprising agony
from your throbbing headache,
induced by the overly-bright
overhead lighting (remember the
light-sensitive bit?). And your
entire body will be sore. Doctor's
waiting-room chairs are the single
most uncomfortable seats anywhere in existence (well, with the
exception of seats at any New
Kids on the Block concert. Or a
Vanilla Ice comeback tour Concert). Anyway, after your wait,
you'll be poked and prodden, and
(if you've been a very naughty
person this year, and your viruses
are feeling really malicious) you'll
be given a shot of Gravol, which
will not only leave your arm
bruised and throbbing, but will
also put you to sleep in very, very
short order, giving large amounts
of relative peace to the other people in your life. With any luck,
you'll sleep away the rest of your
cold.
Of course, once you wake up, it's
not likely you'll be in a better
mood, as your doctor will probably have prescribed for you additional medication which might
more accurately be described as
"horse pills", in relation to the
size of your average tablets. And I,
in particular, detest them. They're
damn difficult to swallow. They
taste foul. And it always feels like
they're going to get stuck in my
throat on the way down.
Granted, they're effective in
administering pain relief — probably because they're dragging
chunks of phlegm from your
throat down with them to an
acidic doom in your stomach. But
there's just no escaping it. Like
any good cartoon villain, your
fall cold-Causing viruses will
escape out of some secret back
cellar, mutating hideously, biding
their time until you grow weak
and feeble. Then it's time for the
entire cycle to start all
over again...
And Now for
Something...
In my thermodynamics class
we recently learned about an
experiment that James Joule
and Lord Kelvin did on air to
prove whether or not it was an
ideal gas. They pushed some gas
from one piston, through a membrane, into another cylinder and
measured the temperature
change. Beginning to end
(including write-up,) This took
ten years. Ten years. I lost interest
in the time it took for my prof to
explain it. There is not one thing
I can imagine myself doing every
day for ten years. The reason? My
attention span can be as high as,
oh, ten minutes, provided I'm
doing something really interesting that involves some sort of
explosion. Frequently redirected
people (the politically correct
term,) are not well understood by
the general population; true,
there are advantages to being easily distracted, but there is a tragic
side to the disorder as well.
One of the best things about
having a short attention span is
that one never, ever, ever gets
bored. The instant the brain
begins to lose interest, it just
changes the channel. Put a frequently redirected person out in
the park all alone with a couple
of rocks to play with, and we'll
remain amused for the whole
day. (Note: There is some speculation that lacrosse was invented in
this way.) We're the people you
see walking down the road all
alone, and laughing hysterically
to ourselves just before we smack
into the parking meter.
It is also a sign of brilliance.
"Absent minded professors" are
just people who can't be bothered
to pay attention to the mundane
details of life. You get to eat every
day, but how often do you get to
invent dynamite? The ability to
be distracted is caused by excessive curiosity. The bad side to
this is that it also makes us more
likely to be weeded out by natural
selection; we very often need to
be reminded that if you don't eat,
you die, and 72 percent of the
people run over by buses in
London last year had IQ's of 127
or higher.
There are, however cons to having a short attention Span (well
besides that easily killed thing.)
For example, it makes a person
rather difficult to talk to, as we're
completely incapable Of thinking
in straight lines. While we begin
speaking on topic, it only takes—
about three sentences to get from
"What's for dinner?" to "Who
invented deodorant, anyway?"
Speeches such as this one have
caused many a misunderstanding; in the late 1800s, thousands
were wrongly committed to asylums as "psychotics" just because
nobody could follow what they
were talking about. Many of the
misunderstood geniuses of history have had short attention
spans: brilliance coupled with an
inability to properly express ones
self is a terrible stress to the psyche. Vincent van Gogh is a perfect example. He actually cut his
ear off because he lost interest
the middle of a painting and
couldn't think of anything else to do.
