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The 432 Jan 20, 1997

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'7 do/i'f see the difference between UBC and Russia. They line up for basic goods. We line up.
They've got ineffective government. So do we." — disgruntled ex-hack
Stalin Takes Over as AMS
Elections Commissioner!
Communist hardliner seen by many as superior to other candidates!
Government waste expected to decrease rapidly!
Al Q. Fibble
Political Correspondent
In a press release that
shocked the campus community earlier today, it was
revealed that former Soviet
Dictator Joseph Stalin will be
overseeing this year's AMS
Elections. Former AMS
Elections Commissioner Zoe
Stronge was forced out of the
position after a brief but unnecessarily bloody confrontation
with the legendary Russian.
"I thought that he was dead.
And even if he wasn't, why
would he be interested in
University Politics? What's his
long-term plan?" asked the former commissioner, nursing a
damaged pride from her hospital bed. Stronge lost her position after a poker showdown in
which Stalin bluffed her out of a
full house, aces over kings.
Stalin had a pair of threes, but
one "hell of a poker face."
Sources clo'se to Stalin revealed
that he had been leading a quiet
life in the Okanagan, after selling his soul to the devil for eternal life. Apparently, Stalin
missed the power of politics and
made the decision to take over
the BC government from the
ground up, by force if necessary.
UBC, with its upcoming elections, was a prime target.
Fourth      Year      Mechanical
Engineer Daniel Welsh, an aide
close to Stalin, has already
announced the results of this
week's elections, even though
polls have yet~ to open.
Apparently, the new AMS
President will be none other
than Joseph Stalin himself.
When questioned about possible conflict of interest problems
with the Commissioner winning the election, Welsh
claimed that "these issues are
being analyzed in detail by the
General Secretary himself, and
we expect a comprehensive
report on them shortly... oh,
did I forget to mention? We're
renaming the position to
General Secretary."
Welsh then went on to claim
that Stalin has announced a
Five Year Plan for the complete
revision of AMS elections policy. Though he was careful to say
that the AMS will remain a
democracy, he admitted that
there will be a "few small
Stalin's other aides were hesitant to elaborate on the former
Russian dictator's plans for the
future, but select reporters were
able to interview Mr. Stalin's
Personal Assistant, Third Year
Chemical Engineer Reginald
"I assure you, the students of
UBC have absolutely nothing to
worry about" said Wolfikowski.
"Most of the changes will be
implemented  in  the way in
[T-rmNK. rr   !
which the society interacts with
the polit buro... er ...I mean the
University itself.
"The workers will notice a great
increase in the quality of life,
what with the weight of making
government decisions lifted
from their shoulders. Of course,
student fees will have to
increase slightly to compensate
the New Order... er... AMS for
the increased work load
involved with anticipating student needs, but that's understandable. We expect a modest
increase of only $1.50."
Part of the overhauls to the student society infrastructure
involve a revamping of Tangent
Magazine in order to "allow it
to be a more effective communication channel between The
Party and the students."
The student press community
has shown strong opposition to
this move, claiming that the
new reforms would convert
Tangent Magazine essentially
into a "biased government propaganda machine with no content of relevance to students."
No difference in copy or quality
is expected to be noticed by
Further reforms involve the
UBC Bookstore, where
Wolfikowski states that "students ate becoming tired of over
priced texts with little or no
redeeming social value."
Under the New Party Literature
Law, the UBC Bookstore will
only trade in texts approved by
The Party.
"These texts will vary little
from the books students are
already accustomed to. But students vail find the patriotic
themes more inspiring than the
dull drone of the so-called scientific process. Furthermore, I
am pleased to announce to the
workers that these works have
been acquired from East Block
sources at a considerable discount."
Purposed replacements include
substituting "Physical
Chemistry for the Biological
Sciences," (Holt 1993) with
"The Proletariat and You: A
Bolshevik's Guide," (Lenin,
Other members of the AMS
Executive have been
announced, all upper class engineers, causing concerns among
the student body of a single faculty dominance in the ruling
Urges for Stalin to better balance his government have been
deflected by his aides, who
claim that "the General
Secretary's decisions must go
Defeated AMS Presidential
Candidate Charles Wagon
attacked the new regime, claiming that "since no one has
heard, let alone seen Stalin in
person, it is very likely that the
whole power struggle is being
staged by the Applied Science
Undergrads in an elaborate
attempt to seize power of the
AMS and subsequently lower
bzzr prices."
"In fact," claimed Wagon, "it's
very likely that Stalin is, indeed,
still dead and not at the reigns
at all. This raises questions
about who is really in charge."
Wagon has been missing since
Artsies Held
Joseph W. McKerr
Well-armed Correspondent
Last Friday at 11:32 during
a normal Arts Bzzr Garden
night, thirty-two commando's stormed the BUCH
200 Lounge, taking a large
group of approximately 126
Arts students hostage.
The radical fringe group,
known as the Beer Liberation
Front, better known as the BLF,
is being held responsible
although as yet there has been
no formal contact between the
terrorists and local authorities.
The BLF and AUS,have been in
a- constant state of war for the
last seven years, with hundreds
of BLF members held in AUS
Early Saturday morning, one
hundred and twenty of the
hungover hostages were
released, leaving only members
of the Arts executive.
In an official release AMS
President David Borins has
taken a hardline stance against
"I'm violently opposed to
using violence to resolve conflicts," he said.
Later on, Borins let slip that
"it's about time. Like I care if
any of them make it out."
Reporters were able to catch up
with Lieutenant Marvin Ventor
of the Canadian Armed Forces
Special Operations Unit to
obtain an update on the
involvement of the army.
"We're not really worried about
the whole situation," said
Ventor. "The terrorists don't
realize that there's too damn
many Arts graduates looking for
a limited number of jobs. This is
actually a good thing for Arts
students everywhere."
The Red Cross has been called
in to try and negotiate the
peaceful release of the remaining hostages and to provide
some basic nourishment for the
hostages. The standoff is
expected to last for a long period of time, at least until the
demand for art history majors
increases. 20 JANUARY 1997
The 432™
Volume 10 Number 08
20 January 1997
© 1997 Science
Undergraduate Society of
UBC. All rights reserved.
Editor John Hallett
Guest Editor Blair McDonald
Assistant Editors
Editors Emeriti
Aaron Drake
Jean Guay
Vince Jiu
Ryan McCuaig
Blair McDonald
Derek Miller
Dave New
Patrick Redding
Leona Adams
Sam Arnold
Doug Beleznay
Morgan Burke
Aaron Drake
Jay Garcia
Leslie Gold
John Hallett
Nicola Jones
Graeme Kennedy
Gloria Lau
Troy Loss
Tracy MacKinnon
Ryan McCuaig
Blair McDonald
Derek Miller
Kathryn Murray
Trevor Presley
Pat Redding
Jeremy Thorp
Matt Wiggin
Roger Watts
Henry Wong
Warrick Yu
Tessa Arnold
Doug Beleznay
Andy Choung
Jake McKinlay
Ken Otter
Pat Redding
Jason Robillo
Melanie Stapleton
Glen Stokes
Roger Watts
The 432 is the official newspaper of the Science Undergraduate Society, published twice
monthly from our offices in the
basement of the Chemistry B-
All opinions expressed herein
are strictly the opinions of the
individual writers and not those
of The 432.
Writers and cartoonists from all
faculties are encouraged to submit material to The 432. All submissions must meet the strict
deadline requirements and
should not exceed 900 words.
The 432 is copyrighted by The
Science Undergraduate Society
of UBC and may not be reproduced in whole or in part without express written consent.
Earle Warren
Galactic Correspondent
The world mourned^ last week as one of society's great heroes
was laid to rest. Thousands filled Red Square in Moscow
Thursday, heedless of the rain, as they gathered to pay their
last respects to Multik, the Space Monkey. Multik died on January
10th, three days after returning from a two-week space mission. He
is survived by his wife, Bibi, and his two kids, Bobo, and George.
Aging Russian President Boris Yeltsin spoke briefly to the crowd,
before returning to the hospital for continuing treatment. Yeltsin
called Multik "an example for all Russians," and added that he "has
always felt a special bond with Space Monkeys."
The ceremony, which was broadcast live by all of Russia's major
television stations, was the biggest memorial ceremony ever held
for a non-communist. The three hour event featured performances
by the Moscow Ballet, comedian Yakov Smirnov, American singer
Tom Jones, and others. There wasn't a dry eye to be seen as the
monkeys of the RUSSIAN CIRCUS performed a special routine,
choreographed by former Soviet premier Mikhail Gorbechev.
Mr. Gorbechev was obviously shaken by the death of Multik,
whom he referred to as "a very close friend." Gorbechev has spent
much of the last week visiting Multik's family, friends and zoo-
keepers. During his speech, Gorbechev reminisced about his many
years of friendship with the deceased primate, recalling several
poignant stories.
"I remember when I was still the leader of the Communist World,"
said Gorbechev, "And I would often turn to Multik for advice. One
day, I asked him wether or not I should attend a summit with
American President Ronald Reagan. Multik turned to me, picked a
flea from off of his head, and ate it. He didn't even say a single
word — and he didn't need to. I knew what he meant."
January 10th will now officially be known in Russia as National
Space Monkey Day. Carlton has already begun work on a new line
of greeting cards.
Artist's interpretation of Multik the Space Monkey.
Hfit CM
Satisfaction comes in many
forms. Some people find a
good beer satisfying.
Others enjoy a nice walk in the
woods. Still others take an odd
amount of comfort in tormenting Peruvian llamas (Tibetan
llamas, strangely, hold no
Danger and excitement seem
to hold the key to how much
satisfaction one squeezes out of
a given event. Most would hold
that bungee jumping and parachuting are particularly satisfying activities while channel
surfing and lying amongst dandelions (to name a few) are not.
There are few things in life
that can be more satisfying
than screaming down a dangerously steep section of hillside at
ludicrous speeds on an old
mountain bike.
You've all heard of The Speed
of Light - a velocity so impossibly fast that only light may
travel at that speed, well I like
romping through the woods at
The Speed of Stupidity - a velocity so impossibly fast that only
those with the IQ inferior to
that of a particularly slow cow
may travel at that speed.
I wasn't always this carefree
and blatantly unconcerned
with my physical well being. I
was rather conservative up to
about the age of seventeen and
then my brother offered to take
me on a 'bit of a ride.'
I should have become suspicious when the first hour of the
alleged fun bike ride consisted
almost entirely of climbing
curiously graded hills. Then the
fun began. There's nothing
quite like following your older
brother down a steep decline,
clenching your handlebars for
all your worth and making reconciliations with God (pretty
severe for an Atheist). This was
the moment that my brother
choose to accelerate. Fearing
getting lost in the already
dwindling daylight, I had no
choice but to increase my speed
even further, making my need
for a change of underwear even
more pressing.
The trail blazed by, barely giving me time to plan action for
the curves and bumps ahead
before they were rapidly receding behind me. I caught air a
few times, always landing on
the path a mere three feet
behind my brother's rear tire.
"This isn't so bad," I found my
self saying. "I haven't got hurt
yet, this could be actually be
With my new found courage, I
decided to follow my brother's
lead and attempt as big a jump
as possible over the next bump
in the trail.
The second I left the ground,
time seemed to slow. I was free.
I was several feet above the
blurred ground now and I
could feel myself flying straight
and true. The trail, however,
choose this time to make a
rather sharp and unannounced
turn to the right.
My impulse reaction was to
turn my wheel. Of course, turning one's front wheel four feet
above the trail rarely corrects
one's course. It usually simply
changes your balance and causes you to slowly slide sideways
Ahead of me, my brother had
accepted his fate and chosen to
jettison his bike just prior to
smacking into a tree a la Return
of the Jedi. I, having first wisely
decided to take a horizontal
approach to this new flying
concept, couldn't hop off my
bike. Instead, I found myself
entering an in-depth and rapid
negotiation with the tree which
resulted in only a brief disagreement and subsequent skirmish.
This brief encounter quickly
created my current need for a
new bike and three weeks of
well deserved rest and relaxation in the local hospital. A
word of advice, don't jab the
little red button several dozen
times before the medication
starts to take effect. After the
twentieth press, the dwarves
turn evil and try to get at your
spleen with dull spoons.
When I was finally released
from restraints and sent home,
who was waiting to pick me up
but my dear brother. He suggested that we go for a bit of a
4x4 adventure before heading
home. Still in low earth orbit
from the drugs, I quickly
Now, normal 4x4ing involves
hours of planning and several
maps by which to organize a
successful foray both into and
out of the woods. My brother,
thinking that this was the
'egghead' approach, picked the
second mountain from the left
and proceeded to drive until
I was honestly surprised how
long it took the Search and
Rescue helicopter to finally find
us. I figured that these people
were trained professionals who
could recognize the beacon fire
my brother lit from a few miles
away. Especially when said fire,
having previously promoted
itself to bushfire, decided that
an executive position was in
order and tackled some nearby
trees in an effort to annex an
entire valley. The helicopter
quickly spotted us and we were
being whisked back to
EmergencyUnd the dwarves.
Did I learn a lesson from all of
this? Yes, I most certainly did. I
learnt that one should never,
ever attempt to turn a bike
without having first established
meaningful contact between
both your wheels and the
ground and I learnt that red
buttons are red for a reason.
Other than that, I don't believe
that this particular episode
holds much more in the way of
lessons. Or maybe that tree hit
my head harder than I had
thought. In this issue...
Q Rex Morgan, Pre-Med.
A Exec-O-Matic & Elections Fun Page.
^ A Barrelful of 432 Lovemonkeys.
^ SUS Executive Elections
ub The Legend of Science.
(0 A Brief History of The 432
Q The Best of The 432
^ The Cartoon Galleries
Q The Worst of The 432
ty The Drawers of SUS.
Q Roger Watts Returns
And on the
tenth year of
The 432...
John Hallett and Blair McDonald
20 JANUARY 1997
Defenders of The Faith
How does one define The
4321 That's a puzzle,
along with the solution
to the Rubik's Cube, that's been
plaguing manking for years.
Well, since the mid-eighties,
that is.
The 432 has been described at
times as "insouciant," "amuz-
ing," "mildly offensive" and
"disgusting to the point of provoking violence." But it's always
received high reviews from its
readers, at least the six or seven
who dropped by the office to
express their views. We're
assuming the other 4500 share
that opinion.
Writing for, and editing, The
432 is one hell of a challenge.
The Editor applies the toughest
yardstick—that    of    judging
humour. For Blair, the litmus
test was "did it make me chuckle at least three times?",  for
John, it's "is it written, preferable in English?" Many articles
have made their way to the
Editor's Box—and many have
been tossed in the circular filing
cabinet in the corner. Including
many of John's first articles. Ha!
Actually, in all seriousness, one
of the hardest things to do is
reject someone's first attempt at
humour.   It   tends   to   drive
columnists away—right out the
door, down the hall, and across
campus   to   The  Underground,
who apparently has a policy of
publishing any trash they find.
That's trash. Literally.
So, The 432 tends to rely on a
core group of writers and cartoonist. You'll recognize their
bylines: a writer, once hooked,
stays with the paper for as long
as they wish. We can't get rid of
. them. And, on several occasions, we've tried.
But, from time to time, people
do swing by, with ideas and
comics that leave all of us
rolling around on the floor.
