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The 432 Sep 4, 1996

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Array VOLUME TEN ISSUE ONE
04 SEPTEMBER 1996
"Hard work never killed anyone, but why take the chance?" - Edgar Bergen
AMS Vice-President
Declared Legally Dead!
Cadaver leads the way in making academics a priority for student government!
Van G. Olundsky
Raving Columnist
VANCOUVER (CP)
Student politics at the
University of British Columbia
was thrown into disarray earlier
today with the release of a coroner's
report declaring Lica Chui, currently Vice-President, as legally
deceased.
The report follows an extensive
three month investigation by Dr.
Steve MacPherson of the UBC
Medical School.
"My team and I took blood samples, tried reflex testing, and every
other medical test we could think
of. Every result was consistent with
the results we'd expect from a
cadaver."
When asked whether simply
checking the pulse would conclu
sively prove whether Chui was alive
or dead, MacPherson replied,
"Well, that's what had us so confused for a while. You see, this
cadaver actually has a pulse. Nice
and regular, too. We couldn't figure
it out until we found that little battery powered pump hidden in the
intestinal tract."
Investigators believe that Chui is
actually one of the cadavers
reserved for first year medical students as part of their training in
basic human anatomy, and that
senior med students, as part of an
elaborate hoax, nominated the
cadaver for Vice-President in last
January's AMS Election.
Mr. Joseph Jefferson of the BC
Elections Commission is assisting
the AMS Elections Committee with
its investigation.
"From what we can gather, a
senior med student was entrusted
with a key to the storage area in the
hospital morgue. He, and a few of
his friends, snuck in one night and
'liberated' the cadaver of a young
Asian female. Then they passed
around the nomination form in one
of their classes, and since no one
really cares about elections, people
signed it without knowing the candidate."
Chui was elected on a platform
emphasizing the importance of academics on campus. Among her
promises were the publication of a
campus wide teaching evaluation
and a review of advising offices.
Students, supportive of the visionary concept of a university where
academics took priority, elected
Chui by a wide margin.
Critics note that fellow executive
should have taken note of the fact
that Chui was absent for much of
the summer, despite notes placed
on her office door stating that Chui
was busy with med school.
Investigators have verified that
Chui was indeed busy with med
school since during the month of
April, medical students completed a
module entitled "The Human
Nervous System" which required
them to remove Chui's entire central nervous system, with special
focus on the spinal column and
brain.
David Browley, a long-time critic
of AMS overspending, suggested
that there would be "lots more cash
for important things like Services"
if the AMS implemented a program
where more executives were
replaced with cadavers as part of
"an aggressive payroll reduction
strategy."
THAT H/iLL fit TWO
AKP-W AND A L£ Ci •
Koerner Library
Condemned!
Bookstore pricing policy goes gruesomely awry.
Earl Warren	
Roving Columnist
VANCOUVER (Reuters)
In a press conference held on
Friday, UBC President, Dr. David
Strangeway, admitted errors in
the architectural plans for the new
Walter Koerner Library. The architect, Arthur Erickson, who has
designed various libraries for prominent cities around the world, was
attending to a 'crisis situation' in
Paris, France, and was unavailable
for comment.
Building Supervisor Harry
Rosenthal admitted that there was
risk of "complete structural failure,"
that could cause thousands of
tonnes of concrete, glass, and carefully placed stonework to collapse.
When asked what the cause of the
error was, Mr. Rosenthal retreated
into a nearby trailer.
However, a member of Erickson's
architectural staff explained that
there were a number of "minor
flaws in the planning which may
pose small gravitational challenges
in the future." The assistant, a Ms.
April Reckmann, explained that the
first problem occurred in unit conversion.
"We work in metric standards.
Apparently, the engineers assumed
that the weights were in pounds."
When questioned about other
flaws, Reckmann became defensive.
"Well," she exclaimed, "No one
told us there were going to be so
many books in the library. Do you
know how heavy those things are?"
Reckmann added that the third
mistake involved raw processing of
numbers, adding that she was
"extremely puzzled," since the computers involved were "brand new
Pentiums running Windows 95." 4
PhctZ
The Four Thirty Two
4 September 1996
Recalled from
Retirement.
I
'd like to tell you a story, a story
about a death-defying race from
Pemberton to Vancouver.
It was a bright summer day, and
our annual (as in for the first time)
Cabin Trip, Part II (Part I being the
dress rehearsal Cabin Trip earlier
that summer) was finally coming to
an end. Nearly thirty people, all in
various stages of nursing the Worst
Hangover of All Time needed to get
back to Vancouver, giving us a starting field of nearly 10 high-powered
automobiles.