There has been
speculation that
having a short
attention span is
hereditary, so the
people who can't pay
attention can't do anything about it. Be nice to
them, remember, they
aren't that way on purpose,
and they're invariably harmless (it takes too much concentration to be a diabolical fiend.)
Besides,  they can be pretty interesting to observe.Anyway, my
article is long enough now, so I'm
going to go outside and look for
bugs now. 25 OCT 1995
THE FOUR THIRTY TWO
PAGE FIVE
Revelations
from behind
the Purple
Apron.
Sleep.
Sapphaerra Murray
Columnist
Hello, my name is Sapphaerra and I am a chocoholic. Ihave an
addiction." I love chocolate. Always have and probably always
will. It doesn't seem to matter what format it's in, I love it. It's
become a bit of a family joke about what to give me for special occasions. My family has gotten into the habit of asking me, "Now dear,
what would you like for your birthday besides a box of chocolate?" I
guess it can't be helped.
Chocolate seems to be one of the most mystifying substances to
attempt to analyze on the planet. There are a variety of ways to make,
flavor and mold it. It lasts forever, almost -1 hid a chocolate bunny
that I got for Easter when I was ten and found it when I was fifteen; it
still tasted good then and I'm sure that it had nothing to do with the
high fever I got later on that night. It is the perfect gift to give that
won't give offense for any given occasion - unless the person is deathly allergic to chocolate, of course! In that instance, one might question the motives behind the gift.
I get asked for advice a lot. Most of the time it's about interpersonal
problems. My solution usually is - addiction withstanding - chocolate
in some form or other. I'd never let personal biases and cravings get in
the way of advising other people. It also has nothing to do with the
fact that I work at Purdy's - that seductively innocuous looking haven
for chocolate addicts. What continues to amaze me is how often this
"band - aid" works.
In my months working at the above "establishment", I have determined that there is a correlation between the type of person buying
chocolate and why. I have observed and gathered data about common
stereotypes and I've tabled the data below.
Type #1: the little rug rat kid. A small person will often be shut up or
temporarily quietened after being presented with a glossy nugget of
processed sugar. In some rare cases this may even result in temporary
intervals of good behavior. More often than not, unfortunately, the
annoying behavior will reassert itself until more chocolate is administered.
Type #2: the "professional" business person. The elegantly dad, brief
case-clutching person will wrap their hand in a vice -like grip around
their prize while trying to contain an adult composure. They are usually muttering about the #@! client, boss, meeting, etc. This is despite
the fact that they are dancing around like a four year old, drooling in
anticipation and will not let go of their treat long enough for us to
even see what it is in order to ring it in. They tend to buy something
small enough to hide in their hand or bag but large enough to satisfy
their craving.
Type #3: the new boyfriend. The young or more mature person
comes floating in, head in the clouds, and asks us for advice on how
to woo and win their Lady Love. They usually start with "Well, there's
this girl... " with their faces glowing like Christmas trees. Usually
they'll purchase a small, elegant, ribbon bestrewn package - the frillier
and lacier the better.
Type #4: boyfriend in the dog house. The personage from #3 returns,
head bowed, tail between the legs, with a sheepish, teary grin. "Well I
forgot..." or "I did something..." or "I said something" are the precursors. Similar package to #3 but slightly larger and usually with flowers and a stuffie. These tend to be considered the best remedies.
Type #5: the ex-girl friend. The woman, whatever her age, will enter
in sweatsuits or leggings with accompanying female support team
bearing boxes of Kleenex. Almost any type of chocolate will do - the
greater the quantity the better.
I guess all I can say is that Chocolate seems to be the one universal
substance that can make almost anyone feel better. It's great to share
or to munch on by oneself late at night. Speaking of which, where did
I hide put my chocolate bar?
I've been thinking, life in computer science is about as close
to hell as it can get. Now,
those of you in 1st year and even
2nd year computer science must
be wondering what I'm talking
about. So I'll qualify my first
statement by saying that life in
3rd year computer science is hell.
