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UBC Publications

UBC Publications

The Ubyssey Mar 26, 2004

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Fresh writing inside.
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Picking up the pieces in Bosnia
and Croatia. Pages 6-8.
Vliio dunnit?
Jewish centre on campus vandalised.
Page 3.
Night at the Odyssey
Queer Eye for the Straight Guy soundtrack reviewed. Page 9.
Violin and Volleyball
UBC's Amy Schroeder talks about her
two passions and her last year on the
varsity team. Page 4.
Volume 85 Issue 47
^r Fridav. March 26. 2004
Friday, March 26, 2004
Ifterarily pr«t«nti©us since 1918 6th annual ubyssey literary supplement
new writing by:
^&*z*j£ NEWS
weekdays In the SUB basement near the
Wellness Centre and Travelcuts.
A week of events leading up to March
21 sc International Day for the
Elimination of Racism Refer to
www.ams.ubc.ca for more details See you
PRIDE UBC AGM Saturday, March 27
3pm Council Chambers
Publishing Case Study
Once dismissed as a curious combination
of cheque-book journalism and stealth
advertising, custom published magazines
have become mote important to
publishers as their traditional tides
struggle with declining circulation
numbers and an ugly advertising
downturn. Join editor and art director
Rick Staeling, as he explores the
differences between traditional and
custom publications and how one
company is turning loyal readers into
loyal customers. April 22, 7.30pm, SFU
Harbour Centre. Fee $10, info 604-291-
5222 or ww-w.sfa.ca/pubworks.
SNAPSCAN 1212P. Parallel Port.
Compatible with all versions of Windows
but XP. Excellent condition. $50 obo.
Email josh@joshmcnorton.com or call
.LIFE IN GENERAL? Want someone to
talk to? AMS Speakeasy provides
information and confidential peer
support/referrals. Staffed by trained
volunteers, it provides confidential peer
support to UBC students. Visit us on the
SUB main concourse. Support line: 604-
822-3700, info 604-822-3777. Email
' th® ubf sief magiiiiie
Friday, March 26,2004
caaemic services
research help! Professional writers
available at www.essayexperts.ca
services for students and instructors.
Thesis (APA), term papers and tape
interviews. Editing and proofing of
existing papers. Call Diane at 465-5524
or email d_salyk@shaw.ca
FRENCH TUTOR qualified teacher.
Call Josee 604.710.5096
Patient Math tutor with MSc and 6 years
tutoring experience. Small groups
welcome. $30/hour. Satisfaction
guaranteed! Call Dan <g> (604) 742-1723.
Paper research and editing 24Hrs at your
convinience. www.essay911.com
SUMMER WORK Make $10,000 run a
business. Qualifications: 80%+ average,
leadership, sports. Call 604.221.6441 or
AND 3 FEMALE AGED 19-25, who
are willing to volunteer their time for an
independent horror film. Auditions are
being held March 28. For informadon
on times and location please email
cmajproductions@shaw.ca. Some crew
positions are also available.
THE RADIO? Local Kids Make Good,
on CiTR 101.9FM, is the radio.show
most likely to play your music. Send
your demos to: Local Dave. CiTR Radio
#233-6138 SUB Blvd. Vancouver, BC
V6T 1Z1 Canada. Listen to LKMG on
alternate Thursdays 5-6pm.
$$ Guaranteed-Great Pay. TESOL
Certified 5 days in-class, online or by
correspondence. Free information
S&htnar, eveiy Tuesday @ 6:00pm. #216,
1755 West Broadway (@ Burrard). Free
infopack: l-888-270r294l or contact
IN YOUR FIELD! Complete a paid
internship with an organization of your
choice. 80% of interns are hired.   T
(604) 801-7404 NEWGRAD-
CANADA. Flexible schedules available.
Work in customer sales/service.
Scholarships possible. Conditions apply.
For a great starting pay apply at
worklorstudents.com/can. It you have
any further questions please contact me
at 1-888-212-8835.
#99. IS THIS YOU? Leaving UBC week
of September 11 or 18, 2003 (either Tues
or Thurs) between 9-9:30pm. Elder
Woman (UBC Student) thrown into
female student's lap by bus making hard
turn. You would be young female and
male sitting beside each other near the
rear exit Extremely important you
contact Niney_niner@hotmaiLcom
KELLY HO your student card is in the
Ubyssey Business office. SUB 23.
looking for a roommate?
;  JBotsomeUiingtoseilP
h      If »ou are a student
you can place classifieds lor FREE!
For more information, visit
Room 23 in the SUB.
(basement! or call 822-1654.
In last Tuesday's Ubyssey centre spread tlie story enti1led;''Oif the road again" misquoted the Carleton vs StFX score as 63-50; it
was actually 63-59. Also in Bird Droppings the men's rugby team will be playing the Berkeley World Cup at UBC starting at Ipm,
on .Saturday; not at Berkeley as was stated in the article: The Ubyssey regrets the error.. XX x ■■>'■■ .ft. ft
Choose your own direction at BCIT's
Open House April 2 8. 3
Learn about all your options. We'll have interactive displays,
information on all our programs, campus tours, contests and prizes.
For more info call 604-453-4097 or visit www.openhouse.bcit.ca.
April 2 & 3   |   9 am - 5 pm   |   3700 Willingdon Avenue, Burnaby
Leading sponsors: ' ~
trie Fulure is Irienrfljr
SSSfiSfeSS =■      W apolytbchnicinstitvtion
Largest landfill
in BC by 2007
by Hywel Tuscano
The Greater Vancouver Regional
District (GVRD) is completing field
studies to create BC's largest landfill
on Ashcroft Ranch just south of
Cache Creek—but not everyone is
satisfied with the idea.