That is, except for my fiance's venerable Volkswagen Passat, which
could be passed by an arthritic goat
going uphill.
The Race was uneventful at first,
probably because everyone left at
different times, therefore making
the Race nearly impossible to run.
But the required Pit Stop at the
Squish McD's ensured that at least
two cars (mine and another Passat
belonging to another SUS hack)
were ready to start at nearly the
same time.
I'm not going to identify the driver
of the other car, for fear of embarrassing him/her, but let's just say
his/her name rhymes with Freud
and is usually associated with a
beautiful woman named Helen. But
I won't name him/her.
I'd didn't see Mr "Freud" for most
of the race, didn't even know we
were racing in fact, until "Freud"
blew past me doing 130 on that
long downhill leading into Lions
Bay.
You know the stretch of road I'm
talking about, that nice, long downhill, the one that says 'Speed Limit
80km/h', the one that has the
speed trap located about halfway
down, on the left?
Did I mention speed trap?
Actually, it was one of those fancy
RCMP Cameros, and when "Freud"
went flying past, on came the pretty blue and red lights, and "Freud"
got busted. Hah!
But you're probably wondering
where the "death-defying" part
comes in. I don't know, but the
"falling asleep at the wheel"
(another SUS car) certainly qualifies.
But enough of this fun...
You're probably wondering why
I'm filling this space instead of
John Hallett.
Well, I could say that Jeremy and I
decided John was mentally unstable
and had him committed to a home.
Or I could say that we're only
keeping him around as a figurehead
so we can print blatant lies (as if
that's new) and give him all the
blame (read libel suits).
Or I could say he had a tragic accident with a herd of mink. Never,
ever, taunt angry mink.
I wish.
Actually, John's taken off on personal biz to the Island, leaving only
a cryptic note to me and Jer's e-mail
accounts.
"Guys, can you do the paper this
issue? I've got to go. John"
That was it. No articles left behind,
no comics, no ads, nothing.
So, forgive us for what you're
about to see. It ain't pretty.
This is where I'll slide in a subtle
plug for new writers/columnists...
COME OUT AND WRITE FOR US!
GODDAMMIT! OR WE'LL HUNT
YOU DOWN AND MAKE A NIFTY
PROFIT SELLING YOUR INTERNAL
ORGANS AS GENERIC SAUSAGES!
What I meant to say was that we'd
love to have you write something
(just try to make it funny, witty,
sarcastic, anything but <shudder>
serious). We'll even <oh my god, Jer's
suggesting we print one serious issue as
a supreme joke! HERESY! THAT'S IT!
IT'S OFF TO THE SAUSAGE
GRINDER WITH YOU!>
Ahem. But I digress. Just please,
drop off something, sometime, or
you'll have to suffer through these
plaintive cries for attention each
and every issue.
That's about all I want to say,
except I'd really like to see the word
"penis" in print. Since I'm not really the editor anymore, I think I can
get away with it. John, if you get
any flack about this, just deny that
you really exist. I'm sure the judge
would take your problems into
account at your sentencing.
Welcome to the wonderful world
of The 432. Hope you stay for a
while...
<penis> Jer wanted to see that
word again.
God, are we ever lame...
Female Logic?
Sam Arnold
Columnist
Women are very different
creatures from men (the
more perceptive reader
may have already noticed this).
However, I'm not here to talk about
spatial configuration, rather, to talk
about a very subtle and disturbing
difference hinging on the orientation of a molded piece of plastic:
the toilet seat.
In the World of Women, the toilet
seat has no business being in a vertical position. Men find this quite
baffling. After all, what's the big
deal? If it's up, you put it down,
and you sit. What part of that do
women not understand? Blindingly
obvious... women don't actually
look before they sit!
I base this conclusion on
rigourously unscientific experimentation, most involving personal
observation, guesswork and a fair
number of accumulated bruises.
It started back in the summer of
'94, when I spent countless hours
in the ladies' public washroom. I
was quite surprised to have a number of women complain about my
presence there. (Here, I'll pause to
give you time to consider just what
dirty things I was involved in.) I
was, quite obviously, there on official business, as part of my duties as
a Municipal Parks Worker.
As I was saying, people were complaining that I was leaving the toilet seats up after cleaning them,
and one of them (a co-worker) had
almost fallen In. Incredulous, indignant, and irritated, I sarcastically
asked, "Don't you look before you
sit?" The halfhearted mumbled
reply led me to this great discovery.