The reason for this is that you
learn quite literally that sleep Is
only a luxury in life. Granted, if s
a luxury that many people have
grown accustomed to and most
people might actually consider it
required. So they naturally lump
it in there with other supposed
necessities of life like eating,
drinking water, keeping ambient
body temperature above freezing
and silly things like breathing.
While most biologists scoff at me
for saying that the above aren't
required, I propose one question:
have you tried going without
them? Ah ha! Got you. How can
you claim their supposed absolute
value without seeing life without
them? Ever heard of a control,
people?
Everyone in 3rd computer science lives without sleep on a permanent basis. We are proof that
sleep is not required.
Since the lab isn't heated, and
most of us are in there all night,
we live without heat. That's two
of those silly requirements for
sustaining life down, three to go.
(Aside: I know lots of people
head back to Totem or Vanier
from The Pit at lam Wednesday.
These people pass by the old
Computer Science building and
see all the people working in the
lab. They instantly assume that
these are computer nerds with
absolutely no life who are probably reading the
alt.sex.bestiality.hamster. duct-
tape newsgroups or something,
the truth is that we are frantically trying to accomplish the 8
weeks of work we've been
assigned in the 2 weeks we have
to do it in.
So next time, don't scorn us.
Have pity, and maybe even bring
in a bzzr or something. We're
very thirsty in there.)
But then you might argue that
3rd year computer science students aren't alive or, at the very
least, don't have lives. This may
be true. Since I haven't checked
my^lsefbr a few weeks, I could
very well embody some sort of
elaborate voodoo curse in action.
Then again, since my quadmates
in Gage haven't seen me for more
than 5 minutes since Tuesday, I
might just be missing a social life.
So what does all this mean?
Does the fact that everyone in
3rd computer science individually
does more school work than the
rest of campus combined adversely affect the laws of nature so far
as sleep is concerned? Unlikely.
For the answer, let's look at
sleep. What does it do for the
average person?
1. It refreshes and invigorates,
much like 9/10 soap ads claim to
do.
2. It allows for dreams, which
reminds me a fun conversation I
once had with a badger...
3. It necessitates beds, which
increases the profits of such organizations as Sealy, Inc.
4. It dirties linen, which boosts
the coin-op wash n' dry industry.
5. It provides a well-needed
break from life.
6. It recharges our "astral battery", so to speak.
7. It makes you look really silly
and have bad breath in the morning.
Now we must analyze what
working in a computer lab does
for the average person.
1. It doesn't refresh Or invigorate, but neither does the soap
from the ads.
2. It does allow for dreams, as
staring at a monitor for 12+ hours
tends to stimulate your imagination, if nothing else. And if you're
really lucky you get to talk to
people named Badger.
3. It does not necessitate beds,
which really annoys Sealy, Inc.
4. It does dirty linen, but all
those coins that would go to
coin-op laundry machines wind
up in vending machines.
5. Of course it provides a well
needed break from life, to the
same extent that death might.
6. Your "astral battery" can't
help but be recharged from all
the radiation your 20" Super-Bake
monitor is produces.
7. It also makes you look really
silly and have bad breath in the
morning. But you get a tan as
well. (See number 6)
So what do we conclude from
these differences? It's obvious.
Come on! How can you say you
don't see it? Sleep is obviously an
elaborate conspiracy between the
coin-op industry and Sealy, Inc.
designed to make us buy and use
their products!! If you doubt me,
just realize how seamlessly it has
been integrated into our society.
Pretty insidious, eh?
SUS wants 8-tracks. PAGE SIX
THE FOUR THIRTY TWO
25 OCT 1995
Sam and his
Fairy.
What's the
spiel, doc?
Sam Arnold
Columnist
People very rarely ask me
where I'm from. When they
do ask, they often seem
somewhat miffed when I answer
"Probably Earth".
