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The Ubyssey Mar 23, 2007

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  Sports
Friday, 23 March, 2007   THE UBYSSEY
BASEBALL BIRDS OPEN WITH WIN
UBYSSEY FILE PHOTO/YINAN MAX WANG
.   •_ *-
by Ben Groberman
SPORTS WRITER
After kicking off the year with a
month long, 13-game road trip
through California and Oregon,
Thunderbirds baseball was back
in Vancouver Tuesday afternoon.
The hometown T-Birds didn't disappoint in their home opener at
a re-vamped Nat Bailey Stadium,
defeating the defending NAIA
World Series Champions Lewis-
Clark State College 5-3.
The home team came out
swinging, putting up a single run
in each of the first two innings
before their bats went cold and
L-C State pitching sat down 12
straight UBC hitters. The lack of
production through the middle
innings nearly proved costly for
the T-Birds.
In the top of the eighth, with
the game tied at two, L-C State
loaded the bases with only one
out. In this critical moment
fourth-year UBC pitcher Brett
Murray induced a ground ball
for the inning-ending 4-6-3 double-play. "Picking up W's against
any number one ranked team
feels good," said Murray, who
was credited with his first career
pitching win. "Everything goes
through these guys, so to get
the confidence that we can beat
them...really helps."
In the bottom of the eighth,
the Birds found themselves in the
identical situation L-C had created in the top half of the inning.
With one out, the bases loaded
and the game still tied at two,
UBC outfielder Jon Syrnyk came
to the plate. When it mattered
most, Syrnyk delivered a bases-
clearing double off the left-centre wall which would end up being the game-winning hit, "I just
wanted to get something in the
air and score the big run," said
Syrnyk, who would've been content to drive in just one run with
a sacrifice fly. "It just got some air
under it, and it went."
There were many positives for
the baseball Birds in their home-
opener. The day was highlighted
by solid  pitching  from  starter
Mark Hardy through closer Murray. The team also displayed
clutch defence and timely hitting.
"We got the timely hits which we
haven't really done this year,"
said coach Terry McKaig, whose
team now sits at 5-2 in conference play. "Great pitching and defence at Nat Bailey will normally
mean you're in the game."
The T-Birds would have liked
to ride the solid momentum of
the victory into two more games
against L-C State Wednesday and
Thursday, but both games were
rained out. They'll look to stretch
their winning ways this weekend
when they play back-to-back double headers Saturday and Sunday
at The Nat. @
'twaM/
Fuse
The show is totally sold
Vancouver Art Gallery
out, but there may be
March 23,8:00pm - 11:00pm
tickets at the door, if you're
On the last Friday of
lucky.
every month, people who
genuinely like art and people
Eric Clapton
who thinkthey should
GM Place
converge for a night at the
March 23,7:30pm
Vancouver Art Gallery. Art!
1 don't have anything snarky
Music! Perfomance! Drinking!
to say about Eric Clapton. You
Douchebags! Twatwaffles!
rock, Eric Clapton.
What more could you
possibly ask for?
Vancouver TheatreSports
League: Improvised
TV on the Radio
Works of Bill Shakespeare
Commodore Ballroom
New Revue Stage
March 23, doors at 8:00pm
(Granville Island)
TV on the Radio, a "New York
Mar 23 and 24,8:00pm
City avant-garde indie rock
Improv, Shakespeare style!
band" (thanks Wikipedia)
But seriously, these guys are
plays the Commodore
really funny. Check it out!
Ballroom tonight, doors at 8.
So
"'March 24 -25"
7pm: Rocky Balboa
Rated G, 102 minutes
9:30pm: Children of Men
Rated 14A, 110 minutes
UBC Ma Society
• SINCE 1935
HM€&
 March 28-29	
7pm: The U.S vs. John Lennon
Rated G, 99 minutes
9:30pm: Shortbus
Rated R, 102 minutes
Screenings @ Norm Theatre in SUB
Admission: $3.50 (non-members) $2.00 (members)
Membership: $10 (students)
For more info, call 604 822 3697 or visit www.ams.'jbc.ca/clubs/filrnsoc
CLASSIFIEDS
ANNOUNCEMENTS
THE GLOBAL OUTREACH
Students' Association presents: (in collaboration with the College of Health
Disciplines) Intellectual Property,
Traditional Knowledge, and Access to
Essential Medicines. Saturday, March
24th, 2007, 9:00 am-5:00 pm, First
Nations Longhouse (1985 West Mall).
Free admission, free food. Register at
gosa.ubc@gmail.com .Speakers include:
Kelly Bannister, UVic; Pat Howard, SFU;
John Hepburn, UBC VP Research; Bob
Hancock, UBC Microbiology and
Immunology; Steve Morgan, UBC Centre
for Health Services and Policy Research;
Cailin Morrison, International Trade Law
Consultant, MSF Access to Essential
Medicines Campaign Legal Advisor;
Guests from the Universities Allied for
Essential Medicines (UAEM).
ACADEMIC SERVICES
NEED HELP WITH
Important Papers? Essays?
Retired Lawyer—25 years, Former
Professor—4 years, Interested in
proof-reading, organizing and correcting
for you. No difficulties in comprehending
papers written on nearly any topic. Can
make your compositions clear, forceful
and meaningful. Email Dan
danabbot@gmail.com
The Ubyssey
editorial election
will take place on
Friday, March 30 at
Ponderosa's Cedar
room. It will be
preceded by the
AGM at 12 noon.
CALLBOARD
SUMMER CAMP
counselors needed for premier Jewish
sleep-a-way camp in southern California.
Positions available for talented, energetic,
and fun loving students as general and
specialty counselors. Great Salaries, room
& board. July 8th-August 20th. For more
information and to apply:
www.campmountainchai.com
858-535-1995
NOW HIRING PART-TIME
Teachers. Throughout the lower mainland,
Sylvan Learning is hiring permanent
part-time instructors. Must be working
towards a teaching degree and be in at
least your 3rd year of university. Must be
able to work 3:00 -7:30 p.m. weekdays and
days on weekends. Ask us about our
Scholarship Bonus! Call the Centre
nearest you.
BASS PLAYER AND DRUMMER
Needed! We are 2 UBC students who write
rock and acoustic rock music. We meet
weekly for 2-3 hours. Looking for
someone willing to commit seriously and
to form a band to record an album and play
shows. We have already composed many
songs and have a passion for writing
music. No Covers!!! An excellent
opportunity for any musician. Call Greg:
604-649-9861
RUN A BUSINESS USING OUR 150
years of business experience. No windows
or painting. Get experience for your
major. 604-630-7975 or
info@studentsummerwork.com
Classifieds for
students!
For more
information, visit Room
23 in the sub or call
822-1654
THE UBYSSEY
Tuesday, 23 March, 2006
VoLLXXXVIII N°47
Editorial Board
COORDINATING EDITOR Eric Szeto
coordinating@ubyssey. bc.ca
NEWS EDITOR Brandon Adams &
Colleen Tang
news@ubyssey. bc.ca
CULTURE EDITOR Jesse Ferreras
culture@ubyssey. be. ca
SPORTS EDITOR Boris Korby
sports@ubyssey. bc.ca
FEATURES/NATIONAL EDITOR
Momoko Price
features @ ubyssey. bc.ca
PHOTO EDITOR Oker Chen
p ho tos@ ubyssey. bc.ca
PRODUCTION MANAGER
Champagne Choquer
production@ubyssey.bc.ca
COPY EDITOR Levi Barnett
copy@ubyssey. be. ca
Coordinators
VOLUNTEERS Paul Bucci
volunteers^ ubyssey. bc.ca
RESEARCH/LETTERS
Andrew MacRae
feedback@ubyssey. be. ca
WEBMASTER Matthew Jewkes
webmaster @ubyssey. bc.ca
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Press Number 0040878022 THE UBYSSEY  Friday, 23 March, 2007
Sports
FRIDAY COMMENT
T-BIRDS BALLERS FACE THEIR MARKER
by Justin McElroy
SPORTS WRITER
I am sure that there are many fine,
redeeming qualities to Atlantic
Canada. Or, as Thunderbird basketball players know it as, "the
place championship dreams go
to die". Two highly ranked teams.
Two high hopes for a CIS national
championship. And two opening
round losses against lesser opponents. No, the past two weekends
were not kind to the UBC athletes
who traveled eastward with hearty
ambitions, as the plug was abruptly pulled on the seasons of both
basketball teams in rapid fashion.
For the men in Halifax and the
women in St. John's, the season
ended quite differently than they
had envisioned.
It's easy to make excuses, and
claim that a single elimination
tournament rewards the hottest
team, not the most talented one.
You can blame a bad call. A fluke
basket. Or even charge that the
time zone difference makes a difference when it's an early start
time. It's also easy to find a host
of reasons, large and small, for
not being able to get it done in the
clutch, when it truly matters most.
But when I look back and think
of these Thunderbird guys and
gals this year, I think of two people: Peyton Manning and Martin
Scorsese. No, I'm not senile.
When Manning and the Indianapolis Colts finally broke
through and won the Super Bowl
last month, all the experts agreed
that the 2006-07 Colts were not
even close to being the best Colts
team—in terms of talent at least—
this decade.
And if film connoisseurs were
forced to pick the best Scorsese
film, many would pick Raging Bull,
or perhaps Goodfellas, or possibly
Taxi Driver. Few would choose
The Departed. And yet, last month
Scorsese stood in front of millions,
collecting his first Oscar for Best
Director for that very film.
The lesson, of course, is that in
sports or entertainment, even if
you are very good at what you do,
it's a crapshoot as to whether you
will be rewarded for it. Some years
you will get what you think you deserve, but most years, you won't.
Luck was a lady for Martin
Scorsese and Peyton Manning this
year. Itwasn'tfor the Thunderbirds
in basketball. But UBC has perhaps
the deepest basketball program in
the country, and is virtually guaranteed to have talented squads
lace up for them for the foreseeable future. So rest assured, both
the men and the women will get to
the CIS championships, and they
will win another trophy—it's only a
matter of time.
But this column is not for looking forward—it's for looking back
at the year that was. So without
further explanation, here are the
grades for the members of the
2006-07 Thunderbirds basketball
teams:
WOMEN'S TEAM
Record: 33-5
Division: 1st
Conference: 1st
CountryrT—7th
STARTERS
Kelsey Blair (Graduating): The
rock in the middle, Kelsey was a
source of consistency and leadership the entire season for UBC,
and was named a First Team Canada West All-Star for her efforts. She
can't be blamed for the championship-ending loss to Dalhousie, pacing the team with 22 points and
11 rebounds in that game. Though
her T-Birds career may have ended
in disappointment, she can hold
her head high for all she has done
at UBC. A
Julie Little (Graduating): Never
a player that really stood out on
the court, but not everyone can be
a star. Some people just go about
their job quietly, game in and
game out, and that was Julie this
year. Her minutes declined from
last season, but she still found a
way to pot eight points per game
for the T-Birds. B
Kim Howe (Graduating): Much
like fellow graduating forward
Julie Little, Howe played a solid
supporting role the entire year
for UBC, but as evidenced by her
21-point, 8-rebound effort against
Winnipeg that clinched a spot in
the CIS Tournament for the T-
Birds, she could step up when it
mattered. B
Cait Haggarty: If you want an
example of statistics not telling
the true value of an athlete, look
no further than UBC's fourth-year
point guard. Her 7.2 points and
4.4 assists per game only tell part
of the story. She is a true floor
general for the Thunderbirds, and
while she could stand to use her
excellent shot a wee bit more, it's a
small quibble given the impact she
has on offence and defence for the
'Birds. A-
Erica McGuinness: First Team
All-Star for the entire CIS. An obscene 46.4% three-point average.
Team leader in points and assists.
And yet, in the season-defining
game against Dalhousie that end
ed their championship hopes, she
had an ugly 2/11 shooting line,
along with five turnovers. Here's
hoping she comes back for her senior year ready to make everyone
forget that performance. A-
BACKUPS
Leanne Evans: Anyone who
leads the team in blocks and finishes second in rebounds deserves
our attention, especially if they
only play 16 minutes a night. But
inconsistent shooting—to put it
mildly—prevented her from making a consistent impact on the
scoresheet. Still, she's young, and
a breakout season next year is
likely. B
Megan Pinske: At the start of the
year, she was having difficulty getting quality minutes for this team.
By the end of the year, she was the
team sparkplug, able to fill in for
Cait Haggarty at point guard when
needed, and showed poise and
moxie on a consistent basis. Not
bad for a rookie. B+
Devan Lisson: Played a considerable amount for a first-year player, and rarely looked out of place.
Still, a shooting guard needs to
shoot better than 39.5% from the
field. B
Katie Ward: She might be the
tallest player in CIS women's basketball, but she doesn't take nearly
enough advantage of her height.
Her true test will come next year
when she replaces Kelsey Blair in
the middle. B-
Caitlyn Pankratz: Solid glue
player for UBC. Does what is asked
of her each game, which admittedly isn't much. C+
Candace Morisset: Sophomore
slump for the Fraser Valley native.
Injuries hampered most of her
season, and when she came back,
she'd fallen down the depth chart.
Will be looking to bounce back next
year. C
Montanna Dunmore: For the
second straight year, she got minimal minutes on this veteran-laden
team. With Little/Howe/Blair now
out of the picture, next year will
her chance to show everyone what
she has to offer. C
Overall Grade: Obviously, the
end of the season didn't go as
planned for this Point Grey squad.
But with the development of
Pinske, Evans and Lisson this
year, the T-Birds look well set up
for the future. And with starting
guards Haggarty and McGuinness
back for one more season, coach
Deb Huband has to be looking
forward to the 07/08 season starting up a scant seven months from
now. B+
MEN'S TEAM
Record: 33-6
Division: 1st
Conference: 1st
Country: 6th
STARTERS
Casey Archibald (Graduating):
His first—and last—year where he
was the unquestioned leader of
this Thunderbirds team, and boy,
did he play like it. He rarely had
a bad game this season, finishing
first in points (19.9), assists (4.5),
steals (1.7), and free throw shooting (84%). We could go on with the
statistical accolades (and on, and
on, and on) but suffice to say, if
there's one player you can't point
your finger at for this year's disappointment, it's Archibald. A
Adam Friesen (Graduating): Due
to the lack of a true distributor on
the team, Friesen, a transfer from
TWU, was forced to move from
shooting guard to the point this
season, and it showed. It wasn't so
much that he was unsure of what
to do, but he often got lost in the
shuffle, and 4.8 points and 2.8
assists per game does not a great
point guard make. B-
Chris Dyck: On the other hand...
well, that's not entirely fair to
Chris. After all, he did have a sparkling 49.7% shooting percentage,
which is exceptional for a guard.
But in the championship-ending
loss to Ottawa, Dyck had all of six
points on an ugly 2/12 shooting
line. We'll see whether he puts that
behind him as the leader of next
year's squad. B+
Bryson Kool: This was the year
where all that promise, all that
potential that we've seen in Kool
over the past three years started to
turn into some actual results. With
his solid defence, and deft shooting touch in the post, he managed
to wrest away the starting centre
position from Cody Berg. He still
has the odd game where he completely disappears, but head coach
Kevin Hanson has to be confident
about his centre position for next
year. B
Matt Rachar: Unsung hero for
the Thunderbirds in my opinion.
He played at power forward most
of the year, but is versatile enough
to play guard or the post—which
is why he led the team in rebounds (6.3) while still making
55 three-point attempts. If he
shoots a little bit better from
downtown (32.7%) and from the
free throw line (66.1%), he could
really have a breakout year next
winter. B+
BACKUPS
Jason Birring (Graduating): Is your
team struggling and in need of
some instant offence? A three from
the corner? A drive to the basket?
Then if your name is Kevin Hanson, you call Jason Birring's name,
and you get exactly that. The consummate sixth man, Birring answered when called upon, and will
be missed next season. B+
Cody Berg: If this were a report
card for a six-year-old, it would go
like this: "Cody is a talented young
man but does not play well with
others. His aggressive nature has
resulted in him having several
timeouts in the corner this year."
Which is a nice way of saying that
he fouls way too much—one foul
for every 4.6 minutes, to be exact.
If he can avoid that next year, he
will undoubtedly compete for a
starting position. B-
Alex Murphy: The rookie from
Vancouver displayed flashes of
brilliance last year, when he could
often be seen driving past three defenders, only to coolly dish it off for
an open layup. His minutes were
kept down, but he's clearly being
groomed by Hanson to play at the
point for UBC for years to come. B
Brent Malish: Another freshman
that acquitted himself nicely for
UBC this year, Brent rarely looked
out of place for the Thunderbirds.