The new landfill, opening in
2007, will replace the current landfill by Cache Creek, which will be
full within the next three years, said
Jonn Braman, project manager for
the Ashcroft landfill.
Two hundred hectares of the
4200-hectare Ashcroft ranch—currently used for cattle—will be used
for the landfill." The site would
receive about 800,000 tonnes of
waste per year for 100 years—about
20 per cent of the GVRD's waste
Garbage hauling and mainte-
: nance of the site'would be done by
^astetecK Selryi^esfm a public-pn-
», vale'pSttfefshift with* th#' GVRD
Consultation arte, planning for
the site started in 2002 and has
been moving through a process for
approval by the provincial Environ
mental Assessment Office (EAO),
taking into account social, econom
ic, environmental and health issues.
"We want to keep it as open
and transparent as possible," said
Residents in FirstNationsbands
central±o thM'dumjtas;wellas tribal , Soyjicjls_J.th_Q.ughaut..J3C,.. are
unhappy with the planning: and
consultation of the site. They
expressed their concerns in a
recent forum to raise public awareness of the issue.
"The only thing standing
between this proposed, dumpsite
and our reserve land is a barb wire
fence," said Chief Leonard Quirring
of the Ashcroft Band. "Medicines,
mushrooms and wild game are on
the other side of this fence."
The.site was chosen because the
arid area will prevent contamination of groundwater through leaching and stable geology m case of
earthquakes, said Braman
But Michael Easton, president of
EcoGen Inc, who has been doing
environmental consultation for the
Ashcroft Band, found that despite
similar arid conditions at the existing Cache Creek landfill" groundwater levels are rising—meaning something is leeching into it   *
"It endangers the aquifers that
people are dependent on and this
could be a serious problem," said
Contamination of the local food
chains can also occur through birds,
rats and flies coming from the
dump, he added
Once the project is approved by
the EAO, the application will have' to
be passed by several provincial ministries- sustainable resource management, water, air and land projects, and community, aboriginal
and women services
"My concern is that they are only
going to look at the immediate
impacts," said Helen Spiegelman, a
board member on the Recycling
Council of BC. "Just because something takes a long time doesn't
mean it's a good job."
Simply building another landfill
could encourage wastefulness,
.Spi^gehnattad^eiisL-ol £00 S «5ii7
m» _■£%[& are.jOQi Jiving int a^ sustainable maimer or-: jMnkifig^of c other
ways of managing waste," she said.
Bob Pasco, chair of the
Nlaka'pamux Nation tribal council,
"This is our homeland and we'll
do anything to protect it We have a
responsibility tot future; generations
about what we're' doings fhefe> light
now, "he said.;3!We; can't just say
we're' going to-go fbuiy' something
and figure we've done a good job/ ♦
Sullivan returns
UBC's VP Students Brian Sullivan
has been reappointed for a second
term by the UBC Board of
Sullivan will remain in the position for another six years, starting
on July 1, 2004. In a media release
about the decision, UBC praised
Sullivan for developing strong relationships with student leaders and
for his work on student projects
such as residences, social spaces
and student service improvements.
. UBC_ also hailed Sullivan's work
On developing consultations-with
students for tuition and financial
aidmatters. ■.-.:..;..'.'..,
Sullivan came to UBC in 1999
from the University of Guelph,
where he was VP Student Affairs.
Student tax cjinio ^etup ?^\
Student volunteers, with the support Qf.flje.^jTO^M^ter.-Sp^ty
(AMS)" and International House" of
UBC are running a free tax clinic to
help students deal with the
labyrinth of tax filing.
The clinic, in its second year of
operation, helps students determine if they are eligible for rebates
and helps file tax ; returns.'. More
than: 70 volunteers,, mostly
Commerce students, are ■ helping
with the clinic. Lastyear, more than
200 tax returns; were filed through
the service. •
It will operate until April 1 in the
south alcove of the SUB and at
International House, but AMS VP
Finance Stacey Chiu hopes td bring
the service back at the end of the
exam period for those who have put
taxes at the end of their to-do list.
"You know how people are, doing
last minute things. We are hoping to
cater to those people," she said.
Taxes are due on April 30-♦ 2
coordinators' rant    writer biographies
Alex: Mayhap we should begin to story you, kind Reader, of our quest.
Bryan: Methinks it best, dear Guest, you leave your Ubermensch analysis to
A: We pranced through the meadowy corridors of the SUB, posters a-fist;
B: Didst solicit parchment paper and the many bearded ladies we kist.
A: Ah! Their bristles cut my fair skin. As did the talent of our writing kin.
B: Yes! And anon fair judges read it all, or what we'd thinned:
A: They found a trove, tales well-wove, of shaving and of icy sport.
B: And spaceships, painters, mind-fermers, hillock forts.
A: Atch! mantras, lads, a fortyish fleet hag around for eons-in-flagons!
B: Devil take me! Be they pen-folk? Be they dragons?
A: Forsooth, dear Reader, awaits the jazzbar enchantment.
B: Do step inside our Sanskrit cyclone and find: enRantenment.
special issue coordinators:
photography and graphics:
\                    .-;'""
alex leslieV         / ^*^
rfiichelle mayne
biyan zandD&g^"~""""""^
biyan zandberg
laura tabert  \
shoti/isters:       \~*-\^
*ypavLl carr            N
paul eyans
carrie tobinson
chris shepherd
pkul carr
hywel tuscano
heather pauls
megan thomas
alex leslie
Jonathan woodward
biyan zandberg
alex leslie \
biyan zandberg
jesse marchand
Snap Fiction: Marguerite Pigeon
Marguerite Pigeon is a second-year MFA student in creative writing, fiction editor
for the journal PRISM international and recipient of the Earle Birney Memorial
Scholarship. Her short fiction recently won first place in SubTerrain magazine's
Lush Triumphant contest and is forthcoming in Taddle Creek magazine.