I can hardly be blamed for my
answer, though, because I probably am native to Earth. They
protest that that isn't what they
meant and
I innocently reply that I had no
way of knowing that what they
really meant was "Where were
you born and/or raised through
childhood?"
At this point—- usually without
correcting the assumption that
I've been through childhood — I
admit that I am from the Island.
Not just any old island, you
know, but the Island, (if you still
aren't sure, I'm referring to
Vancouver Island — that big
thing kinda west of here.)
Somehow, though, calling
myself an Islander seems a tad bit
on the ridiculous side. (Right up
there with water bombing a baseball game in order to protest the
deplorable selection of cheeses in
the local market, I always say.) It
is, after all, an island that is quite
a bit bigger than many European
nations.
Everyone, however, assumes that
being from the Island, no matter
the size, means that I am somehow mystically connected with
aquatic life everywhere —and
that this carries over into seafood.
Have you ever tried to explain to
a family of city-folk that, despite
growing up on an "island" you
don't actually know what an oyster tastes like? It's dreadfully
embarrassing and hot at all unlike
being forced to dive face first into
a chocolate cake because you
can't remember your phone number. And is doesn't help if you are
dining in a seafood restaurant at
the time and thus will have to
actually eat one of the slimy little
buggers.
In fact, many Islanders have
only a tenuous grasp on just what
"the Sea" is. I never had to steer
my boat through choppy, reef-
infested waters to school every
morning, I drove 40 km down the
Highway (the Highway, mind
you, not just any old highway)
like everybody else. The only
aquatic entity that binds all
islanders together is that cultural
treasure known as BC Ferries.
I don't know what it is about BC
Ferries, but it does bring us all
together. A true Islander Is one
with the Ferries and has an innate
understanding of all aspects of
Ferry travel: loading, unloading,
sleeping, eating (Islanders can eat
Ferry food, of course. We just
choose not to), where to read a
good book, the best places to play
hide-and-seek on the car deck—
an Islander Instinctively knows
which Side of the boat his or her
washroom is on.
We Islanders also feel a kinship
with the people who record the
standard safety announcements.
They are our family. They tell us
how long it will take ("..approximately 1 hour and 35 minutes.."),
they remind us where the life-
jackets are ("..stowed in marked
lockers internally and on both
sides of the sundeck..") and it is
the father-we-always-wanted that
reminds us, sternly but with kindness, that "this is a no smoking
vessel.".
It might just be me, though. I
don't know how many ferry trips
I've taken, hut's it's somewhere
around six or seven hundred — I
think I started when I was four.
Everything was veryhig then and
I had many a fine adventure
counting seats arid patrolling the
decks. When I think about my
childhood, I realize that I grew up
on BC Ferries. That's where I'm
from and that's what I'll say the
next time someone asks. "Where
did I grow up? Oh, BC Ferries,
Departure Bay-Horseshoe Bay
run. Have you been there yourself??"
Steve Fukada
Columnist
I've noticed a lot of disturbing
trends developing in the realm
of verbal expression, and my
patience with those who Would
employ these trends is dwindling.
My patience, in this particular
matter, is a Boeing 747 with all
four engines on fire, plummeting
towards the ground on a planet
with fifty times the Earth's gravity, and a pilot with "Over ten
hours of flight time oh Wing
War" who's "pretty darn sure" he
can break Mach 4 and still pull
up in time.
Ahem.
The nominees for 1995's Most
Irritating Speech Habit award are:
Uptalk
Is there a reason for why people
are always saying perfectly conclusive things as though they
were asking for your approval?
For example: This car runs on
gasoline? When the tank is
empty?, it has to be refilled? Or: I
have things to do?, and I won't
be able to show up at the meeting
tomorrow?
I believe this sort of speech is
called uptalk? It's really annoying? This manner of speaking, in
my opinion, show a certain lack
Ifetf I Vancouver School Board
Elementary Student
Mentorship
Do you have a Interest you'd like to share with a talented and gifted elementary student and
10 hours to spare?