The second part of my research
was conducted after receiving my
No Longer a Bachelor Degree in
Domesticated Manhood. In what
will prove to be a long term study, I
deliberately left the toilet seat up.
The bruises that resulted (for 'tis
hard to evade a blow when you're
rolling on the floor, laughing your
guts out) have given me a purpose.
I shall educate the masses of bewildered men who have fallen into a
Domestic Situation, and hopefully
provide them with understanding,
greater knowledge, and fewer bruises from members of the female toilet-using population.
Men, your education will be brief:
women do not check to see if the
toilet seat is up. According to Male
Logic, the correct response is "they
should bloody well open their
eyes." This is a bad response, since
according to Female Logic <ed.
Oxymoron?> you "should stop
being an uncouth, inconsiderate
and disgusting barbarian." This is a
battle you can never win, and confirms my belief that the intersectin
of Male Logic and Female Logic is
the true definition of an "empty
set."
What can you, as a man, do? Just
keep a lid on it!
1 st YEAR BBQ
Wednesday, September 4th
Sometime around lunch
Main Mall between Angus and Chem
Cheap burgers & pop
1 st YEAR BBQ
Pres. Boris Yeltsin
Chechen Rebels
Volume Ten Issue One
04 Schemer 1996
John Hallett (and yes, John, we are
going to hunt you down and kill you.)
Survivor of the Stalinist Purges	
Blair McDonald
Gen. Alexander tebed	
Jeremy Thorp
Soviet Propaganda Machine	
College Printers, Vancouver BC
Sam Arnold, Tessa Arnold, Doug
Beleznay, Jay Garcia, Matt Wiggin
The Oppression of Free Speech
The 432 is the official publication of
the Science Undergraduate Society,
printed twice monthly from our
luxurious hole in the basement of
the Chemistry Building.
All views expressed herein are those
of Hiro Izumi, so lawsuits should be
addressed to him personally, not
the Science Undergrad Society, the
AMS or the University admin. All
rights reserved The 432 1996
Writers and columnists from all faculties are encouraged to submit
material to The 432. Humour
optional.
We guarantee that only fifteen
mink were harmed in the production of this paper. 4 September 1996
The Four Thirty Two
;.PA<-'.3:-
)
A Message
from our
Beloved Pres.
Tracy MacKinnon
President
School hasn't even started yet, and already there are extraordinary long
line-ups all over campus. I guess that's UBC's way of saying
"Welcome Back". How unfortunate (for us at least). But this week,
between the mind-numbing dullness of standing in lines (which always
seem to be in rooms with very little air circulation), I'll be partying at SUS
events. On Wednesday September 4th we're having a First Year BBQ (you
don't actually have to be a first year to get in on the great food) between
Angus and Chemistry.   BBQ fare at cheap SUS prices from 11:30 to 1:30.
And if that's not enough fun for you, that evening is the SUS Second Class
Bash in the SUB Partyroom from 4:32 to 8:oo. Cheap bzzr and plenty of
peach syder! Start off the new year by reminiscing with old friends and
meeting some new, interesting (and probably drunk) people. Wahoo!
I hope you've all been properly rejuvenated over the summer, and that
your looking forward to the upcoming year (or else those 8:30 classes
aren't as scintillating). Unfortunately, I have now been going to school
continuously for 12 months, and am facing another full year of academic
study. Eeep. Of course, the fascinating subjects of virology and tax will
no doubt be very compelling. Sure.
Don't forget to sign up for sports teams - we offer 50% sports rebates for
science teams. You can sign up as a single in the office (Chem 160).
Well, see you at the Second Class Bash! I'll be the person enjoying many
peach syders while trying to attain the semblance of balance. :)
Entertainment '97
coupon books sire now available
in the SUS office (Chem BI60)
Featuring:
• Over 500
restuarants
• almost 100 retail
offers
• all the old favorites
• and more...
$47
^{rttffijkjfUMOifc
GET INVOLVED,
JOIN THE FIRST YEAR
COMMITTEE.
Important Messages from the
Dean of Science's Office.
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Advising Survey
The office of the Dean of Science would like to know what you
think about our advising office. We ask you take a few minutes
to answer our questions.
Are you new to UBC?	
New to the Faculty of Science?	
In what year are you registered?	
HOW ARE WE DOING?
1. Does our advising schedule fit with your class schedule? If no,
why?	