Long Non-Fiction: Melisssa Edwards
Melissa Edwards is an associate editor at Geist magazine, where she compiles the
regular "Caught Mapping" feature. Her writing has appeared in Geist, Vancouver,
Two Chairs and other business and online publications. She lives in Vancouver.
Short Non-Fiction: Tim Querengesser
Currently a senior editor at Adbusters, Tim Querengesser studied journalism and
political theory at Carleton in Ottawa. He has worked for several newspapers,
including the Ottawa Citizen. His first book is still untitled and unpublished.
Actually, he hasn't even started writing it Ideas?
Poetry: William H New
William H New taught English at UBC for many years. He has written five books of
poetry, most recently Riverbook & Ocean and Night Room.
Long Fiction: Melva McLean
Melva McLean has been a publishing professional for almost twenty years, working as managing editor of the University of Manitoba's Mosaic, a journal for the
interdisciplinary study of literature during the 1990s. In 2000, she moved to
Vancouver and earned a Master of Publishing from Simon Fraser University
(2002). Since graduation, she has worked as a freelance editor and is the current
managing editor of New Star Books. Ms McLean is also a member of the collective
that publishes Room of One's Own and a research associate on the SSHRC-fiinded
LitCan Networking project (http://litcan.unbc.ca).
Becky Ferreira: Long Fiction winner,
"Human 2"
Becky Ferreira was bom in the bip bopping action town of Edmonton
Alberta. She is a member of UBC Improv, the English Students Society and
the AUS. She encourages you to attend the last Improv show of the year this
Friday, March 26th in Scarfe 100 at 7 pm and then top off your night with
the ESS/AUS Metal Night Beer Garden in MASS. She also encourages the
blatant plugging of events in contest biographies. THIS FRIDAYI
Erik Kalberg: Snap Non-fiction runner-up,
My name is Erik Kallberg. I was born in New York City and grew up in New
Jersey. I am a fourth-year anthropology student. I enjoy playing poker and
video games and writing crazy stuff.
Leigh Kamping-Carder: Poetry second runner-
up, "A Footnote to the Original Poem"
Leigh Kamping-Carder.was born in Toronto, Ontario. Currently, she is in
her second year at UBC and plans to major in Creative Writing. She is an
editor of Bleach, a Vancouver-based literary 'zine.
Trevor Kew: Snap Non-fiction winner and
Long Non-fiction runner-up, "Shaving Days"
and "Privacy"
Trevor Kew was born in the raging metropolis of Rossland, British
Columbia: one stoplight, no gas station. He is enrolled in the B.Ed program
and is currently a student teacher at Point Grey Secondary School, where
his students inspire/frustrate/frighten him on a daily basis. Right now, he
is 'working' on a novel (just like everyone else) and (unrealistLcally) hopes
to have it finished by the end of May.
Patrick Beechinor: Snap Fiction runner-up,
"Chocolates for Idea Farmers"
Patrick Beechinor was born and raised in Vancouver, BC, Canada. The
majority of his life has been spent sleeping, eating, and going to school,
often all at once. He is a first-year student He has never been published
before, to his knowledge.
Maureen Evans: Long Non-fiction winner,
"The Authoress Undressed" and Poetry runner-up, "Narmada Maha-Kavya"
Maureen Evans is a fourth year honours creative writing student minor-
ing in anthropology.
Alexander Wright: Snap Fiction winner, "The
Hockey Player"
Alexander Wright is a third year philosophy student. He likes reading and
writing but isn't overly fond of 'rithmetic.
<SoJ par   Vaa/  I      I  <^ \a«/   I     «taD
Shane C. Walters: Winner Poetry for "Le
Danse d'Atcheson, or 'The Game's Afoot'"
I'm a UBC English lit major, minoring in Latin. My poem highlights two
conflicting emotions—cynicism and nostalgia—arising put. of my three
years served in Canada's peacetime navy and its aftermath. It's meant to
be read Aloud (with a capital "A"). "Atch" is both a real person and a composite; I admire him/it and dedicate this to him/it. In form I was inspired
by Allen Ginsberg's great Beat epic, "Howl", and by the works of his predecessor, Walt Whitman.
contemporary wnbng from Canada and around t_e worfd
i.iuii.v...!...» %#R9%aPt    I vvO
New Star Bocks
—    Vancouver Public Library
\) \   i H ii.   BOO Kn     ;
I Oi: K I II   A .  l-N'Wfj PAGE FRIDAY
Friday, March 26,2004
Sign stolen on St Patrick's Day
by Jonathan Woodward
A six-foot long, 100-pound sign'was stolen from
UBC's Jewish students' centre last week in an
apparent act of vandalism that has the campus
Jewish communiiy looking for answers.
The only things left outside Hillel House are
two mangled wooden stumps and a smashed
light bulb, leaving the ground tinseled with broken glass. The centre. Campus Security and the
RCMP searched the area the afternoon the sign
was reported missing, but found nothing.
< -
■ \
The sign, which had been there since 1986,
was not insured under Hillel House's policy,
said Eyal Lichtman, executive director. Getting
a new sign will cost the centre between $3000
and $5000, he added, money that could have
gone towards running social programs for
Jewish students.
"It's a lot of money," he said. "We have to
raise money. We have to look for donors."
But without witnesses or leads, the police
are calling the St Patrick's Day vandalism the
act of overzealous drunks. Still, they aren't rilling out the possibility that Jews were targeted
in a week of political tension.