The Vancouver School Board Is looking for volunteers with good communication skills to act as role
models, guide, tutor, coach and confidence to a less-
experienced person.
Examples of interests include geometry, dance, photojournalism, electronics, music, video production,
law, and every other Interest in between.
You will be listed in a mentor bank, and matches will
be developed as students'interests are registered.
Contact the Gifted
Education Resource Teacher
at the Vancouver School
Board at 732-1117.
Or talk to Anna at SUS for
more information.
of autonomous decision making
abilities? If someone says to you,
"I was going to leave now?", then
maybe you could say something
like, "No, that just isn't acceptable?," and maybe he/she'd
change his/her mind? Yes, it's
that simple? This is how many
people talk these days?, and I'm
going to strangle the next person
who does?
Gratuitous use of the word
"like"
How many times have you heard
the word 'like' used Completely
out of context? When overused,
it sounds as if the person is continuously trying to figure out The
Ultimate Simile. Forget it! There
is no such thing!
Allow me to demonstrate
briefly: "Like, you can't find The
Ultimate Simile. It's like a, well,
like, it's sorta hard to describe.
But it's like, a roundish, no, more
like a, no,
like you have to visualize, right?
Like, it's kinda like a, like...etc."
How is this any different from
"Like, OOGA OONGA, AGGH
like, GAAAHHH! Like, HNNGG,
likeGHNNG
NOGGggggA! Like, Thppppbbbt
weow weow, like, weow, like,
myon-myon, wawawawawa..."
Really? I didn't know thatLThank
you very much! "Like uhNNNG!"
Hollywood Talk
Here's my all-time favorite: "It's
rather interesting how I didn't
study for that test and still aced
it. I hadn't even known we were
going to have a midterm worth
60% of the final mark, but I aced
it. It was neat, in that the professor had a reputation for giving
hard midterms, but then I looked
at my test paper, written, by the
way, inKlingon, and I thought,
Hey! I KNOW this stuff!*" (gleeful
laughing ensues.)
This guy's living in Hollywood,
as I frequently say. Only in
■* Hollywood, can multiple, Completely unlikely events merge at
an unbelievable, life-affirming
focus, resulting in a happy ending and credits. Hollywood talk is
that parent language which
encompasses Big Fish Stories,
Really Big Fish Stories, and So Big
It's Beyond All Forms of
Terrestrial Life Stories, Major
League Bragging, and Blatant,
Failed Attempts at Being Funny
By Using Dumb Over-Capitalized
Run-On Sentences. (Don't even
laugh out of sympathy, O.K.?)
I hate it. Especially when I'm the
one using it.
And the winner is...(lock in your
vote, right now!)
Sigh. Not surprisingly, it's a
three-way tie. 25 OCT 1995
THE FOUR THIRTY TWO
PAGE SEVEN
Leftovers.
Drawers o' SUS.
Road to Hell
continued from page eight
cardinal rule of avoiding scary situations.4 Picking up the nearby
wooden stake, and performing a
rather impressive succession of
acrobatics, I leapt onto the back
of the walking corpse, and drove
the stake deep into its decomposing body, rupturing its heart and
sending rotting flesh bits flying
through the hall (I didn't say it
was going to be a pretty story.)
Quite proud of myself, I let the
monster's even deader body fall
to the floor with a 'thunk.'
Unfortunately, while doing my
victory dance, I made a fatal mistake — I forgot the fifth and most
important rule of avoiding scary
situations5. You see, my repeated
jumping on the monsters back
while singing inspirational Queen
songs had unknowingly restarted
its heart. So, while in the second
verse of 'We are the Champions,'
the resurrected zombie reached
up and pulled off my leg. This
somewhat spoiled my dance, and
as my skull careened towards the
nearby stone wall, I began to
regret coming on this road trip in
the first place.
So, here I am a zombie. Undead
'life' isn't so bad, though the
smell of decomposition does get a
Chutzpa'a Nation
continued from page two
the new formula F = Foe(kH)!
where Fo is the minimum fee, k is
a rate constant, and H is the
number of hours worked.