However, a shooter needs to do
better than 39.6% from the field
if he expects to be the man pulling the trigger when it counts next
year. B-
Sean Stewart (Graduating): This
year, Sean was much like Cody
Berg. Except with more fouling.
And less scoring. Not a good combination. Nice player to have as a
chemistry guy, but on the court, he
struggled. C
Brett Leversage: Has yet to deliver on the promise that made
this sharp shooter from Delta such
a coveted recruit two years ago.
Maybe next year. C
Brent Lewis/Jeremy Alexander:
Brent/Jeremy fought for the 12th
spot on the team all year, and in
the rare instance that he did get
on the court, he generally did nothing of note, making it very easy to
combine the report card of Brent/
Jeremy into one player for this columnist. C-
Overall Grade: Considering the
Thunderbirds lost three starters
from last year, including two-time
CIS player of the year Pasha Bains,
they have to be pretty pleased
with their performance this year,
dashed dreams aside. Though the
loss of Archibald and others will
hurt them, they have enough talent
in the wings that they should be
in the hunt for another championship next season. B+ @ WE'RE ALL
m
AND ALL
ACTION.
AT BCIT, there's a lot of talk — which you'd expect as part of
a well-rounded education. But there's also a lot of building,
designing, presenting, measuring, experimenting, reporting,
playing, researching, drilling, welding, programming, painting,
networking, laughing, planning, surveying, manufacturing,
collaborating and innovating.
Now that's something to talk about. Are you ready to act?
gobcit.ca/alltalk
TECHNOLOGY
CHANGES
EVERYTHING THE UBYSSEY  Friday, 23 March, 2007
Culture
Dracula haunts Vancouver
By Anita Law
CULTURE WRITER
Since Dracula was first published
in 1897, the fanged fiend has appeared on TV, in your cereal, on
the screen and on Sesame Street.
The big question is how he will perform in tights and en pointed
The Royal Winnipeg Ballet, under the innovative choreography
of Mark Godden, forms an answer
with their production, simply titled
Dracula. The 1998 world premiere
opened to enthusiastic reviews,
described as combining "wit, intelligence, theatricality, and fine
dancing in one very entertaining
package" (Arts Today) and praised
as "Gothic ballet at its most appealing" (Edmonton Journal). Since
then, the Canadian-grown ballet
has been transformed into a critically-acclaimed film (Dracula: Pages from a Virgin's Diary) directed
by Guy Maddin (The Saddest Music
in the World) and has enjoyed multiple succeeding productions. The
resurrection of Dracula in 2007
only proves that audiences continue to be drawn to the darker side
of dance, replete with flying bats,
dancing gargoyles, and mysterious
transformations—not to mention
handsome blood-sucking villains
and maidens gone wild.
What is it about the vampire
that continues to capture the popular imagination?
The ballet follows the familiar
pattern of the archetypal story—the
journey into the wilderness, facing
the threat and defeating the threat.
You know how it's going to end,
but you still feel the need to follow
along. I think that is a testament
to the power of Stoker's narrative," says Elizabeth Miller. Known
as"The Vampire Lady," she is one
of the world's foremost experts on
all things Dracula.
That is not to say nothing has
changed since 1897. The character has been re-interpreted by
each successive generation, skillfully shifting itself to fit modern
sensibilities. Case in point: the
elegant figure in Coppola's 1992
film couldn't be farther from
Stoker's original portrayal of the
Count as a bloated, unibrowed
parasite. Miller explains that this
shift is a reflection of our changing culture.
"There's no such thing as Dracula anymore, it's what people think
he is," she says, adding wryly that,
"Movie makers give people what
they want, and sex sells."
However, Dracula is only one
player in Stoker's complex narrative. Godden has translated 500
pages of text into a two-act ballet
that combines the physicality of
dance with the expressiveness of
orchestra and playfulness of pantomime. Act I traces the infection,
death and salvation of Lucy West-
enra as she first succumbs to the
dark spell of vampirism and is
later saved by her loved ones.
Act II opens with a humourous
fast-forward version of the novel.
This segues into a physical dialogue between Jonathan and Mina
Harker, as the latter feels herself
increasingly seduced by Dracula's
world. The ballet culminates in a
battle between the immortal count
and mortal men over the body of
Mina, where the count is defeated.
If this seems too simplistic, then it
falls to the burden of dance to flesh
out the spare plot.
"[In dance] the sensuality of the
story, which is subtext in the novel,
can be realised more fully," Miller
observes, although she noted that,
"This is also an indication of the
versatility of the book - that it can
adapt itself to ballet. This story
will not go away, is never going to
go away—it'll come back in a few
years, as popular as ever."
The Royal Winnipeg Ballet's
adaptation of Stoker's classic novel makes it clear that the artistic
possibilities for Dracula remain
THE COUNT: A man of good taste, david cooper photo
far from exhausted. What is the
future of Dracula and its balletic
counterpart? One can only guess,
but for the present, this writer will
be happy enough with a seductive
Dracula that doesn't suck. @
COSTA RICA
NICARAGUA
HUlTIHaCMCM
CU5TW GROWS
UQKSEkVATKM
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TECHNOLOGY
CHANGES
EVERYTHING
Vur flG/11 and elections for next year's
staff is coming up next week. To vote you '
jhai/e be staff! The following people mo
y be eligible:
ITHESEPEOPLE NEEDTO
Paul Evans 2
THESE PEOPLE NEEDTO
Paul Evans              '.
ICONTRIBUTE MORE TO
Ryan Corbett 2
ATTEND STAFF MEET
Alison Bailey            I
: BE STAFF:
Benjamin Dalston 2
INGS/SUBMIT EXCUSES
Jane Lee                •
Kathryn Stewart 1
TO BECOME STAFF:
Ryan Corbett            '.
IfThe number after your
Trevor Gilks 2
Benjamin Ralston       :
Jname  represents the
Leah Poulton 2
Andrew Loewen
Kathryn Stewart        I
I number of times you
Nadia Bell 2
Jennifer Chrumka
Michelle Moore         •
Ineed to contribute to
Kaan Eraslan 1
Victor Liang
Trevor Gilks             '.
'. become staff)
Kathrine Kerr 2
Chelsea Theriault
Leah Poulton           '.
Joanna Octavia 2
Eva Lillquist
Kaan Eraslan            '.
! Jennifer Chrumka 2
Emma Myers 2
Kasha Chang
Kathrine Kerr           '.
T Victor Liang 1
Sarah Ripplinger 2
Bobby Huang
Joanna Octavia         '.
IBobby Huang 2
Trevor Phillips 2
Kaan Eraslan
Emma Myers           '.
IKaan Eraslan 2
Angela Wilson 2
Katie Fitzpatrick
Sarah Ripplinger        :
: Marc Hazel 1
AleksPichlak2
Marc Hazel
Angela Wilson          :
rAndrewKim 2
Reuben Heredia 2
Andrew Kim
Aleks Pichlak           :
lErin Empy 2
DerekLecumin 2
Erin Empy
Mary Leighton          '.
IShaleneTakara 2
Carmin Carotenuto 2
IanW. Reeve
Reuben Heredia         '
IlanW. Reeve 2
Alex O'Brien 2
Sheeane Goodyear
DerekLecumin          :
ISheeane Goodyear 2
Rebecca McConchie 2
Stephanie Robinson
Carmin Carotenuto      :
IStephanie Robinson 2
Alia Dharssi 2
Caroline Chuang
Alex O'Brien            :
: Meghan Roberts 1
Lucas Johnson 2
Meghan Roberts
Rebecca McConchie    :
IStephanieTaylor 1
Jack Smith 1
StephanieTaylor
Alia Dharssi             I
lAlisha Randhawa 2
PeterWarren 2
Alisha Randhawa
Lucas Johnson          :
: Peter Warren 2
Hayden Smith 2
Joanna Chiu
Jack Smith              :
Uoanna Chiu 1
Caleb Das 2
Andrew Cheng
PeterWarren            :
: Andrew Cheng 2
Cailtin D. McKenna 2
Jessica Kim
Hayden Smith          :
;Jessica Kim 2
Kentaro Ide 2
Justin McElroy
Caleb Das               :
lYalin Lin 2
Geoffrey W.Cole 2
Yalin Lin
Cailtin D. McKenna      :
:Adrian Ma 2
Neale Barnholden 2
Adrian Ma
Kentaro Ide             :
iFrancois Villeneuve 2
Benjamin Ralston 2
Francois Villeneuve
Geoffrey W.Cole        :
Jonathan Ore 2
Ben Groberman 2
Jonathan Ore
Neale Barnholden      :
; Andrew Fletcher 2
Andre Coronado 2
Andrew Fletcher
Benjamin Ralston       :
; Katie Fitzpatrick 2
Whit McCaskill 2
Katie Fitzpatrick
Ben Groberman         :
Josephine Anderson 2
Lars Rose 2
Josephine Anderson
Andre Coronado        :
;Teresa lerakidis 2
Teresa lerakdidis
Whit McCaskill          :
;Jonny Paul Witt 2
Jonny Paul Witt
Lars Rose               : Culture
Friday, 23 March, 2007   THE UBYSSEY
//
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CBC Radio
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ONLY!
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AIR CANADA ®
//
A Battel British Colwnbi-
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&NOWM)UP
Taking a bite out o
the Great White myth
Shocking doc softens
By Greg Ursic
CULTURE WRITER
While sharks have been masters of the
ocean for over 400 million years, they
took a massive hit with the J976 release of Jaws. The film portrayed the
Great White Shark as a mindless, merciless killing machine bent on snack-
ing on wayward swimmers. In the real
world, it is sharks that have suffered:
over J 00 million sharks are kill
ery year to supply the main ingredient
for soup, and species have declined between 60 and 90 per cent with nary a
peep from the public.
"Originally I was i
ing at an underwate
Winged Migration...
I wanted to get people
closer to sharks than
they'd ever been
before so that they
could understand
that they're beautiful,
magnificent animals!'
Rob Stewart,
Director, Sharkwater
Rob Stewart is out to change that.
Stewart, an underwater photographer by trade, became obsessed with
sharks after a chance encounter with
one while snorkeling at the tender
age of eight. Stewart grew concerned
however when, after years of diving,
he began seeing fewer and fewer of
his finned friends. He decided that
he needed to raise awareness about
their plight and the first step was to
dispel the many myths surrounding
the animals who've been commonly
perceived as scary.
"Originally I was looking at an
underwater Winged Migration"
Stewart explained in interview at the
Vancouver Aquarium. "I was banking
on my ability to take pretty pictures of
sharks. I wanted to get people closer
to sharks than they'd ever been before
so they could understand that they're
beautiful, magnificent animals."
Stewart joined Paul Watson, the
eco-crusader infamous for his penchant for ramming, and in several
instances sinking, whaling ships on
a mission at the behest of the Costa
Rican president to stop poachers.
"We've been very much involved
with [monitoring illegal shark fishing off] Colombia, Costa Rica and
the Galapagos," Watson explained.
"[The Sea Shepherd Conservation Society] have a full-time patrol boat in
the Galapagos and we outfitted all the
rangers on Cocos Island [a protected
reserve off Costa Rica].
"We were doing what we've been
doing for years and Rob came on
board to film sharks."
Fate, however, stepped in with a
change of plans.
After a tense standoff with Costa
Rican poachers finning sharks (they
remove the shark fins and dump the
dying sharks  back in the ocean to
drown) off the coast of Guatemala,
Watson headed for the safety of C<
Rican waters when he received news
that a Guatemalan gunboat had been
dispatched to arrest him. Upon reaching Puntarenas (Costa Rica), Watson
and his crew were being placed under house arrest trying to apprehend
the poachers even though they were
acting on orders from Costa Rican
officials. Stewart was determined to
document the surreal turn of events.
"We were filming everything that
happened on the boat in case we got
stuck in jail and needed a record of
what happened. By the time we got
back to the movie, we'd taken a different turn...I originally thought it was
going to be an art piece, and now it
has human drama in it."
Confused as to why no one seemed
to care about pursuing poachers,
Stewart quickly realised that something was stinking in sunny Costa
Rica. After making some inquiries he
learned that a Taiwanese conglomerate known as the "Shark Fin Mafia"
was operating a billion dollar enterprise with virtual impunity in Costa
Rica, despite laws banning finning.
And they made little effort to conceal their activities.
"Taiwan pretty much owns [the
Costa Rican port of] Puntarenas,"
Watson interjects. "When you're
walking down the street there's a big
plaque there: "Thank you to the people of Taiwan for this waterfront."
Costa Rica, the supposed bastion
of the environmental movement in
Central America, made a token effort
to address the situation.
Sure it sounds great,
but there's a problem:
while fluffy seal pups
and even polar bears
are certain to elicit a
chorus of "Awwws,"
it is difficult to see
a "Cuddle a Great
White" campaign
in the offing, despite
Stewart's opinions.
"They did actually ou
private docks at one point," Stewart
sighs as he shakes his head, "but now
they're allowed again...now you just
have to have the right ratio of fins to
carcasses. So that means that someone
has to be sitting on the docks counting the ratio of fins to sharks and nobody is ever going to do that." Not
surprisingly, it had little effect.
Our discussion turns to international law, specifically how finning
is allowed to continue when it's been
banned in most parts of the world.
"It's a lack of will and political
incentive," Watson says, clearly frustrated. "If you look at the laws that
we have on the books protecting Marine ecosystems and marine wildlife
we don't need to do anything else, we
have what we need, the problem is no
one is enforcing them."
So then the next logical question
might be, "How do we make governments care?"
Stewart jumps in.
'The public—it happened with
slavery, equality, race and gender
people talking about, people pushing it and then that becomes the issue. Green is the new black—green
is on people's minds so when the time
comes for the government to change,
the people will be voting accordingly. It's what people are concerned
about."
"Conservation's got
to become cool... We
should be taught conservation before we're
taught Shakespeare
or Calculus because...
our lives and future
generations depend on
Rob Stewart
"ector, Sharkwater
Sure it sounds great, but there's
a problem: while fluffy seal pups
and polar bears are certain to elicit a
chorus of "Awwws," it is difficult to
see a "cuddle a Great White" campaign in the offing, despite Stewart's
opinions.
'    And what of the other	
global warming, health care, homelessness, etc.—that are fighting for
their share of the spotlight and government resources?
"Conservation's got to become
cool," Stewart intones. "We should
be taught conservation before we're
taught Shakespeare or Calculus because... our lives and future generations depend on it. The single most
important issue moving forward is
the stable use of our planet."
And the message has been heard.
"The reception has been incred-
■Me!   It's won an award at every fes-
1 it's been at—it's the most award-
nning documentary ever. We've
d people say it's opened their eyes
d they'll never look at the ocean the
ne way again. People just want to
t involved, build websites for us...
been amazing."
So what gives the man who not
only prefers to swim with sharks,
but suffered through West Nile virus,
Dengue Fever and flesh eating disease
while shooting, the willies? Stewart
pauses for several moments before
answering.
"I don't know...fear probably, he
says. "When I was a kid it limited my
life so much, it hurt me so much—I
couldn't enjoy the ocean because I was
afraid of it, or I couldn't sleep at night
because I was afraid of the bogeyman. I think fear is such a negative
thing that we should do away with
cause we could live life so much more
happily."
Stewart says it with such conviction that it feels genuine. And I'm
sure that FDR won't mind being
paraphrased.
Just as I'm about to shut off my recorder, Watson chimes in, "I'm afraid
of right wing whackos."
Now there's something that I can —Transmission sent on Thursday , March 22nd, 2015 hundred hours, 128-Mt RSA Encoding, tvilME Version 1,0—
Ubyssey Rant Commanders Matthew Jewkes and Kellan Higgins reporting. The. following document contains highly classified
material cryptographical.ly decoded "by the Ubyssey and recovered "by our field intelligence agents. These agents, trained
in the most advanced temporal monitoring techniques, have recovered a number of transmissions "believed to haye+originated
from the near to distant future. Find said documents enclosed herein, *      *     +"■••■'
Futurist Prof. C. W. (Toph) Marshall has joined forces with-us on th^is report, A teacher of Classic theatre, and a modern
expert on rjuffy the Vampire Slayer, Prof, Toph Marshall has ranked the contained documents according to their accuracy
•and relevance to the general public. In addition, White Dwarf Books (3175 West lO^h Ave), a fine purveyor of recovered
temporal transmissions, has agreed to provide recompense to our finest field agents.