2. Do our office hours fit your class schedule? If no why?
3. How could we improve our hours?	
4. Were the advisors helpful? If no, please tell us what improvements could be made.
5. Was the office staff helpful? If no, please tell what improvements
could be made.
6. What other services could we provide?
PLEASE RETURN TO DEAN OIF SCIENCE OFFICE i
Page 4
The Four Thirty Two
4 September 1996
Jer-iette the Spy.
There are some phrases, one
would think, which you can
always take at face value. Take
for instance 'product causes severe
facial rash,' or 'do not feed the mink.'
Now, one would have thought that
'it's not easy to become a spy' would
nestle itself comfortably into this
category. Even in the movies, while
spying itself may seem cut and dry,
one can always assume that it
would take years of training, peak
physical health, and a considerable
supply of antibiotics to join the
elite forces of the secret service.
One wouldn't think, for instance,
that one could become involved in
the field of espionage while looking
for a washroom. Neither would I,
until exam time last year...
<insert wavy effects, and twinkly
music hero
There comes a point during a beer
garden (okay, there comes several
points during a beer garden) at
which you faces an uncontrollable
force — a force which draws you
away from the crowd, to a far more
peaceful place — a place where
thoughts of tranquillity dance lazily
among the sounds of running
water. Well, okay, perhaps the environs aren't quite as beautiful as
described, but you get the point. It
was one of these moments, during
the last beer garden of last year,
when my life changed forever.
Emerging from the staircase, my
mind engrossed in complex problems of a spiritual nature, I was suddenly apprehended by a fairly large
man, dressed mostly in black, with
the words CREW emblazoned in
obnoxious pink across his more
than ample chest.
"You can't use the bathroom," he
boomed, with an air of Campus
Cowboy-like authority.
Now I went through this whole
"can I use the bathroom/may I use
the bathroom" thing in kindergarten, and I was well prepared.
"May I use the bathroom?" I ventured, fairly proud with my grasp of
pre-school level grammar.
"No," shouted my evolutionarily-
challenged friend. "They're filming
a movie in there."
Aha. A movie. In the bathroom.
What could they possibly be filming in the Chemistry bathroom? A
n informative instructional video
on personal hygiene? A low budget
sequel to True Lies? Craning my
neck over this obvious reject from
Project Koko, I managed to catch a
glimpse of a sign over the director's
chair. 'From Nerd to Bigger Nerd: The
Bill Gates Story.'read the lazily scribbled billboard. Now, I appreciate a
comedy as much as the next guy, so
I resigned myself to the cleaner, if
somewhat harder to reach upstairs
bathroom.
Unfortunately, as I rounded the
corner, somewhat out of breath and
now precariously near containment
field breach, I came face to face
with the bigger and I might venture
uglier twin sister of the pre-primate
from downstairs. At this point, I
was neither prepared nor physically
able to carry on another useless
conversation, so I turned gracefully
on my heels, and headed, defeated,
back downstairs.
"Washroom," I muttered, stumbling down the stairs. "My kingdom
for a washroom!"
Now, this is when things get a bit
weird. Suddenly, from the hallway
on my right, a locker swung open.
A strange little man in a oversized
trench coat emerged, and looked
suspiciously my way.
"Watchroom?" he asked. "Are you
looking for the Watchroom? "
Dismissing the slight difference in
words to my degree of sobriety,. I
nodded. At which point, he beckoned with a pudgy finger, and disappeared into the locker. I was left
somewhat puzzled. As usual, however, the battle between brain and
bladder was won handily by the
abdominal forces, and I headed tentatively into the locker. Inside was a
staircase, spiraling in typical
Transylvanian fashion down into
the depths of the unknown. At the
bottom of this staircase was a well
lit room, and behind a centrally
placed desk sat a well groomed,
tuxedo-clad, middle aged man.
"Agent number?" he asked quietly,
not bothering to look up from his
desk.
Confused, I decided truth was the
SCIENCE CLUBS
Complete membership lists (with student numbers) and club budgets must
be submitted to SUS before 4:32pm,
Thursday, October 24, 1996 in order for
your club to be eligible for funding.
This deadline will be religiously
observed.
Questions? Contact Doug at SUS
best option. "Well, actually, sir, I
was just sorta looking for a place to
take a..."
"Agent number?" he asked again,
raising piercing grey eyes, and
throwing me a really quite unnerving look.
This was a problem. The only
agent number I knew was 007, and
I was pretty sure it wouldn't work.