That's a great day... it proves
someone's out there, reading,
and enjoying what we do so
much that you think you could
do it far better.
And you can do it better. None
of us have any formal training
in writing,  editing, design or
layout. All self-taught. In fact,
Blair's probably the best trained
in English (John can't even spell
English, let alone write in it),
having taken  some of those
upper level composition courses. And the designing is self-
taught as well, sometimes looking great and sometimes looking like last minute crap, reeking of 3 am desperation.
Over the last ten years, The 432
has grown up, matured into the
immature perfection you see in
front of you now. In the beginning, this was a bunch of photocopies—now    we're    using
somewhat modern equipment
and techniques to put together
a professional-looking tabloid
magazine. Don't let our professionalism fool you—we take
very little of what happens on
campus     seriously.     There's
enough paper devoted to you
telling you how to act and what
to think. We just want to make
you laugh. Actually, we'd like to
make you snort Coke through
your nose in the middle of your
Biology lecture. But we'd settle
for a chuckle or two.
Collectively, the writers of this
column have over six years of
work invested in The 432, la
exchange for that, we rest
secure that someone, somewhere, sometime, has found
something funny.
And if you really wanted to
give us a nifty 10th birthday
present, just keep on reading.
And maybe write a column or
two. Oh, and a beer or two
would be nice.
4& A*    %
3   ^"
£S$j Evangelos (731-8314) to arrange an appointment
Monday to Friday 9-6pm + Saturday 9-5pm
For more information, call BIOSOC @ 822-8675
• new science week t-shirts!
• lots of other science shirts
• 220z. science mugs!
• Science rugby shirts!
• science hats!
Blair's Shorts.
There's a small bit of
advice I'd like to pass on
to everyone: never get
your pelvic bone caught
between a concrete wall and a
moving forklift. Needless to say,
as male readers groan in unison, this was extremely painful,
and left me curled in a fetal ball
for about ten minutes, and my
right leg numb for the rest of
the day. Musta pinched a nerve
or somethin'.
I blame my fiance; it's obviously all her fault. If she didn't
have to clean out the garage
and transport all her junk to
storage, I wouldn't have been
maneuvering the electric lift-
ergo,  no excruciating pelvic
crunch. My personal opinion is
that the majority of the boxes
should have gone directly to
the dump, do not pass go, but
hey, if someone wants to store
one's  Grade One notebooks,
what business is it of mine? I
think packratitis runs in her
family—the 1970 circa magazines, a box of broken calculators  and  other  assorted  electronic equipment—it's a frightening implication of my future.
At  least  my family  collects
somewhat useful stuff. You see,
my   dad's iian    electrician—
involved in all sorts of building
maintenance and renovation.
When a building gets renovated, much of the old electrical
equipment gets tossed in the
dumpster—the resale market
for   broken   transformers   is
exceedingly depressed at the
moment. So, dear old dad rummages through the old stuff
before disposal, and occasionally brings home a useful thing or
three.  Everything gets  piled
into our basement until it can
be cobbled into a Frankenstein
device—home security system,
emergency    lighting,     sump
pump,  death ray to  kill  the
neighbour's dog, whatever.
I think the neighbour's dog
snorts a daily line of coke. It
goes nuts whenever I go home
to   my  parents'   place,   even
when I'm not carrying three
pounds   of   sausage   in   my
trousers. Jeremy thinks that last
line was unnecessary—but I disagree. Sausage is an  essential
ingredient for any well-balance
article. It's a funny word all by
itself,  like  weasel, probe and
indophenol. Anyways, that dog
hates my guts: bark, bark, bark,
even when the rest of my family is standing with me. Loves
my dad, mom, sister, hates me.
Go figure.
There once was a dog I hated
just as much as the neighbour's
dog hates me. A friend was
housesitting,   and   with   the
house went a  complimentary
dacschund.    Annoying    little
football with stubby legs, if you
ask me; a dog ain't a dog 'less it
can   swallow   a   tennis   ball
whole. That little yapper ran
around  my legs,  begging for
Cheezies for the better part of
an hour, but eventually my Evil
Thought™ rays from my head
melted the dog down into a
quivering ball of terror, hiding
in the corner of its cage. Until
next time, then.
Wed Jan 22 - Fri Jan 24
SUB 207/209 20 JANUARY 1997
Ringing out
the old year.
1996 was, by even my
strange and skewed standards, an interesting year.
It began miserably, with the
weather being a somewhat portentous indicator of the year to
January began with wet,
squishy snow dropping out of
the sky to squelch underfoot as
some kind of undeniable grey
slippery slush, which laughed
at all attempts to gain footing
and drowned the unwary in
deep and deadly snow-covered
puddles. This icy wet snow
would occasionally turn into
droplets of stinging, freezing,
blinding rain, which was a welcome and somewhat more
Vancouver-ish change in the
weather. This, however, alternated with thick, pea-soupish.
fogs which turned the city into
a bland, grey, Eastern Bloc-ish
place, like those used as the
backdrop by too many bad spy
Just when we were getting
used to the constant foul
weather, the clouds would
clear, rays of sunshine would
streak out of the heavens, and
birds would leap into the clear,
crisp air, bursting into joyous
song as they did. Uncertainly
at first, and then with growing
confidence, Vancouverites
would shed their coats and run
out of their homes into the
streets to enjoy the weather.
That's the kind of year it's
been, really. Things Were
crummy right at the start.   I
suppose this was largely
because I was recovering from
two bad colds, three intense
parties, one heart-attack generating interim Statement of
Grades, one sprained ankle,
one metric tonne of gravel, one
instance of being chased
around campus by the
Engineers, three tankings, and
a singularly broken heart (I'll
say this much: redheads are
All of this added up to my
being one very unhappy
camper. Around the start of
the term, anyone approaching
me was liable to get their nearest extremity bitten off and
spat back in their faces. The
midterms did little to ease my
disposition, and all I could
think about was the number of
days left until the first day of
May, when I was supposed to
leave this burg for the (happily)
more unfamiliar climes of the
East Coast. Around April, I
found myself compulsively
checking my calendar to count
the number of days until my
flight was due to leave, more
often than I would check the
schedule of exams to find out if
the my room and exam times
had been changed on me without my noticing.
When I finally left, after getting an emergency loan from
the First Bank of Mom and
Dad, due to having pissed away
the money I was supposed to
have saved for the vacation, I
found myself in Chicago, first
stop on my tour, where my
cousin and I would begin our
road trip up and down the
coast. This part of the vacation
was somewhat stress-relieving,
but not terribly enlightening.
January 23
(in front of IDC)
February 7
Bzzr Garden
(SUB 212a)
March 5-6
(Wcochrarcl IDC)
Due to constant drizzling rainfall, every city that I visited on
the coast resembled Vancouver,
except that there were fewer
trees and people tended to
shoot each other a little more
often (I had the distinct privilege of being caught half a
block from a gun-toting drug-
addled maniac who was finally
shot to death by the cops).
Getting back to Vancouver
was, as a result, something of
an unalloyed delight ("there's
no place like home, there's no
place like home").
The search for a late-summer
job having been largely a wash
out, I resolved to enjoy the
remains of my summer. As a
result, I got so used to slacking
off that when I came back,
school felt like a bit of a bummer this year. : By the first
week, I was really and truly
beginning to feel overly
swamped, working as I was
some twenty-hour weeks and
still maintaining a full course
load. Then, by some weird
kind of coincidence, I had my
heart broken again (this time
by another redhead). And, by
Christmas, professors were
assigning last-minute nasty six-
hour labs and deadly end-of-
term projects like they were
going out of style. This ended
up with me stalking furiously
out of the building, eyes fixed
firmly on the ground, muttering dire imprecations about the
questionable lineage of my
professors, seriously contemplating the stress-reducing factors that only random acts of
gratuitous violence could provide, when I stepped into a ray
of sunshine and felt surprisingly relaxed and warm all over.
And as I stood there enjoying
the light, a pair of arms slipped
around my shoulders, and I
heard a voice piped up cheerfully from behind me: "Hey
Garcia. Want some company?"
And I turned around to stare
into the face of a friend, a
beautiful, green-eyed, blonde-
haired girl. And I smiled.
I think 1997 is going to be a
great year.
Dear Grad
Leslie Gold
Grad Correspondent
I think I lasted about two minutes in keeping my New Year's
Resolution—no, to give credit where credit is due, it was probably closer to three. My New Year's Resolution (made on
January 6th) was that I was no longer going to discuss:
a) grad school,
b) the likelihood of a certain Leslie Gold being accepted into
such a school; and
c) how the aforementioned Leslie Gold would lead a life of abject
misery should she not be accepted into such a school.
Now while lasting only two minutes is, to make a gross understatement, pathetic, I still managed to do better than one person
I know of, who (and this is a true story) resolved to spend less
money and then took a cab to work on January 2nd and stopped
on the way home to buy a new pair of shoes.
But I digress from grad school, which is what I want to talk
about, because I have accepted the fact that I am not able to stop
obsessing aboukgrad school. I have decided to embrace this fact
and give myself full leeway to do it whenever I please.
Which makes me think that it's a darn good thing that I wasn't
trying to give.up something like chain smoking—or say, being an
axe murderer.
The thing that drives me the most crazy about the grad school
application form is that it doesn't give me a chance to fully
express all the wonderful and unique facets of me. For example, I
searched everywhere amongst the approximately 3 bizillion
forms I had to fill out for the blank in which I could fill in my
vegetarian extra spicy pasta recipe—no such blank was to be
found. Not to mention, if you can even believe this, apparently
the Selection Committee doesn't even care how fast you can run
5km, it's not even mentioned once.
Great, I wish someone had told me that back in first year. Before
I started riding the bus for and hour and a half three times a week
to train with the track team, running somewhere in the neighborhood of 2 and a half bizillion training miles each week as well
as suffering the itch and inflammation of athlete's foot. Ya I
know, personal growth, sense of accomplishment blah blah blah—
all I know is what I have to show for it is a lowered GPA and a
nasty case of shin splints.
When I was working on my Letter Of Intent (which sounds more
like it should be in a courtroom drama than in a grad school
application form) I realized that a huge reason why I want to go
through grad school is to get that Masters acronym behind my
name. Think about it for a sec—Master of Science. That's really
quite an impressive title. I am Leslie Gold and I am a Master of
Science. I don't know about you, but I picture hordes of people
on a busy Tuesday night at the movies parting to either side to let
me walk up to the counter and buy my ticket first.
On the other hand, Bachelor of Science sounds like a person who
knows a little about science and who "dates a lot of different people and only has a jar of salsa and a jar of raspberry jam in their
fridge. Master, however, sounds like an omniscient, omnipotent,
Red Sea-parting dude.
Well, the form said that this should only be a page long so I guess
here's where I stop.
Members of the Selection Committee (if indeed you are still reading), I just want you to know, in addition to every thing else I
have talked about, that I feel that I have the drive, dedication and
enough food in my fridge to move on into a Masters' program.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
Leslie Gold (almost B.Sc).
Cartoonists Block. PAGE SIX
20 JANUARY 1997
Back in Black.
When John asked
me to be a part of
this 10th anniversary Superisssue™ of The
432,1 was
a) flattered and
b) at a loss for ideas.
Two months later, I'm
about as inspired on this
idea as I am about writing
my thesis. Ikes-yay.
Anyway, I'm taking the easy
way out by doing predictions for the New Year.
Mind you, I have no claims
to psychic powers. My predictions shall be
a) what I perceive to be
inevitable or
b) wishful thinking. So
with no further fanfare, my
predictions for 1997 (and
A new Andrew Lloyd
Webber musical, Apocalypse,
will open at the Ford Centre
for the Performing Arts. The
play, loosely based on the
Book of Revelation, will star
Michael Bolton as John,
Meatloaf as the Antichrist,
and the Village People as the
Four Horsemen. It will premiere June 6th at 6.
Pamela Lee's baby will grow
into a Terminator-like
humanoid freak, attributable
to silicone leakage.
Okay, for this one, you have
to be a bit of a soap opera
buff. I wasn't before
Christmas. Actually, let me
correct that. I watched soaps
with my mom until I was
old enough to start elementary school, after which
point I would get caught up
on holidays. Anyway, when
I started university, I got it
into my head that I was
going to do away with
immature things, like caring
who's, not really dead this
week. All that ended this
Christmas break when,
trapped in Langley (a redundancy if ever one came into
existence) by the snow, I succumbed to the evils of daytime television.
Anyhow, this particular storyline involves a woman
who fakes a pregnancy to get
the man she wants to marry
her. For the purposes of
brevity, I'm going to ignore
all the obvious questions
such as how she intends to
pull this off in the delivery
room and why this woman
wants a man who would
only marry her because he
knocked her up. I predict
that this is what is actually
going on with Michael
Jackson and his flavour-of-
the-week. I mean, now that
she's the Mrs., she must have
tons of cash at her disposal,
and it can't be that hard to
pick up a baby on the black
market. Heck, people on
soaps do it all the time.
The artist formerly known
as the Artist Formerly
Known as Prince will
become simply known as
"The". Seeing the obvious
potential in this, he trademarks his name and brings
the literary industry to its
knees. Eventually, "The"
achieves immortality as he
who led to the revolution of
the English language, commonly    known    as    ,r_	
Elimination of  Definite
The BC Lions will threaten
to fold. Vancouverites will
ignore them. Okay, they'll
say, if you really want us to
stay, we will. Stubbornly, we
will continue to ignore
them. Oops, that was 1996.
How'd that get in there?
I will wreak revenge on my
boyfriend for abandoning
me on New Year's Eve.
Oops. This one doesn't
belong here either. This is
more of a personal goal than
a prediction..
Someone will make a correlation between the amount
residents of the Lower
Mainland complain about
the weather and the amount
of snow received in
December 1996. The report,
once filed with Environment
Canada, will disappear,
along with the author of the
report. The only clues the
RCMP will have to go on will
be business cards from the
Las Vegas Chamber of
On a related note, someone
will write a report and submit it to Dan Miller, pointing out that people who
travel to Nevada to gamble
may do so partially because
of the weather. This report
and author will also meet
unfortunate ends.
With the upcoming federal
election, Canadians will be
forced to choose between a
number of parties:
a) the Liberals, who lied
about scrapping the GST (it's
hot like we actually thought
they'd get rid of it, but it 's
the principle of the thing);
b) the Tories - fool me twice,
shame on me;
c) the NDP - pop quiz: name
2 current NDP MPs;
d) the I Can't Believe
They're Not Rednecks -
there's something to be said
about the company you
Anyhow, I predict that
there'll be a massive protest
vote. Of course, this'll backfire with political and economic upheaval when the
Natural Law Party takes
Finally, the unused floors of
the Laurel Pavilion will be
converted into a Las Vegas-
style casino (think Trump
Tower). Guests will be able
to pawn jewelry at the gift
shop. A cash-for-organs
ward will be established on
the 4th floor.
Xmas, Pt II.
There's that smell again.
£o Mot- evrfftg.'
sr i*i PRoaftSSS
Pre-Med Hopeful
./IE.    Jf-i
"The 'Big Guy' is still testing the Tickle-Me-Barbie." 20 JANUARY 1997
The Exec-O-Matic™ Financial
Decision Maker.