Remember concerned   citizens, vigilance is ke
►T^Eil^M*~T1i^^**^*'*'l';***^**,*rMTi*r'MTM-WTfT*'';**;™*>^MI*"'^*>*|i>*
2nd Place: "Love in Space"
by Caleb Das
1st Place: "Kindling Hope"
by Geoffrey W. Cole
3rd Place: "Blood for Oil"
Beth Langford '*
mm&?v m msm> a°
SARDONIC SPACE COWBOV
by Haydcn Smith
The bomb had a nice display: green and
black with a thin blue border. Hayden wasn't
positive—alien languages were indecipherable, by definition—but he suspected it was
counting down to a very fatal explosion.
He breathed deep. Everything's cool. "So
that's the way it's going to be?"
"I know your type, Mr Smith—all swagger
and guns—I don't care for it. Tell your employer to stop trying to collect. Oh, and I'm
keeping the package."
"Let's be reasonable life forms, Mr Xerk.
Disarm the bomb and pay for that package.
No need for anyone to get hurt." Hayden
clenched his jaw. This was not a conversation for a luxury interstellar hotel, persuading a shady client to, if he could, refrain
from blowing you both into messy bits of
gristle.
Mr Xerk grinned, revealing long silver fangs,  distinctly Ghederian.  His
smooth demeanor,  expensive  suit,
and finely coiffed hair made it easy
to forget.
"Oh, don't worry, you're the
only one in harm's way. And you
almost won't feel a thing."
Hayden put his hand to his
revolver.
"I could just shoot out that
porthole and blow us into
space."
Mr. Xerk's grin faltered.
"You wouldn't..be so,
reckless!"
"As an employee of the Beta
Bank Corporation, of course not.
As an Earthling, absolutely, bravado's in our blood." Hayden's
heart hammered faster.
A thin trickle of sweat ran down
Mr Xerk's face. His eyes darted between gun and bomb as he walked
back slowly.
Hayden patted his right pocket. It
was still there, good. He narrowed his
eyes. "You're not really going to blow that
bomb, are you? They don't make these luxury rooms that sturdy. Overpriced mini-bar
and tasteful decor do not a blast-proof room
make."
"Oh, it's just a small biological weapon.
It would be in your best interests if you left
now, Mr. Smith." Mr. Xerk's gills flared. His
holofront must've been low on power.
Hayden could either run or dispatch Mr.
Xerk. He knew which would lead to continued employment at Beta Bank; and which
would lead to crappier and crappier assignments—if not outright death (the on-shift
manager was given quite a bit of latitude).
The bomb beeped higher and higher.
As a general rule, Hayden was not a fan
of things that beeped higher and higher.
They tended to precede a Really Bad Event.
A malfunctioning robot, a microwave on the
fritz, a biological weapon about to release its
payload.
Mr Xerk gave him one last fang filled
smile, and took out his detonator. Damn,
thought Hayden, can't pay for goods, can't
even wait for a timer to count down.
Hayden blew the air out of his lungs,
drew his gun, and fired at the porthole. The
weapon roared. The first few shots starred
the glass, the fourth shattered it.
Rushing air filled the hotel room. Mr Xerk
was knocked off his feet and pulled towards
the porthole, the empty cold of space clawing at him. He let out a hollow scream, his
hands scrabbling at the walls and floor, and
was sucked out.
Hayden holstered his weapon, and laid
flat on the ground. He reached into his right
pocket and clicked on the transponder. He
had high hopes for his Bob. He was pretty
sure he had trained him well enough, but
Bob had his quirks. Unpredictable, near catastrophic, quirks.
Space finally pulled him out of the room.
To the right (or to some direction, everything was relative) he could see the blaze
of a young star. The hotel was renowned for
finding breathtaking astral sights. And this
one was a doozy. If not for the view, then for
the cosmic rays, ultraviolet radiation, and
nasty particles that were bombarding him.
It was going to be a short mission if Bob
didn't save him. A very short mission.
A   half   second
later  his  ship
flew by, its
cargo
contractual   obligations,   so   I   dispatched
him."
"Vented him into space."
"Yes." Hayden hated debriefings. There
was always a lawyer listening, to ensure
Beta Bank was clear of liability. The interview was invariably hostile, with the not so
subtle threat of a pink slip driving the entire
discussion.
Skornt looked up from the report scrolling by on his flexiscreen. Hayden tried to
decide which of the three eyes to focus on.
In the Bank, there were
no niceties such
as        holo-
fronts.
You
doors
opened and
pulled him in.
It was small, just
big enough for him and a passenger, with a cockpit at one end and a foot-
locker at the other. It was sparse compared
to the exterior, which Hayden had fitted with
fancy body panels, a few pinstripes, and a
flaming skull.
It looked far better than it ran.
He stumbled to the cockpit, fell into the
pilot's seat and hit a worn yellow button labelled "Emergency Medi-Ray." It dealt with
all sorts of ailments. Right now, those would
be hypothermia, radiation poisoning, and a
wicked case of the bends.
"Well pardner, that went smooth didn't
it?"
Hayden got up and shook his head. Of all
the upgrades he'd bought, getting a western
drawl for Bob was the most regrettable.
"The client was...reticent."
"Can't win 'em all y'know. Always will be
a faster draw, a younger gun edging in on
yer steer."
Hayden punched in the coordinates for
Beta Bank, deciding to not fly there manually. Experience had taught him that maintaining course in the blankness of space for
hours on end was dangerously boring.
The LightScream 9800 spun up, and with
a low kachunk, he was off.
"And that's your entire report?"
"It's all there High Manager Second Class
Skornt. The client refused to comply with
just
dealtwith
whoever was
in front of you.
Even if it was a purple,
three eyed furry behemoth with
a deep authoritative voice. At least they kept
their Translators on. There would be a lot
of screaming and pointing otherwise. Well,
more screaming and pointing.
"So, what, you have another assignment
for me? Or can I return to my humdrum
existence on Earth until such a time as you
folks need me?"
"I'm glad the Bank can add some modicum of excitement to your life, Mr. Smith."
"It's certainly not for the paycheck."
"The Bank is not in the habit of paying
more than it has to. And you Earthlings, Xorn
bless you all, work for surprisingly little. Oh,
and it says here you're two demerit points
from a pay cut. Now that would be exciting,
wouldn't it?"
Hayden changed the subject. "Earth can
be pretty boring. Especially since most everyone is still debating your existence."
"My existence?"
"Oh, you know, the existence of all you...
non-Earthlings."
"Ah, yes. Yes. What an odd quandary you
earthling agents are in. Odd, and distinctly
unprofitable to discuss." Skornt got up from
his desk, and glanced meaningfully at the
door.
"So...right." Hayden left.
The Bank, or at least the part of it he saw,
was actually quite boring. Lots of metal and
plastics all in brain numbingly dull colours:
beige, whites, off-whites, eggshell, off-white
eggshell. They even had carpet. Or something like it.
Hayden had never thought he would
ever have to report to a suit in an office. He
wasn't the type. But he supposed an office
in an interstellar space station for a multi-
galactic banking corporation wasn't as mundane as all that.
Humans are alarmingly stupid. As soon
as you were sure they couldn't get any stupider, as soon as you established an appallingly low baseline of stupidity, they did
something to lower it.
Itwas disconcerting.
Mr Xerk, of course, had a ship ready to
phase him away when he was blown into
space. It wasn't cheap, particularly for an
independent businessman such as himself.
But he had planned for it.
He   didn't really  think  the   human
would do it. It created a perfect getaway
for Mr Xerk: no body and   death assumed. He could walk away free and
clear from the unfortunate business
with Beta Bank, and with his package obtained at..reduced prices.
It was everything to Mr Xerk,
but for Beta Bank it was a bauble,
nothing. But they were sticklers
for rules: unpaid goods and loans
had to be collected. Which was
why they sent the cannon-fodder
human after him.
Mr. Xerk poured himself a
drink—the  sort one avoids before operating heavy machinery
or   high   calibre   weapons—and
leaned back in his chair. It was a
nice chair, high-backed and covered with the leather of a recently
extinct animal.
He unwrapped the package, slowly. Itwas an answer to a few of his more
pressing... business issues.
The contents unwrapped, he blinked.
His drink clattered to the floor.
Crap, thought Hayden. He had forgotten
to return Beta Bank's package. Double crap,
he had also forgotten to retrieve his favourite Knight Rider lunch box he had used as
a decoy. It was likely floating out in space,
with the late Mr. Xerk.
Despite all the danger and bad treatment,
he still loved his job. He really thought he
was getting the hang of the whole space agent
thing. And then he had to do something like
this. A vain hope that this slip up wouldn't
result in demerits crossed his mind, which
reality shot down remorselessly.
Oh well, he thought, it was too late to
do anything about it now. He'd return it after the show, one of the many westerns he
loved. Where the gunslingers were quick,
the women quicker, and death was rode on
lead and fire.
A whiff of charred something wafted into
his house. The neighbour was once again
barbecuing mystery meat. Oswald was an
annoying neighbour. The worst was that he
was also nosy and had 911 on speed dial.
Hayden could almost forgive Oswald's use
of a bath robe, black socks, and flip flops as
suitable daily wear. But a neighbour on first
name basis with the 911 operator was the
worst sort for a Beta Bank agent.
Not that things happened in Hayden's
neighbourhood. But if he slipped up once,
he knew he'd have half the town's emergency response at his door. And if there was evidence of anything that linked to Beta Bank,
there went his job.
Backwaters irked Mr. Xerk. He had been
to the dune filled copper mine world of Rso,
the barren moons of Eodm, and even the
garbage planet Zephyr Regis 49. But the pflfift, m m^m
outer reaches of space where the inhabitants thought your existence was "quaint"
and "pure fantasy" was the worst kind of
wasteland.
He almost cursed his foresight in tagging the human. But he did need that package. Clients were so much harder to gouge
when you didn't have their life-saving medicine. People could be quite cavalier about
money when the spectre of death was at the
door.
"I'm telling you, Gladys, that man. That
man doesn't look right at all." Oswald was
agitated. It was one of those bouts when the
911 speed-dial was most likely to be hit.
Repeatedly.
Gladys was sure the good folks at the
Emergency Response Unit had long blocked
their number. "Nonsense, Oswald, and
put on some shoes, for crying out loud, it's
4pm."
Oswald waved her off.
"That boy. That boy. I know he served
our country. But sometimes they come back
not right in the head. He could be," his voice
dropped to hoarse whisper, "a drug dealer!"
"Just step away from the window, Oswald,
you're dangerously near my daily quota for
embarassment."
Hayden still had his gun on. It made
him look like a war vet weirdo, but it made
his movie marathons more authentic. The
movie was getting to the good bit, where the
unshaven, ugly criminal faced the ruggedly
handsome but in the end good-hearted outlaw. Hayden held his breath.
A flicker across the street caught his
eye, it was Oswald's curtains. With Oswald
it could be anything, but was most likely
nothing.
A sound came from the door. He glanced
over. The handle was turning slowly, which
was odd—it had been stuck for years. Which
was why he used the backdoor. (Which in
turn was one of the many reasons Oswald
distrusted him.) Hayden closed the curtains, and drew his gun. The door openly
soundlessly.
Mr. Xerk reached into his suit coat and
pulled out a massive handgun. Itwas almost
too large to be real, and it wasn't, after a
fashion. It was a ray gun.
He could just as well incinerate the entire
house. But that might arouse suspicion. And
besides being a heavy blow to the local rodent population, it was unlikely his package
would survive.
The Ghederian walked slowly into the
house. Slowly, upright, so as not to rouse
suspicion.
Hayden hid in his crawl-space watching
Mr Xerk. That was one huge ray-gun.
Aliens with long fangs were one thing.
Aliens with long fangs and over-sized ray-
guns who came back from the dead were
worse.
Hayden swore under his breath.
It was one thing to blow this guy away.
It was another to blow him away and avoid
suspicion.
"Looks like Mr Smith has a visitor."
Gladys ignored him, and focussed
even harder on her crossword. "English;
Achtung! What on god's green earth could
that be?"
"You know, unlike you Oswald, some people do have friends come and visit."
Oswald picked up his phone, his finger
poised over the well worn key for 911.
"Quiet, woman. You think I do this for my
own health? It's for my family's protection.
For the good of the neighbourhood."
"Our family consists of us and two old,
mildly senile cats. It's hardly worth the eternal vigilance, Oswald."
Oswald only turned back to the house. It
had gone quiet.
"Oh, danger. One word, Achtung! Right."
"Why don't you come out and show
me where the package is. I don't hold any
grudges."
"A Ghederian who doesn't hold a grudge?
Please."
Mr Xerk spun and fired. A soft beow
sound betrayed the gun's deadliness. Its
ray cut a grapefruit-sized hole through three
walls.
"That's just no way to start a peaceful negotiation is it?"
Hayden liked his home. He liked his
home better without the ray gun burns and
a bloodthirsty Ghederian in it. Unfortunately, he liked it even more when it wasn't
surrounded by a SWAT team telling him to
come out with his hands up.
He fingered the trigger. Rayguns were
surprisingly quiet. But Oswald wasn't going
to miss the repeat of Hayden's revolver.
He kept inching his way in the crawlspace
and dropped out of a hidden ceiling hatch
behind Mr Xerk. He put his gun against the
back of Mr Xerk's head, and pulled back the
hammer with a solid click.
"Drop the toy gun."
Mr Xerk dropped the weapon. It landed on the ground with a heavy thud. He
chuckled.
"Oh we were just having a misunderstanding. I was just startled by your voice,
so I shot. Please, lower that...weapon, and
we can finish this like civilised life forms.
After all, I'm sure you are not allowed to be
found anywhere on Earth with a strange exotic alien in your home. Certainly your government has rules against this sort of thing.
At the very least, your employer."
Hayden became a professional soldier to
avoid these sorts of quandaries. They made
his trigger finger itch. He knew Oswald
was waiting for even the slightest hint of
trouble...
There was really only one option. He
clubbed Mr Xerk with the butt of gun, and
the alien crumpled. Hayden shot twice at the
ground.
And waited.
The sound of sirens went off a few blocks
away. Hayden got his escape hatch ready, a
hidden narrow passage that went under the
house thirty feet to a capsule launch pad,
which would bring him to his ship.
He rummaged through his kitchen drawer, and brought out a small spray canister
labelled WAKE THE DEAD! He emptied the
bullets from his revolver and placed it in Mr.
Xerk's empty ray gun holster. He then gave
the Ghederian a good spray, and slipped
down into his passage.
Mr Xerk woke with a snort.
There were so many humans outside.
He had never seen so many but would be
damned if they would order him around.
He felt for the lump in his coat pocket. This
would be short work.
He strolled out, a smile on his face, the
siren lights flashing across his bared fangs.
A few of the officers gasped. The triggers of
all 15 weapons got itchier.
Mr Xerk drew fast and aimed a weapon,
not a ray gun, at the large armored car.
The SWAT team opened fire.
Skornt looked up slowly from his desk.
Agent Smith looked a bit more spent than
usual. Skornt put all three eyes back to his
flexiscreen.
"Forget something, did you?"
"Yeah, well, I..Yeah."
Hayden handed over the parcel. Skornt
brought out a small scanner and scanned it,
without taking his eyes off his flexiscreen.
He stopped for a second to check the scanner readings, then took the package, and
shoved it in a large metal chute labelled
"Incinerator".
"Thank you. And one more demerit for
your permanent records. You're on...thin
ice, I think is the phrase."
Hayden groaned, and slinked back to his
ship. @
DOUBLE
BUNNV
by Kentaro Ide
Curtis bought two sets of bunny ears, those
hairbands with fake ears stuck on them. He
cut the ears off of one of them and stuck
them onto the other, ending up with a hair-
band with four bunny ears on it, two on each
side. He painted them black and put them
on, thus creating a pair of quotation marks
to float over his head.
He filled a dropper with some animal
tranquiliser and added it to his dad's coffee. From the side, the drops falling from
the dropper looked like !, a symbol which
could also have been be used in describing
the loud thud of his dad's body dropping to
the floor minutes later. Curtis then shaved
the top of his unconscious dad's head completely bald so that from the front, his dad's
black sideburns looked like a set of parentheses. This was appropriate considering
that every story Curtis ever wrote may as
well have included a bracketed citation with
his dad's name in it. Curtis never read any
of his dad's stories, but for every story that
Curtis wrote his dad would always produce
an identical one that he himself had written
years earlier.