The only other number which came
to mind was, in my mind, fairly
implausible. Still, I really needed to
find a bathroom.
"Agent 432, sir." I blurted, trying
to look as confident as one can
when posing a fake name to an
mysterious individual in the basement of the Chemistry building .
His eyebrow raised, and a look of
surprise came to his eyes. "The
agent 432?" he asked, incredulously.
"Yes, of course," I muttered, with
confidence. "The agent 432." Now,
this was certainly a risk. If all went
well, I would be the agent 432, who
saved the world numerous times
from the evil forces of communism,
and not, for instance, the agent 432
who was caught sleeping with the
director's wife.
"Never heard of you," he said,
with a shrug. "Oh well," he continued, and passed a card across the
table. "Here's your ID card.
Welcome to the Watchroom."
Now this was interesting. Even
with important parts of my internal
anatomy stretching toward bursting, visions from James Bond
movies, and old reruns of Mission
Impossible danced through my
head. The Watchroom. Obviously a
high-tech espionage center, chock-
full with video screens and little
blinking lights — something that
Big Brother would certainly be
proud of. I followed the posted
signs, rounded the corner,, and was
faced with...another desk.
With my hopes exploded, and by
bladder dangerously close, I ran to
the desk. As strikingly similar looking man in a three-piece suit handed me a package. Oh great. Another
ID card? Hastily ripping the packaging open, I found a watch. Yeah, I
know, it's corny. And I was mad.
Mad, mad, mad. And desperate.
"Listen!" I shouted, "I just want a
bathroom! A restroom! A water
closet! Anything."
Not even one bit fazed, the grey-
haired man nodded. With a snap of
his fingers, another of those trench-
coated mutants was standing in a
doorway, across the hall, beckoning. With a resigned sigh, I followed.
Perhaps it's due to memory retention that I will not go into detail
describing the rest of my voyages in
the catacombs beneath UBC —
through the Barroom, past the
Crestroom, and over the Swatter
closet, and eventually out through
another locker into the hallway of
Buchanan A. Discarding the toothpaste, fly-swatters and winged-
rodents I had procured along the
way, I dashed towards the washroom. A washroom, which was,
completely movie-free. A happy
ending, believe it or not. What is
the lesson learned? Always plot a
course to the nearest free facility,
before beginning to drink. And
never, ever, follow midgets into
lockers.
ille CmJt TM
*«*
V&TI AMC
AT SU3 4 September 1996
The Four Thirty Two
Page 5
)
ft
Welcome to Arts" Activity Page.
As part of our continuing
effort to educate Science
students as to the significant differences between us and
our colleagues in Arts, The 432
is pleased to present this interpretation of first year Arts courses.
We hope this goes a long way
in correcting the mistrust and
misunderstanding between the
two faculties.
A cross is made (a) by inserting
4.5 canes through slits in 4
other canes. A wet cane is
woven (b) over and under each
bundle of canes twice. The bundles are then divided in two (c),
leaving the half cane by itself
(d). Weaving continues to make
base.
In a scallop border (e), the supple ends of the stakes are curved
down into the weave close to
each other. In a woven border
(f), the ends are brought forward around the neighbouring
stake, and woven (g) over and
under the other ends.
Complete basket at far right
with an over-one-under-one
weave (randing). The ends of
the stakes were woven to make
a border.
FIRST YEAR ARTS
COURSES
UPPER LEVEL
ARTS COURSES
For those of you ready to challenge
the difficulty of second and third year
courses, here's a sneak preview!
Randing (a): Single cane is woven
alternately over and under stakes.
Slewing (b): Form of randing, weaving with two or more canes at once.
4m~--=al!_t
^**
*^'*r^^F
^*i*
j£w
Welcome back to SUS!
Photocopier. We don't care what
your butt looks like. Well, Jer does.
Clock to let you know exactly how late
you are Ifor class
Cray XM-P, purchased surplus from US
military. Carefully disguised as a Mac.
Sink. Experimental
microbi lab in disguise.
Pop machine. Rewired to provide more than just pop.
Couches. Home of the laziest people
of campus. *
Page 6
The Four Thirty Two
4 September 1996
How Not to Spend Your
Summer Vacation
I «*"<V I
Jay
GARCIA
It's been a long and interesting
summer. A lot of things went on
between last year's finals and
this year's expedition to the bookstore. First off, there was the East
Coast trip. That in itself spawned
any number of interesting situations. Because of it, I ended up
being mistaken for Chairman Mao
in Arlington Cemetery. Then there
was the drive back to Chicago,
where my cousin and I, jamming
along to the summer-fun tunes of
Death Angel, overshot the offramp
and wound up in the South Side at
eleven at night. Overall, not a fun
way to spend a vacation, keeping in
mind that a vacation is supposed to
be relatively relaxing (only, however, if there are no relatives
involved).