The sign was stolen the day after the
Ubyssey published an article about a letter by
the Israel Advocacy Committee and the Jewish
Students' Association that condemned the
Alma Mater Society (AMS) for supporting
Noam Chomsky's Vancouver visit because of
alleged anti-Semitic statements they said the
scholar made in the 1980s. They also said the
AMS, which represents all students, shouldn't
take political stances.
"We got calls after the Ubyssey article," said
Lichtman. "That's the first time I've received
hate calls." _ ''   • '
Hillel House wasn't responsible for the letter, nor does it take political stances, he said.
It's more like ajewish chaplaincy on campus,
which focuses on religion and social activities,
he added.
The article appeared the week after controversial speakers like Irshad Manji and the
Israeli ambassador Haim Divon spoke, draw
ing the campus into hot debate. It also coincided with a well-publicised spike in anti-
Semitic graffiti in Toronto, where a Jewish
woman's home was spray-painted and where
ajewish cemetery was desecrated. That sort of
racism hits home as far away as Vancouver,
said Lichtman.
But Lichtman hopes the UBC incident is
just vandalism and not a hate crime. "It could
be one or the other. It could be the drunks
from St Paddy's night We don't know."
RCMP Constable Brent Wilcott said that the
police had many calls that night as intoxicated
students left campus bars like the Pit, and
without a good understanding of the context of
the attack, he said the police won't jump to
"We had six people in jail that night, all for
certain other things. We're not ruling out an
attack on the Jewish students, but we assume
that it was mostly likely kids from the bar,"
he said.
Holidays and alcohol have fueled vandalism on campus in the past, he said. Last
Halloween, a carriage encased in glass near
Main Library was covered in multicoloured
paint, causing about $3000 in damage.
Regardless of the nature of the vandalisrn,
the campus Jewish community won't be subdued, said Lichtman.
"My comment to these people would be: be
open to different views. Let the university be
what it's made to be: the expression of ideas.
These types of actions aren't going to intimidate the students." ♦
Not enough for education in budget, say students
by Megan Thomas
The 2004 federal governmeinlbudg-
et is in and the cries of inadequate
funding for post-secondary education can be heard from here to
Student leaders are saying the
budget concessions are not enough
and that the Liberal government
"just doesn't get it"
■; The increase in student loan maximums frojn $ 163 to $210 a week is
a step in the wrong direction because
it puts students deeper in debt, said
Ian- Boyko, national chairperson for
the Canadian Federation of Sjtudents.
He said a better option would be to
gjve grants—that do not have to be
paid back—to students who still have
unmet financial need after they have
maxed out their student loan.
"In that way they could have put
a cap on student debt and started to
turn the corner on bringing it to a
system that relies more on grants
than loans," said Boyko. "But that is
iiot their intention. Their intention
is- to- drive...students into even
' deeper debt.** -
With the new maximums, a student doing a four-year degree could
graduate with as much as $10,000
more debt added Boyko.
The loan increase reflects economic inflation, but does not cover
tuition increases. At UBC, tuition has
increased 84 per cent in three years.
But the increase Will make a difference to students struggling to
make ends meet and will mean that
university bursaries will meet
more need, said Deborah Robinson
from UBC's enrolment services
office, which handles financial aid
and awards.
Robinson also said the budget's
reduction of expected parental contributions to a child's education will
benefit students becaiuse it will make
more students eligible for more loan
■ "Tliere were, lots and lots of students whose parents were not able lo
make that contribution because it
was actually quite high relative to
earnings," she said.
The new loan formula will provide access to loans for between
20,000 and 40,000 more students
whose parents' income is in the
$60,000 to $100,000 range.
The budget also introduced
Canada Study Grants of up to $3000
per first-year undergraduate from
low-income families to aid about
20,000 Canadian students.
But Boyko also criticised the new
Canada Learning Bond program that
will provide $2000 for children of
low-income families born after 2003
to put towards eventual post-secondary education. He said the program
will only help those families who will
be a few thousand dollars short of
access to universities, not those who
will find the cost of a degree well out
; of reach two decades from now.
The budget was also disappointing for graduate students, said Carey
Hill, president of the UBC Graduate
Students Society.
Graduate students did not hear
any word of new grants. Last year,
4000 Canadian Graduate Scholarships—worth $17,500 for Master's
students and $35,000 for PhDs-
were created in the federal budget
Hill said she expected to see a similar increase this year.
"We were expecting or hoping we
could see some of the same things,"
she said. "Especially since across
Canada they want to increase the
number of graduate students."
The three federal research councils that grant research funding for
science, social science and health
research also did not see as large of
an increase in funding as last year—
$90 million compared to $125
Funding for indirect research
costs for universities also saw a significant decrease from $225 million
last year to just $20 minion this year,
something Hill says greatly affects
projects graduate students are
involved in.
Hill is also concerned about a language change. Instead ofa section on
"Research and Innovation," this
year's budget has "Knowledge and
Commercialisation." She worries
that this is a dangerous trend toward
a reliance on commercial support of
"While things like patents and so
on are ways that the university can
generate revenue, they shouldn't be
what drives research," she said. "It is
really curiosity and the desire to
know that drives discovery and
innovation.* ♦
Applied Science faculty goes high-tech
btartel doridtiori expected to vastly
improve studies at UBC
by Jonathan Woodward
Troubled Canadian technology giant Nortel Networks gave
UBG's Applied Science Faculty several "really big boxes" of
telecommunications equipment Tuesday—equipment that
the company says could fuel the communication needs of a
country the size of Switzerland.
Company executives would not put a price on the donation, saying the gift is valued in the "high single-digit millions." But it will make a profound impact on learning at UBC
and five other schools in the lower mainland, said Nortel's
: fThere are tremendous opportunities for expansion of
research," said Don Avison, the president of the University
Presidents' Council of BC. It is an incredibly timely gift, he
said, because research collaboration through this technology
could lead to degrees being granted between universities.