"It Is time to seek absolution for
trespasses," the court's decision
reads. "For centuries we have
excused the inappropriate appropriation of land by diverting our
eyes to the clearcutting of old-
growth forests, the overfishing of
meagre waters, or the latest
achievements of Judi Tyabji."
What this means, or why the
time for absolution is now, the
court would not say. Questions
about a possible military government in B.C. were avoided. An
unofficial comment from one of
the judges: "If someone has to
pay, why not the students of
UBC?"
UBC has not responded because
all official representatives are
being terminated in an effort to
cut costs and save money to compensate the Chutzpa'a for this
grave injustice.
bit annoying after a while.
Nothing that a bit of Obsession
for Zombies can't hide. Hmm. I
bet all these SUS folks have big,
juicy brains.....
1Stay away from geographical
locations such as Amityville, Elm
Street, Transylvania, Nilbog (God
help you if you recognize this
one), the Bermuda Triangle, or
any small town in Maine.
2Beware of strangers bearing
tools such as chain saws, staple
guns, electric carving knives,
lawnmowers, butane torches, or
any device made from deceased
companions.
3If you're running from a monster, expect to trip or fall down at
least twice, more if you are of the
female persuasion. Also note that,
although you are running, and
the monster in merely shambling
along, it's stil moving fast enough
to catch up to you.
4When confronting monsters or
psychopathic killers, there will
usually be a conveniently placed
weapon in your general vicinity
— often a 2x4, a piece of piping,
or something with a sharp bit.
5When it seems that you have
killed the monster, never check to
see if it's really dead.
Tracy MacKinnon
UNITED WAY
DONATIONS
o
2000
1800
1600
1400
1200
1000
800
600
400
200
0
-
fe)
DIRECTOR OF SPORTS NEEDED
(Hey! Don't look at us like that! Just
because we're losing exec faster than
the NDP can steal charity money
doesn't mean we're not a bunch of
nice people.)
President
You're all in for a treat today. I have very little to report In
fact I'm hard pressed to'find anything to report. We have a
full executive again and barring any resignations we're all set
for the upcoming year. Hurrah! However, we still need some
department reps for council so it you are in Geography, Geology,
Geophysics/Astronomy, Microbiology, Oceanography, Physics or
Statistics please come down to Chem 160 and volunteer your services, it's a lot of fun and is your ticket to our wine and Cheese,
and many other fun SUS events. Or even if you're not interested
in being on council, you can still come by and sit on the couch, or
use the phone, or check your e-mail. I can think of nothing else to
report so Happy Hallowe'en!
Jay Garcia"
mternal Vice Prez
Hey there hi there ho there neighbors! I'm yer brand new
internal Vice President-type guy. Hmm. You're all probably
saying "Gee, wasn't All Behmard Internal Vice President? I
didn't vote for this guy! I want All back!" Well, first off, no, I'm not
Ali. I'm jay Garcia**. You may know me from such films as "The
Colon: Man's Best Friend" and "Zinc Agent of Satan, or Modem
Miracle of Science?", and from such publications as The 432, and
The Newsletter for Terminally Dorky Science Geeks Who Really, Realty
Loved the Homeric Sagas. If you've ever wandered into SUS and seen
a large grumbling figure wearing a Science hat on one of the
couches, then you know who I am.
Secondly, yes, I know you didn't vote for me (well, all save for
about 97 of you). I ran for this position last year, and lost to Ali.