In the interests of public safety and
a reduced therapy bill (not mutually exclusive occurances), The 432
proudly presents this handy survival tip to an enjoyable and non-
lifethreatening summer. Yes, I
know it's late, but this'll be handy
next summer.
Tip One: When leaving for foreign
lands, bring money.
I spent the first day of my summer
wandering around in a daze, wondering where the hell most of my
money that I had earned the previous summer for my East Coast road
trip had disappeared to. Checking
my ever-so-complete and up to date
files of my expenditures, I found
only the words "pissed away, can't
recall" written on the back of a napkin stuffed into the folder.
Considering that my flight was due
to leave in under seven hours, this
was a somewhat inconvenient situation.
If this should happen to you, then,
mildly put, you're screwed. In this
case, you don't have many options.
Seeing as most of your friends are
unlikely to have massive amounts
of cash handily lying around with
which to infuse your moribund
account, you're going to have to
suck it in and take out a loan with
the First Bank of Mom and Dad.
You're likely to get unmercifully
needled and lectured about spending habits, but you should get the
cash you need.
If asking your parents for money
rates up there with, say, root canal
work, then you're either going to
have to get a bank loan or grit your
teeth and find some unsuspecting
slob to sell your ticket to on short
notice.
Tip Two: Make sure you have your
return tickets.
Halfway through the one-month
long road trip and running perilously low on borrowed funds, I
discovered that not only did I have
not have enough money for lodging, gas for the car, or even regular
meals, but, worst of all, my return
tickets were nowhere to be found.
Thankfully, I was in Ohio at that
time, which, although it is some
several-thousand odd miles away, is
still on the same continent as
home.
In a situation such as this, at the
very worst, you can always hitchhike back. This becomes problematic if you had gone away vacationing somewhere European, for example — unless, of course, you were
willing to cross the length of Siberia
to the Bering Strait and then catch
the ferry to Alaska, where the hitchhiking conundrum gets somewhat
less pronounced.
If you absolutely cannot find your
ticket, call your airline, where the
helpful and friendly receptionists
will bounce you from one department to another until, two and a
half hours and several dozen
albums of Muzak later, you're ready
to crawl into the phone line and
strangle somebody with their own
headset cord. Keep in mind that, in
an independent survey of the
Muzak used by various companies,
that used by the various airline
companies ranks as the most mind-
numbingly dull and enervating.
Anyway, in the unlikely event that
you do get a hold of a living,
breathing human being, it is highly
probable that they will inform you
that in the event of ticket loss, a
brand new ticket will have to be
purchased and a lost-ticket waiver
will have to be filled out (which
entitles you to a refund in three to
five months, or never, depending
on whether or not the ticket is ever
found and used). All of this, of
course, leaves you in much the
same boat if you didn't have the
money with which to buy a new
ticket to begin with. In this case,
I'd suggest panhandling (you can
attract attention to yourself and
your plight by putting up such
entertaining signs as "Need money
for Beer", and "Wanted: Return
Fare for First Class Ticket to the
Bahamas".)
Tip Three: Don't get into an argument over directions with two
drunk eastern europeans.
Especially if none of you understand what the other is saying.
This is compounded if you use an
interpreter who is equally drunk.
Should this happen to you, and the
tone of the argument starts turning
a wee bit more violent than you'd
find comfortable, I suggest that you
smile like an idiot, buy them more
beer, and, when they're too drunk
to stand, stagger out of the bar in
roughly the same direction as your
hotel/hostel/cardboard box.
Tip Four: When packing for the
return trip, resist the impulse to
bring back each and every tacky
tourist-trap item you bought.
Airlines tend to be very strict about
the entire weight-limitation for luggage deal. If you're a poor traveller
to begin with, being dinged an
extra couple of sawbucks is not
going to be a fun experience. Then
again, if you were a poor traveller
to begin with, what the hell are you
doing with all those bloody souvenirs in the first place? If you really want to keep 'em, Federal
Expressing them back will likely
prove to be the cheapest of all available worlds. Keep in mind that you
should only do this if what you're
sending back to yourself won't happen to set off the drug-sniffing dogs
or set the DEA on your doorstep.