Poll Booth
As you all are no doubt
aware, this week is
Voting Week here at the
AMS. Time to make your mark
on university affairs by electing
the guys with the slickest
posters. But who says doing
your civic duty can't be fun,
too? Here's a small sampling of
fun httle tricks to try at the
polling stations that will make
the whole decision-making
process a little more enjoyable:
• Take along a pair of. scissors
and make a pretty snowflake
out of your ballot.
• Stand by polling booth, arms
outstretched, and explain that
this year, every voter gets "a big
wet kiss compliments of the
• Stand behind someone who
is in the process of marking
their vote. Notice whom they
have marked down, and make
sure they overhear you talking
to your friends about the time
you met the candidate and
what a fucking whacko he or
she is.
• Write interesting messages to
your vote counter, (eg. "The
goods are ready. Meet me at Pier
33 at midnight...alone.")
• On bottom of ballot, write,
"You, Lowly AMS Vote Counter,
may already have won TEN
QUARTER   FINALS    (10   pts
• Tell the poll clerk that you
accidentally dropped your car
keys into the polling box by
mistake. Continue to complain
hysterically until someone
comes over from the SUB and
gets the box opened for you,
then "discover" keys in your
other pocket.
• Surprise the vote counters—
slip a few strips of raw bacon
into the polling box when casting your vote.
• Hang around polling stations
spreading strange rumours
about various candidates, (eg. "I
heard he eats photocopier toner
in the nude.")
• Identify yourself as either
"Pedro Lapacas" or "Charles E.
(Chuck) Wagon" at voting
booth. (Both, apparently, have
been assigned real student
• After voting, return to polling
booth with bucketful of confetti. Run at them as if it were full
of water and throw it while
shouting, "I'll show you for
only giving me one vote, you
SEMI-FINALS (25 pts each).
• Conceal opened ketchup
packet in palm of hand. Pretend
to get finger stuck in polling
box slot. When someone helps
you pull it "free", squeeze packet, covering knuckle with
ketchup, while keeping top half
of finger bent back out of sight.
• Obtain copy of UBC Nominal
Roll. Doctor names as you see
fit, then introduce your copy to
polling station, taking clerk's
original copy with you. Come
back periodically and vote again
and again under various prearranged pseudonyms and see
how many times you can do it
before the clerk starts to recognize you. Assume disguises as
necessary. (Bonus points for
each pen stolen from polling
• During busy voting times,
throw envelope stuffed with
dollar-bill-sized paper at poll
clerk and loudly declare, "Who
do you think you are, anyway?
You can bet your ass the
Elections Committee's gonna
hear about this] You and that
crooked candidate you're
pushin' are finished!"
• Stand next to poll booth and
introduce yourself to voters as a
candidate chosen at random
from the ballot. Blather on a bit
about your policies and why
they wouldn't get out of the
building alive if they voted otherwise, and make it plain that
you would know if they did or
• Drop really loud watch into
polling box and announce,
"Hey, this box is TICKING! HIT
THE DECK!" Dramatically pick
up box and toss from window .
GRAND PRIX (100 pts).
• Drop gunny sack over head of
pollclerk when no one is looking. Tap lightly on head with
ballot box. Drag clerk away by
ankles and hide him/her in
nearby closet. Pose as clerk and
randomly assign "free votes" to
passersby and to random voters
(eg. "You're our 100th customer
today, so you get a bonus
vote...would you like to receive
our catalogue?" or "Don't have
your student card today? That's
OK; just make sure you bring it
when you vote again tomorrow..." (note: Bonus points
apply for signing unknown persons onto nominal roll and/or
succeeding in claiming real poll
clerk's honorarium cheque.)
It's Election Time, yet again. Time for a hundred impossible
goals, yards of bullshit, and the inevitable promise to "balance
the budget and bring it out on time for once." Well, that's been
promised annually for the last four years,, and the haemorraghing
of essential money from critical services proceeds unchecked.
Thousands have been slashed from Services and Programs, all to
fund superfluous pet projects that don't have a hope in hell of benefiting the general student politicians.
It's time for honesty from our elected representatives. Why won't
they just come clean and admit that they've no idea what they're
wasting spending our money on! So, we're proud to present our
Exec-O-Matic™ Financial Decision Maker, guaranteed to speed up
the budgetary decision making process by a factor of five.
The Exec-O-Matic™ FDM can also provide hours of entertainment
to stressed-out exec in need of relaxation after spending the day sitting on their ass in some pointless meeting. Simply staple the Exec-
O-Matic™ FDM to a dartboard! First Exec to waste a million dollars
of valuable student money wins!
OUTER RING: Double the amount of money wasted
INNER RING: Triple the amount of money wasted
BULLSEYE: Bonus throw!
□ Ryan Davies
11 j"T3
□ Allison Dunnet
□ John David Gray
□ Scott Johnson
□ Chris Matisz
□ Ruta Fluxgold
The 432
□ Victory Hegedus
certifies that:
□ Carolyn Granholm
□ Jer Thorp
has spent:
□ Brian Cross
□ Wei Hsi Hu
exceeding their
□ Jennie Chen
□ Shiraz Dindar
□ Craig Bavis
expense limit
of $100 and
□ Tiffany Ho
□ Ryan Marshall
them from the
□ Vivian Hoffman
□ Patrick Lum
Submit this
□ Mike Boetzkes
form to AMS
Elections and
bitch like hell.
□ Shirin Foroutan
□ Duncan Cavens PAGE EIGHT
20 JANUARY 1997
S C I e n C E
A slow night in Gotham City.
When you swim in a lake and you step on a snake,
that's a morray!
Sam Arnold
Roving Correspondent
Some people live in what is
called a "love bubble."
Other people find this
annoying, mostly because they
themselves are not in a love
bubble of their own. Many of
these uncharitable people dislike seeing two others blissfully
wandering about in this transparent sphere. For some reason,
though, no one minds when a
hamster does it.
Small furry mammals are very
important to love bubbles, actually. In advanced cases of bub-
blehood, the hapless couple
must visit a pet store to buy the
appropriate type of pets and
start naming them things that
they might like to call their own
children in the future. The bubble's occupants will often actually think of each other as hamsters, gerbils,  or guinea pigs.
Not physically, of course. Love
might be blind, but not quite
that misguided. No, they are
chipmunks in the spiritual
sense. When you think that you
are spiritually connected with a
small rodent of your own, this
is a sign that you are in a love
bubble. Unless you're a psychology student.
Then it's normal.
Unfortunately the "bubble
couple" won't keep their bub-
blehood restricted to the privacy of their bedchamber. It will
very soon escape them in the
form of "pet names."
Otherwise sane people start calling each other "Bunny", "Piggy-
Woo" and "Snoogy-Woogie." If
you've ever possessed the ill fortune to be close to an display
like this, forgive them their
sins, unspeakable as they are.
The perpetrators of this crime
probably don't even know that
they loudly squeal out "Honey
Bunny!" across Safeway aisles.
Most people are made violently
ill at the sight of a love bubble,
and so it is a wonder that they
have not been hunted down
and punctured - perhaps with a
crossbow - into extinction. The
reason is simple. Intuitively,
everyone understands that the
love bubble is there not to protect the occupants from society,
but to protect society from the
intestine-tickling atmosphere
within. The waves of nausea
that the bubble emits is just the
tip of a long and splintery pike.
No combination of alcohol,
undercooked KFC and the
movie "Bad Taste" can churn
your digestive tract any further.
Activists cry out "What can the
citizenry do to protect themselves from this menace?" The
options are few: paint yourself
blue and pretend to be a skunk,
or go buy some gerbils.
And now...
the Candidates for
Science Senator!
In case anyone out there has
missed the yards of posters,
it's Election time—and
you're about to elect next year's
Science Senator and five
But what does Senate do? What
areas is the Senate responsible
Troy Loss
Senatorial Candidate
Currently, I am a 4th year
Honours Environmental
Chemistry student, and
planning to graduate next year.
I am in my second term as
Chemistry representative on
SUS, and this year I have been
appointed Science Sales
I am not running in a party or
slate, but as an independent
candidate. My philosophy is to
work with the other Senators,
along wih Senate Caucus. The
attitude that the student senator are fighting against the
administration is wrong, and it
doesn't really accomplish anything. Just think about the Bloc
Quebecpis in Ottawa! It is much
better to work together, with
the other senators and get an
equitable solution.
If I get elected, I will make sure
Science students have a voice. I
will not be pressured by the
Faculty of Science, or the SUS or
the AMS. I will do what I think
is best for Science in general.
Remember to bring your AMS
card and vote!
In a word—academics. The
Senate is composed of the
Chancellor, President, Vice-
Pre$ident Academic, all Deans,
the Librarian, at least two professors from each faculty and at
least one student from each faculty. Add to that a few students-
at-large, people elected by
Convocation,    and    a    few
Gloria Lau
appointed by the Lt-Gov, and
you've got Senate.
So, from the top: admissions,
courses, academic discipline,
awards, advising, exams, the
libraries, ad infinitum.
If it's the Calendar, Senate's
responsible for it. If it isn't in
the Calendar, chances are that
Senate isn't responsible.
Senatorial Candidate
Hi everyone! My name is Gloria Lau, and I will be one of the
Science Senator candidates in the upcoming AMS election.
Just want to tell you a bit about myself. I'm currently a
third-year Biochemistry and. Chemistry Combined Honours student. I'm also the English Editor for Perspectives, UBC's English
and Chinese bilingual student paper. I have been involved in many
volunteering activities within school and our community, such as
volunteering at UBC hospital, UBC Open House, and in Revenue
Canada's Taxation community volunteer program.
As a UBC student, I strongly feel the need for bringing our concerns for the University Administration. However, in such a vast
student population, how can we find our voice? The solution, in
my view, is to be a student representative. That's why I joined the
NSAP, and with collegues who carry the same ideals as I, we will
bring our voice out and fight for the rights that we, as students,
should have.
Several highlights of our party's platform include increasing UBC
student housing, lobbying the University Adminstration for subsidy of the student transit pass, making UBC accountable for inappropriate academic advising, and making safety as part of the
University Adminstration's operating budget.
Or we'll slip a live weasel in your bed. 20 JANUARY 1997
Bernie Quest IV:
The Final Chapter.
I'm sure many of you have
seen a talking hamster
before. I doubt, however,
that any of you were sober at
the time.
Now, I hadn't yet drank the
Vodka bottle which I had purchased at the gas station,
moments before I lost consciousness, and I haven't taken
any hallucinogens since grade
four (if you really want to see
small orange elves dancing
naked on your elementary
school blackboard, to the tune
of It's Raining Men, drink three
bottles of Elmer's wood glue. I
dare you.)
So, I was reasonably sure that
Frank the Evil Hamster was
actually talking to me. And, to
make matters worse, he looked
pretty pissed off.
<At this point some of you are
probably fairly confused. So, for
those of you who haven't read the
first three parts of Bernie Quest,
were drunk when they did read
them, or have just plain forgot,
here's a synopsis. About a year
ago, I found myself in possession
of a rare Russian Dwarf Mackerel
named Bernie. Recently, he has
become tired and languorous, and
his health has been in obvious
decline. Using my extensive veterinary knowledge, I deduced that
Bernie was in fact suffering from a
severe bout of penicillin-resistant
Home Sickness. Being the kind-
hearted pet owner that I am, I
decided to return Bernie to the
waters of his homeland. Not one to
be negligent, I also brought along
my psychotic hamster, Frank.
Packing them safely in their travel
containers, I was on my way.
Several thousand miles, an angry
bear, and a vaporized reindeer
later, I found myself in Russia.
Frank had been lost early on, and
I feared he was gone forever. Bernie
was alive, and wet, and ready to
enter the great Siberian wild. All
would have been well, had I not
been clubbed into unconsciousness. I awoke, of course, to find
myself talking to a hamster.>
"Frank," I murmured, groggily,
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to
leave you in Alaska. It's just
that... there was that bear... and
it had those claws... and you
know how I feel about pain..."
Feeling slightly revived, I continued. "I'm sorry if we got off
on the wrong foot. It's just that
you're so psychotic, and sometimes that makes conversation
difficult. But we can work
things' out. Really, we can.
Please, just don't use you evil
Russian death ray to turn my
brain into cheap caviar. I'm too
young to die! Too young!!!"
There. That should do it.
TUESDAY JAN 21 12:30
ifg January 28
*     i 1:30-1:30
SUB 212A
"Komrade?" asked a voice from
behind me. "Are you talking to
the hamster? And what is this
'Russian death ray?'"
I turned my head, trying to
find out where this voice was
coming from. When the pain
ceased, and the redness disappeared, I found myself looking
at a very large Russian man.
Wow. Big surprise there.
Have you ever been caught on
a Friday night talking to a tree?
Umm... me neither. But, if I had
ever been caught talking to a
tree, it would have provided me
with some much needed experience.
"Me?!?" I Jaughed, trying my
best for suave. "Talk to a hamster? No... heh... why would I
do that? I was just talking to
myself. I'm crazy, you see."
Oops. Not quite as suave as I
had hoped.
Large Russian Man looked at
me for a second, then took a
seat behind the enormous oak
desk. He moved Frank's cage to
the side, with a surprising gentleness, and picked up a small
pile of papers.
"I will ask you this only once."
he said, like he meant it. "Why
are you here?"
"Pardon?" I asked. I couldn't
resist. Probably a bad move on
the whole, considering I was
taunting a man who was
approximately the size of four
Ladas (and a Niva.)
"All right! That's it," stormed
the BFR. "You will suffer a fate
worse than death. You won't be
laughing when you spend the
rest of your years imprisoned in
the mighty Gulag!! Ha ha ha ha
At this point, one of the minor
BFRs approached his commander, and whispered something
in his ear. Apparently, what he
had to say was quite embarrassing, because the commander
quickly turned a shade of red
not unlike that of the faded
communist flag which hung
behind him.
"My General has informed me
that the Gulag has been converted into an amusement park
by the Disney Corporation. So, I
have decided on an even worse
fate. You will spend the rest of
your life in the cold, stormy
hinterland of Canada! You will
have to wear a toque, listen to
the CBC, and end every sentence with 'eh.' No one can survive such torture for long."
"Your pets will be confiscated,
and released into the cruel
Russian wilderness." The general leaned back in mighty chair,
a smug smile on his Baltic lips.
"Although," he added, with a
slightly less frigid smile, "I may
keep the hamster. He seems
very sweet."
Okay, Jer. Pretend to be upset.
Cry, whine, scream — do something sad!
Wake up and
make it happen.
Write for The 432.
Writers and cartoonists
with delusions of
grandeur wanted.
The 432 makes no promises of fame, riches or success.
We do, however, offer really cheap (fiinese food
on occasion.
"I'll bet that I can fix that"
Wednesday JAH 22 • 7:00—11:00pm
20 JANUARY 1997
A Barrelful of 432 Lovemonkeys.
Writing for the 432 has
been an on-again-
off-again experience.
On the one hand, I have been
able to share my dementia with
a wider audience than an
unpublished ranter. On the
other hand, one former editor
candidly mentioned to me that
he was considering replacing
the whole byline-writing staff
with a room filled with randomly typing monkeys1 despite
my occasional outburst of talent2. While the employment of
twenty million above mentioned simians would increase
the attraction to attending writing sessions, there could be at
least one adverse side effect: a
dramatic increase in competition for mates.