Curtis may have been attempting to communicate his frustration at being unable to
produce anything his dad hadn't already. He
slit patterns onto his wrists with a # knife.
The cuts were pairs of straight parallel lines,
like this: =. The blood was red, dripping and
making splatters like ; and :, and as his body
grew weaker the colour was all that Curtis
could look at.
But he couldn't end his life with a preposition. He cleaned up and bandaged up,
waiting for his dad to wake up. This would
probably take an hour or so—ample time to
think up an excuse for his actions, a story to
tell his dad. Maybe he would finally be able
to come up with something original that
his dad had never written, and in that way,
maybe this excuse would justify not only his
actions, but his own existence as a writer.
Curtis sat down on a stool beside his
dad's body and ponde^jg^J^ouched over in
He took the
ymbolic gesj
I ion was
the shape of a questj
bunny ears off his h
ture, but the inten
come.
It was a
unique expern
dad had neve
parentheses
clamation pq
No, grandp.
there wo
knock hi:
Curtis
even und
hailed as
his gener
couldn't
already. E
offshoot
Ion. Apprj
Curtis fel
course o
:. Buth,
Pa-
od starting p
have a
with. Surely his
ndpa's head into
randpa with an ex-
'earing bunny ears.
} anic, not a writer—
een any reason to
and shave his head,
is dad would ever
ustration. Kurt was
most original minds of
is, a budding writer who
ing that his dad hadn't
me, Curtis was just a pale
d, a semi-colon to his co-
analogy considering how
is dad—he was thinking of
that resemble * rather than
m
ed in a mess on the
table—the latest story penned by Curtis
and written by Kurt. This one was about a
romance between two sperm cells. Tragedy
descends when their exodus to the promised
land is cancelled by masturbation.
Curtis looked at the two versions: same
to the last, (comma or sperm cell). It was
strange, for in all aspects of his life Curtis
I nee to wor°
shaved gq
r drugged
nt while «
was a mee,
Tdn't have \ j
unconsciou
doubted that
>rstand hiM&
)ne of the'
tion. Cur
f his da1
apriatel
1 about.!
colons
iigressi
rs were stac
always saw himself as the opposite of his
dad—whereas Kurt was a conceited worn-
aniser, Curtis was a more modest one, and
while Kurt was unrepentantly indulgent
when it came to vices such as alcohol and
drugs, Curtis always felt a twinge of guilt
during his own binges. So different, and yet
the stories remained the same. It was as if
his genes had concentrated solely on replicating the creativity of older generations.
A scratching on the floor brought Curtis'
attention back away from his thoughts—Kurt
was coming to. Quietly and without any fret,
Curtis decided that only the truth could satisfactorily explain his actions. He crouched
down, helped his dad up and set him down
on the stool. Kurt was still groggy.
"You okay dad?" Curtis asked, putting
a hand on his dad's shoulder. Kurt looked
ridiculous with the top of his head shaved
clean. "Dad?"
"Dad?" his dad echoed.
"You okay dad?"
"Who's dad?" his dad asked weakly. Or
was it "Whose dad?"
"Dad?" Curtis' concern changed its tone.
"Who are you?" his dad asked him, looking at him for the first time.
"It's me—Curtis. Your son?"
Kurt visibly struggled to find his son but
all he could see were two anonymous eyes
and a slanted nose: %.
"Don't you remember?" Curtis asked. "I
write stories, I just showed you my newest
one this morning. Don't you remember?"
"I don't remember a thing..." Kurt whispered. "I don't...I don't even know who I
am."
"You're Kurt, you're my dad. Mom left
you after I was born. You're a freelance journalist and you also write novels."
"I'm Kurt..and you're Curtis? What the
hell was I thinking, giving you that name.
And you said that you showed me a story
that you wrote?"
"Yeah, this one right here," Curtis said,
handing his dad the papers on the table.
Kurt took them and looked^«rt3lj^)ver. He
read a few pages, chuckling ^re and
there, skipping over the reffl S.
"This is pretty good,'^ gfid after
a while, still smiling, ira ^d up at his
son and felt proud, e^S ^h he didn't
remember him at alME8i™Tie there two
copies though?" he a:
Curtis paused foB Wbut only a
second.
"I printed out tw 139     BSWST he said. ftp'
 c
by Geoffrey W.Cole
Rousse didn't notice the stranger when he
joined the loose ring of villagers waiting to
watch her burn; she was busy praying for absolution. At her feet, Pious Mathieu was trying
to spark a flame with his flint and steel but the
driving rain foiled his efforts.
"Fetch me a flame!" Pious Mathieu bellowed at the Fouinon brothers, who had
helped build Rousse's pyre. "A lit lamp or candle, anything. We must see this witch burn!"
"Please, good neighbors," Rousse's voice
was rough and splintered from longs days of
screaming. "Hear my final confession."
She looked to the dripping crowd for any
friendly face. As always, her father's dark eyes
drew her gaze first Those eyes had haunted
her for a fortnight now, ever since he'd fixed
them on her and made that first accusation.
"I didn't kill Mother," Rousse said. "You
know it, Father. I only used my herbs to ease
her pain. Forgive me, as I have forgiven you
for the lies you've spoken against me."
He crossed his arms over his barrel chest.
Rousse knew he wouldn't speak, but she'd
made her forgiveness and that was what
counted. Rousse looked to the tall thin man
next to her father, Gilbert le Brun, with his
large brood of filthy children swarming about
his feet
"Monsieur le Brun, I killed your dog, but
it was only because the mutt wouldn't leave
my sheep alone. I told you this and offered
you one of my dogs. Please, forgive me that
killing."
Gilbert le Brun's laughter turned into a
rheumy cough.
"I forgive you nothing, witch. I know your
true nature. My eldest daughter saw you copulating with the devil on the night of the new
moon. You shall burn for the evil you did my
dog and you shall burn so my daughter may
sleep at night!"
There were others in the crowd from
whom she wished to beg forgiveness, but
when the Fouinon brothers stepped out of a
thatched cottage at the far end of the square,
Rousse realised she had little time left to
make her peace. She turned to the men who
had condemned her. Father Tristram stood
beneath his tall hat reciting invocations while
Pious Mathieu continued to work his flint and
steel.
"Father Tristram, Pious Mathieu, it is from
you that I must ask the greatest forgiveness.
The Lord didn't give me sufficient strength to
withstand the tests you put to me and in my
weakness, I lied. I lied when I confessed to
consuming the flesh of babes torn from their
mother's womb. I lied when I confessed to laying with other women in great orgies with the
Devil. I lied when I confessed to renouncing
the Christian faith. Worst of all, I lied when I
confessed to making a pact with the devil and
to being a witch. Please forgive me for these
lies, as I have forgiven you for the cruelties
you inflicted on me to draw those lies out"
"Pah," Pious Mathieu spat into the clinging
mud. "Shut your wicked mouth, whore of Satan. You confessed to your crimes before the
Lord, there shall be no recanting now!"
"Do not heed her twisted words," Father
Tristram broke from his monotonous chanting to address the crowd.
"She tries to poison our minds with her
heresy. She is a witch and a heathen and so
she shall burn."
Her best efforts at absolution made, Rousse bowed her head and prayed.
"I am ready, Lord. Take me to you!"
"You see," said Father Tristram. "She
dares address the Heavenly Father personally. Watch now as the Lord strikes her down."
The Fouinon brothers pushed through the
crowd, a faint orange glow leaking from beneath the cloak they held between them. They
pushed past Madame Boileau, who claimed
she had seen Rousse flying over her fields before her crops failed. They shouldered Abram
Caier out of the way, who had accused Rousse
of making his young wife barren.
Then they pushed past someone else,
someone Rousse didn't recognise. The stranger was dressed in a thick foreign overcoat that
seemed to be made of spun glass. He stared
at Rousse with sad, bright eyes. Rousse
was about to call out to him when the Fouinon
brothers arrived at her pyre. They upended
the lamp they carried, spilling oil and flame
[rsqim?, m ffta^ m*w
KINDUNG HOPE
onto the pitch-soaked kindling at her feet The
flames were blue and sickly at first and spread
like an evening fog. She thought for a moment
they might go out, so she sent a prayer to the
Lord, begging Him to take her to Him quickly.
Then the straw ignited. The fire burst to life,
sprouting into ugly yellow shoots that pushed
up through the loamy kindling.
"Hallelujah," Rousse called as the flames
singed the hem of her soaked woolen shift
Then everything stopped. The fire no longer burned. Rousse kept expecting the flames
to waver and fall as all flames must, but
they stood as cool and still as a cornfield at
midnight
They wedged nails
up dn the red hdt
irdnb, and as they
pulled dut the nails
they pulled dut vile
cdnfessidns frdm me
df evils that i never
committed.
"What devilry is this?" Rousse whispered.
Like the flames, the crowd was frozen. Pious
Mathieu hung suspended in the air, having
jumped heavenwards in ecstasy. The Fouinon
brothers, Father Tristram, and the other villagers were frozen as well. Her father looked
exactly as he had moments before, but when
she moved her head his dark eyes no longer
followed. The rain hung like pear-shaped diamonds in the still air.
"Lord, free me from this wretched
sorcery."
"Not quite yet, I'd imagine," An odd voice
answered her. "Let's get you down from there
first"
The glass-robed stranger. His voice sounded like he was yelling at her from the far end
of a large barn, and his words weren't right
either. They were rounder somehow and longer in the vowels.
"Keep back, you vile thing," Rousse struggled against her bonds, "No demon shall
touch me!"
"Come now." The stranger pushed passed
Father Tristram who fell to the ground like
freshly cut timber. "I am no demon. Do you
see horns? A tail? I'm here to save you."
He stepped onto the pile of kindling.
"As the Lord is my witness," Rousse said, "I
shall not be tempted! I know the Devil when
I see him. You mean to spirit me away. Come
no closer!"
The stranger walked through the flames,
which shattered like church glass and fell
noiselessly to the ground. His appearance further confirmed his devilry. His hair was white
as morning snow, though his face held no
more years than did her youngest brother's.
The stranger veiled his river-blue eyes with
thin wired lenses. The overcoat that had first
caught her attention was a threaded cloth of
some glassy yarn that did not move with him
as he walked.
The stranger knelt before Rousse and took
what appeared to be a stunted knitting needle
from his belt When he touched the needle to
the hemp cords binding her to the pole at the
centre of the pyre, the thick rope melted like
candle wax.
"There, you're free. Do you still think I am
a devil?"
Rousse stood dumb, looking at her bruised
wrists, shivering. The stranger noticed her
chill. He pulled a small square of the glassy
fabric from his belt and began to shake it; the
square grew with every shake until the sheet
was the size of her mother's best quilt The
sheet was as warm as one of Rousse's ewes as
he draped it over her shoulders.
"The Lord is testing me," Rousse muttered,
afraid to look into those terrible blue eyes. "He
has made the Devil sweet to my eyes and his
actions kind, but he shall not have my soul."
"I don't want your soul." The stranger
stepped off the pile of kindling. "I'll say it
again, I'm no devil. Come, let me take you
from this terrible place."
The stranger extended a slim-fingered
hand to Rousse. Her own hand betrayed her
and extended to his. When their hands met,
the stranger cried out
"What's wrong with your fingers?"
"They wedged the nails up with red-hot
irons, and as they pulled out the nails, they
pulled vile confessions from me of evils I
never committed. The thumbscrews crushed
my fingers and when they did I recanted
Christianity."
Rousse almost believed the pity she saw in
his smooth face.
"It is as horrendous as the old books said.
But we can fix your fingers, I am sure of it
Come with me. A doctor must see to this."
"Where shall you take me?" Rousse stopped
in the small forest of orange flames. "To some
craven hole in the ground where you shall
ravage me time and again until I am yours?"
"No, no. This talk is madness. I'm here to
rescue you. You wouldn't understand where
I come from. Please, do not delay any further. I cannot sustain the field for long."
Rousse took her shattered hand from his.
"Tell me where you would take me, Devil.
What temptations have you that could keep
me from my Lord?"
The stranger said something that Rousse
couldn't understand. He seemed preoccupied
with a coin-shaped device strapped to his
wrist
"Rousse, I am from a city not far from
here but years from now in time. I come
from a France almost a thousand years from
now. I have employed a device that can navigate the tides of time as a ship navigates the
sea. I have been granted its use to save those
like you who have suffered unjustly—"
Rousse laughed for what seemed the first
time in years. "A child wouldn't believe such
ridiculous lies. If this is all that you can offer,
it is a wonder the Church fears you so. Leave
me. End this cursed sorcery. I go to the Lord
The Cathdlic
church has caused
me naught but suffering,  i ll find
my dwn way td the
Lord. There s nothing   MDRE  YDU   CAN
say Devil.  Begdne.
now; I have passed his final test."
"No!" the stranger wailed. "Do notbe a fool,
Rousse. You are going back to certain death! I
offer you a chance for life. There are priests
in my time who can help you understand
this, good Catholic priests who will take your
confession and help you find the redemption
you're looking for. But you must come with
me, our time is short!"
Rousse wrapped her hands around the
pole and tried to knit her ruined fingers together. "The Catholic Church has caused me
naught but suffering. I'll find my own way to
the Lord. There is nothing more you can say,
Devil. Begone."
This seemed to infuriate the stranger.
He clambered back up on the pile, grabbed
her soaked shift and tried to pull her off
the pole. When her broken fingers ground
together, Rousse screamed out all the pain
inside her. This calmed the stranger's sudden madness.
"We may not return to the same time and
place twice," the stranger said, releasing
her. "And I am sworn to protect the current
of history. This is your only chance. I offer
you safety, true salvation. I am no devil. I am
only a man who wants to heal some of the
suffering other men have inflicted." A light
seemed to come into his eyes. "If I am lying
may God strike me down."
This made Rousse pause. She saw sincerity
in those eyes, but she'd seen similar sincerity
in the men she'd called neighbors days before
they accused her of witchcraft. She doubted
her resolve for a moment, then Rousse remembered one of the tests she'd failed while
Pious Mathieu crushed her fingers.
"If you are indeed telling the truth, repeat
the Lord's Prayer and I shall go with you. No
demon may utter those blessed words."
The stranger's mouth dropped open, revealing perfect white teeth that Rousse knew
could only belong to a fiend.
"It's been years," the man said. "Since I
was a child. Of course I know it Our Father,
who art in heaven..."
He looked at his wrist
"Hallowed be thy name. Thy Kingdom
come, thy will be done..."
Rousse smiled as he paused again; she
knew he would falter soon.
"In Earth as it is in Heaven," the stranger
again looked at his wrist. "I can recite the rest,
but please step off the pyre. The time field is
about to end."
Rousse didn't understand him, "I won't
move until you finish. Start again."
He did, repeating all he'd said, then, "Give
us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our
trespasses, as we forgive those—"
The world roared to life around them. The
fire sprang up where it had fallen and the
screams of the crowd returned, changing to
outrage when they saw they other figure on
the pyre with Rousse. She yelled over the sudden noise:
"Continue, stranger. Finish the prayer if
you can."
Her robe no longer smoldered but readily
caught fire.
"As we forgive those who trespass against
us..."
Acrid smoke choked the air, filled with the
stench of burning flesh, pitch and wool. Rousse held her breath. He was close.
"For thine is the Kingdom, the power and
the-"
Rousse threw herself onto the flames.
"But I said it!" she heard him scream. "I
said it right."
"No," Rousse managed through the thick
smoke. "And lead us not into temptation, but
deliver us from evil."
The stranger fell backwards away from
her. She could see the Fouinon brother on
top of him, beating him with their heavy fists
while Pious Mathieu cheered. Father Tristram
had picked himself up and now continued his
invocation. She could just see her father—the
look on his face somehow satisfied—before
the fire took her eyes.
She could still hear though, and now the
stranger called out to her, repeating the words
she'd just uttered:
"And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil!" he cried, and she heard
one of the Fouinon brother's scream. Then
the stranger's cool hands wrapped around
her burning body and drew her close.
"I said it," he whispered to her blackened
ears. Rousse could smell mint on the stranger's breath despite the smoke. "It's not too
late. I can still take you with me."
"Deliver us from evil," she said. "Amen."
Then all was flame. \i
by Caleb Das
And here you are, Mio, a spider.