Well, he's kinda not doing the Internal VP thing arryraore, so the
Science High Command (take that high literally, kiddies) cast
about, looking for people with far too much time on their hands to
take on the job. Not that the job actually has any real responsibilities, it's just that, according to our Constitution we need to have a
warm body to occupy the Internal vp seat, because otherwise we'd
kinda look bad compared to all the other undergrad societies out
there (no easy task, that). And I get a cool title out of it Or at least,
that's what I was told when I took the job. Turns out, I've got a
whole bunch of responsibilities that no-one told me about Like:
a. To coordinate all academic affairs of the Science
Undergraduate Society (hereafter referred to as the Society);
b. To coordinate all elections and referenda;
c. To ensure that the information for the Faculty Teaching
Review (was the Black and Blue review) is collected and com
pile and then turned over to the Director of Publications for
publication;
d. To provide hamsters for each and every Council meeting;
e. To be a member of a bunch of Standing Committees:
So, anyway, here I am again m SUS, doing Things which will
Make YOUR Life Better™. And I'm going to need help.
So if you have heard of any First Years, or know any First Years, or
are a First Year person who'd like to come out and do run stuff
with the First Year Committee, then come on down to SUS and see
me. You'll have a great time, Last year, FYC members ended up eating all the leftover pizza and watching "The Holy Grail", "Mr.
Bean", ot "The Meaning of Life" after the movie nights. So if
you're a keener who needs to unwind, or have just got loads of free
time on your hands, then come on down to see me at Chem 160.
I'll be in SUS. I live there. I never leave. God help me, I never
leave...
Bella Carvalho
Point form notes on whaTs going on.
AMS
• Food Bank Trick or Treat Oct 31st. Check with myself ot Lica
Chui for details
• Coke deal
• are writing a letter to Quebec to ask it to stay in Canada.
AUS
• nothing really, but they're already publicizing for the Arts
County Fair...on April 4th
EUS
• chariot races coining up on November 3rd. Don't get too close
to these guys after the race, though
• have defined that red i$ either a cardigan, a jacket, anything at
red sales, a vest or a bra. (and we all thought that it was a
colour.,.go fig.)
CUS
• they're bankrupt!!! PAGE EIGHT
THE FOUR THIRTY TWO
25 OCT 1995
A Road Trip to Hell.
Jeremy Thorpe
Damned Columnist
Damn. I think we're lost,"
muttered Jon, one of my
more than slightly inebriated driving companions.
"Lemme see that," I snapped,
grabbing the map from his trembling hands. After several minutes of attempting to translate
the map, I gave up with a sigh of
frustration. I knew this road trip
would endin disaster. And now,
here we were, almost out of gas,
lost in the middle of the night,
trying to find a particularly
obscure small town in Maine.
Now, I've watched a lot of movies
in my time, so you would have
thought I would have recalled
one of the cardinal rules of avoiding scary situations.1
Nevertheless, here we were, and
I'd be damned if I was going to
spend the rest of the night in a
1975 Volvo stationwagon listening to Ian and Craig burp the
Bulgarian national anthem.
As luck would have it, we didn't
stay lost for long — out of the
mist came the shadowy forms of
a large group children — apparently all dressed in their choir
robes, it's a good thing their eyes
were glowing so bright, otherwise
we might never have seen them.
Bringing the car to a stop, I rolled
down the window, and questioned the closest boy. "Excuse
me? Kid?" I asked, "do you know
how to get to Point Dread from
here? We seem to have taken a
wrong turn..."
"Wasibeth zareekan ahhhh sip
sip sip noriketh," he replied.
Great. And I left my Evil to
English dictionary at home.
"No speaketh Englithesh?" Jon
asked, gesturing wildly, hoping
that perhaps he was bilingual.
Suddenly, the boy's head rotated
360 degrees on his shoulder, and
he spoke with a booming voice
which sounded like Barry White
and Darth Vader combined —
"Leave this place," he said, with a
hiss.
Much better. "Point Dread?," I
asked again, determined to get an
answer.
"Oh, alright," the demon-boy
grumbled angrily, pointing
North, "take a right at the cemetery, three cornfields past the
abandoned summer camp."
"Thanks!" I said cheerfully, pondering the luck of finding such a
helpful group of children so late
at night. Maybe our fortune was
getting better, I thought, as we
barreled into the fog.