While I'm only aware of one
pair of staff members who have
chosen to mate-for-life3 there is
little evidence that the clan of
primates historically involved
with the publication have had
any success. With this in mind,
I suggest we augment the staff
with several dozen pan bonobos,
previously known as the pigmy
For the uninitiated, the bonobos are a fascinating animal.
Observing a clan of these in
action is enough to make Tracy
Lords blush. Bonobos have no
estrus cycle, and mate frequently if not constantly. A simple
hello takes a few minutes to
complete, as does discovering a
food cache, or apologizing or
grooming. Shameless and acrobatically creative in their arboreal habitat, these animals provide a free show upon which
many primatologists have based
careers. Peering into their psyches I think would reveal a
focus on the erotic unparalleled
in the human world, despite
our shared reproductive zeal
vis-a-vis female receptiveness.
And these are our closest animal
relatives. If we really gave twenty million primates a set of keyboards and permitted them to
type their will onto them, we'd
get Gerry Falwell on our butts.
We'd have to protect the children.
And while we're on the subject
of the Internet5, I want to tell
you about The Day The Idiots
Came. For as long as I can
remember, I have been ready
and willing to adopt new technologies6. I remember a time
before the hype when giving
out my email address produced
nothing more than confusion. I
remember reading an
announcement from Mark
Andreesen explaining that it
was possible to set up a graphical user interface based on text
files7. Since then, the Internet
has outpaced all growth expectations, and completely ignored
Clifford Stoll and Suck.
Somewhere along the way I
received an email warning me
about the Good Times Virus,
and another inviting me into a
pyramid scheme. Before long, I
realized the plebeians had
arrived. I wrote it down on my
calendar: July 5, 1994. A few
days later Microsoft devised an
Internet Strategy. Telling.
Eventually, most of us will be
mobile while connected. I envision myself walking the dog
while reading newsgroups: I
read a posting, he sniffs the fire
hydrant. I post my reply, he lifts
his leg and posts his. Both of us
keeping up-to-date on the latest
relevant information8. I bump
into a friend, our dogs knot into
a sniffing pretzel and we
exchange email addresses. This
is not a new social development; it's a new medium for the
same old thing.
Lastly, I have spent enough
time on Usenet and concluded
that there is nothing but dippy
arguments, confusing language,
questions answered with unrelated facts, unfounded statements and claims and a general
cacophany9. Usenet is, indeed,
the repository for human
knowledge. It's time to develop
some technology to address the
basal human needs, and not
just try to justify them as an
intellectual advance.
Let's build a better bubble bath.
The bubbles are much too small
and dissipate after only ten
hours of soaking10. Let's build
better hiking trails and bicycle
paths, and call it a "health-formation anti-highway". I'd like
to see some new breeds of cats
to laugh at. How about building
one of those Star Trek replicators? I'd like a soymilk cappuccino half decaf with whipped
cream, cinnamon and chocolate sprinkles right now, and I
don't want to drag my ass down
to Starbuck's for the privilege.
Better yet, mix me up a banana
1. I've been told on the highest
authority that Monkees can't
write worth a hill of beans.
However, I have seen their TV
show, and at least they make a
decent comedy troupe. My
understanding is that Neil
Diamond and Carol King wrote
most of their big hits, like
Pleasant Valley Sunday, so
apparently they can't write
music either.
2. Okay, the truth is that these
animals may be more talented
than I am, but they cost so
much more. One former editor
informed me that they make a
huge mess, particularly while
eating (the main source of
costs) and prefer to wear
women's clothing, no doubt
because of the tail.
3. Nobody you know.
4. We don't call them pigmy
chimps anymore. Just bonobos.
The Pigmy tribe is justified in
leveling this complaint.
5. Some might argue that fifty
million primates randomly
pecking at keyboards and producing pornography, humour,
garbage and everything in-
between pretty much sums up
the current state of the Internet.
6. Even to the point of making
them up. I still remember a
grade two encounter which was
successfully diffused by convincing the bully that my protective shield, while invisible,
could render him senseless if he
penetrated the invisible barrier
with any exposed skin. This
worked for about a week until
he discovered the art of throwing heavier-than-air projectiles
and effectively neutralized my
shield generator with a well
aimed lump of granite.
7.1 remember thinking "yeah,
right". He went on to found
Netscape. I shoulda asked him if
he needed a few bucks to get
8. I won't even get into my
dog's habit of spamming the
'hydrantnet'. Frankly, I don't
know how he manages it on
one bowl of water a day.
9. What I'm trying to say is: the
Internet failed the Turing test
for artificial intelligence.
10. Okay, so this is a long soak.
I got into some conversation on
alt.sitting.in.bathtubs and lost
track. Oh, another note: stick
with batteries. Dropping a laptop in the tubbie while plugged
into 120 Volts of juice, simultaneously frying the computer
and all immersed hair is hard to
explain in Emergency.
Don't drink and drive
re, menartnk
Computer •£&&$
A     Bzzr
23 Thursday
In light of all the confusing choices awaiting you in
your second year of Science, and also in light of how
curious most of you are. we are holding tnis
infomational event for your greater glory. Feel free
to browze through our tantalizing selection of possible
majors and choose the one that suits your personality
ana planned retirement at 35. Did we mention the
Tues, Jan 21
SUB Ballroom
1997 SUS Executive
As if one set of elections
wasn't enough!
Anyways, the SUS Exec
Elections will be coming up in
early March—but I figured that
I'd be nice and give everyone
lots of notice so they can get
their nominations forms before
the deadline, not "whenever I
bloody well feel like it" as in
past years.
If you're interested in any of
these positions—for pre-med
resume stuffing, finding new
friends, or making a real difference, I don't care—drop by the
office and talk to the current
office-holder. They'll be happy
to give you a gazillion reasons
why you wouldn't want the
position in a million years, and
probably a few reasons why
you would.
President: Power-crazed tin-
plated dictator type. Gets to
pound a gavel frequently,
takes credit/blame for everything that goes on 'round
here, and is all-seeing and all-
knowing as far as the activities
of Executives and Councilors.
Also responsible for doing all
the other thankless tasks other
Exec manage to wriggle out of.
External Vice President: Gets
sent on diplomatic missions to
the Cheeze whenever the
President wants to try pulling
a fast one. Chief AMS
Representative Dude(tte), and
responsible for coordinating
Science Week. Ironically, also
handles external affairs with
the AMS and other undergrad
societies. Primary interface
between SUS and the AMS
Council; expected to defend
Science interest at all costs.
Internal Vice President: Deals
with all academic matters (academic as in "Faculty-related",
not academic as in "trivial"),
runs elections and referenda,
and deals with, well, internal
stuff. Is also stapled to a chair
so's to prevent escape during
Academics, Science Week, and
Alumni Committee meetings.
Supervises the Kids (i.e. the
First Year Committee)
Executive Secretary: Keeps
entire SUS pencil supply
behind left ear, as well as typing agendas, handling all
Society correspondence, keeping minutes up-to-date, shopping for staples at the
Bookstore, and sitting on AMS
Council. Also responsible for
keeping SUS up-to-date on the
activity of favourite sports
Director of Finance: Signs
cheques, counts beans and
cooks books. Gets to grovel to
the AMS Director of Finance
once in a while, prepares budgets, and is stapled to a chair
so as to prevent escape during
Budget Committee meetings.
Past holders of the position
have been known to frolic
naked in big piles of coinage.
Director of Publications:
Quite possibly the most
important individual in the
Entire Universe. Gets to refer
to himself in the singular as
"we". Causes to be published
this here rag, the summer
Guide, and is not merely stapled to a chair, but bound,
gagged and thrown on the
cold floor to ensure attendance at Budget and Science
Week Committee meetings.
Would probably follow the
rules and have a Science
Newspaper Council if anyone
actually demonstrated some
interest in having one.
Supposed to hold the fourth
AMS Council seat, but that
responsibility is usually tossed
to other Exec like a live
Public Relations Officer:
Tends to draw academic mortar fire like a magnet and fail
bring your lunch and chat
with the Dean of Science!
Dr. McBride will discuss
upcoming changes in the
faculty, answer questions.
your input and opinions
greatly appreciated about all
issues affecting science
THURSDAY JAN 23 •   1:30 PM
CHEM  124
out a couple of months after
appointment. Should handle
the SUS Employment board,
coordinate SUS charity efforts,
arrange press releases, and be
extremely facetious at AMS
Council. In practice, this is the
person we stick with the Class
Act biz.
Sports Director: Maintains
Science supremacy in
Intramurals through liberal
application of rebates. Yay!
Social Coordinator: Gets to
hang out in the SUB bookings
line-up once a term, be
extremely popular by claiming
responsibility for splendiferous
social events at which everybody has a rockin' time, and
be too pickled to really care
about the mandatory Science
Week Committee meetings.
Senator: Quasi-exec position,
attends the utterly pointless
Senate meetings. Deadline for
nominations for this positions
was last Friday, so you're
already out of luck.
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12:30 ~  13:30
1 1:30 ~ 16:30
1 1:2
SUB 207/209
12:00 -  13:30
19:00 ~ 23:00
BELLA PIZZA (732-6565)
CHICAGO PIZZA (713-9999)
DOUBLE D PIZZA (736-7001)
FLYING WEDGE (681-1288)
GEORGE'S PIZZA (266-0411)
MINERVA'S (263-1774)
NAT'S NEW YORK (737-0707)
PIZZA PLANET (730-0202)
(604) 1
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SUB 207/209
Ml 124
20 JANUARY 1997
The Legend of Science.
The following is an
excerpt from The History
of the UBC Science
Undergraduate Society: Mediocrity
Achieved, published in 1996 by
Large Elephant Press and available at all better bookstores.
February 3, 1961 - Science and
Arts divorced. A legend is born.
March 8, 1962 - After a year of
growing pains, the Black Hand
embarks on its first major project. Claiming "if they can
make a good cup of decaffeinated coffee, why can't they
send a man to Mars?" The project is undertaken by Science
students Robert Goddard,
Knostin Tsiolkovsky and
Werner von Braun.
March 16, 1962 - The start of
a grand tradition: the Science
double election. In the first
ever SUS Executive Election,
irregularities force a recall.
October 30, 1963 - In their
first entry into the Chariot
Race, Science resoundingly
defeats the 'Geers. Aggies are
nowhere to be seen.
February 4, 1964 - As a
Science Week stunt, Le Main
Noir overturns an A-53 Austin
at the main gates, using emergency flares to simulate belching smoke. The effect is so realistic that the RCMP and UBC
Fire Department come out to
congratulate the pranksters.
September 14,1965 - Science
becomes the first faculty to
publish and anti-calendar, the
Black and Blue Review.
Students are polled on the
effectiveness of courses, profs,
syllabus and text. Not surprisingly, some profs bitch, but a
general improvement in teaching is observed the year after.
October 21, 1965 - The
Chariot Race is normally a amicable event where rival faculties participate in easygoing
competition. This year, however, the 'geers are still stinging
from the crushing defeat delivered by SUS two years before.
Halfway through the event, the
race degenerates into a free-for-
all. The Engineers bite off more
than they can chew, and
receive the brunt of the damage. Twelve 'geers are admitted
to hospital, compared with one
Science casualty. In an act of
amazing brilliance, the 'geers
consequently ban Science from
the Races, opting instead to
compete against the tamer faculties of Forestry and
January 4, 1966 - Exposure to
radiation in his first year
Physics lab causes William
Brommel to mutate from a normal Science student to an academically conscientious one.
Symptoms of genius also lead
to his triumph as the winner of
the Rhodes Scholarship.
January 20, 1966 - Science
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Wed. 22 Jan. 4:00
Week is celebrated with a legendary party, where gate crashing Mounties seize one Miss
Candy Jones, the center of
attention, and charge her with
committing an indecent act.
Police also seize one projector,
but are unable to locate any
February 11, 1966 - The Black
Hand design the first-ever
human paperweight, in the
form of an EUS Vice-Pres. Later
design modifications include
bent over 'geers, ostensibly to
"act as pen holders".
January 19, 1967 - During
Science Week, SUS buries a
time capsule, to be opened in
2067, in Main Mall outside the
Chemistry Building.
Unfortunately, one of the
things not included in the capsule is Douglas Kenny, then
Dean of Arts.
October 6, 1967 -'Geers strip
SUS First VP John Taylor of his
clothing and dress him in red
underwear. A call for
vengeance takes hold of SUS,
and amidst-a display of fireworks and smoke, any engineer
unfortunate to be found near
Main Library is seized and
thrown into the pond.
October 18, 1967 - In an
event reminiscent of 1966,
police once again crash an
event being held in the new
SUB Partyroom. SUS Exec deny
all knowledge of the event,
pointing out the room was
booked by the Young
Businessmen's Club. First Black
Plague published.
November 12 - 14, 1969 - One
small prank for Science... The
result of drunken debauchery
during a field trip to Florida, a
NASA flag is filched from the
Mission Conference Room at
Cape Kennedy. This amazing
trophy eventually vanished,
presumably into the depths of
the Cheeze.
December 3, 1969 - SUS
President Ron Gilchrist, unable
to find student housing,
decides to move into the SUS
Office with his girlfriend.
Unfortunately, their hot plate
starts a fire, which destroys the
office. The Dean, none too
pleases, shuts down SUS until
March 11, 1981 - Dave Frank,
elected as SUS President,
revives the Black Hand, Chariot
Races, SUS involvement in
Intramurals, and the long tradition of incompetent presidencies.
November 5, 1981 - A revived
SUS Chariot team places third.
February 19, 1982 - SUS celebrates the first ever Science
elections by once again holding a second one after the first
was discovered to have a few
March 17, 1983 - SUS initiates
fulfill their pledge by painting
Do essays • Use e-mail • WWW access
CHEM 230
HENN 203
the Cheeze a bright shade of
pink. Another issue of the
Black Plague shocks journalistic
1986 - A red station wagon is
discovered impaled on the
Cairn. UBC declared an undergraduate-free zone.
1987 - The 432 is first published, starting a long tradition
of Science mocking everyone
else on campus.
October 23, 1991 - SUS
mourns the death of its pet
millipede Igor in a special
cover story in The 432. Animal
rights activists quick to condemn SUS for "speciesism,"
luckily missing the illustrated
story "How to Neuter Your Cat
at Home" buried on page
March 24, 1993 - The Black
Plague is reincarnated, taking
the form of The Ubyssex. Sexual
imagery of carrots displayed on
the cover.
March 28, 1994 - Firmly establishing the tradition of spoofing enemy campus papers, the
Black Plague masquerades as
The Underground. The free beer
coupon for the Arts County
Fair proves to be an instant hit,
with lineups at photocopiers
and entire stacks with the corner cut out.
Jan 15, 1995 - President Ryan
McCuaig is handcuffed by four
burly engineers, thrown into
the back of a waiting van and
forced to endure a weekend
with the Association of
Engineering Women on their
annual road trip to Nelson, BC.
Ryan's appetite for pranks and
politics wanes considerably
from that point onwards.
April 1, 1995 - President Tracy
MacKinnon ascends throne for
what proves to be a 2 year
reign of terror.
1996 - Vandals break into SUS
on several occasions. Various
archives missing; HD re-formatted. SUS rejoins the Chariot
Race, loses badly
January 12, 1997 - SUS
Security system upgraded with
land mines, bear traps and a
hungry Rottweiler named
Patently Absurd!