UBC can use the equipment to link post-secondary institutions in Greater Vancouver in a virtual laboratory that can
share data and encourage collaboration among researchers
across BC, he added.
UBC PhD candidate Sameer Chandani said that having
such expensive equipment gives him the ability to test complicated circuits with much more accuracy and speed.
"It's like the box a cable guy measures your TV cable with,
but way more powerful," said Chandani.
The donated equipment gives students the ability to experiment with much more freedom, he added.
"You give engineers expensive equipment, they'll get
scared. But with this, it's a bunch of equipment that's donated—if you break it, you've learned something," said
Chandani. .
This also considerably modernises the labs that students
work in, meaning that they can practically walk into high-tech
jobs after graduation, he added.
The gift began as an idea from Chief Technology Officer
Greg Mumford, who graduated from UBC said Steve Kinsey,
a Nortel director for Western Canada, adding that it was
donated by the company despite a recent dismal stock
"Through harder economic times, it's been harder for us
to give sizable donations/ he said.
Nortel Networks suffered another crisis in confidence
Monday when it announced it would have to restate its 2003
financial results and delay filing with the Securities and
Exchanges Commission, putting it at risk of defaulting on
■#ts3_fe__rt_#!__Wt-'- '    ; ' ■"O'1
LISTENING INTENTLY: UBC President Martha Piper
watches the donation ceremony while Nortel's Ron
McDougall looks on. michelle mayne photo
$3.6 billion in debt news reports say.
Pending an analysis of the results, Nortel placed its chief
financial officer and its controller on paid leaves of absence.
Hie move sent its stock down about 35 per cent before it
began a marginal recovery this week.
But Kinsey said he was proud to be involved in a donation
that would have a direct impact on high-tech learning. "We're
very focused on what we give here," he said. ♦ The Hockey Player
RANT      3
snap fictkm winner
by Alexander Wright
bit. It had gotten so bad that when he scored in practice, his teammates
pulled the puck out of the back of the net and presented it to him. For the
grandkids, they had said, and snickered. 425 shots on net Countless others
had gone off net— off posts, players, slicks, referees, and referees' knees. He
was feeling a bit depressed about it all. He hadn't shot in games. Didn't want
to shoot either. What's the point? he thought to himself. The point of the
game, of course, was to shoot the puck into the net But if you shoot the puck
and it never goes in, then why shoot? At the morning practice, the coach
asked him why he wasn't shooting. It's a shooting drilL he said, confused.
Why are you passing? And who are you passing to?
The hockey player's wife read — magazine. This month's headline was
"Less is More." Less is more? thought the hockey player. Less is more, he
said, when the reporter asked him why he had decided to give 90 per cent
instead of 110. The coach watched the interview on his television at home,
and the next morning he called the player into his office. 90 per cent? he
asked. No wonder you haven't scored in a donkey's age. 90 per cent just
don't get the job done son, not in this league. The coach shook his head and
suggested that in the future the player give a Ml 110 percent. The player
tried to explain. Less is more, he started. But the coach's wife didn't read
— magazine so the coach didn't understand. Instead, his face reddened and
he told the player to get the fuck out of his office.
That evening, the player sat in the press box. He was uncomfortable in
his expensive suit, uncomfortable in the interview chair, and uncomfortable
yvhen the radio play-by-play man gave him a fancy pen at the end of the
f interview. A pen? he thought and tried to remember the last time he had
written something other than his name. Autographs on hockey cards, signatures on bills. He thought but couldn't remember the last time he had
written a real word like 'cat' or 'pickle.' He couldn't remember so he started to cry. The interview had already ended and gone to commercial break
so it was okay. Okay for those listening at home, and OK for the play-by-play
man who was looking down at his notes, busily preparing for the start of the
second period. It wasn't okay for the player, though. He was sad.
He got up and walked out of the press box, down the long, empty hallway
(the second period had already begun) and out of the building. Good
evening Mr —, the ticket attendant said, and pushed the door open for him.
Outside, the night was a dusty black, the street lights were an orangey yellow, and the player was still crying—gently and to himself. ♦
snap fiction runner-up
Chocolates for Idea Farmers
^iU'Y~in.k: .
" i"-"]tti*''^   i-p^itt
by Patrick Beechinor
when it did, no one was sure what to do. A thundercloud
roiled above its head. Its voice was a muted trumpet It warbled and wailed at us until suddenly, McConnell stirred, disturbing the leaves beneath his feet, and like that (snap) it was
gone. The death of the ghost of jazz. No one moved from
their place.
That night we deemed McConnell a liability, so we waited until he was asleep, packed our belongings silently, and
took our leave of him. We made camp farther up the mountain, though in our hearts we knew the ghost would not
As often happens in these situations, a certain triangle
began to emerge between the three of us. He and I vying for
her affections. Being the newest member of the group, I felt
intrusive at first but I was the only one with cigarettes, so it
was with ease that I ingratiated myself to the others.
I had discerned that they were old friends, but the exact
nature ahd extent of their relationship remained unknown to
me. Nonetheless, while he was preoccupied with food preparations she and I stole away to the river where I professed a
number of devotions to her of varying degrees of truth. Thus
convinced, she made me privy to a number of bodily secrets
and a while later we returned to camp. There was no wind at
all; the entire mountain lay in eerie serenity.
The newfound tension within our group found voice in
the brittle silence of dinner. We stared intently at our meals,
aware that any contact of the eyes would render too apparent
what each already suspected. Or knew.