Not because you are trapped in a
web of your own creation, deriving nourishment from the spinning dervishes you call prey, but
because you are just that—a spider. Consider this, you have eight
legs, a variety of shards that feel
and move all at once and at the centre, I can never know what you are
thinking.
"I'm hungover, Mio," I breathe
into the voice unit. "Just let me know
where the passengers are before we
hit the red light, okay?"
There is no response. Presumably, you are pondering existential
questions or simply musing on
whether you will ever find another
spider that lives within my lover's
head. I have long since accepted
that nothing will ever be perfect
for you, my lover's spider will
inevitably have a spindly fourth leg
or an unattractive mole on the proboscis. The owner may have gigantic boobs, but that is never an issue,
is it? Mio carino.
The year is 2525 and Man has
left the known confines of the Milky
Way after puttering about within it
for centuries. We have cured the
common cold. We have made rainforests bloom where there were
none. We have mastered the art
of conveying emotion with just a
single glance or a cursory touch.
Orgasms are had simply by pressing two bodies together - tightly. It
is not unusual for men and women
to drop dead on the subway from
too much contact. Those tight narrow spaces, those tight carbon walkways. It costs fifteen credits to touch
someone now.
Along the way somewhere, we've
adopted a certain spider. We attach
it to the brain at birth. For a species
on a tightrope, the spider's sense of
balance has never been more handy.
Around us, many millennia of possibility whirl continuously. Balance is
at a premium.
Drgasms are had
simply by pressing
twd biddies tdgeth"
er--tightly.  it s ndt
unusual fdr men and
wdmen td  drop dead
dn the subway frdm
tdd much contact.
I try to wake Mio up by tapping
my skull lightly and tilt to a side
to loosen him from the folds of
my cerebrum. I can't say I've ever
seen inside my own head but
I can imagine the cerebrospinal fluid he lives in to be pretty
sticky. When spiders die, people say it's because they are
far too weak to move about in the
cerebral muck. Alcohol reportedly thickens the soup that sloshes
inside our skull, weakening the
spider of the mind. It is then
swallowed up by the cerebral fluid. So I wake up Mio and squirm
in my seat, waiting for that
jolt of electricity that signals his
awakening. It is almost 6am,
time to go to work. Time for Mio
to guide me through this sky-borne
city towards all the people that
need a ride someplace, other workers, drunks on the morning patrol,
students.
"I'm hungover, Mio," I repeat
"Just let me know where the passengers are before we hit the red light,
okay?"
A tingle in my ear lets me know
he will. It's a faint tingle. I worry
in /7/f
mm0                                                                        OKER CHEN PHOTO ILLUSTRATION
HERE
W
mm   * W
*^^^
III                  V
LOVE IN SP>
^t^^^H   ■
about Mio. It doesn't take much
alcohol to make him sluggish.
I haven't had much more than
two snifters of Sagittarian brandy
and he's already having trouble
waking up.
"Wake up, Mio. I can see someone up ahead." It is unusual for anyone to skulk on the roadside in this
neighborhood. Cylent Grove is a retirement community and everyone
knows the old folks all have fancy
rides. Even up here in space, only
the old folks are ever well off. This
person, however, is not The roadside lurker seems to be a middle-
aged woman, drunk. Perfect
"Need a ride, lady?"
"Uh-huh. How far will you go
for some old-style absinthe, young
man?"
"Wherever you need." I smile.
This should be interesting. "You
hear that, Mio?," I whisper into the
voice unit "Come aboard, miss."
She slides into the seat, Finland-
ia on rawhide leather. It is oddly
kinky watching someone who has
nothing more to gain. There are
bags under her eyes from nights
of absorbing everything the universe had to throw at her. On her
pixie face, a knowing smile flickers.
She likes being watched, appraised
for the contents of her purse as well
as her body ,toned by years of careful decadence.
"Been doing this long?" Her voice
is creamy and dulcet "You missed
the exit, you know."
"Fuck, eh? It's been a busy night
for us. Where did you want to go
again?"
Mio is supposed to know this.
Mio is meant to communicate with
the passenger's spider and relay
the destination to me in our common language of electricity. I am
meant to see her journey in a
constellation of synapses, picking
my way through the hazy morning and the blinding glare of the
dual sun on instinct Mio is a being
dedicated to following the phero-
mones of his own kind. Don't fail
me now...
"You wanna go to Circa, lady?"
It's where all the rich women go
after a long night of chemicals and
synthetic organisms. Her brain is
probably spinning, begging for the
revitalising showers of sage and jojoba. Circa is the only place in this
system where those plants can be
grown—something to do with the
way the rays of the dual suns intersect It is expensive. She looks like
she can pay.
"Presumptuous, aren't we?" Her
smirk widens. "Having some trouble up here, honey?" a lean finger
pointing at her skull.
"You tell me, lady." I tap my skull
with the knuckle of my right hand.
"Yes, let's. The Circa sounds wonderful right about now."
And right then, the unexpected.
She thrusts her hand through the
fabric of the dividing membrane.
I feel two fingers at the base of my
skull. "Don't move", she grins. "It's
not what you think."
I pause, waiting for a tremor to
build within me. If Mio awakens, I
might, I just might manage to have
an orgasm that I didn't have to pay
for. I tap my head nervously, wondering if Mio will kick in before she
decides to withdraw her fingers.
Two fingers.
I tap my head again, insistent.
I can see her mouth widen into a
smile.
ydu know when a
spider makes ldve
td a real brain,  it
dies.  Collapses into
itself.  it swallows
itself up, dne spider
leg at a time.    mine
died a lone time ago.
"Don't feel anything, honey? Am
I not your type?" she chirps, giggling
because the question is rhetorical.
She thrusts her chest out teasingly,
her nipples visible through the fabric of the suit
"My damn spider, lady. Mio will
kick in at some point He's a good
lover, you know. Just keep doing that
and you'll see." I never did learn to
modulate my voice. The words spill
out the way they were conceived,
pitifully.
Her laugh is soothing. Her fingers
stay where they were. "Whatever
you say, honey. The name's May—after the month, not the perfume. Mio
better kick in fast or you'll think I'm
just a tease."
My eyes focus on the sky-lane.
I think of Lily, of sex on the forests of Chira's moon; our mutual
arousal in the vintage clothing of
the 1900s before we'd even dreamed
of spiders; of the twin girls hitchhiking across the galaxy—things
that send electric pulses through
Mio's arachnid mind at the very
thought Sex among spiders is a com
mon ritual. It ends as soon as it begins but brings with it the possibility
of numerous carnalities. It is a
simple ritual that requires no
investment And to be fair, the
only kinky thing about sex with
the twins was nothing but the
simultaneous humping of the three
spider minds. That never takes
more than a minute. This is not
working. Mio is lifeless. I'm no
closer to release now than I was five
minutes ago.
"I could do this all day, honey, so
stop trying so hard. The spider will
kick in when it wants to. Relax." As
an afterthought, she adds:
"What's your name, driverman?"
"Tony," I mutter tersely. I've given up on Mio. "I don't know what's
wrong with Mio, lady May."
She raises a finger to her lips.
"Never lasted this long, huh?
In the old days, this would not be
shameful, honey. People like that
sort of thing."
I tap my skull again. I can hear
my cerebral mush slide over my
brain, ignoring my pleasure centers,
the consistency of treacle conquering my insides in large swathes. Oh
Mio carino. This will not do.
I am not aroused. The press of
her skin upon mine does not end
in an explosion of heat and light
The pit of my stomach lays un-
churned, an ocean parted neatly
from coast to coast, beckoning ecstasy. Disappointment trickles into
my bones. Turn me, turn me to
clay.
"We're almost there, honey.
You're not going to make it, you
know," she whispers, her voice
dropping down to a polite whisper.
"You know, when a spider actually
does make love to a real brain, it
dies. It collapses into itself. It swallows itself up, one spider leg at a a
time. Mine died a long time ago." It
sounds so much like the truth. Her
voice is sad. I don't want to believe.
"Mio? Mio?"
"Spiders don't belong in cages,
Tony. You don't drink to kill spiders.
The spider makes you drink so you
can kill it It's like suicide. Love's
like that."
"Mio? Mio?"
The car stops somewhere near
The Circa. I don't remember where.
I could never hit a woman. So I
turned her out on a sidewalk on a
quiet neighborhood. I could never
hit a woman. So I turned myself out
On the sidewalk, I remember thinking 'Love's like that' It sounds so
much like the truth. tS (m
BLOOD FOR OIL
by Beth Langtord
noori Khatib's car ran on blood.
Don't be alarmed: itwas his blood. And luckily, he had a lot of blood.
Noori was quite pleased with his car. It saved
him loads of money—$20,003.39 a month, he
calculated. Blood was, after all, much cheaper than gas. Plus
if he had a heart attack while driving, as he did from time to
time, he could just hook his bloodstream up to the car, and
he'd be good to go. If his car had a heart attack, now that
wouldn't be cool. Tow trucks aren't cheap you know.
Noori Khatib, aged 19, a student of biotechnology at
North End College, 190 cm, 134 kg, with startling fuchsia
eyes, hair like brazen crows outside a fast food joint, a skin
tone he credited with his escape from early childhood melanoma—he hadn't gotten cancer until he was 14—and prone
to wearing a t-shirt three years out of fashion, was generally
given a lot of room on the road.
Yet another benefit of having a car that ran on blood.
But I still didn't know why I'd been told to keep an eye
on him. Since my assignment to monitor his daily activities
began, I'd been treated to three weeks of utter boredom.
ik 2c 2c
Presently, Noori woke up, yawned, and in bear-like
swipes, trashed the ad windows that had popped up in his
room the past night.
I guess he needed a new ad filter.
I also guessed he needed new socks—the ones he put on
had holes in the heels and the toes. Perhaps that would be
my excitement for the day: monitoring a visit to the local
department store. But unfortunately, even that was not to be.
He ordered the ad filter online while duct-taping the socks.
I called up the sudoku game I'd had in progress for the
last three days and prepared for another mind-numbing
day of work. This was my summer job—security these days
was mainly contracted out to freelancers like me who could
monitor their assigned subjects from our own homes. There
was simply so much footage to be viewed that on-site screening was impractical. This large volume of work was also the
reason they had to hire goofs like me. As for why I took the
job? Being in an air-conditioned apartment sure beat tree-
planting with a 10-pound oxygen tank on my back.
Now—and I had memorised this routine by the third day
—Noori went for his daily medical check-up. I watched him
hop in his car (covering his mouth and nose until he was
safely inside with the door closed) and make his way from
his home in Chilliwack to the clinic at North End Biotechni-
cal. The two-hour commute (he woke late enough to avoid
rush hour) was at least mildly interesting. The waiting room
in his school's clinic was not, despite the cute kitten pictures
on the wall.
I opened a new window and scrolled through camera
views in search of something or someone interesting to
watch. I settled on the man in line before Noori. He fainted
at the sight of needles (there was a note in his medical record to that effect, anyway) so they brought in a medicinal
mosquito for his blood test.
Noori's own examination was boring. I found a half-empty bag of wasabi chips I'd forgotten I'd bought, and amused
myself by stuffing as many as I could into my mouth at once.
This wasn't, as I could have predicted, the brightest of ideas.
A couple minutes later Noori swerved to avoid a deranged
squirrel in The DNA Cafe's parking lot and smashed into a
garbage can—the non-virtual kind, I mean—and I jumped a
little and the chips nearly came out my nose. The Cafe patrons seemed to have similar reactions. One of them had
been sitting by the window; in fact, unbeknownst to her,
she'd been engaged in writing what was to become the most
popular fan-fic since copyright was trashed, the form became legit, and hundreds of teenagers became wildly rich.
You may have heard of her—Sylvia Nakata?
Though as yet she was not a page-hit billionaire, she certainly took her craft very seriously and was none too pleased
when her concentration was interrupted by the screeching
of tires and the uncanny whirring of a mutant squirrel. She
got up and banged on the window. Noori didn't notice her;
the squirrel stuck out its tongue.
Noori, for his part, didn't seem too shaken by the incident. He got out of his car, and after a brief five-minute
coughing, fit inspected it for damage. He checked the front
tires, the mirrors, the front bumper—everywhere, it seemed,
but the small area on the passenger door leaking blood.
"Your car's leaking."
I scrolled to the right to see who was speaking. She was
a fashionably paunched young woman with argon-blue
eyes and thin hair was like ragged crows outside a fast-food
joint in torrential acid rain. Nadia Chan, according to my
information.
"Urn, yeah. So it is, " Noori said, pulling out a small Sallie
Squirrel adhesive bandage and slapping it on the scratch.
Nadia eyed the leak suspiciously.
"Isn't that —" she began.
"It's   a   blood   car,"    Noori   said,   with   pride.    He
Blood car   kc-2.o&g
made to open a new browser window (the cafe offered free
wireless access), but must have decided that was rude. Instead he pulled out paper and wrote down the URL. I struggled to get a good enough angle on the URL to be able to read
it all—any domain name shorter than 40 characters had
been snapped up 20 years ago—but gave up.
"Oh no, it's ok. I'm not into blood cars," she said, turning
away.
"But they're good for the environment, you know. They're
the new thing in sustainable energy utilisation—" he tried.
She turned back, interested. To my intense joy, a long,
boring discussion on sustainable energy utilisation ensued.
It seemed Nadia was a computer science student at the University, and her honours thesis had something to do with
environmental something-or-other. I didn't quite catch it, as
I was carefully folding an intruding ad window into a paper
airplane and trying to toss it into the recycling. Made it on
the third toss.
2c 2c 2c
That night I received a quaint missive from my boss—on
the official eye-scorching orange letterhead, no less—beseeching me to be more attentive to my work. Apparently I
had failed to report a suspicious activity that day.
I didn't know bleeding in public was a suspicious activity,
but I suppose...
2c 2c 2c
Noori Khatib had a problem. I knew it as soon as I tuned
in to the news the next morning. The highly insightful scrolling headline? "Blood car leaks blood. I hoped that meant my
day would be interesting.
I was quickly disappointed. Noori's daily checkup was
followed by a visit to the auto repair shop, where the Sal-
lie Squirrel bandage was replaced by a plain blue one that
otherwise looked no more reliable. A routine tune-up and
red blood cell count followed. An hour later Noori was at
work in a lab at North End—he did something to do with the
red squirrel genome. (Trust me, it's less interesting than it
sounds.) It was only after work that he was made aware of
the growing backlash against blood cars.
Nadia sent him a mail on his way home, asking to meet
him far from the DNA Cafe. Something had to be done to
rehabilitate the blood car's image.
2c 2c 2c
"Alright, how are we going to convince people blood cars
are the way of the future?" Noori asked, sitting down on
a bench in Stanley Park, right by a window. Outside, grey
spruce bled beetles and acid sap. Inside, the plants were replaced once a week to keep the gardens green.
"Blood cars," Nadia mused. "Not the most appealing
term, is it? Why not 'hemoglobin-powered transportation
devices'?"
"Hemoglobin-powered transportation devices," Noori
said. "I like it."
"I have a plan," Nadia said. The plan, such as it was, was
to make a brochure listing the advantages of hemoglobin-p
(blood) cars, in terms of economic, social, and environmental costs. I was sort of disappointed, to tell the truth. Bored,
I typed "plan to create brochure" into my notefile. I felt pathetic, and backspaced it. Then I considered my prospects as
a tree planter next year, and put it back in. I hoped I would
not soon be asked to testify in a trial for "conspiracy to commit brochure".
ik 2c 2c
Predictably, I received a painful orange letter that evening, politely advising me that brochure-making activities
need not be reported.
2c 2c 2c
After a week of stepping on virtual paper-airplanes folded from their brochure, Noori and Nadia were ready to admit failure. The newscasts kept on with blood-car-this and
blood-car-that anytime they needed filler; the blogs were all
plastered with the same photo of Noori's car with the Sallie
Squirrel bandage (credit: Sylvia Nakata). No one in the mainstream wanted to talk about the benefits of hemoglobin-powered transportation devices.
It was while I was punching confetti out of a particularly
offensive ad window that my subjects decided they needed a
new strategy. It would have to, they figured, emphasise the
most dire issue surrounding traditional gas-utilising transportation devices, one no one could possibly be ambivalent
about: war.
"If people only knew what was going on..." Noori didn't
finish. I kept my notefile closed. This wasn't anything more
revolutionary than the daily discussions in my second-year
calligraphy course.