Think you can muddle through without understanding patents and patent searching?
Think again. Patents contain a wealth of information for your term projects or graduate
theses. Great ideas that usually never see the light of day - unless you find them. So open
your mind up to vistas of original data. Drop by UBC's PATSCAN office in the Main
Library for a free tutorial on patent searching. Mondays and Thursdays, 4:30 to 6:30
p.m.; Tuesdays, 12:30 to 1:30. Or phone 822-5404 for an appointment. Drop by before
April 2 and enter to win your books courtesy of UBC Bookstore. And visit our website,
2 TIX TO 54*40, 2 THE 432 SHIRTS & 2
2 TIX TO 54*40, AND
Lost at Sea.
Happy New Year, all. The week(s) following the holidays give
one a chance to pause and reflect on how much loot one
pulled in at Christmas, how exactly one did end up getting
arrested in that massage parlour raid at New Year's, and ponder the
meaning of the whole holiday season in general. I come from a
family of heathens, so we sort of completely bypass the entire religious significance racket (Jesus was born in the middle of the summer; I for one don't want to get involved with any religious group
that can't even get the birthday of its founder right.) Despite this
lack of religious context, Christmas is a time rich in tradition in my
house. And the keystone is the getting of the Christmas tree.
Picking a Christmas tree is almost a ritual; there are four main
steps, each of which must be performed correctly.
There are two main sources of argument in my house. The first is
Einstein's special theory of relativity (on which the less is spent the
better, in the interests of prolonging an uneasy peace). The second
is what constitutes an appropriate size for the Christmas tree.
Leading the advocates for a large tree is my father. Dad is an idealist. He wants to come as closely as possible to having an entire forest in the living room. Since we only get one tree... well, you get
the idea. My mother, on the other hand represents the forces of
reason. She generally has two main arguments against big trees.
First, she doesn't want our tree to have a measurable impact on
local oxygen production. Second, we have to carry the damn thing
back to the car. Debate is usually carried out over dinners. Frequent
allusions to the strengths, or more commonly, shortcomings of
past year's trees are made. Discussion is, umm... spirited. Happily, I
come from a peaceful family, and no argument has degenerated
into fisticuffs since 1983, a match between my sister and I.
Although my sister lost by TKO, the judges ruled in her favour, and
awarded me a one week grounding.
The next stage is negotiation. This begins on the Christmas tree
lot. Another part of the tradition is that we cut our own tree. From
a farm with horse drawn sleighs. In the middle of nowhere. Choice
of day is important. It has to be snowing and -23°C, with wind chill
down to -36°C. (and for all of you in from the interior and
Winnipeg saying "that's not cold," I ask you, when was the last
time you spent three and a half hours trudging around in the snow
in weather like that?) Then we have to look at each and every tree
on the lot. Each one is independently evaluated by the panel of
judges-and discussed for suitability. Mostly, negotiation revolves
around giving reasons why the tree another party chose could
never, ever be acceptable. Commonly sited reasons include shape,
fullness, "crooked trunk syndrome," (a favourite of my father's),
proximity to the car (the ideal being between 6 and 9 km away,)
and of course, size.
In reality, however, negotiation is little more than a softening up
period. Compromise is not reached because one side presents an
argument so compelling that we all stop and say "by Jove, you're
right, that is the best tree on the planet." A decision can only be
reached once we become hypothermic, care about nothing more
than going home (or maybe lying down in the snow for nice, quiet
nap instead.) Compro-mise might better be called the sarcastic "I
don't care which one we get. Let's just go." stage. Once we're down
to one person who is even interested in what tree we pick, a decision can be made. This past Christmas, as usual, my mother was
the first to crack, so the forces of big treeness went unchallenged.
This explains why our tree was 12 feet tall this year. It would have
been bigger, but as proven on the expedition of '86, even the roof
of a Volvo can collapse if placed under sufficient load.
Somewhere during the trek back to the car (hauling a tree that
weighs in excess of 500kg,) the final, and longest lasting stage is
reached: griping. Griping takes on many forms. It comes up first
with "why did we pick such a bloody big tree? And why am I the
only one dragging it?" Complaints of this form rule conversation
until the tree is up and decorated in the living room. After that, we
tend to focus on why whatever tree we would have chosen was far
better than the one we have now. Cripes, it's amazing that I managed to grow up with such good taste in Christmas trees when surrounded by such a group of barbaric cretins. The trees they choose
are always the scrawniest, most pathetic trees on the entire lot.
Why didn't we just lean a dead branch in the corner? At least that
wouldn't have cost twenty five bucks and three toes lost to frostbite...
Yeah, tradition is great and all, but there is something to be said
for change, too. I think that next year, I'll just sedate my family
and let them sleep in the car while I go off and pick a real tree.
Metaphorically, or literally? Well, certainly
the former when it
finally sunk in that I will graduate soon. How the hell did
that happen? There I was, kindly minding my own business,
when someone dropped that
bombshell into what I thought
were clear waters and suddenly
everything was murky. On the
other hand, I was literally at sea
this summer, if not lost there,
doing what should have cleared
up any confusions over my
future - but didn't.
I am actually enrolled in
oceanography, so being on a
boat this summer had more to
do with my future than deciding to steal a pleasure cruiser
and go on a little thirty year
tour - it was my job. And it was
a great job. Let me just attempt
to overemphasize that a bit - it
was a GREEEAAAAAT job. No,
that's about right actually. The
food was spectacular, the people great, the science amazing,
the weather agreed with us, I
saw albatrosses, porpoises and
sharks, learned to walk on
water, improved my ping pong,
and generally had a blast.
(Well, okay, I can only run over
water - when I slow to a walk I
start to sink).
I remember one night leaning
over the railing, staring down
fully 7 meters of deep green
water at midnight, marveling at
the fact that you could still see
the CTD (conductivity temperature detect... oh what am I
doing. Please substitute "sampling thingy"), and generally
basking in the minty glow from
the moonlight bouncing off the
water. The ocean itself was
doing a pretty good imitation
of a bathtub, excepting the
lighting, with not a single ripple in sight. This made a
^change from the first 5 days,
when the added challenge of
walking turned the whole trip
into even more of a fairy tale
since gravity refused to work
properly. Most nights the moon
was busy doing some pretty
severe gymnastics, carving
clumsy figure eights into the
sky and dragging all the stars
around with it. Only the boat
seemed to have the knack for
staying still. But this night the
moon and the ocean were taking a rest. Christmas tree chains
of light dragged their way
through the water and got tangled on our cables, chopping
up precious strings of phyto-
plankton into twice as many
pretty chains of Christmas tree
lights. Schools of teeny fish
darted back and forth. A long
slinky silvery thing drifted into
sight. Hey, is that an eel? Naw,
it's a shark. Oh. While I suppressed a huge urge to scream
"shark!", just because that's
really what you're supposed to
do in such situations, the person next to me eagerly ran to
get a Kleenex and threw it to
sea, hoping the white flag of
truce might look like the unsuspecting underbelly of a square
2-ply fish and attract our playmate's attention. It didn't work.
Then said person takes off to
the kitchen to grab left-over
kebabs from dinner and starts
pitching gooey bits of teryakied
flesh into the water. Said person
is not a rebellious undergrad
like myself, it's a professor. The
sharks circle the minty glow in
the water as oblivious to the
food as to the spotlight, sauntering in and out of the puddle
of light like disheartened
actors. Small chunks of pepper-
*oni disappear overboard. Bits of
bread are liberated. Small
streams of coca cola are cast in
Tired of paying over a
buck for pop?
During Science Week,
SUS will be selling pop
for only 50C!
And our machine is
toonie friendly, too!
an attempt to make them congeal like blood. The sharks
calmly circle. The CTD (sampling thingy) calmly goes on
taking water samples.
Eventually, after attracting
quite a crowd, the sharks just
left without taking a final bow.
Five helpings of pepperoni
later, the crowd gave up and
sauntered off. The CTD found
an unusual C02 plume just
below the surface. Well, not
really, but I wouldn't be surprised.
For the next two days, all day,
we combed the ocean floor
with a little dangly weight leading   an  underwater   camera,
overshadowed by a huge bul-
dozey thing that threatened to
gouge out the eyes of the earth.
On  would  bump  the  little
weighty thing, up and down
would bob the camera. Sitting
in the geology lab you could
see the ocean floor rise and fall
on TV as your stomach followed suit. Mud. Mud. More
mud. For an hour mud. The
occasional sea-star or sprig of
sea-spray caused much excitement. More mud. And in black
and white, too. We're trying to
find an area previously mapped
by someone with an accuracy
of ±5m when we have an about
equal ability to say where we
are, and a far lesser ability to go
exactly  where  we  want  to,
while   navigating   with   this
teeny camera thingy with a
field of view of about 9 square
feet.  At  every  moment,  we
could be a meter away from the
world's greatest oceanic discovery, and never know it. Worse,
we could just catch it out of the
corner of our eye, and not be
able to find it again. And the
only stupid reason we have
such difficulties is because the
stupid army and navy is too
paranoid to give us access to
their superior satellite location-
al thingees. We're spending
days staring at mud because
somebody doesn't want one of
our cousins or lovers to drop a
bomb down anyone's chimney.
Personally, I think if you really
want to drop a bomb,  you
could drop one big enough to
wipe out more than the chimney. Why muck about with
such precision if your main
goal is to kill, which is pretty
much a messy thing to do anyway.
Almost as messy as my
attempts at writing a thesis
based on all this stuff, let's say.
Or as messy as my idea of what
the heck I'll be doing with the
rest of my life. I loved the
cruise, but it was frustrating
too. And lets face it - for as
much fun as you have out on
the waves you set yourself up
for 10 times as many hours in
the lab, which is when you start
thinking of the more useful
things you can do with sharks
and precision bombing. So I
hereby declare myself officially
lost at sea. If anyone finds me,
could they please tell me what
20 JANUARY 1997
The Sillier, The Better
A Brief History of The 432.
Rumour has it that The 432
began with a hot plate.
Sometime in the mists of
prehistory, the President of the
Science Undergraduate and his
girlfriend were illicitly living in
the hut that served as the SUS
Office. One day, they left their
hot plate on and burned the
hut, and thus most of the SUS's
belongings (as well as their
own), into crispy little flakes of
To compensate for the heat
(the rumour goes), the
University administration—not
too pleased with the illegal
occupancy and subsequent
fire—let the SUS slide into a
deep freeze for the better part of
a decade. By 1986 the Science
Undergrads were confined to a
storage room across from the
Dean of Science's office in the
BioSci Building, holding an
occasional meeting in the adjacent boardroom. There were a
few beer gardens. The only SUS
Publication was a pale, blue-
papered imitation of the
Engineers' nEUSlettre, with the
cracker jack title of The SUS News
Then two important
things happened. The
first was that the SUS
moved into a condemned
building (where the Chemistry-
Physics Building now stands).
SUS members built a downstairs
lounge with a mural of Pink
Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon
album cover along one cinder-
block wall, kickin' stereo speakers in the ceiling, and a pop
machine. Best of all, the building was way bigger than the
Engineers' Cheeze Factory—
source of so much Freudian
office envy in the past.
All this space prompted the
renewed feeling that the SUS
might actually be able to do
something. When I arrived at
UBC in the fall of '86, CPAX was
emblazoned with a huge banner
reading "THIS IS IT!" (though I,
reasonably enough, initially
thought "it" was the campus radio
station). Since the Pink Floyd
Lounge had no windows but
did have couches, it was a good
place to sleep after first year
Math, so I spent a good deal of
time there.
I was roped into running for     The first few issues of The 432
SUS Publications Coordinator
by someone who rudely woke
me up one day—but that's not
the important part, especially ,
because the only reason I won
was that nobody else ran for the
position. The important part
was the election of a powerhouse new team as President
and Sports Coordinator.
Todd Ablett (the Prez) and
Stella Wong (Sports) gave the
SUS a good swift kick in the butt
and thereby (to mix my
metaphors) raised it from the
long-cleaned-up ashes of the
hut fire so many years before.
They completely reorganized
the Society. Within the year the
SUS was challenging both
Medicine and the Engineers for
Intramural Sports supremacy.
But the key event for our story
is what happened that summer.
Todd convened the two SUS
News editors (the unlikely pair
of Vince Jiu and Jean Guay) and
the Publications Coordinator
(me) in the tiny Executive office
in the windowless CPAX basement. In . the dim light, he
hatched a grand plan: expand
The SUS News vastly from a one-
or two-sheet photocopied
events blotter to as many as
EIGHT pages on REAL
NEWSPRINT—just like (gasp!)
The Ubyssey. This new organ (no
jokes please) would contain not
only upcoming SUS events, but
also news, commentary, and
interesting stuff that Science
students could read during
those immensely boring lectures in HEBB, WOOD 2, and
WESB 100.
Something this exciting just
had to have a better name than
The SUS News. We brainstormed
for a while, and finally, in desperation, I made what I thought
was a pretty lame suggestion.
"We could call it something different, like a number, like four
thirty-two or something."
It was the first number that
came   into   my   head.   They
bought it.
The 432 debuted in
September of 1987, with
Vince Jiu and Jean Guay
in charge. In the intervening
couple of months, we'd come
up with a justification for the
paper's name: 432 nanometres
was the wavelength of a spiffy
colour of blue light, and blue, of
course, has always been the
Science colour. The paper later
had a contest for students to
guess the real meaning of 432—
most better than our lame idea.
were put together in a fairly
low-tech manner. Articles were
printed out from a computer or
typed on a typewriter. The
results were pasted onto layout
sheets from College Printers on
Terminal Avenue, along with
photos either line-screened at
the Ubyssey office or photocopied, and the headlines were
applied by hand using Letraset
transfers. The results were
delightfully amateurish (much
as the nEUSlettre continues to be
The headline on the first issue
told a terrible tale: CPAX GETS
THE AX! Yes, the brief, beloved
home of the SUS was to be torn
down to make room for a modern lab building for the Physics
and Chemistry Departments;
the entire SUS was to move into
a miniscule office leased from
Education by the Chemistry
department. It was again windowless, this time in the basement of Scarfe.
Scarfe 9 was smaller than the
old CPAX SUS Sales office had.
been—smaller even than the
storage room in BioSci from the
Bad Old Days. Nevertheless,
SUS persevered, and the little
office was a firestorm of activity.
Editor Jean introduced a new
concept to The 432: something
called "desktop publishing,"
performed on SUS's 640K RAM
IBM XT clone with Xerox
Ventura Publisher software.
When Vince and Jean graduated, I took over the editor's chair.
Todd and Stella were both reelected to a second term, and
The 432 continued. It was pretty dry at the time, doing exposes on the UBC Bookstore's higher prices compared to SFU's, and
reprinting (by permission,
even) David Suzuki articles.
Science students enjoyed it well
> enough, but it was pretty dry.
At some point, someone
asked me to revive Dik
Miller, Private Eye, a
bumbling-investigator character I'd created in 1983 for my
high- school paper, and who'd
also appeared in the Vancouver
inter-high-school paper The
Plague. He was pure silliness,
and when I made him Dik
Miller, Campus Cowboy, he
provided a topical enough distraction from students' sehool-
work that he appeared in
almost every issue of The 432
(as well as the summer Guide)
for the next five years, and sporadically even into 1996.