All this goes to show that, given
the proper preparation and advice,
your can have a fun summer without losing time, sleep, or any
appendages.
"Writing for The 432 changed my
life..." Joe Conrad
"I never thought I'd be so popular..." Marlon Brando
"Gave me a new perspective on
life!" Gary Larson
WRITERS AND
CARTOONISTS NEEDED.
NOT AN IOTA OF TALENT
REQUIRED.
Wednesday
September 11
4:32pm 4 September 1996
The Four Thirty Two
Page 7
)
The Move.
One of the things I hate most
about being a student is the
way that nothing is fixed.
We never know what we'll be doing
next summer. We never know what
we'll do when we grow up. We
never know whether we'll graduate,
or spend the rest of our lives in the
limbo of re-attempting Chem 304.
Worst of all, we have no idea where
we'll be living eight months from
now.
A lot of people claim to enjoy the
"freedom" that comes with being
twenty two and being in university.
"You can just pick up and move
any time," they say. Point taken,
but freedom, as I see it, means that
just because you can do something
doesn't mean that you have to.
Even if it did, "getting to move
twice a year" would rank somewhere around "jury duty for a serial
killer's trial" on my list of reasons
I'm glad I live in a democracy.
I hate looking for a house. I hate
this because, for someone in my
income bracket, paying rent on two
apartments for a month is not an
option. Before I can go looking for
a place to stay, I've got to tell my
present landlords that I'm leaving.
As of that moment, the count down
begins. There are places in the
world where finding a home at this
point would not be so hard.
Vancouver isn't one of them. I have
a nasty feeling that many of the
people panhandling down on
Granville St. are homeless because
they had to leave their last dwelling
before they could find a new one.
After that, things take a turn for the
worst. It's hard to convince a landlord that you're a responsible tenant when you haven't bathed in
eight days.
Despite this, I always start buying
the Vancouver Sun every day. I call
all the listings, and I leave messages. I call back and leave more
messages. I'm not sure what bothers
me more: the people that never call
back, or the ones that call back just
to mumble something about not
renting to students. 0erk. How
much water damage can three people with a firehose cause?)
Occasionally, a place slips through
the net, and I go to see it. After two
hours of riding the bus, getting lost
three times, and standing out front
hoping I wrote the address down
wrong, and wondering how a place
so obviously condemned can
remain standing, I knock on the
door. We go to check the place out,
and every time I wonder at how an
apartment described as "Bright, spacious 3 bedroom" can turn out to
be a dank hole containing three
rooms: two bedrooms, and a
kitchen which must double as a
bathroom, because there's a toilet in
the corner. The conversation that
follows is pretty standard: "that the
rent quoted in the paper was incorrect." At which point I begin to
consider leasing me a small island
in the Carribbean for the next fifty,
seeing as how it would be cheaper,
and "yes, they have been a problem, but I've called the exterminator, and the rats will be gone sometime before the first of the month."
I cuss the landlord. The landlord
cusses me. I'm skinny, so I seldom
fare well in the ensuing scuffle.
Then I leave to go call some more
places.
SUS Hockey
Pool
!Xt
Just when I'm starting to seriously
consider panhandling as a career
move, I usually find a place. The
relief this brings is temporary. The
clock now reads T -3days, and is
counting down fast. Packing begins.
I wouldn't mind packing so much
if it weren't so damned tedious.
Packing the big things is easy (time
requirement: 2hr). This initial stage
also creates a large mess, which
makes packing the odds and ends,
(i.e. the remaining 90% of my
belongings) take so bloody long
(time requirement: 3 days). After a
couple of afternoons spent tiying to
categorize my belongings, I give up
and just dump the whole lot into
big old moving boxes. Why do I
have all this stuff? I have no use for
an aquarium anymore. All the fish
died in the last move. The next step
is transport, and around this time,
becoming a monk starts to look
more attractive than living on the
street, since not only do I get a
place to live (even the beds are cold
and hard,) but I also get to take a
vow of poverty - and a vow of
celib... you know, moving big boxes
ain't so bad. Keeps one virile.
One strained back later, I dump
the contents of my boxes out onto
my new floor, trying to figure out
where the hell I ever kept this stuff
in my last place. Ah, I'll just put it
back in the boxes. Save me having
to pack again in April.
And so, I find myself getting ready
to crawl into my sleeping bag (on
the floor, of course.) Wish I could
find my pillow. Sigh...
Are you sick of class already?
SCIENCE UNDERGRAD
SOCIETY
CHEM B160
Where everybody knows your
name. Its Prank, right?