As luck would have it, we
arrived at Our hotel just before
dark. Quite a nice place really,
framed by tall leafless trees and
perched on the top of a rather
large Cliff. Cool ocean air, neat
looking gargoyles, and even its
own graveyard — sure, the caretaker was a bit pale, and the walls
did have a nasty habit of dripping
blood, but who needs perfection,
anyhow?
The four of us settled into the
lounge, sipping our beverages,
and browsing the extensive
occult library. I was just starting
to read aloud chapter five of
Demon Summoning Made Easy
when the lights went out, followed by a loud and startlingly
nearby blood-curdling scream.
Finding a book of matches in the
light of the repeated lightning
strikes, we lit several candles and
looked around.
"Where's Jon?" I asked, not having heard a bottle opening in at
least 5 minutes.
"Maybe he went for a walk,"
suggested Craig, "or maybe he's
been eaten," pointing to the pool
of blood now laying in our absent
friend's chair.
Taking a minute to ponder the
situation, I came up with a plan.
"Let's split up," I suggested. "Ian,
you go down to the basement by
yourself in the dark, and try to
get the lights back on. Craig and I
will wander aimlessly around the
house looking for Jon."
Craig and Ian quickly agreed,
and we set out on our separate
ways. Deciding that jon had
probably headed for the fridge,
Craig and I started towards the
kitchen. Several blood-filled elevators and a pair of friendly twin
girls later, we arrived in the spacious and Well equipped kitchen
— complete with walk-in meat
freezer, and a wide selection of
butcher knives.
Luckily, all the kitchen appliances seemed to be working
despite the complete lack of electricity, and, since there's nothing
like a good monster-hunt to work
up an appetite, we set about making some sandwiches.
As I raised the abnormally large
lunch item towards my mouth, I
felt a tap on my shoulder.
Thinking that Craig had something helpful to tell me, I turned
around. Unfortunately, there was
a rather irate looking member if
the undead standing in Craig's
place, and he was wielding what
appeared to be my now deceased
companion's left arm. Luckily
this time I remembered the second cardinal rule of avoiding
scary situations2, and, leaving
my sandwich floating in midair, I
quickly proceeded towards the
door. Running down the hallway,
I was rudely reminded of the
third cardinal rule3, and as a
result, the above mentioned evil
zombie creature descended upon
my fallen body.
My whole life flashed before my
eyes — even some bits which
were previously a bit hazy — and
in the resultant storm of inspiration, I remembered the fourth
Road Trip to Hell
continues on page seven
SUS COUNCIL
The "Nothing Ever
Happens
in November"
GARDEN
Nov. 10
SUB Partyroom
PRESIDENT • Tracy MacKinnon
INTERNAL VICE • Jay Garcia
EXTERNAL VICE • Bella Carvalho
FINANCE • Deanna Braaksma
PUBLICATIONS • Blair McDonald
SPORTS • Vacant
SECRETARY • Grin del Vecchio
PUBLIC RELATIONS • Anna Carvalho
SOCIAL • Fahreen Dossa
SENATE • Dave Khan
FIRST YEAR REPS
HiroTzumi
Kevin Phung
GENERAL OFFICERS:
FarshadAbasi
Matthieu Maftei
Warrick Yu
Talieh Shahrokhi
BIOCHEMISTRY' ParisaMelkholavandu
BIOLOGY- SiaAdjudani
CHEMISTRY • Troy Loss
MATH- AlexGosden
PHARMACOLOGY.  SylviaNg
PSYCHOLOGY' SumanJaswal
PHYSIOLOGY' Tsun-On Carmel Chan
SCIENCE QNE • Guy Wooliams
GEOGRAPHY, GEOLOGY, GEOPHYSICS/ASTRONOMY,
MICROBIOLOGY, OCEANOGRAPHY, PHYSICS
STATISTICS ' Vacant
UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE,THAT IS

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