Humour got the best response
from readers (and from the SUS
Executive), so Dik Miller was
supplemented by Russ Monger's
bizarre and rambling "Uncle
Rusty," Ken Otter's brilliant cartoons (many of which still
appear regularly, especially
around Science Week every
January), and other off-the-wall
ideas. SUS bought a $4500
Macintosh SE with 1 MB of
RAM and a 40 MB hard drive—
more power, we thought, than
anyone could ever use.
We nicknamed it "Lucifer" and
obtained PageMaker 2.0 DTP
software, which let us make
even late-night stream-of-con-
sciousness insanity look good
on the page. The serious science
and anctlysis articles continued,
but the jokes were taking over.
By this time (early 1989) SUS
had moved again, from Scarfe 9
to its current home, the former
Surface Science Lab in Chem
160—yet again in the basement,
but this time with windows and
some serious floor space. As my
year as editor came to an end,
we searched frantically for a
successor. I'd lost too many
nights' sleep (especially when
the hard drive died one
Saturday and I had to start from
scratch using only floppy disks)
to want to do it again. We heard
that someone in Physics was
Aaron Drake was a rumpled
fifth-year Physics student from
the B.C. Interior whose writing
emulated Dave Barry. His
approach to school and editing
was haphazard, spur-of-the-
moment, and largely irrelevant
to any serious scientific or analytical concern. In other words,
he was perfect. He took over in
the fall of 1989.
Aaron established the priorities
The 432 has had ever since: jokes
first, everything else later. He edited the paper for two years (taking one semester off while
David New did the job in a still-
silly but more organized fashion), and lampooned the
University, The Ubyssey, the
Engineers—even the Gulf War.
In 1991 he was succeeded by
his Physsoc pal Patrick Redding,
a long-haired semi-anarchist
with never-executed plans to
drape a huge SUS logo across
Grouse Mountain, and to turn
the face of Buchanan Tower
into a giant Science S by strategically sending fake Physical
Plant memos to the occupants
of BuTo's offices telling them
either to leave their lights on or
make sure they were off
overnight. Pat took The 432
into even weirder territory,
eventually garnering protests
from the Lifeforce animal-rights
group for his feature on SUS's
dead millipede and a cartoon
on castrating cats.
Pat's protege Ryan McCuaig
refined The 432 into not only
the funniest, but also the best-
designed newspaper on campus, and beat The Ubyssey at its
own game by producing a far
funnier spoof of its Sex Issue
than The Ubyssey itself had ever
managed of Vancouver's more
mainstream papers.
By the time Blair McDonald
took over in 1994, The 432 had
both a loyal following and a
reputation as that strange
hybrid: a professional-looking
newspaper that took pride in its
unprofessionalism. Over the
last few years, few major
changes have been made—the
recipe for "success" (or its close
facsimile) appears to have been
The 432, strangely, has
never had a female editor, but I know there are
women twisted enough to learn
The 432's ropes—enough of
them have written for the paper
over the years. You must be out
there, and it's not hard to get
involved. Since Aaron Drake's
time, editors have come
through an apprenticeship system, first assisting the editor
and then taking over. All of
them have also gone on to edit
the Inside UBC handbook and
some to start other publications, including the Campus
Times. Pat Redding works in
digital design, and Ryan
McCuaig is an aspiring architect. I'm a freelance writer and
editor, and I also do technical
writing for a software company.
The 432 seems to take people
places. The paper has always
taken pride in being the best
publication on campus: less
earnest than The Ubyssey, more
literary than The Underground,
funnier than the nEUSlettre,
more immature than The
Graduate, arid more informative
than UBC Reports. That legacy
and responsibility falls to the
current and future editors. The
432 is already a UBC institution. When it turns 20 in 2007,
no one should be able to imagine that this University was ever
without it.
Happy Birthday, 432. It's nice
to see the baby I named turn
out so well.
I Mj
The^   ^
1989-1990 20 JANUARY 1997
Mars or Bust
In early 1993, Trevor
Presley wrote for The 432
and was taught DTP by
the Editor of the time. He
then went on to edit The
Underground, and promptly forgot everything he
ever knew about layout,
editing, or humour
Trevor Presley
Back when he was funny...
've always wanted to be the
first man to set foot on
It seemed like a pretty impossible dream, considering I'm not
an astronaut and I don't have
quite enough money to start
my own space program.
I thought my impossible dream
was going to stay that way, until
last weekend. My friends and I
were drinking in our rez lounge
when the topic of space travel
came up. It seems my buddies
were equally interested in the
concept of space travel, and we
began to brainstorm about ways
to make our dream come true.
After going through about six
beer apiece a "really bitchin"
idea hit us. We quickly made a
list of items we would need, and
proceeded to round them up.
After collecting the various
items that would make our voyage possible, we proceeded to
the roof of Salish house.
Our token rocket scientist calculated that our space vehicle
had to have an velocity of 52
000 000 000 m/s. This calculation was based on the fact that
a normal human could only
hold his breath for 60 seconds
and Mars was very far away. In
our drunken state, we could
only think of one way to overcome this obstacle: one awe
some catapult. The first item we
got was a spring alder tree and
then proceeded to nail one end
to the roof and tied the other
end down with ropes. We then
stole a canopy from the back, of
a truck and nailed it to the tied-
down end of the tree.
The idea was to have someone
lie in the canopy as we cut the
ropes and send him on his way
to Mars. Once we got our catapult set up, we had to select a
volunteer. Now, I know I said I
wanted to be the first on Mars,
but at this point I was sobering
up and beginning to realize that
our idea might have a tiny flaw
or two.
Luckily, everybody else was still
roaring drunk, and my good
friend Jeff quickly volunteered.
Just as we were about to send
Jeff on his way into history, we
realized two things: it's cold out
in space, and there's not very
How lust Plain
Stupid Are You?
This article appeared in
the Ubyssex—the spoof
of the 1993 Ubyssey
Sex Issue's Corruption
Are You a Hopeless Naive
Bubblehead or an
Incorrigible Dolt? Shock
your friends. Confuse yourself.
Interrogate your reflection.
1. Ever tried alcohol? (1)
2. Spell it. (5)
3. Have you ever used alcohol
to wash down 292's? (2)
4. Have you ever been so drunk
that you fell down and couldn't
get up because you couldn't
remember which way was up?
5. Ever done that sober? (5)
6. Ever wake up and not
remember to breathe until your
face turned blue, and your mom
had to come in and sock you
one? (7)
7. Um, me neither...
8. Ever fall asleep/pass out during sex? (8)
9. Really? (1)
10. What are you, a moron?!
(3)      ■
11. Ever been in a riot? (1)
12. Ever asked a cop directions
to a riot? (7)
13. Ever masturbated? (1)
14. Ever masturbated so hard
that you forgot to breathe and
your face turned blue, and your
mom had to come in and sock
you one? (4)
15. Um, me neither...
16. Do you read the Ubyssex?
17. Ever try to chew water? (2)
18. Ever purchased and used
sex toys? (1)
19. Do you consider ham a sex
toy? (4)
20. Ever said anything so stupid that everyone in the room
had to just plain stop and stare
at your silly ass with a stunned
look on their faces for what
seemed like an eternity? (5)
21. Ever do that, and also discover that you forgot to wear
pants that day? (22)
22. Ever try to remember if 'S!
came before 'R' and you had to
sing the Alphabet Song all the
way down to S before you could
figure it out? (3)
23. Ever try to have sex with a
vegetable like a carrot or a
cucumber? (1)
24. Ever ask a carrot or a
cucumber to dance? (4)
25. Ever lose an argument to a
carrot or a cucumber? (9)
26. Ever gone to the John and
then find out there's no toilet
paper? (1)
27. Ever found out there's no
more toilet paper, but weren't
concerned cause you would
wipe twice the next time? (4)
28. Whenever someone says to
you "How do you do?", have
you ever taken more than thirty
seconds to figure out a) what
you do, b) how you do it? (2)
29. Ever gone down a street
with a sign that says 'No Exit,"
then wait for the sign to change
back to 'Exit?' (3)
30. Ever get up to speak in
front of your morning class to
find that, to your horror, not
only have your forgotten your
notes, but you also forgot your
pants? (2)
31. Have you ever shoved six
hot dogs up your nose? (3)
32. What the hell for? (6)
33. Ever been so loud and frantic during sex that your neighbours started complaining? (1)
34. Ever been so loud and frantic during sex that, you lost
total control of all your bodily
functions, and you crashed off
the toilet seat onto the floor, on
top of the vaseline, and the
vaseline squirted out like water
out of a fire hose, all over your
magazines, you smacked your
sweat-soaked forehead into the
bathroom door, forgot to
breathe until your face turned
blue and your mom had to
come in and sock you one? (19)
35. Um, me neither...
SCORING Add up all the points
until you can't count any higher, then take off your shoes and
use your toes, too.
If you have made it this far,
you're as dumb as a post.
much oxygen up there. Again,
we brainstormed and came up
with the appropriate equipment, which consisted of a big
winter jacket and an almost
empty fishbowl (well, hey, it
worked for Tintin...). After Jeff
donned these items, we said a
little prayer, closed our eyes and
cut the rope.
After the screaming had grown
faint in the distance, we opened
our eyes and Jeff was nowhere
to be seen. We starting cheering
and screaming in celebration of
having sent the first man to
Mars. We talked about what
we'd do with all the NASA funding, and what we would wear
when we were on the cover of
TIME. After this moment of celebration, we idly wondered
how Jeff would get back after he
landed on Mars. We figured that
Jeff was a bright boy and he
would figure out a way.
It was a great moment in space
exploration, and we went back
to our lounge to celebrate. After
about twenty minutes of boasting  of bragging  about  how
smart we were, Jeff walked
through the door. He was covered in mud and there were big
bruises all over his body, which
didn't really seem consistent
with a reentry into the atmosphere. He didn't look very
happy, either. He then attempted to choke the living shit out
of me, and almost succeeded
until my friends pulled him off.
Apparently the launch had
been only partially successful.
The problem had been in the
trajectory; while we had all had
our eyes closed, Jeff had
slammed into the fifty foot clay
mound opposite Salish.
We were a little bit dismayed to
find out that we weren't going
to be famous anytime soon, but
hey, these things happen. We
managed to calm Jeff down
with a few beers and by the end
of the night he promised to tear
off only one of my limbs. I
guess the moral to this story is:
Please, don't drink and attempt
high velocity interplanetary
space travel.
... um, Your
OPE.t4 !
Another problem with being
"The Fly."
The problems started when Darwin, after discovering
the principle of survival of the fittest, had to go out
and enforce it.
20 JANUARY 1997
How to Hunt Down and
Crank Callers.
This little bit of insanity
was originally printed in
Volume 5, Number 7 of
The 432. Since then it has
become a classic favorite
with editors of the paper
and a good way of entertaining one's self on a
Saturday night.
STEP 1: First, you will need
a crank caller. These are
surprisingly easy to find,
provided you know how to go
about getting one. If you are
lucky, one will select you as his
(or her) random victim.
Otherwise you will have to provoke a sociopath into harassing
you. Acceptable methods of
doing this include posting your
phone number in public bathroom stalls, or acting sleazy in
the Pit.
STEP 2: Now that you have a
crank caller making lewd and
disturbing calls to your residence every night, you should
rent a caller-ID box from BC Tel.
One of these gizmos will cost
you about $11 per month
(about the price of a movie and
popcorn, and considering what
we will be doing with it, much
more entertaining). It is a cinch
to install, and will log the
phone numbers of all callers,
including those who call while
you are out. It has the added
bonus that you can find out
where telemarketers are calling
from. You can then call them
back and try to sell them a lifetime subscription to Farm &
Tractor or get them to purchase
tickets for quadriplegic cancer
kids to go to the monster truck
show. The technically competent can wire up an autodialer
to call them back every ten seconds, driving them into bankruptcy. In short, a very entertaining invention.
STEP 3: When your crank
caller gives you a ring, note the
number he or she is calling
from. Repeat this procedure
over several nights (be sure to
act shocked and dismayed
whenever the caller phones
you—sociopaths like this, and it
will keep them coming back for
more). You must judge whether
the crank is using his home
phone to harass you. Most do,
but a few devious ones like to
keep moving. It is usually pretty
obvious if they are using a pay
phone, because the background
noise  is   excessive,   and  the
fourth digit of the phone number is 9. Once you see a common phone number or similar
pattern in the calls, you will
know that you have the cretin
pegged down.
STEP 4: Phone numbers in
hand, head over to the downtown branch of the Vancouver
Public Library. Ask the librarian
to view the "criss-directory". He
or she will show you a copy of
the Metro Vancouver phone
book that has been indexed by
phone number instead of name.
There is no fee or restricted
access to this information, contrary to public belief. Short on
time? Try phoning the library
instead. The librarians will
often look up the numbers for
you. If you plan on taking this
up as a hobby, you may want to
consider purchasing your own
private criss-directory from BC
Tel. They will sell you one, but
be warned: they are expensive
(over $100). Alternately, you
could purchase last year's volume at a discount from a real
estate agent." They will often
resell old copies for $50 or less.
STEP 5: Look up your crank
caller's phone number. You will
find a name and address associated with it. Wait! Before you
get in your car, be warned: the
name is only that of the person
to whom the phone bills are
addressed, and it may be a
roommate or relative of the
actual crank caller. THIS IS NOT
the address will be the correct
one. Note that you cannot get
this information from the operator, since their directory assistance software will only search
by name or address, not by
phone number.
STEP 6: Scope out the crank.
Call the number to find out
who answers the phone. Don't
say anything, just hang up.
People hate this, even psychos.
It makes; them feel like they're
being stalked, and they get nervous and break out into cold
sweats. Of course, in this particular instance the paranoia will
be completely justified. Now
you should drive over to the
crank's address, and watch to
see who goes in and out of the
residence. If you can use a van
or vehicle with tinted windows,
so much the better. A nice
touch is to mount a mini satellite dish on the roof of the van.
If anybody notices you parked
outside the house for hours,
start the car and peel off in the
noisiest and fastest way possible. Be sure to come back with
in the hour, though. You may
want to take notes to assist
yourself in planning the hit. If
your surveillance reveals several
people living at the crank's residence or using his or her phone,
you will need to find out which
one is the crank. Get some
friends to dress up as Jehovah's
Witnesses and knock on the
door. People hate this, even psychos. Anyway, the fake JWs
should be able to pin down
which resident is of the correct
age and sex of the crank. If
you're lucky they might even be
able to scam a few bucks selling
back issues of The Watch tower.
STEP 7: Kill the crank. There
are various ways this can be
done. You should attempt to be
as dramatic as possible. Use
explosives or wild animals
whenever possible, and avoid
cliched methods such as
firearms or hit-and-runs. If the
hit can be made to look like a
suicide, so much the better,
because then you can throw in
a fake suicide note for additional post-mordem entertainment
STEP 8: If you found this procedure particularly stimulating,
fulfilling, or downright fun, go
to step 1.
The Roger Watts Gallery.
v-^ \s V
- -=? --
llrTSmsi>sm7Jft* 'JjqilaTsa JL
r ITEMS   'W '■
OR LESS t *..,
"Ron, call the police...that Skywalker kid sitting out in
the parking lot shoplifting again..."
"He had ten."