"We need to make people pay attention," said Nadia.
I went and fetched myself lunch from the kitchen. When
I came back, she'd diagrammed a plan. I realised what she
was explaining. This was her area of expertise, outreach. She
planned to find real footage of the wars, the stuff you didn't
see on the newscasts—then broadcast it all over the Lower
Mainland, on every screen, in every browser window. Itwas
like something from a bad action movie.
At this point a dense smog cloud passed in front of the
camera lens. I tried for a little to get a new angle, then gave
up and went and got myself an iced tea. Hooked out my window at the pale brown day and spaced out for a bit When I
wentback to work, not much had changed. The plan had just
shrunk: from their terminal in the North End Biotechnical
library, my subjects had discovered that but one company
controlled 95.7 per cent of the billboards in Vancouver. If
Nadia could hack into their system, it would be easy to get
the message out
2c   2c   2c
It wasn't until they had found the footage and Nadia began doing whatever she was doing—Noori looked as mystified as I was—that I realised she was actually going to do
it, if you're following me. I wrote an urgent message to my
boss. I hesitated before sending. I didn't really believe Nadia
was going to be able to hack into the billboard server. At this
point, and I didn't want to make a big deal out of it.
I was getting kind of tense—the bored kind of tense-
waiting for something to happen. Thirty-seven minutes
and eight seconds went by, then I received a note back from
my boss. The billboard company in question didn't pay
for our services, so I didn't need to report on the situation.
Well, that was convenient I put my feet up and opened
my sudoku window, but just at that point my subjects
seemed to get a little excited about something. Just a little.
Nadia was uploading the war footage onto the billboard
company's server.
2c   2c   2c
After that, I couldn't keep up with everything. Nadia and
Noori ran from the library; there were eventual traffic jams,
when and where (and if) drivers realised what was showing on the billboards was not regularly scheduled programming; there was a blood car chase ending when a crazed
mutant squirrel—one of the big ones—threw itself at Noori's
windshield and he swerved into a ditch to avoid it; there
were my two subjects being arrested for vandalism.
Later that night I decided to go back and view the footage over—I mean, the footage they put up on the billboards.
It was nothing I hadn't seen before. It started off showing
people in the Middle East, Iraq, mutilated bodies, Syria,
tortured prisoners, Iran, grieving families, cities I couldn't
place, all dusty and burning. It went around the world—and
two rare pedestrians in the foreground had children, and
one covered her child's eyes and the other told her child to
look—and the billboard ended up on Canada's wars, the war
with Greenland, the Oil Sands war with Alberta. I'd seen it
all before, but it made me feel angry, this time. The very
last image before the billboard company regained control
of its server was of a small and wide-eyed Albertan child
against a background of black smoke and planes. I felt a
little stunned, and then I realised I was tired. I made myself
some toast and then I went to bed.
2c   2c   2c
The anti-war protests went well, according to the newscasts. They described the protesters as peaceable, which was
an odd way to describe a crowd of 200 enduring heavy smog
conditions.
Nadia and Noori were fined for vandalism.
As for blood cars, they haven't really taken off yet, but
sales continue to rise. After all, and as the brochure says:
$20,003.39-a-month savings aren't bad, nor are reduced
emissions and resource consumption, increased road safety, or any of the countless other benefits proffered by a hemoglobin-powered transportation device. Q /7=
[rrQIM?, m Ete^ §W
~
—
	
m
CLDSE ENOQUNTCRS OF THE UUCAS KIND
by Caitlin D. McKenna
There is no sound in space. It is a
vacuum, after all. No air, no sound.
I'm guessing you people knew that
when you made all those movies, but you went to the trouble of
creating a whole lexicon of whizzes, buzzes, and crackles for your
imaginary spaceships to make
anyway. I could probably emulate
most of those sounds just with my
tongue and lips by now. It wouldn't
be too difficult: the sound of an x-
wing's lasers firing or a light sabre
humming aren't so different from
some of the sounds we Rezzerzarli
use to speak.
Maybe that was what fascinated
me so much about those stories
of a galaxy far, far away: the idea
that the tales were somehow trying
to communicate with me, though
I could hardly be their intended
audience. That I even managed to
discover something of appeal in
the data stream at all was something of a miracle. Out of all the
alien species my kind have studied, humans seem to put out by
far the largest volume of transmissions, most of them for pretty
frivolous purposes. I spent most of
my earlier years filtering through
this massive volume of alien entertainment in my spare time (which
was most of the time). Most of it
was mystifying, some intriguingly
so. What humans called science fiction drew the most interest from
me, especially the way nonhuman
races were imagined. The 'movies'
I liked best of all were those of the
Star Wars trilogy. I copied all three
into multiple storage crystals, and
would happily waste many cycles
watching and rewatching them,
slumped in a spare cradle in the
ship lounge with two hands laced
behind my head, the other two
balancing a bowl of popcorn on
my lap. (I had learned about this
delicious substance via the commercials that came through the
data stream our ship was plowing
through. After analysing its composition, it wasn't difficult to coax the
synthesizer into fabricating it).
That pretty much sums up what
my childhood was like aboard the
ship. Our group of Rezzerzarli xe-
nologists had set out for Earth a
generation before I hatched. The
other crew members had spent
most of their time since learning what they could about Earth's
inhabitants from their data transmissions as they floated into space.
But even though they had dedicat
ed their lives to studying humans,
none of the other Rezzers could
understand why I was so bloody
impatient to actually get to Earth.
Couldn't they understand, I asked
them all, the attraction in actually
getting to speak and interact with
the creatures whose culture had
shaped and informed my picture
of the world? It was at this point
that my brother Jisserl took me
gently aside.
"Susumithi, hasn't anyone told
you?" he started out, his small
amber eyes serious. "We're not
actually going down to the planet
in person once we get there. That
would be too dangerous and time-
consuming. The plan was always to
spend a few years in orbit analysing more of their transmissions,
and sending remote drones to the
surface to collect physical materials. But it will only be the robots going down there; not Rezzers."
I didn't say anything in reply then. I was simply too surprised—astonished, really. After
all this time spent getting there,
was Jisserl honestly telling me
that neither he nor any of the
other Rezzers were at all curious
to look more closely at what we'd
come to study? Well, they could be
detached, objective armchair xe-
nologists if they liked, but I knew
already that I had to either take action or miss the opportunity of a
lifetime. We arrived in Earth orbit
about a local month later.
So, you see, I had to steal the
shuttle.
Jisserl was pretty mad once he
got wind of what I'd done. I saw
him through the shuttle's sealed
bubble window as I was putting in
the last course adjustments into
the machine's computer. He came
pumping down the corridor on
stumpy legs, puffing in the simulated gravity. He started banging
on the shuttle hatch, his complexion turned a vivid purple in anger.
"Susumithi! What do you think
you're doing?! Come out this
instant!"
How could I reply? He and the
other Rezzers had had their chance
to dissuade me, to prove they
planned on being just as adventurous as me. But we'd been hanging
about Earth for long enough to convince me no one planned on visiting it in person, so I might as well
be the first. I waved to my brother
through the glass, then hit the eject
button.
Jisserl's face shrank to a blue
pinpoint as I shot down the eject
tube, then the whole ship was spinning away from my smaller craft
I caught a glimpse of it in passing,
a dark purple oval pointed at both
ends and studded with the sensor
arrays used for monitoring alien
transmissions. Then the planet
Earth swallowed the whole view
as my spherical shuttle swung toward it. I took a few minutes in
silent contemplation of the place.
It looked nice: big, lots of water,
some interesting land formations
besides. Of course, I didn't have
any other real worlds to compare
it to, as I had spent my entire life
on a spaceship no more than a kilometer or so in length. Even so, by
looking at Earth I could understand
where those directors got some of
their ideas for fictional planets.
I began to relax and lose interest in the view as the shuttle started down on its programmed flight
path. I dozed a bit, rousing only
to take inventory of the items I'd
stored earlier in the craft and to
check that the shuttle was still on
course. I hadn't wanted to go down
to Earth merely on a whim; I had
embarked on a mission of the utmost importance.
It was early evening where the
shuttle touched down in a plume
of soft dust I gathered up my supplies before stepping out onto the
silty soil of the new world. The
overcoat went around my topmost
shoulders, shrouding the rest of
my body to the ankles. The rest of
the items were smaller, and these
I dumped into the pockets of the
coat. The map of California I kept
out for reference; I would need it if
I expected to find the Lucas ranch
in all this countryside.
After some walking, I came to
the black ribbon of a highway. It
wasn't long before an unlikely contraption, seemingly composed of
ten percent metal and ninety percent rust, came shambling along on
cute little rubber wheels. I flagged
it down as I had seen humans do
in movies, except I had to use my
whole hand and wave. No thumbs
on us Rezzers, you see. Still, the
ungainly machine screeched to a
halt and the human inside swung
open the passenger door. I stayed
just outside the pool of light coming from inside.
"Where you headed, dude?" The
creature was tall and lanky, with
long, scraggly hair on its head. The
voice was just deep enough to be
a male's.
I cleared my throat, hoping
English picked up  from movies
would be enough to make him
understand.
"I would be grateful if you could
offer me safe passage to the George
Lucas ranch; my assembled data
tell me it is in this quadrant, correct?" Damn—I sounded like a constipated C-3P0.
The human didn't seem to notice. "You go there, you're bound to
be disappointed if you're looking
for the man himself. He's a guest
speaker at a sci-fi convention in
Sacramento tonight Me, I'm going
there. Say, you wanna come with?"
Potential disaster had just become opportunity. I nodded and
climbed into the other seat The human's eyes went wide as I stepped
into the light.
"Oh wow! Amazing costume,
man! Where'd you get that?"
"Made it," I said guardedly,
but I was grinning with both sets
of teeth inside. Could they really
be so immersed in fictional entertainment that they mapped it onto
their perception of reality? The better for me, I guessed.
"Totally cool. You'll be a hit at
the con." He slammed the acceleration pedal and we sped off.
Phases one and two had gone
without a hitch, though I hadn't
been too worried. I was prepared.
My only concern as far as getting
into the convention had been
whether or not diamonds were
acceptable as currency. Well, I got
that answer as soon as the con
staff saw the fist-sized rock I was
maneuvering out of my pocket I
was surprised at all the hubbub, really. It's no big thing for our ship's
synthesizer to make diamond out
of waste carbon from the sewage
tanks. I suppose one species' trash
is another's treasure.
Anyway, after that it was easy
to persuade them to tell me where
George was. I was second in line,
my paper and pen at the ready,
when I felt a familiar callused
hand on my upper arm. I turned
and met Jisserl's unsmiling face.
He had an actual disguise, some
kind of holographic projection, but
I could easily imagine the reproving expression underneath.
"We're leaving, Susumithi," he
hissed. "This ridiculous sightseeing trip ends now."
I opened my mouth to protest,
to say that I was almost there, when
suddenly, I was there. The last human had shuffled away, and I was
now face-to-face with the weaver of
my fondest dreams, George Lucas.
He was shorter than I had ex
pected. I searched in my mind for
the right words, wondering how I
could convey my profound fondness for his work.
"I really admire your movies.
Even though you didn't have the—
most advanced technology—they
seem really real. Would you give
me an autograph?"
A smile creased that hairy face
as he replied, "Of course, young
man, and thank you. What's your
name?" He took the proffered paper and pen.
"Susumithi," I blurted.
"Sue Smith? Oh, sorry, didn't
realise you were a girl under all
that. That's an incredible costume, by the way. Did you make it
yourself?"
I nodded mutely as he scribbled
his name in alien symbols on the
page. Tried not to glance at Jisserl
as he gripped my arm and glared.
I fingered the last item I had
brought, hidden in my pocket
"There's one other thing," I said
hastily. "I used to watch your movies on, uh, TV, but my...family's
moving away. Soon, we won't get
the right channels." I took my hand
out and gave what was in it to Lucas, who looked puzzled. The object
was small and oblong, resembling
a radio in yellow plastic.
"I wanted to give you this, before we have to go," I sent a pointed look at Jisserl. "If you hook it
up to a regular transceiver, it'll
broadcast the signal further. I invented it"
George looked a touch more enlightened. "You did? An amateur
radio enthusiast, are we?"
"Bit more than amateur. I just always liked your films, and thought
maybe if you had it, I'd still be able
to watch them..."
He nodded. "I'll see what I can
do, Sue. Nice to meet you."
That was it. Jisserl half frogmarched, half dragged me out of
there and into a waiting shuttle.
I could just imagine the lectures
awaiting me back on ship. I still
couldn't help but be pleased with
myself; beyond a doubt, I had completed my mission. See, it wasn't a
radio that I'd given old George: it
was a tachyon transponder. A machine designed to accelerate the
speed of a signal beyond the limits
of radio. With luck, he'll figure out
how to work it, and we'll be picking up signals long after we've left
Earth in our rearview mirror. Long
after the planet of my youthful obsessions has become just another
speck in a galaxy far, far away. \i
'ADVICE FROM A CATERPILAFT
by Kentaro Ide
As predicted, Arthur's entire
life flashed before his eyes as he
died. What the universe didn't
realise was that this aged actor's
eyes had seen more than a thousand lives during his life on stage,
and the combined weight of a
thousand lives worth of memories
and lines piled onto a single point
on the timeline was enough to collapse Time itself (because Time
can only take so much at a single
time). And Arthur the aged actor
fell through that tear in Time as
he left life behind.
He became without a body and
without a name, falling through
the space of no Time and no
Space—a non-signified something
absorbed into the chasm of a signified nothing. But it wasn't the how
or the why that concerned him but
rather, how long did he have to be
dead in order to die?
And he was told this: You're
alive until the world that begot you
realises that you're not, and death
only comes whenyour remains are
laid to rest The answer concerned
him, because if Time itself has
collapsed, hasn't the world
stopped? And the answer was no,
because the world doesn't run on
Time; it runs on clocks. You've
slipped into the crack of a single
tick and we converse in the wordless space of a perpetual tock, but
the world hasn't stopped. Clocks
don't stop, even if Time does...
Please stop—I'm just an old
man and I'd just like to die. But
if every second on the clock is an
eternity in this space, I guess I
have quite a while to wait
What, he was asked, is this I
that you are attached to?
And it was realised then that
Death and Time and I are only
states of mind, only signs that seduce the mind with promises of
what supposedly lies behind them.
To strip away the signs and find
that which is signified, to see a
thing for what it is in and of itself,
we follow the signs that we seek to
leave for lack of anything else.
And so Arthur was created for
the sole purpose of being left behind, just as signs are signified in
order to finally be set aside. The
first step in denying is to create
that which we deny, just as being
born is the first step we all take towards dying. Q m^
—=
RAn<i^i
WINDQ
fe& m mm^m*®
_ ,	
, „p his left
arm make Mr. Haffenblack get out the mirror.
After the second heart attack, he had asked the
■leave his chest open. Lulled by the coin
he offered, they had withheld their better medical
judgment and installed a window in Mr Haffen-
black's chest through which he could watch
/his heartbeat.
He polishes the mirror with a mono-
grammed handkerchief and a dab of
Windex and repeats the ritual on
.the oval window sutured into his
liver-spotted chest
The fist-sized organ beats
without rhythm,  the  buttery
rrface twitching asthmatical-
ly, triggering shivers of dizziness through Mr. Haffenblack.
)me on, then. Shape up."
Since the operation and the
m. it granted, he has
in the
apped them both with
no
« Iflbira JBwTOjg ssse
texfflss ®Esptai sudLwtaami	
Eih the Senate—and
heart to stabilise
"That's enough, young man."
He gave up sleep years before, a skill that proved
useful after the operation, allowing constant vigilance over the misbehaving organ. Tonight, despite
his watchfulness, his words have no effect. His heart
continues to flounder, the left chamber going into a
staccato spasm that sets him gasping.
"You...wouldn't..dare."
In the silver mirror, the smaller chamber gives a
final shiver and the entire pump shuts down. As his
vision fades, Mr. Haffenblack tries to smash through
the window, to grab a hold of his heart and throttle it
back to order, but, as he has instructed the doctors,
the plastic is unbreakable.
The mirror falls to the floor. Mr. Haffenblach
files a mental note before the polished glass shatters: next time, get them to install a door. ^
WE HAVE TO ASSUME THE WORST
by Neale Barnholden
The tape of the menacing sock puppet had
only been circulating for a few days when
"It's not a fake," said Josh, the ashen-
faced director of the National Security
Agency. A grainy composite of the sock, its'
googly-eyes somehow glaring beadily, was
on the board behind him.