Sleeping arrangements would be a point of contention, of
this I was sure, so when the dishes were done, I extricated
myself and walked up to where the tree line broke and I
could watch the sun set My legs ached so I decided to sit a
while longer, with predictable consequences. In the dark, I
became lost and wound up on the opposite face, where I
resigned myself to sleep.
I woke up and the sun broke across the sky like an egg. I
felt so alive I was ready to die.
I located the trail and descended the mountain. I passed
the campsite where the others lay, intertwined. It smelled
like tears. I did not wake them.
I headed for home and slept for what felt like forever. I
was sure that when I awoke, everyone I had known would be
long dead.
I met a girl in a bar. She was telling me the story of
her life.
"I met God in 1996."
"Yeah, he was smoking outside a coffee shop at 2:30 in
the morning."
"God smokes?"
"How did you know it was him?"
"I recognized his shoes, from the movies. Anyway, we
ended up talking for a bit and he gave me his number and
then he said he had somewhere to be."
"Yeah. I hear he's dead now, though."
"I'm sorry?"
"I said, "I hear he's dead now, though."
"How's that?"
"God died from smoking?"
"Yeah, he never got to see the new millennium."
"Or the Lord of the Rings movies."
"That's insane."
"Well you gotta remember that back in the day, everybody
"I guess so."
I bougjht her a drink.
"Do you still have his number?"
"No, I lost it'
"Yeah, I'm careless that way."
I bought her another drink that night but she ended up
going home with somebody else.
Lisa was out of town, so I let myself into her house and
helped myself to the remainder of last night's pizza.
I'm not sure how I come up with ideas like this. Or if I
even came up with it But nonetheless, it had been floating
around inside my head for a while now, and I thought it best
to test its waters.
Opening Lisa's medicine cabinet I found an untouched
pack of motion sickness pills, a plastic bag containing 17
maximum strength ibuprofin caplets and a half a bottle of
NyQuil, among an assortment of less interesting substances.
I chased the lot with a bottle of Tanqueray I found in the
I sat down in front of the TV and watched children's programming on the public broadcasting channel for 40 minutes. I liked the soothing music and engaging colours. While
the credits rolled, I picked up the phone and dialed. A
woman with a sweet voice answered. That sounds cliched,
but I'm pretty sure it's true.
"Poison control."
"Yes, hello."
"What seems to be the problem, sir?"
"I think I took too many pills."
"Okay sir, what kind of pills are you taking?
'All sorts, really."
'I'm sorry?"
"Well I'm not really sure what they were. But I am sure I
took too many."
"How many did you take?"
"All of them."
I had been looking through the kitchen cupboards as I
talked, and having discovered a bottde of Echinacea I cocked
the phone between my ear and shoulder while I undid the
top and poured the entirity of the contents down my throat
"The address is 3692 Denman. Can you send a unit over
or whatever it is you do?" There was a lot of clicking at this
point, she was probably typing something. I'm not a hundred
per cent on that because I was busy subduing a picture of the
Pope which had decided to leap off the wall and kill me.
Luckily I smashed him against the stove before he could. My
chest swelled with victory.
"Sir, can I just get you..."
Now after that, I don't really remember much of anything. I know I didn't dream. Once the blackness subsided I
found myself on a hospital stretcher.
I was so close to death, I was ready to be alive. ♦ J§
fift.%»«<? f\ I- Vf
R.ftffft|ftf3 i§ "f .tiff ulf iiif'itfaiailif^
visit this West Coast paradise	
Only $35 from Vancouver via BC Ferry
t-g§§*98§-$4§6 / www.wmmus.mnri
fueled by Biodiesel
Stockwatch, a stock market news service, lias immediate
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majored in either English, philosophy or economics, and who seek
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based on accuracy productivity and regular performance reviews.
A high level of English comprehension, excellent grammar skills
and a typing speed of 65 words per minute are requirements. A
strong interest in qualitative business research would be helpful.
Aptitude testing (several hours) ■will take place in Vancouver.
E-mail resumes to mikec@stockwatch.com
"V -*
*/ ,
» - =. *
> r
"Every team
is unique, the
that people
bring to it
made every
thing very different. But
each year
kept getting
better and
better. Maybe
that's just
being part of
the program
and growing
with it. *
3. .
Friday, March 26,2004
\i . ■-_
i- i ."« J.	
VOLLEYBALL BARBIE? Schroeder stands next to,her locker: cprjiplete,yvjth,
barbie poster. Each player has their own barbie decorating theSf bpoV ih tf&
locker room, jesse marchand photo
Amy Schroeder has
"forward thinking"
by Jesse Marchand
Growing up in Winnipeg, fifth-year UBC volleyball player
Amy Schroeder had a busy schedule. By the time she was
four years old she was already playing soccer and had
been begging her mom for two years to let her play violin,
like her big sister.
But her after-school adventures didn't stop there. On
top of school, soccer and violin, Schroeder picked up
piano and basketball and began playing volleyball in
grade eight. But something had to give, and by grade ten
she had dropped her other extra-curricular activities,
focusing on the two Vs': violin and volleyball.
Schroeder says the move to volleyball was more social
than skill-based, at first "Everyone who could played volleyball,* she said of the high school team. And this meant
that after school practices were a time to hang out with
many of her friends, who were also on the team. But her
S'10 height and skill turned out to be enough for
recruiters to notice and by September of 1999 Schroeder
was at UBC taking first-year Science classes and playing
volleyball under then-head coach Erminia Russo.
After a Nationals win in 1999, Schroeder was one of
three first years to join the team. Add to that three second years, and lite team was looking very young. The
team placed third overall that year and took the CIS
bronze, but the next year would see even more rookies.