\X\\  - \
■• J. —
A good game of Hacky Mouse would never fail to break the
monotony down in the Behavioural Sciences Lab 20 JANUARY 1997
Friday, Jan 24 • 12:00
SUB South Plaza
original recipe
(with translation into everyday English)
Roger Watts is a likely
candidate for The Most
Insane Person in the World
Award—having actually
tried the drink below. At
least, that's what the legend says...Rog was struck
deaf, dumb and mute.
The Ken Otter Gallery
Meeting the new lab partner.
"Look at all those Engineers in their red jackets. I tell
ya, no sense of individuality "
.when suddenly, two beavers with a tranquilizer
gun jumped out from behind a tree..."
The correct response when the prof asks, "Are there
any questions?"
f ■ \he following was excerpted from a 3000 word arti-
I   ed
JL ci«
Ellicting animal behaviour.
Effective predators.
cle that first appeared in
Volume 5, Issue 2. We can put
The 432's stamp of approval on
this drink—just make sure
you're no farther than 400
meters from the nearest stomach pump when you drink it for
the first time.
1. "Take the juice from one
bottle of that ol'Janx Spirit." (1
oz. Bacardi 151. You know, that
evil stuff that says, "Keep away
from flame" on the label.
Acceptable substitutes include
Smirnoff 50%, or any one of a
number of zesty organic solvents,
available from you Chem TA at
one low, low price.
2. "Pour into it one measure
of water from the seas of
Santraginus V." (1 oz. tequila
just about covers this. If you're
really suicidal, try 2 oz. We did.
We paid the price later, of
3. "Allow three cubes Arcturian
Mega-gin to melt into the mixture (it must be properly iced or
the benzene is lost)." (1 oz. ice-
cold lemon gin. The benzene's
optional; see above re. organic solvents.)
4. "Over the back of a spoon,
float a measure of Qualactin
Hypermint Extract." (Ignore the
spoon bit; everybody knows that's
too hard to do when you're hosed
anyway. Chuck in a generous
ounce-and-some of Peppermint
Schnapps. This stuff is what really makes the drink.)
5. "Allow four liters of Fallian
marsh gas to bubble through it,
memory of all those happy
Hikers who have died of pleasure in the Marshes of Fallia."
(Top up with a fruity, bubbly mix
of some sort; we found a mixture
of raspberry ginger ale and Of
worked really well.)
6. "Drop in the tooth of an
Algolian Suntiger." (Throw in a
sugar cube and watch it fizz, an
action which becomes absolutely
fascinating by about the third
drink or so.)
7. "Sprinkle Zamphuor." (We
don't have a clue what the hell
Zamphuor is, so go for the gusto
and sprinkle on some Tabasco
sauce. The key word here is sprinkle, believe me.)
8. "Add an olive." (For all you
Artsies —add an olive.)
Drink —but very carefully-
Trust us on this one, boys and
girls. It's really quite tasty. PAGE TWENTY
20 JANUARY 1997
Karpov Vs. Kasparov
The Final Chapter.
Originally published in
Volume 7, Number 8 of
The 432, this article redefined how campus looked
at chess forever.
(Excerpt from World Chess
Championship Game 3)
1. d2-d4 g8-f6
2. c2-c4 f7-g6
3. bl-c3 f8-g7
4. e2-e4 d7-d6
5. gl-f3 Qrs-eS
At this point, Karpov tries a
new tack with Qrs-e5 (Queen
from right sleeve to e5).
6. fl-e2 e7-e5
Kasparov obviously hasn't
noticed Karpov's innovative
move. Karpov returns to traditional play.
7. cl-e3 Blb-g3 / JbKS
Under the subtle cover of JbS
(Jackboot to Kasparov's shin),
Karpov introduces a third bishop into play.
8. LIF-KRE d8-e7
Kasparov responds with his
trademark LIF-KRE (Left index
finger to Karpov's right eye).
9. d4Xe5 $A$%#$
Karpov instinctively howls in
pain and immediately offers
uncouth theories concerning
the likely species of Kasparov's
parentage to general audience.
10. Q - KLN       Q-KLN
Mutual exchange of Queen to
opponent's left nostril.
11. c3-d5 e7-d8
It appears the hostility between
the chess masters has subsided.
12. SsKH
It appears the judge was mistaken. 10-pound sledgehammer
swung by Kasparov in a bold
attempt to pin down Karpov's
head.(SsKH) Karpov immediately falls back on the classic
Beretta Defense (9mmRc-
HsAKH - 9mm pistol removed
from concealed shoulder holster and aimed at Kasparov's
13. KRMcC
Kasparov revs hidden
McCulloch chainsaw.
14. KRTT-JF       KRTT-JF
Both express extreme displeasure at judges' decision and
cunningly respond with the little-known Rin-Tin-Tin Gambit
(politely urinating at judges'
Kasparov and Karpov removed
forcibly from arena by angry
Game-3 is obviously over. Now,
for a play-by-play analysis, Mikel
Erickson and Michel Joseph from
the World Chess Federation.
Erickson: You know, I really
feel that Kasparov took control
of the match when he attempted to pierce Karpov's cornea. I
thought that took real determination, and proved Kasparov's
dominance in the cutthroat
world of chess.
Joseph: Unfortunately, I can't
agree with your assessment of
the situation. I'm squarely
behind Karpov here. Kasparov
didn't display any of the personal integrity I think is critical
for a champion. I liked Karpov's
honesty with his fifth move,
but the way Kasparov concealed
that sledgehammer just goes to
prove you can't judge a book by
its cover.
Erickson: Oh yeah! Well, let
me tell you what 1 think of a
certain chess commentator I'm
being forced to share this mike
1. ertt-jf
N6,-mKT<, o-K.,^e>KXCJibi i&e tve ^moae
You kMow He ijovm*, vou v\me4...
The Kitten
Typical of his style, this
article (originally published in Volume 4,
Number 6) exemplifies
Aaron Drake's fondness for
his pets and Capitalizing
Every Word In A Sentence.
I have no luck with pets. I
can never seem to get it
right. I'll admit there was
Dusty, who I had for twelve
years before the Highway Got
Her, but after that, I lost pets
right and left. Patton stayed for
a month before Parvo Got Him.
Benji was with me two months
before the Highway Got Him.
My salamanders were with me
all of six hours before Ginger,
my cat, Got Them. I am a walking pet graveyard. When I go to
the pound the animals all try
and hide under their food dishes. I am cursed.
Sometimes, I am cursed with
pets that I can't get rid of. My
two newest hostages, Sid and
Romeo, the Dumb Kittens
Whom I Got To Make
Babycakes Happy, are cases in
point. They've more or less
become used to the concept of a
litter box, although their accuracy is a little off. You can't
believe how frustrating it is to
watch Romeo delicately dig a
small hole in the Kitty litter,
gingerly position himself over it
- over it - and casually drop a
load over the side of the box
onto the floor. Then he fills the
hole back in. You see all this
coming from a mile away, and
you want to push his little kitty
butt in a bit, but you can't - that
would be a faux pas. (That's
great - I'm trying to be polite to
a cat that expresses love by
blowing boogers all over my
On the other hand, I've never
actually seen Sid use the kitty
litter box, but I haven't found
any presents lately either. This
leads me to conclude that
a) Sid does not go to the bathroom, or
b) Sid is going to surprise me
with a hidden cache one day.
I'm going to open the closet
door and... well, you know how,
in the cartoons, the character
gets buried by a ton of sports
paraphernalia when he opens a
closet door?
I am convinced that Romeo
has a drug history, though.
After my last column on Romeo
and Sid, Romeo became very
sick - so sick, in fact, that the
vet gave him a five percent
chance of living. Romeo had a
serious flea problem - which is
ironic, of course. Of all the stupid things that a stupid cat
could die of, fleas would be at
the top of Stupid Causes Of
Death. How fitting.
However, a week in intensive
care brought life back to Romeo
(as well as a bill larger than the
GNP of more than a few underdeveloped countries). But they
did something to Romeo that
week, I'm sure of it. All those
drugs they gave him did something to Shis mind. One minute
he'll be bouncing around the
room, chasing stupid things
that stupid kittens chase, and
the next minute he will stop
dead in his tracks and stare up
at me as if to ask, Who are you?
I'll pet him a little, and he'll
look around slowly: J was doing
something, I'm sure. Oh yes, I
remember. Then he'll drop a load
on the floor.
It's drugs. I swear. Before I got
Sid and Romeo, there was
Blitzkrieg, so named because he
enjoyed assaulting anything
that moved. Blitzkreig was the
hyperest, meanest, craziest cat I
had ever seen. He would attack
couches, he would attack doors,
he would try and eat the fridge.
Until the day The Pound Got
Hold Of Him. When we
brought him home from the
pound, he would sleep half the
day, and'the other half he
would lie there yawning. He did
nothing. I threw live mice at him
and he cuddled up to them and
I was the Pound, I'm telling
you. Before he goes in, he's a
terror. When he comes out, he's
a valium addict. THEY did this
to him. They gave him Kitty
Electroshock Therapy.
It's a conspiracy, they fed
Romeo hallucinogens to combat the deadly flea infestation.
Now, his favorite pastime is
jumping on to your pant leg
and starting to climb up you.
Every time, he stops at the knee,
and looks around, trying to
remember Who This Person Is
That He Is Clinging To And
Why Exactly Did This Person
Put Him There? He won't let go
- you have to pry him off, or at
least assure him that the invisible lizards-in-pantyhose crawling around on the floor are On
His Side.
Sid, on the other hand, has
become devious and cunning.
We started to give the kittens
flea baths. Which is a stupid
concept - who cares whether
the fleas are clean or not?
Anyway, both cats understandably hate it, but they deal with
it in different ways. Romeo
fights and struggles for all of
seven seconds, then resigns
himself to his fate, reasoning
.that it's better to be washed
than to face the lizards-in-
pantyhose (or else it could be
that he as forgotten what he
was struggling about and now is
trying to figure out Who These
People Are And Why Are They
Pouring Water All Over Him).
Sid, on the other hand, has
come up with concept of
Mutually Assured Destruction.
The doctor says the stitches will
come out in a week.
It doesn't end at MAD, though.
Sid has pre-empted us with a
new defense system. To give her
a bath, Sid reasons, we must
first pick her up. To get out of a
bath, therefore, Sid must discourage us from picking her up.
Now, every time we pick her up,
Sid Farts at us.
Although I have to admit that
it has cured Sid's flea problem.
Yet they are fun to have around
the house... that is, when they
aren't missing the kitty litter
box or exploring the garbage
bin (a new game they have
invented: tear open a hole and
go in from the bottom, climb
out through the top and get as
much goop as possible scattered
about the house in the process).
There's nothing more adorable
than two kitties playing with
each other - Especially these two
kitties. Romeo likes to initiate
it, attacking Sid first. Being
much bigger than Sid, he eventually pins Sid down and sits on
top of her wondering Who This
Cat Is And Why Exactly Is This
Cat Attacking Him? Sid, for her
part, struggles, goes "Meeew,
meeew, meeew," and then falls
back on her new defensive
option. She Farts.
Which never works, because
Romeo blames it on invisible
lizards wearing pantyhose.
SUS Open House
Everyday in Chem B160 during
Science Week.
Come on in, watch some movies
and eat some free food. 20 JANUARY 1997
The Worst of The 432
How to Neuter Your
Cat at Home.
1. Get a good, trusty softball
mitt and treat it with some
fresh tune offal.
2. Once you've got Kitty by
the head, wrap him up in a 4
ft. strip carpet, with his
hindquarters sticking out.
3. Carefully wind several
yards of waxed dental floss
tightly around the scrotum.
4. After about five minutes,
sever the testicles with a sterilized pair of garden pruning
5. Stuff the open wound
with cotton wadding, soaked
in Betadine™. Undo the dental floss.
In a few hours, you can free
Kitty from the carpet - happy,
healthy and docile!
1. Yeah, I actually did say that,
didn't I. Well, it sounded good
at the time, and I couldn't
remember what the real reason
was anyway.
2.1 believe the proper term is
"Humour of Colour."
3. Well I can assure you that
when it came to the issue of
cat castration, my parents
expressed sharply different
views on the subject. My mom
always swore by short-handled
rose pruners, whereas my dad
prefers variable-locking wire
4. Double-edged sword?
Actually, I prefer the analogy of
humour as kind of a combination egg-beater/toilet brush, if
you catch my meaning.
5. Jesus, you're right. How
many millipedes have died
already? Oh, the humanity.
6. Hey let's be completely fair;
I'm sure that our animal
researchers are way more efficient than you make it sound.
They wouldn't off five or six an
hour when they can hose a
couple hundred of them a day
all at once. Geez, get it right.
The graphic to the left appeared in Volume 5, No. 3. The
letter below appeared in Vol 5 No 5, along with the
Editor's reply. This kerfuffie marks the only "serious" Letter
To The Editor" in the paper's history—such a journalistic
landmark (high point: letter; low point: original graphic)
that we thought some recognition was in order.
7 November 1991
Patrick Redding
The 432
The Science Undergraduate Society
Faculty of Science, University of
British Columbia
Dear Mr. Redding:
I would like to accept your offer of
space to respond to two articles in the
October 23,1991 issue of your newspaper. The articles that concerned me
were "How to Neuter Your Cat At
Home" and "IGOR DEAD."
On the phone, you said that your
intent in writing these articles was to
satirize the callous attitude towards
animals among science undergraduate students1. You explained to me
that this was "black humour2."
I would hope that the university
would be an environment which
encourages students to determine
how they might best contribute to
society. What makes a university
such a valuable place is that it provides space for intelligent and articulate young people to examine and
share their ideas and values with others.
For many, this is a first exposure to
new values, attitudes and ideas.
Without the pressures of the outside
world, students are free to examine
how they chose to relate to other
humans, to the planet, and to the
other inhabitants of the planet. At this
point, they can reevaluate their values, or they can accept a set of values
with which they are familiar. Later in
life, it is often more difficult to examine and change values.
My feeling is that undergraduate
students have a callous attitude about
laboratory animals because they have
to. They have to be callous or else
face what it is that they are doing. I
. don't think that they feel good about
killing or inflicting pain on an animal
that is obviously aware of pain for no
reason other than to get a good grade
or complete a project.
As an undergraduate magazine you
can continue to perpetuate, in editorial content and humour, callous
uncaring attitudes that diminish not
only the value of your experimental
subjects but your own value as well.
If you hope to be innovative, if you
hope to set trends rather than following them, start now by presenting
well-reasoned arguments. Rather
than perpetuating existing prejudices,
examine the ethics and morality of
what you are doing now and what
you plan to do in the future.
It is certainly your perogative to
carefully examine any issue and
choose a point of view or philosophy
with which you agree. I would hope
that as scientifically-inclined students that you would choose to
examine all the information about the
issue. All too often, we grow up
being presented with only one side of
an issue by our parents3, then head
off to university to be presented with
only one more facet of the issue. It is
this type of fragmented learning that
allows prejudices to be perpetuated
and interferes with acquiring a real
As a student publication you have an
obligation to inform and educate
your readers. Certainly humour has
its place in this educational process.
But humour is a double-edged sword
as I'm sure you've learned4. It can
focus our attention on injustice or it
can contribute to the injustice. In the
case of the articles cited, I think that
they do more to encourage inhumane, unconscionable behaviour
than they do to discourage it5.