"What," paused Greg, "do you mean,
exactly?"
"All the tests are in. According to the
best machines we have, there is no hand
in that sock. Greg," he repeated, "there's no
hand in that sock!"
Greg thought urgently. "Is it a foot?"
Josh swiveled his chair and stared at the
image. "No," he said after a moment, "it's
also not a foot."
"Well, I mean, could it be some kind
of machine? Like, an elaborate wooden...
Swedish thing?"
Josh grabbed Greg's lapels."In the name
of God, man! Don't you see! It's not a fake!
It's not a puppet!"
Greg stared. The figure looked for all the
world like a sock puppet with googly eyes
glued on. Before he was summoned to this
secret meeting, he had been faintly upset
that some prankster would debauch the
familiar image of a sock puppet, using the
harmless and adorable icon to deliver five
solid references of borderline incoherent
ravings filled with vague dread and inscrutable references to the Crab Nebula—which,
in the unforgettable cackling phrase of thei
sock puppet, was more properly known as
the Sock Nebula.
Greg was therefore even more upset toa
ster at all.
"People may never trust their socks
again," Josh was saying, "always clinging to
our feet, murmuring secrets to our hapless
toes..."
"The best case scenario is that when
they hit our atmosphere they somehow
turn into unthinking cloth, like our beloved
socks of Earth." Greg mused. "You know,
as though there were something in the
Earth's atmosphere that, like, stops socks
from becoming evil...which, you know, I
guess there apparently is, judging by all of
human history."
Josh looked at him, flabbergasted. "If
that were true, then the many socks our
astronauts have worn to space would have
revealed themselves with their base treachery by now. I can't believe you'd even say
that, Greg, it's so obviously untrue."
Greg put his hand over his chin. "Unless
they were socks of such evil that they were
able to deceive us—"
Josh abruptly stood up and slapped Greg
hard across the face. "Focus, man! If I wanted magic I would have called in a wizard!
Well, I didn't call in a wizard; I called you,
Greg! We have to assume right now that all
socks everywhere..."
Greg and Josh's eyes went wide in terror simultaneously. Seconds later Josh was
rolling on the floor, screaming and pawing at his own shoes. Greg had discarded a
shoe and was hopping in a circle yowling,
his sock perched at the end of his foot.
With an anguished cry, Josh hurtled
his footware, socks and all, into a corner.
Standing on his knees he threw his arms
wide and looked to the heavens.
"Look what they've done to us, Greg!" he
wailed, "We're barely men anymore!"
"Wait a minute!" exclaimed Greg,
"Josh, when was the last time you saw a
woman?!"
Josh thought carefully, "I've been working with the government on this crisis for
about a week, so... I suppose I saw my wife
a few days ago. Why do you ask?"
Greg clenched his trembling hands into
fists. "Josh, it's been a week since I've seen
a woman too. I didn't think anything of it
at the time, but...we've got to face facts. I
think it's possible..."
"No!" gasped Josh.
"Yes. In fact, I think it's very likely, almost certain, that mankind's distaff has
betrayed us," he sneered, "and gone over
to the socks!"
Josh blinked twice. Then he coughed.
"Just to be clear here. Um, 'distaff'..."
"Means female, yes."
"No!" raged Josh.
"For the sake of argument," yelled Greg,
grabbing Josh by the lapels, "we have to assume that socks from the Sock Nebula have
wooed all the girls to their side and are even
as we speak swiftly approaching Earth with
"Curse you, femi-sock axis!" swore Josh,
shaking his fist to the sky.
Greg twitched, threw himself into a defensive position on the floor, and stared at
the pile of shoes and socks in the corner.
He froze, all his muscles tensed and ready
to defend the free world against the sock-
and-also-woman armada. After a moment,
he spoke.
"False alarm," he announced.
Josh unsteadily rose to his feet. "It's
time to face facts."
"What do you mean?" barked Greg.
"In the time that we've been talking,"
stated Josh authoritatively, "the socks and
their so-called allies have probably conquered the world and are even now drawing up maps of administrative districts. I
would suggest that we cut our losses, contact them, and arrange peace...peace with
honour."
Josh and Greg turned as one to face the
composite picture of the menacing sock-
puppet. With one movement, they both saluted it. Tears ran down Josh's face.
"Darn you, sock," said Greg, his teeth
clenched, "darn you to hell." •& THE UBYSSEY  Friday, 23 March, 2007
Culture
15
Mimzy is just flimsy
THELASTMIMZY
nowplaying
by Jane Lee
CULTURE WRITER
Another attempt at creating a kids
movie that adults will equally enjoy, The Last Mimzy is obviously
distant from reaching the success
of Harry Potter. This family sci-fi
film is based on Lewis Padgett's
1943 short story, "Mimsy Were the
Borogoves." Although it is not as
entertaining as other adult-friendly kids movies, The Last Mimzy
is creative and interesting. But if
you're looking for a light, fluffy
comedy, this movie just doesn't
cut it, because the funniest part for
me was looking around the press
screening and realizing that I was
the only person under 40.
The story begins with a British
woman narrating a story about two
young children who discover mysterious toys, or so they think. As the
children secretly play with the toys
(why do they always have to keep it
a secret in movies and later cause
trouble?), their intelligence levels
shoot through the roof. Noah, the
elder of the two siblings, starts to
speak spider-language, and Emma,
the younger, develops the ability to
use telekinesis, and can levitate in
her bed and do all other sorts of
wacky stuff. Emma becomes especially attached to a stuffed bunny
rabbit that was among the aforementioned toys. The rabbit's name
is Mimzy, and it communicates
with Emma by making a creepy
gurgling noise, seemingly telling
her things that only she can hear.
The children's parents start to
worry about the unusual activities
they have seen out of their kids
when one night, while Noah is fiddling around with one of the toys,
it causes a blackout in half the state
of Washington. The government
traces the source of the power
surge to the kids' family's house,
and takes them all into custody at a
government research centre. After
taking a scientific scan of Mimzy
the rabbit, the scientists discover
that it is artificially intelligent and
part organic. Emma tells them
that a scientist from the future
sent these devices to their time in
search of pure DNA that must be
sent back to the scientist, in order
to stop the pollutants from killing
the world.
For a movie with six Academy
Award winning castmembers and
production team, it lacks a lot of
oomph, with a lot of awkward moments and just plain lousy acting.
The movie was not worth the four
dollar parking. Unless you are a
genuine sci-fi nerd, wait until it is
aired on television. O
Sucking is sweet
THEST00GES
The Weirdness
EMI Music Canada
by Paul Bucci
CULTURE STAFF
A melange of barely coherent riffs
and lyrics burst forth from my CD
player, covering me in the patented garage-rock music-sludge that
is Iggy Pop and the Stooges latest
release, Weirdness. With such winning lyrics as I see your hair as energy/my dick is turning into a tree,
I fall immediately in love, unable
to stop blasting this shit into my
booze-fueled brain.
Yes, my friends, Iggy Pop and
the Stooges still suck, and yes, we
still like it Iggy and friends never
were able to sell albums very well.
They recorded a bunch of haphazard songs, took a lot of drugs, fell
out of grace with a number of labels, and no one bought their music. But due to Iggy's stage antics,
they remain one of the most influential bands ever. Their attitude of
ignoring pretense and jumping in
head-first made them punk-rock
icons, sort of the ultimate Ameri
can Dream success story. They
came, they fucked around, and still
conquered.
The sound is pretty much the
same as any garage band you
have ever played in/had friend in/
jammed with while too drunk to
realize how stupid you look. There
is a sense of just grabbing some
guitars, playing the first thing that
comes to mind and just go-go-going with it. Which is pretty punk in
itself.
Imagine yourself in the beer
can-strewn backyard of some
shack just up the street from the
train tracks. Someone is lighting
their hands on fire, someone else
is trying to blow up the mailbox. To
your left a bunch of drunks gather
around a rag-tag band of musicians
whose mic stands are hockey sticks
taped to cinder blocks. This is why
Iggy Pop and the Stooges can keep
going. They just sing what is happening. These guys know what's
up. They know what's going on.
"Free and freaky in the USA!"
"She took my money!"
All these drunks can do is shake
their heads and agree. We've all
been there. I mean, man, she took
my money, too. And didn't even
say thank you. @
Computing your
Summer Semester
University Transfer Courses @ Langara College:
Transfers to UBC:
CPSC 1280-Unix Tools and Scripting
Introduction to Unix administration and scripting languages,
utilities, tools and techniques.
UBC CPSC 1st (3) if taken alone;
LANG CPSC 1280 & LANG 2280 = UBC CPSC 213 (4) & UBC CPSC 2nd (2)
CPSC 1401 - Introduction to Computer Electronics
Includes a thorough, comprehensive, and practical coverage of
basic electrical and electronic concepts and circuits with special
emphasis on trouble shooting and applications in computer systems
UBCEECE263(3)
CPSC 2280 - Operating System
Introduction to distributed systems; process scheduling and
management; memory management; file systems; I/O services;
driver architecture; operating system management and security
UBC CPSC 2nd (3) if taken alone;
LANG CPSC 1280 & LANG CPSC 2280 ■ UBC CPSC 213 (4) & CPSC 2nd (2)
CPSC 2720 - Distributes & Concurrent Computing
Covers Client/server models, processes and threads,
concurrence issues, and inter-process communication.
UBC CPSC 2nd (3)
CSIS 2500 - Management Information Systems -- Online Course
Explores the many ways technology assists organizations to
function and to understand the effects of information systems on
organization structure, management and its employees
UBCCOMM391 (3)
Register now.     |	
For more information contact csis@langara.bc.ca
www.langara.bc.ca/computing
earn more. Langara College. 16
News
Friday, 23 March, 2007   THE UBYSSEY
[t Ire\u b> y sse yj
Sfame£e46 GIVEAWAY
subTerrain Magazine's Summer Issue will be devoted
entirely to student writing from across the country.
Why Not Send Us Some Of Yours?
m
S^
.iflM=tf
^pJTN
rb"
/Put where \
1   willl go to   li
k*+y
\findthem1J\
#45 (Money) In Your Campus Bookstore Now! Only $4!
deadline for submissions: june 1st 2007
subp,
«9Q»-LI
errain
THl IIST IN OUTLAW LITMATUIE
subTerrain Magazine
po box 3008, main post office, vancouver, bc
v6b 3x5   www.subterrain.ca
www. u by ssey .bc.ca
Boosting funding for clean energy technology
Canadian government commits
$1.5 billion to tackle growing
greenhouse gas emissions
by Lars Rose
NEWSWRITER
Glittering with solar cells and built
to gold certification in the Leadership in the Energy and Environmental Design green building
rating system, the new National
Research Council Institute for
Fuel Cell Innovation building on
the southernmost tip of UBC campus was the ideal venue for Prime
Minister Stephen Harper's $1.5
billion ecoTrust announcement
March 13.
During the announcement
Harper also committed $200 million to support provincial projects
that will help reduce greenhouse
gas emissions and air pollutants.
Following similar announcements throughout Canada, Harper's presentation in Vancouver
made one thing clear: the Canadian government is now committed to tackling the growing greenhouse gas emissions and declining
air quality.
The federal government's plans
include the reduction of C02 emissions by more than 30 per cent by
2020, support for BC's Hydrogen
Highway, and several other sustainable energy projects.
Premier Gordon Campbell
emphasised that the most critical
component of forming an environmentally sustainable economy
with reduced impact is professional partnerships.
According to Campbell, $200
million from the ecoTrust invested in BC clean energy technology
is proof of solid partnerships.
"I am very pleased to be here
today with the provincial and federal ministers that work so closely
together with us as we build a
strategy in British Columbia, not
just for alternative energies, but
also for sustainability and the reduction of greenhouse gases while
we continue to build a strong and
vital economy in British Columbia," said Campbell.
In the long run, initiatives such
as the Hydrogen Highway and
clean, highly efficient energy converters such as fuel cells are just
one part in a long array of steps
that need to be taken in order to
reduce both environmental degradation and energy usage.
Professor Olivera Kesler, one
of Canada's leaders in clean high
temperature solid oxide fuel cell
technology, said that despite the
high hopes these new technologies hold, she is still doubtful it
will solve the global warming
problem.
"Although hydrogen fuel may
have a role to play in niche applications and in densely-populated
urban areas to reduce local air pollution, a hydrogen economy might
not solve the problems of global
warming or replace fossil fuels,"
she said.
She said that a large amount of
energy is required to produce the
hydrogen and the waste produced
by the process is similar to greenhouse gas emissions.
However, higher temperature
fuel cells, such as solid oxide fuel
cells, not only use hydrogen, but
also methane that could be harvested from landfill bio-gas or
natural gas, ethanol, bio-diesel
and even toxic carbon monoxide
as fuels.
"It should be emphasised that
all fuel cell types can convert fuels
to electricity more efficiently than
combustion engines or steam turbines with generators, and therefore their widespread use has the
potential to prolong existing fuel
supplies and to reduce greenhouse
gas emissions, while also eliminating the air pollution that leads
to smog, acid rain, respiratory diseases, and today's high health care
costs," she said.
These fuel cells are like batteries, but instead of solid state reactions, that can start a car battery
by oxidising lead, they oxidise hydrogen, creating only water as a
waste product
The reaction is facilitated by
catalysts, in the case of low temperature (90°C) polymer electrolyte fuel cells, using platinum, the
same metal used in catalytic converters in today's cars. High temperature (700-1,000°C) solid oxide
fuel cells use much cheaper nickel
as the catalyst. Scientists call the
reactions in the cell "electrochemical conversion" of the chemical
energy stored in fuels into electrical energy.
Instead of burning fuels like in
a car, wasting energy and producing various toxic by-products, the
reaction happens without a flame,
due to the presence of a catalyst
The electrons freed in that reaction can be used in electrical applications and motors. Fuel cells
also have no moving parts, which
makes these devices very low
maintenance. Or, to put it in the
words of the Prime Minister, "Hydrogen powered fuel cells have
the potential to produce energy
much more efficiently than the
conventional internal combustion
engine. They run silently, but best
of all, their only by-product is water vapour."
Two of the difficulties in the
large-scale introduction of fuel
cells to the global market, though,
are durability and cost This is
mainly due to an imbalance in
heavy tax subsidies for the petrol
and automotive industries.
John Tak, president of Hydrogen & Fuel Cells Canada, said,
"How are we supposed to compete
with something that has subsidies
built into it, when we [the alternative energy industry] are, in fact,
not working with the same advantage? We are not competing on a
level playing field."
It appears that the hydrogen
and fuel cell industry is Canada's
largest investor in clean energy
technology, investing 30 per cent
of Canada's total spending on energy R&D.
However, according to Tak,
Canada risks losing its global leadership position as other countries
see Canada's progress and implement strategies to partner with
their own private sector. Japan, for
example, is funding fuel cell industries with $300 million each year.
The country of Denmark, home to
Ris0 National Laboratories, an internationally renowned research
institute for alternative energies,
recently partnered with its private
sector through a National Wind
Technology Strategy and now successfully exports that technology
not only to Canada, but globally.
With only five million people,
Denmark recently adopted a National Hydrogen and Fuel Cell
Strategy with an annual partnership funding of $3 5 million
for industry. Tak estimates that
Canada is currently well ahead
of Denmark, but does not have a
National Hydrogen and Fuel Cell
Strategy, and thus might lose its
leadership role. @ THE UBYSSEY  Friday, 23 March, 2007
News
17
Nine projects under construction across campus
by Andre Coronado
NEWS WRITER
Walking around the UBC Campus, it's almost impossible to look
around without seeing at least one
of the following: a fenced off area,
men and women wearing orange
and yellow vests, dump trucks, or
cranes. All of these things point
towards a seemingly endless task:
building construction.
Here are nine main projects
around campus that involve one of
three things: building expansion,
renewal, or installation.
Main Library
Construction at Main Library has
been in effect for three years. The
work includes seismic upgrades
for the facility, and the addition of
a lecture theater, seminar rooms,
study space, and a cafe.
"It's actually more student
space than library," said UBC
Board of Governors (BoG) student representative elect Darren
Peets. The plans were to have the
construction work completed last
year, but delays have set the project back. Dan Bock, senior project
manager for UBC Properties Trust
said of the delays.
"It's a complicated project [It
involves] hazardous materials,
demolition, [and] excavation." He
also mentioned the problem of
finding workers for the job.