Four first years joined the team in 2001/2002 and only
three players were in their fourth year at UBC. This made
Nationals harder to win, but the Birds were slowly
becoming a team.
"My rookie season to my second year, there was a
large turnover,* says Schroeder. "Every team is unique,
the personalities, everything that people bring to it
made every year very different But each year kept getting better and better. Maybe that's just being a part of
the program and growing with it*
But changes happened off the court too. School-wise
Schroeder found she was enjoying her elective art history
classes more than Science, leading to a program switch to
Arts with an art history major and religious studies
minor., ■  "
"My time here at UBC was really about just enjoying
getting to learn different things," says Schroeder of her
class time at UBC. .
During her time as a volleyball player at UBC, Amy
Schroeder has received the Canada West Allstar award, a
silver medal for her team in 2002 and made it to the
National championships five times.
But it was Ibis last year that made the most memorable
impression on the 22-year-old graduate. Coming in to
Nationals, they were slated against reigning champions,
die University of Alberta.
"The playoffs they were kind of an accumulation of
what our team had been about the entire year, which is
really what you want at that time," says Schroeder. "It wasn't just a stretch of time to sustain what we've been doing.
It was really forward thinking.*
This "forward thinking" led the team to fight the hardest that they had all year, despite the end result
"Something that our coach, Doug Reimer, said about
our semi-final game was that we had both won and lost
that game. And that's really true,* says Schroeder. "We
started slowly and we spotted Alberta the first two games
and then we came back and we played the way we could.
It was actually better than we had all year. When it came
down to it, the last couple points in game five were just
mental lapses."
Schroeder is confident that this type of determination
will continue on next year's team.
"It was interesting to see the current people lead in
different ways," says Schroeder pointing to Shelly
Chalmers, Emily Cordonier and Danielle Huizen as next
year's big stars.
"We were a very big blocking team this year and I think
that's going to carry over. Our two starting blockers
Danielle and Shelly are going to be back. Almost everyone
is over 6' tall,* says Schroeder.
"When you're a hitter and you're going up, and every
time you're seeing four big hands coming over the net at
you, it plays with you a little bit."
As for Schroeder's future plans? She plans to head
back to Winnipeg to raise money for a trip to Europe. As
for the two "Vs' they will remain a hobby, starting with
beach volleyball this summer. After IS consecutive years
of school, she is ready for a break, but Schroeder still
reflects on her university time kindly.
"Every year had built upon the previous year,* she
says. "I kind of sat back and I thought about it. You don't
really notice that you change day-to -day, year-to-year. But
four to five years I look back and it's been incredible.* ♦ 4      RANT
Human 2
by Becky Ferreira
Drip. Drop.
Drip. Drop.
What's that...
Drip. Drop.
Drip. Drop.
Leak...a leak.
Drip. Drop.
Somewhere there's a leak.
Drip. Drop.
Somebody's got to fix it
Drip. Drop.
I am dizzy. I have been dizzy for
approximately five and a half minutes. I'm sitting down. Before I was
sitting down, I was standing up.
Before I was standing up, I heard a
leak. Before I heard the leak, I was
unconscious. Before I was unconscious, there were people on the
ship. A crew. A captain. Five physicians. A team of astrophysicists.
Engineers. All these people, moving
around, doing their jobs. Then, I
was unconscious. After I was unconscious, I heard a leak. After I heard
the leak, I stood up. After I stood up,
I got diz2y and had to sit down.
The others are currently not
here. At least, not in my immediate
visual or audio range. I think of theories. Perhaps I have contracted
some illness and the others have
quarantined me. Perhaps something hit my head and the others are
taking a break from nursing me.
Perhaps I temporarily swooned and
the others are simply elsewhere.
"Hello?* I say.
Drip. Drop.
Drip. Drop.
The current state of my dizziness is
mild relative to the time at which I
regained consciousness. I stand up.
I leave the cockpit I search the
social space. I observe no humans. I
search the kitchen. I observe no
humans. I search the engine room,
the sleeping quarters and the laboratory. I observe no humans.
I return to the cockpit and record
my findings. I must consult with the
computer. The computer has all of
the answers inside of it. It will tell
me where the crew is and what is
causing that leak. It is clever that
I begin to type.
The computer does not respond.
I flick some switches. I pull a
The computer does not respond.
I stand. I look around. I smack
the computer.
The computer does not respond.
I search the vicinity for a possible
cause of the computer's behavior. I
see a small piece of paper next to the
Mainframe Control Box. It has an
arrow printed on it. The point of the
arrow is facing the control box.
I have found a possible cause of
the computer's behavior. Nine of
the control wires of the Mainframe
have been cut There is also a note
in the control box.
The note says: "I did this".
I have a new theory. This is a test
The Captain probably wants to see
how well  I  conduct myself in
extreme conditions. I swivel my   .
chair. I look through the pilot wu_    ;
dows. The reference star is now a
few degrees northwest of our path.
I bet that is what the Captain is up   f
to. He wants to test my navigation-   '
al skills. He wants to see if I can put
the ship back on track. How tricky.
I turn to the computer. It is still
not functioning.
The Captain should know that I
am a pilot, not a computer programmer. I know how to use the
computer, not fix it.
I adjust my theory. Perhaps the
Captain is trying to test my problem solving abilities. He wants to
see me use my intuition. He knows
I have never fixed the computer,
and he is curious as to whether I
can do it without instruction.
Perhaps he will promote me if I succeed in the endeavor. I begin working on the computer.
I record all my actions in a coiled
note book with a black cover. I may
have to refer to them later on. I work
steadily for eight hours. I have made
progress, but I will not finish the
work today. I am tired. I fall asleep.
When I wake up, I refer to my
note book. The pages in which I
transcribed my actions have been
removed. I think of theories.