In the context of an organization at
the University of British Columbia, I
think it is important to remember that
your school uses to death some 50
000 animals a year - an average of
some 5 or 6 animals per hour every
hour of the year6. So it would take,
extraordinary courage to examine
this process and decide that it is not
moral or acceptable to you.
Bob Chorush
Animal-Free Trade
IA      iiX.        /~>^               J
2   GUY»
on S€t
■ ..MSA
JkcorK. /l**J*^
The 432 does not condone or recommend neutering your cat at home, suicide, or body tic-tac toe. These articles are re-printed solely for their questionable historical value and we probably wouldn't print such trash if we got it again. PAGE TWENTY TWO
20 JANUARY 1997
Drawers of SUS
Tracy MacKinnon
Doug Beleznay
Happy Science Week! I hope you're all planning to attend
lots of events. There's tons of stuff put on by the clubs and
by the SUS Science Week Committee. Look forward to
Magic Shows (put on by the Chem Club and the Physics
Department), keg rolls, Beyond First Year, Biosoc Gyotaku, club displays, the BPP Trike Race, and much, much more! There's tons of
fun stuff to do, and we have open house in the SUS office, so
there'll be munchies and movies on our new TV every day. And of
course, Science Week culminates with Cold Fusion, featuring 54*40
and speedbump!
Grad Class Council just started meeting, and your reps are Blair
McDonald, Orin Del Vecchio, and myself. We still need a fourth
Executive Elections are coming up soon, so if you're interested in
any of the positions, come by the office (Chem B160) and talk to
a current exec about their portfolio.
Have a great Science Week, and hope to see you at a Science
Week Event.
This is also the 10th anniversary of The 432. I've been writing
(okay, I've been doing exec reports) for the past three glorious
years of The 432. And every single one of my reports was in on
time (I even got an award for it a couple of years ago)! Such dedication. So, in this issue you'll get to enjoy the insane scribbling of
former columnists & cartoonists. Of course, these people wouldn't
be famous (in SUS, at least) without all the great editors we've
had (subtle, no?). Enjoy, (ed—Finally! Recognition!)
Warrick Yu
Director of Sports
Hello ovoryono readers, the Great Wall is back. The Great
Wall, now becomes a flamboyant heartbreak rocket, is
ready in action, after a period of training for the manoeuvre called the 3:16.
Anyway, due to the implementation of the new NO RESCHEDULE
policy, there seem to be fewer teams registered this term. Science
is still in the 6th place in point total, and need a few thousand
points to get back to the top. Now, here is our last chance for this
year: Storm the Wall '97. I'd like to see many SUS teams going for
this event, at least to gain some points back such that the unit is
above the 6th place.
Have fun in Science Week and you might have a chance to see
how a 3:16 looks like.
Henry Wong
Internal Vice Pres
ELECTIONS!! ELECTIONS!! ELECTIONS!! Yes, the oh so exciting annual SUS Exec Elections are coming!! OK, it's not that
glamourous. Afterall, we don't have Bob Dole running for
anything, but we might just have the future Jean Chretien hidden
among the Preston Mannings, Glen Clarks and Brian Mulroneys
here. The most important thing to note about elections is that
YOU could get involved, so come on, get off that uncomfortable
chair you're sitting on, leave the boring lecture for BLAH 666 and
pursue that political career that you've always secretly wanted.
Think of it, YOU could join us in our perennial fight against the
AMS and make life better for the Science community.
Nomination forms can be picked up either from the SUS Office, or
ripped off this and forthcoming issues of The 432. Find ten or more
friends to sign your form and hand it in the Elections
Commissioner before the nomination deadline of Fri, Feb 14th. (or,
if you don't have any friends, grab the 10 closest Science students)
The actual election will be from Mar 5- 7. Take note!
Now for Science Week. I won't repeat all the events, as the other
execs are probably writing about 'em, but Beyond First Year
demands some mentioning. At this fabulous event on Tuesday,
January 21st, current first year students will have a chance to
browse through their options for specialty areas they wish to concentrate their academic studies on. You'll get a chance to talk to
advisors from most departments, and then weigh the advantages
against the disadvantages for each area. As all first year students
will be attending this event, you'll get an opportunity to finally discover who the heck is in your graduating class. If this isn't enough
incentive for you, how about one free slice of pizza and a free pop?
Director of Money
Okay, so now that I've blown all my money on Christmas
shopping, and tuition I get to come back to school, and
play with SUS money. YAYH! Over the holidays several
exciting things have been happening in the SUS Office. We gave
out all the club grants, totaling $7,300. So now hopefully the clubs
will be able to hold a couple more events this year.
Adding to the excitement was the addition of 54*40 to the roll call
of this year's Science Week Dance. It should most certainly be an
event to remember (or not, depending how much alcohol you consume). If there are any tickets still available, then they'll be either
at the SUB Box Office, or in SUS (CHEM Bl60).
And for the event you've all been waiting for... well maybe not
exactly waiting, but... the POP MACHINE will now accept
TOONIES... Blair and I spent an afternoon hunting down a Coca-
Cola Technician, and as a result the machine is upgraded. Also
coming soon to SUS, if it's not already there by the time you read
this, we'll be getting a small vending machine... look for inexpensive snacks to tide you over between classes.
We've also managed to increase the supply of SUS furniture. In
early January we acquired a Television for the SUS office. Expect
some more movie nights over the course of the year. (Traditionally
SUS rents a television for Science Week, and any movie nights...
which costs $500 over the year... by purchasing a TV not only do
we get more movies, but we'll have it-paid off in two years) The TV
will be living in its nice little home in a box during the day. (It
should be right next to John's homebox, in case you were wondering)
Last but not least, Grad Class Council will be offering their Grad
Rebates sometime soon. Essentially, all graduating students pay $7,
of which the departmental clubs are entitled to up to $4. To claim
the money, get a list of Ihe graduating students in your department, and prepare a Grad Budget. (You need to have a Grad Event
in order to be entitled to anything). And then turn in the forms to
SUS so we can pass all the clubs in as a group. More information on
that as I hear about it.
Kathryn Murray
Public Relations Officer
Hi there again! This year Science is sponsoring Children's
Hospital as their charity during Science Week. As a result
we are holding several events as fundraisers. All the proceeds are being used to purchase books and videos to make the
days of sick children a little more bearable.
Bzzr Keg Rolling Race
Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday   12pm to 1:30pm  SUB Plaza
The object of this race is to move a partially filled bzzr keg around
an obstacle course in the shortest time possible with the fewest
accidents and the least amount of cheating.
Teams of 2 or 4 people can enter. Entrance fee is $2 per person.
Extra points awarded for costumes.
Trolly Races
Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday 12pm to 1:30pm   SUB Plaza
A 2ft square piece of plywood with four wheels and and four ropes
attached is dragged around a twisty, curvy course. The aim - not to
kill your companions and your opponents.
Teams of 3-5 people can enter. Entrance fee $2 per person.
Extra points awarded for costumes.
Kissing Competition
Wednesday and Friday   12pm to 1:30pm SUB Conversation Pit
Anyone can enter of any gender. You have to retain liplock with at
least one other person for at least 1 minute to a maximum of 60
minute. Above the armpits and below the knees.
Minimum two people to a maximum of ?
Four categories: longest kiss, most passionate kiss, most creative
and longest chain of people. Entrance fee $2
Prizes are awarded for the results of each days competitions so you
can technically win all of the prizes in a particular division. Prizes
include bzzr, t-shirts, pop, mystery prizes and much much more.
Hope to see you all there. If you want more info, come into SUS
and ask or turn up at the events. If you want to get some easy volunteer hours done come and talk to me in the office or at the
Welcome back everyone to this wonderful second term bf
classes. Well OK so maybe it
isn't so great yet but just wait.
This Friday everything is about
to get a lot better because we
have 54*40 playing for us at
Cold Fusion. We have also
signed speedbump as our opening band. Now for all of you
who haven't yet bought tickets
you may be in trouble because
we may be sold out. At the time
that I'm writing this we are
almost half sold out; but don't
worry. If the SUB boxoffice
doesn't have anymore tickets
stop by SUS (chem B160) and
ask for Mikey. Chances are that
I will have a few more tickets for
And in other news... there is no
other news so I have absolutely
nothing else to say except that I
would like to extent a big
thanks to the people at Russell
Breweries and HYAK Wilderness
Adventures and the other sponsors of Science Week (Jan.20 -
Jan.24) for all their support.
I hope to see most of you at the
different events that Phil and
the rest of the Science Week
committee has worked so hard
for the past few months to put
on. Enjoy and don't forget to
vote in the AMS elections.
Blair McDonald
Soon to be ex-Senator
Hmmm. What to say
from the wonderful
world of Senate? Well,
the AMS held its tele-vote on
graduation venue; the results
showed an overwhelming win
for apathy. Only 148 people
voted, out of over 3500 students
eligible to graduate.
For Science students—the new
Chan Centre, will be the location, five ceremonies. Keep an
eye on the mail for grad packages.
The Yardstick thingy—bane of
Science's Guide is apparently
still on target, although no
actual dates for distribution or
proofreading have been set in
writing. Regardless, the Guide
will be printed (although if The
Yardstick does go ahead, we may
need to make some modifications) and mailed to all Science
students over the summer. Old
copies are available in CHEM
B160 if you want to get the dirt
on a particular prof.
And finally, there's a few people running for Science Senator
during the AMS General
Election; please come out and
Capital Punishment.
Hah. Don't I feel vindicated. Way back in the
mid-17th century,
when I used to write for this
paper on a regular basis, my old
friend/editor/fellow inmate
Ryan would invariably say the
same thing every January:
"I say, Rog, olde sock," he
would often bellow while sipping a cool Guinness, "read
thee thine article and telleth me
what thou seeest."
A brief perusal of said literature
would often result in an equally
witty and eloquent answer.
"Hm. You're right. Pulitzer all
the way."
The conversation-usually lulled
right about there while I
slapped Ryan on the back a few
times and offered him a dry
shirt. "No, no, knave," he
would invariably bark. "Thou
hast written about the damned
weather again. Thou doest this
every year. Why art thou so lazy
in January?"
He would then recommend I
embark on a course of enlightened literary writing. Why not
Chaucerian verse? Something
In breaekinge autumne mominge
befoere I see the sunne,
I cooked a littel birdie ande I ate
it on a bunne.
Anyway, so here I am writing
about the damn weather again.
But, this year, I feel I have a
point. The weather was a little,
well, odd to say the least. Let's
just say I never expected to see
people cross-country skiing
around Victoria. Ever.
Yes, that's right. I live in
Victoria now. Land of a thousand walkers. Not to say that
the average age is high or anything around here, but I understand Jurassic Park was generally
panned for its alleged inaccuracy in portraying the colours of
the dinosaurs. "That's not it,
dang it!" one would often hear
echoing through the halls of
the Capitol Six, often right
behind one's ear as one coolly
enjoyed one's Pepsi™. " My raptor Frisky was green with brown
stripes! Damn Spielberg!"
"Sir," I would turn around and
say, "I have two questions for
you. One, are these your teeth
in my popcorn?"
After returning said choppers
to their grateful owner, I continued: "Weren't you here at
the premiere last week?"
"Yes," came the sheepish
admission. "I came to see
Grumpier Old Men the night
before and my pants got stuck
to the gum on the edge of the
seat. Do you have any soft food,
by any chance?"
The real problem with Victoria,
however, is not that only 0.2%
of the population falls between
the ages of 12 and 106. It's just
that the Motor Licence Office
has seen it fit to issue driver's
licences to the other 99.8%.
Driving in Victoria is akin to
running an egg-spoon race on
that inflatable Moon Jump
thing they used to have at the
fair all the time. Very tricky
indeed. Sadly, however, the dri
ving fails to carry over any of
the nice soft bouncy-style
impacts that characterized the
Moon Jump. At that point, the
parallels break down, with the
possible exception of feeling
very much like the egg after it
parts ways with the spoon.
At this point, I entirely owe my
continued existence to the
Toyota Motor Company. Since
my arrival in Victoria, I have
gone through — get this — three
4Runners. I kid you not, the
second one having had everything aft of the back seats bitten
clean off by a semi-trailer moving at roughly 80 km/h. This
place makes a monster truck
demolition derby look like the
Young Drivers of Canada training seminar. All we really need
now is the Truckosaurus, but
they banned that after all the
old folks started having flashbacks, calling it "Frisky" and
trying to get it to run and fetch
sticks. It's to the point now that
the lawyers' most efficient
means of drumming up business is to precariously stack
some business cards atop the
light poles, because you just
know that pole's gonna get
smacked before the week's out,
just as sure as the Pope wears a
funny hat on Sundays.
And all of this goes on while
the roads are dry, much less
invisible. I woke up the morning of the 28th to find that the
weather had decided it had had
enough of the Interior, and had
followed us down and set up
shop during the night. I spent
most of that day as my alter-ego
Snow Paladin, courageously driving about and pulling sum
mer-tire-shod Fireflys out of
snowdrifts with my trusty Dik
Miller™ tow rope/bullwhip/
packaging ribbon. (He made it
for me special, y'know.) Things
were fine until Snow Paladin
got the cape caught in someone's fan belt while giving them
a jump-start, after which I
rapidly assumed the enigmatic
but less awe-inspiring identity
of Choking Boy.
Thankfully, I didn't have to do
that again. This is because the
next day, the 4Runner was
buried up to the doors and the
snow was drifted up to our win-
dowsills and two feet up the
front door. At that point, it
became a question of survival,
largely because we had once
again put off grocery shopping
until Monday, which was when
the fresh Twinkies™ customarily arrived. We learned through
various sources that there was
one grocery store open in the
area, so we devised a plan. We
canvassed a few food orders for
folks around the neighbourhood, then set off with our
landlord's toboggan to the
store, about 2km away.
Now, anyone who has ever
lived in the Soviet Union, raise
your hand. See if this sounds
a) No bread.
b) No milk.
c) No meat.
d) Plenty of suntan oil and
other similarly useless items.
e) 30-minute lineups at the till.
f) Lenin's body lying in state.
(Actually, he wasn't really there.
Just a lot of people exhibiting
the same body temperature,
pallor and general lack of movement.)
Apparently, they closed the
place when people started making Cream of Suntan Oil soup,
some 20 minutes after we left.
And don't get me wrong; it was
nice to get food and all, but
hauling a sled full of groceries
through three feet" of snow
looks better on the brochure. I
felt like I was in Doctor Zhivago,
only playing the role of Sled
Dog #1. At least the veggies didn't thaw, though; which was
nice when it came time for
Snow Paladin's back to get iced
Well, you know the rest; the
other journalists of the world
pretty much picked it up from
there. So there you have it. I
have talked about the weather
yet again. And I feel great. I
would have been remiss if I hadn't done it; would've been like
Charles Manson not visiting the
House of Knives on his daypass
to the mall. And besides, Ryan's
ulcer hasn't been getting
enough exercise lately..
And with that, I bid you good
evening. And should you visit
Victoria in your travels, please
remember to always carry
No, dummy, not for the snow.
You hang them out the driver
window and rattle them real
loud. It usually wakes up the
drivers just as they drift through
the intersections.
My God! In oh, seven years, this is
the first time Rog actually wrote
an article that fit in the available
space. Bravo! Bravo! —ed
Thanks to all the generous
sponsorship from Russell
Brewing Company!
Russell Winter Ale
Russell Cream Ale
i      11
TIX $18
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