"There is a huge demand for
manpower, for trade contractors;
[the construction on Main Library]
is not the only project facing demand." Despite the unexpected
delays, Bock is confident that li
brary staff can start moving into
the new wings of Main Library by
October of this year.
The Old Barn Community Centre
Down in Hawthorn Place, construction of the Old Barn Community Centre pricing approximately
$3 million as well as some additional housing is currently being done. The community centre
should be completed within the
next few months and will be open
to Hawthorn Place residents soon.
Nine town homes are also being
built with an estimated pricing of
$1.5 million each.
Thunderbird Winter Sports Centre
The Thunderbird Winter Sports
Centre is being revamped for the
upcoming 2010 Winter Olympics.
Two of the new facility's three
rinks have already been completed, with the main arena, which
will hold approximately 7,000
spectators, sceduled for completion next July.
Marine Drive Residences
On the west end of campus, Phase
two of the Marine Drive Residences is currently in the works. Some
units will be available for student
housing this upcoming September; the rest will be ready for the
following school year. Renting out
these residences will cost students
between $650 and $800 a month
though some tenants will have to
sign contracts for the entire year,
starting in September and ending
in August
Alma Mater Society (AMS) VP
Academic Brendon Goodmurphy
is concerned with the idea of a full-
year contract.
"It's problematic to force the
year-long contract," he said. "A lot
of people want to go home for the
summer."
On the other hand, said Goodmurphy, some students will benefit from having student housing available during the summer
Beaty Biodiversity Research Centre
South of the Biological Sciences
building, construction is underway for the creation of a biodiversity research centre. The Chemical
Engineering building was recently
demolished to make room for this
new facility which will consist almost entirely of research labs,
with a small museum in the southwest corner for public displays of
various biology-related specimens
and artifacts.
Buchanan and Chemistry Buildings
Both the Buchanan complex and
the Chemistry building are undergoing projects by UBC Renew
to make them more seismically
sound, and to update their interiors. For Buchanan, the plans are
to renew all the wings of the building except the E block.
"E [block] was so far gone
that the repairing would've cost
two-thirds of the replacement
value/'said Peets. "They're going
to wait until it falls down and try
and get it replaced."
16th Avenue and Wesbrook
In the south campus area, along
16th Avenue and Wesbrook, a shopping mall and a grocery store, as
well as 2000 units of market housing are being constructed. The
development will also have a community centre and a school.
Gage Towers Area
Behind Gage Towers, construction is being done for the creation
of new condominiums. They are
owned by the Vancouver School of
Theology, which hopes to sell each
condo for around $1 million per
unit The construction should be
completed within the year.
Museum of Anthropology
The Museum of Anthropology is
expanding its storage space to accomodate for its collection. The
expansion will also add new research labs to the museum, which
will be available to graduate students and faculty.
Funding
While there are many projects
concerning the growth of the campus, only six of them are student
related.
Research facilities are funded
almost entirely by a combination
of the Provincial Government of
British Columbia and the Canada
Foundation for Innovation. Various donors usually provide for the
rest of the cost
Student housing projects are
self-funding.  Cost for the build
ing construction is borrowed, and
then it is paid back through rent
accumulated within the first 30 or
so years of operation.
The province of BC pays for half
of the construction costs for upgrades like the ones in Buchanan
and the Chemistry building, while
the other half is paid for by UBC
itself through the General Purpose Operating Funds (GPOF) of
the University. In turn, out of the
50 per cent of the cost that come
from the GPOF, about 15 per cent
is funded by student tuition fees.
The other 3 5 per cent is covered
by government grants.
Construction within communities, like that of the Community
Centre in Hawthorn Place, is funded through taxes paid for by the
residents of each area.
The large project in South Campus is strictly for market housing,
where UBC has essentially leased
the land to developers. UBC makes
millions out of market housing,
but some AMS Executives have
concerns over such business
deals. Goodmurphy worries over
the "non-transparency" of UBC's
endowment stating, "They don't
publish where the money goes."
He also worries over the possibility
of a "segregation of priorities" between the views of UBC as a school
and UBC as a neighbourhood.
Peets has concerns as well, particularly with the preservation of
UBC's coniferous forest adjacent
to Pacific Spirit Regional Park.
"There are many things that we
could do with the money. But if we
have to destroy the campus, it's
not worth it" @
(/?ms
inTERRCTIVE
BV
M
cteorn
The Acorn w/ Guests
Wed 28.03.07 - Gallery Lounge
Great Lake Swimmers
w/Jonathan Inc.
Wed 04.04.07 - Gallery Lounge
Visit www.ams.ubc.ca/events
for more event information.
www.ams.ubc.ca
sams .
^tutonncA
Look no further if you're
looking for academic help!
AMS Tutoring offers FREE tutoring services to first year
Math, Physics, Chemistry, and all levels English.
Our services include:
* Drop-in tutoring * Online tutoring
* Residential tutoring.      * Tutor registry
We also provide appointment tutoring at SI 7/hour.
Check out our website for more details at
www.ams.ubc.ca/tutorrng
or contact us at tutoring@ams.ubc.ca
AMS Tutoring is proudly sponsored by LEAP
AMS Insider Coordinators Required
The AMS requires two creative and hard-working individuals to produce this year's AMS
Insider. Working closely with the AMS Communications Planning Group and the AMS
Communications and Promotions Manager, they will have the awesome task of
producing a daytimer and student handbook filled with useful information for the
students of UBC.
AMS Insider Editor
This position requires a tenacity to put together the right information in a creative
readable style, and an eye for editing submissions to ensure clarity. Should be aware of
the issues surrounding student life and be able to identify opportunities to
communicate these issues in the publication.
AMS Insider Graphic Designer
This position requires an individual who is conversant
with desktop publishing, layout, and design.
Both positions work very closely together and in cooperation with the AMS Insider
Advertising Sales Department and require an attitude that oozes teamwork.
Full position details, compensation and application procedures
are available on our web site at www.ams.ubc.ca
Looking for someone to listen?
Speakeasy has now expanded the Peer Support Line service
(604 822-3700) to 24 hours a day Monday to Friday
and 8pm to 8am on the weekends.
Also,feel free to come by our desk on the
North side of the SUB concourse for drop-in peer support and
information between the hours of 8am to 8pm Monday to Friday.
rought to you by your student society
ims] 18
Editorial
Friday, 23 March, 2007   THE UBYSSEY
( Oh Conrad Black, Of
V       COURSE I'll Marry you!
Conrad Black's Cirque du Soleil
As students with no real vested interest in
corporate politics and high finance, it's
hard not to notice the unusual aesthetic surrounding the Conrad Black trial. Full-page
spreads describing his curt, confident demeanour over lobster tails and champagne,
staged press shots of the prosecuting team
fit for a primetime debut on Global, Donald
Trump's take on how Black handled his finances poorly, and articles about his wife
flipping Johnny Depp-style on a journalist
just don't seem to fit the usual mandate of
barebones, just-the-facts news to us.
Once the fog of glitz and glam lifts, Black
is simply a man, who, if found guilty, had
the worst business ethics, sloppiest bookkeeping skills, cruelest turncoat teammates,
and most tenacious defense lawyers the
corporate world has ever seen. But looking
at how the media is handling his case, you
would think he was as historic an anti-hero
as the Great Gatsby—and that's probably because he was described yesterday as exactly
that by columnist and longtime friend William Rees-Mogg.
It's unlikely that your average nine-to-five
cubicle slave has any real understanding of
the high-falutin' corporate policies and technical details surrounding this case. Terms
like 'non-competition payments' and 'related party transactions' don't mean too much
to everyday folk. Globe and Mail columnist
Christie Blatchford, who has been covering
the trial over the past few days, admits that
when it comes down to the trial's business
vernacular, she can barely make sense of
it, going so far as to assert that the logistics
of the case are impossible to relate to the
normal business transactions of a regular
citizen.
But if one thing's been made clear, it's
this: personal stories sell. One by one, each
paper is jumping on the bandwagon. Maclean's columnist Mark Steyn described how
the press was in full feasting mode, hoping
"it's not all going to be yawneroo stuff about
arcane points of US and Canadian tax law"
over the weekend. Ironically, despite the
surplus of coverage for the Black trial in the
press, there aren't too many who want to
pay much attention to the case itself.
But if few readers give a damn about the
'yawneroo' details of corporate tax law, and
few journalists can make much sense of it
in the first place, why is it that Black makes
front page news every day?
What we're seeing here is the Canadian
media equivalent of an orgasm while our
country's news outlets fawn excessively over
the downfalls of one of its most prolific and
wealthy citizens.
In Black's case, most people would say
it's happening because he's absurdly rich.
In light of the lobster tails and the lawsuits,
and the millions upon millions of dollars involved, one would have to be seriously naive
to argue against this. But in this case, it's
more than just money. The press has obviously become personal.
To some it looks like the media's at
tempting to take down its own personal
tyrant Buried under the fascination of the
lavish lifestyle is a tacit agenda to arraign
this modern-day oligarch. Naomi Klein said
in the Guardian that potential jurors for the
case harboured no sympathy for executives
who made millions while others worked
long hours and were barely able to make
ends meet—"I feel that there is corruption
everywhere." Anyone paid as much as Black
"probably stole it," the story goes.
Compare this to the Robert Pickton
trial. Holding true to the adage that 'if it
bleeds, it leads,' it's not hard to see why the
press would jump all over Pickton: the morbidity and rawness of a case like that gets
people's attention. "Bodies at Pickton farm
cut like pigs" is a lot more eye-catching than
trying to understand how "related party
transactions" and "non-competition payments" work.
So papers try to draw readers into the
case—regardless of its lack of relevance to
most readers' concerns—by pursuing information that is often more superfluous than
informative.
Black's case, while not Enron, is not dissimilar; the effects of white-collar crimes
are hard to see. He is just a man charged
with a crime. A rich media mogul who
allegedly stole millions, and, if convicted,
faces a maximum of 101 years in prison.
Did you get that? You might have missed
it while listening to what Donald Trump
had to say. @
streeters
If you were an alien who landed on Earth, what is the first thing you'd do?
—Miya Sueyoshi
Political Science, 4
"Scare people"
—Aaron Rosenberg
MA
"Kidnap someone"
-Jamie Tamez
Economics, 4
"Go to a bar and have
a drink."
—Alicja Kielbik
Computer Science and
Physics, 3
"Go to a good place
and eat. Checkout
those humanoid
foods."
—Diana Balabanov
Biology, 3
"Take over"
- Coordinated by George Prior and Samantha Jung
Letters
Stop Planned Parenthood
I'm pro-life and Planned Parenthood is
pro-choice. Let's call Planned Parenthood
what they really are: the enemy. Planned
Parenthood is the enemy of all pro-lifers.
Pro-life believes in life, and Planned Parenthood believes in death. Planned Parenthood is the world's largest provider
of abortions. We need more pro-lifers in
our society to fight the good fight against
Planned Parenthood and abortion. Please
stop supporting Planned Parenthood.
—Dean Clark, Langley, BC
I teve m
HftKtS   fo
know!
ItorvjOKCJIKSCKl
- a letter
rVOrVf
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feedfnc)<@|
Kbvjssevj.bc.ca
^99
I rVlll tell m
t THE UBYSSEY  Fhday, 23 March, 2007
News
19
Stanley Park restoration: a tough battle ahead
Park visitors might be disappointed with timeline of restoration but most of the park will open as soon as possible, says Park Board manager
by Whitney McCaskill
NEWS WRITER
Though three months have passed,
the devastating effects of the December 15, 2006 near-hurricane
force windstorm remain visible
throughout Stanley Park where approximately 60 per cent of trails
remain inaccessible and heaps of
fallen logs block the parking lots.
Areas of the park have been
compared to massive clear cuts by
some industry professionals, and
visitors have described the damage as looking like something a
tornado might have caused.
Sections of the famed seawall
encircling the park have been so
severely damaged that Park Board
Site Supervisor, Eric Meagher,
suspects the wall could be closed
well into the next year.
Initial estimates following the
storm placed the number of fallen
trees at around 3000 but even the
most conservative estimates from
Park officials have grown to between 10,000 to 20,000 trees.
The enormous amounts of de
bris that blanket sections of the
park not only restrict access to the
approximately 200km of trails but
also pose a serious fire and insect
infestation threat.
"The number one
objective is to assess
and meet the biological
needs of the park"
Paul Lawson,
UBC's Malcolm Knapp
Research Forest manager
Last summer Stanley Park had
five major fires and 90 days of
moderate to high fire risk. Some
observers have expressed the concern that much of the clean up will
not be completed before the high
risk season.
Paul Lawson, manager of UBC's
Malcolm Knapp Research Forest,
and the Project Manager for the
Park Board's recently appointed
Restoration Committee, expects
that most of the restoration could
be complete by the end of July.
Lawson acknowledged that
while park visitors might be disappointed with the timeline, his
committee aims to develop a plan
which would reopen most of the
park as soon as possible.
Lawson stressed, "The number
one objective is to assess and meet
the biological needs of the park."
Both high and low tech approaches have been discussed for
facilitating debris removal. Rick
Slaco of BC-based forestry company Interfor suggested the possibility of helicopter logging in
more isolated areas of damage to
reduce ecological impact Horse
logging has also been suggested as
a potential low impact approach to
removing debris from the park's
less accessible regions.
These suggestions have seen
support from the Stanley Park
Ecology Society, which argues that
the forest should be left as much as
possible to its natural processes.
A spokeswoman for the organisa
tion, Robyn Worcester, expressed
that while the park is not solely a
wilderness area, the majority of
fallen debris should be left on the
forest floor.
Lawson explained that this
might not be a reasonable expectation: "Right now the levels
[of woody debris] in the park are
10 to 20 times the natural levels
found in a forest" These sort of
levels, Lawson explains, pose a
significant risk to both the Park
and public safety. However, the
Park Board has expressed an interest that a damaged section of
the park be set aside for long term
observation, in order to examine
how natural processes would operate under these conditions.
The Restoration Committee's
working plan is to employ a general, low cost process for debris
removal, possibly involving trucks
and temporary roads of mats
laid between trees on the forest
floor. In contrast, helicopter logging would likely necessitate the
closure of the entire park while
horse logging presents logistical
limitations.
Following the removal of debris, the restoration process will
include the replanting of roughly
15,000 trees of diverse, native
species. The restoration is currently projected to cost $9 million
with $3.5 million set aside for stabilising the damaged seawall.
While it was too early to estimate the value of the salvaged
lumber that could potentially
offset the costs of restoration, Slaco explained that several community-based usages had been proposed for the fallen debris. First
Nations groups have expressed
an interest in utilising the wood
for totem poles or longhouses and
VANOC has proposed constructing
medal podiums from some of the
larger trees.
There is a great deal of work
ahead for park crews. While initial
estimates predict tree planting by
this fall, there are many obstacles
that could significantly delay the
reopening of the seawall and many
of Stanley Park's trails. @
■ A ■     Foreign Affairs and Affaires etrangeres et
I   " m     International Trade Canada     Commerce international Canada
Canada
o
NEWS FEEDS
Staff tightlipped about
incident at Aquatic Centre
UBC Aquatic Centre staff have been
unwilling to answer questions regarding an apparent medical incident at the pool last Tuesday.
Two emergency paramedic ambulances, one of which carried an
advanced life support unit, were
seen tending to a stretcher bearing
an Asian male. The individual was
loaded into one of the ambulances,
which promptly left the scene.
Staff at the front desk of the
Aquatic Centre provided conflicting reasons for the ambulances'
presence, saying that the ambulances were involved in training at
the Centre and later said that they
were not attending to someone
from the Centre.
When contacted, an individual
who was only willing to identify
herself as the Aquatic Centre's
head instructor said that she had
"No comment," regarding the presence of the ambulances at the Centre. This individual, after claiming
no one at the Centre could comment, directed all questions to
Lloyd Campbell.
Lloyd Campbell, manager of
the Aquatic Centre, was away this
week and could not be reached for
comment by press time.
D-Pav resigns
At yesterday's Board of Governors
meeting, Dennis Pavlich, UBC VP
external and legal affairs, advised
UBC President Stephen Toope of
his intention of resigning from his
position, effective this spring.
Pavlich will remain President
of the Great Northern way campus,
however.
UBC housing costs may be
on the rise
A 16 per cent increase in student
housing costs over the next five
years was proposed at the Board
of Governors meeting yesterday.
Details to follow. @ 

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