Available now in
SUS CHEM 160
$59
ioe
~fr\nk)
(Bookstore $90)
BARBARIAN
Rugby Shirts d
Page 8
The Four Thirty Two
4 September 1996
Better living through
mind control.
Have you ever wondered if
maybe, just maybe, you had
psychic powers? I don't
mean the ability to have thousands
of people call you at $4.95 per
minute to have you read them their
horoscopes. I mean genuine ESP,
like telepathy, empathy, telekinesis
or even powers reserved more for
deities, like the ability to control
the earth or weather.
Whether it's slowly sinking the
Southwest US (admit it, we'd all like
that to happen), starting a small
rain shower, or controlling world
leaders like puppets, the existence
of these powers would explain a lot.
For instance, I was sitting around
enjoying a play with a few friends
this summer when I looked up at
the sky and thought "Hmmm.
Looks like it might start to sprinkle." No sooner than I had thought
it, small droplets of rain started to
fall from the sky.
I thought this was interesting, so I
commented to my friend beside me
that I thought that it might start to
shower in a bit. Two seconds later
the precipitation had become a
shower. Most people, at this point,
would instantly wish for bright sunshine and bikini-clad women playing volleyball on the lawn at this
point. (Well, okay, 48% of all people) I, however, wished that it
would start raining. It did.
"Okay," I said out loud, "Let's see if
we can shut down the play due to a
proper Indian-style Monsoon."
Everyone sitting with me immediately sprinted for cover as the rain
started falling so hard it was literally drowning out the actors on the
stage. And the rain didn't have
2000 watts of raw amplifying
power.
With my curiosity fulfilled and me
now thoroughly convinced that I
had complete control over the
weather, I gazed upwards and confidently snapped my fingers in a
command to spontaneously stop
the rain. It didn't work. In fact, it
rained even harder.
So what does this little tale tell us?
I think it exemplifies the fact that
we all have a little bit of ESP within
our grasp, but the trick to making it
work is not trying to make it work.
Either that or it exemplifies that
John has a pretty decent sized
Messiah Complex.
There are a couple of experiments
that you can try at home in order
to research this more thoroughly.
First, try and bend a spoon with
your mind. Sit in the full lotus position, clasp the spoon firmly
between both hands, and stare at it
with all your concentration while
holding your breath. It is rumored
that lack of oxygen maximizes your
ore bending capacity. If all goes well
and you fall on the spoon right,
when you come to, the spoon will
be nicely bent. This trick is fun at
parties.
Second, try and read your roommate's mind. Close your eyes while
in his/her presence and try and
focus in on any thought patterns in
the area. Since UBC is a big place, it
will seem overwhelming at first
because of all the active minds out
there. (Or surprisingly quiet, it all
depends on whether you try this in
your dorm or in Stat class)
When you have narrowed down
the thoughts to "What is he doing?
Is he going to kill me?" You have
got it. Note: if you don't have a
roommate, but still achieve success,
this is even better. This means that
you are either channeling Elvis or
Shirley MacLean, probably the latter. Call Weekly World News and
offer them the exclusive rights.
Third, you should cap off your day
of psychic wandering by trying to
make postal workers happy with life
and to love their jobs and cowork
ers*. If you are successful at this,
then you have achieved the level of
Psychic Guru and can now start
your own religion and work your
way towards the title of Genuine
Nut.
Or perhaps you can start by trying
to read minds. Trust me, it's better
than TV.
And once you start reading minds,
it's only a hop, skip and a jump to
writing minds. You could stop
crime, end hatred and just generally
help mankind live in peace and
harmony. Or you could conquer the
world and turn the general populace into your endless army of highly expendable slaves who would
unquestioningly obey your every
whim.
Now that I think about, I'm kinda
most people haven't developed^
ESP. Maybe if I got there first...
No minks were harmed in the writing
of this article. One mosquito was swatted and a dog was hit with a rolled up
newspaper and called "Bad", but that's
it.
* Despite popular myth and the recent
advent of new phrases like "Going
Postal" and "As therapeutic as sorting
mail", postal workers are really quite
nice people. I even met a few over the
summer. They told jokes. Really!
HASN'T YOUR LIVER
HAD ENOUGH OF A
VACATION?
*d4
speedbump
and guests!    ^QO/o
FREE!
The Science Undergrad Society presents...
THE 2nd CLASS BASH
Wednesday, Sept 4 • SUB Partyroom • starts at 4:32pm

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