It has been five days. The computer
is not co-operating.
There is a leak on the ship. The
computer will tell me what exactly is
causing this leak when it decides to
co-operate. It is a very clever computer.
Pages from my notebook have
been removed every night for four
nights. This is not beneficial to me.
Tonight I will hide the notebook in
my pillowcase.
I don't see the Captain or any of the
crew during the time in which I'm
working. Even when I search the
ship for tools I do not see them.
They must have a good hiding spot.
They must be very patient. I have
also postulated that they must be
very sneaky, because my current
theory is that they are the ones
removing pages from my notebook.
It takes me six and a half days to
reboot the computer. The Captain
does not step out from any hiding
spot to congratulate me. Instead the
computer's energy drive starts to
beep. Every eight seconds.
I ask the computer what is causing
the leak.
"All systems intact," it answers.
Drip. Drop.
I ask the computer what is causing the leak.
'All systems intact,* says the
Drip. Drop.
"Computer,* I say, 'clearly there
is a leak.'
"Beep!* says the computer.
Drip. Drop.
"Computer," I say, 'where is the
"Error," says the computer.
Drip. Drop.
"Computer," I say; "where have
the crew gone?"
"Error," says the computer.
Drip. Drop.
"Computer," I say, "is the crew
even on the ship?"
"Beepl" says the computer.
Drip. Drop.
The computer probably needs
some more time to warm up before
it starts being clever.
Last night, I hid my notebook in my
pillowcase. When I awoke this morning, it was exactly where I had left it.
However, several pages were again
missing, and upon further inspection, I found that a hole had been cut
in the fabric of my pillowcase, and
had been subsequently sewn up. I
can not understand the Captain's
aim with all these tests. I have yet to
develop a working theory of his
I flip through the empty pages of
the notebook. On the very last page,
somebody has inscribed a passage
in handwriting I do not recognize. It
I understand why you feel somewhat prone
After all, what are you but flesh,
blood and bone?
Still, search not for the crew
For it is just me and you
Be comforted: At least you are
not all onyour own.
This does not comfort me. I think
of theories. I also hide under the
covers of my bed.
I'm still under the covers. I do not
know how long I have been, or will
continue to be here. I have to use the
I am not under the covers anymore.
I am looking for the leak.
Drip. Drop.
I follow the sound.,:    , ai>; -,•'. •-./<
:"    Drip/Drop.' "?' xr.   Fft»jft>"<
' I want to knoW what' itIs. Even if
I never get to fix it, I want to know
what it is. It has been dripping in an
unchanging pattern for approximately ten days. It drips once, and
then it is silent for exactly one second. Exactly. I measured. It then
drips again and is silent for exactly
four seconds. Then it repeats the
cycle. It is a very unusual pattern. I
think of theories. I ignore the poem.
Drip. Drop.
I try to think.
Drip. Drop.
I want to know.
Drip. Drop.
Follow the sound.
Drip. Drop.
I fiddle with the computer's memory log. I want to investigate the possible causes of my unconsciousness.
I look for the eMemory Log' file. It is
not listed in the Mainframe. I ask
the computer to search for it
"Selected file deleted," says the
I stare at the screen. I furrow my
eyebrows. I inhale. I exhale. I ask the
computer to search for the file
named eMemory Log'.
"Selected file deleted," says the
I crack my knuckles. I cock my
head to one side. I inhale. I exhale. I
ask the computer to search for the
file named eMemory Log'.
"Selected file deleted," says the
I try to think of theories.
"Beep!" says the computer.
Drip. Drop.
The leak is tricky. Not only does
it exhibit unusual patterns, it is also
apparently avoiding me. Whenever I
search for it it moves somewhere
else. I'm aware that this is not logical. I have not yet thought of a theory that could make it logical. But
empirical facts don't change.
Drip. Drop.
ft. h Follow the sound.
YDrip. Drop. ■     ■ r ,;/1' ■
pm I get closer.    '
Drip. Drop.
It gets louder.
Drip. Drop.
Louder, louder.
Drip. Drop.
I'm there! It's here!
Drip. Drop.
And then suddenly, it is quietly
dripping somewhere else. But I
refuse to give up trying to find it I
want to know what it is. Even if I
never get to fix it        ,
1 have been thinking that I should
abandon the theory that the crew is
hiding somewhere on the ship. It
has been two weeks. Surely they
would be hungry by now. I think it
best to expose the theory to electronic empiricism. Before I thought
that this might be presumptuous.
Perhaps even against the Captain's
plans. But my thoughts have adapted with the increasing discomfort of
my situation, and I think that an
investigation is now necessary. I
know that the computer has a function that enables it to monitor how
many people are on the ship, as well
as their specific identity and location. I access this function, and after
fiddling with it for about twenty
minutes, I get an answer.
"There are currently two people
on the ship."
The total crew was comprised of
"Beep!" says the computer.
I command it to tell me the identity and location of those onboard.
My own information is given. Then
the computer says:
"Identity and location of Human
2 unknown."
I think of theories. Another per- PAGE FRIDAY
Friday, March 26,2004
: {life." jiby m«V.> magaiiif
Slovakian fish says farewell UBC
T-Bird goalie Robert File
talks about his time
playing ice hockey in
North America
by Marina Ellis
and Dan McRoberts
When Robert File, a native of
Slovakia, came to UBC to play goalie
for the Thunderbirds ice hockey
team in 2000, he was dubbed "Fish"
by the team captain. He acquired the
nickname not because he had a
peculiar smell, but because the team
was impressed by his floppy yet
highly effective style.
"My dad used to be
a goalie... when I
was young he was a
goaltender and also
my coach...I always
wanted to be a
--Robert File
T-Bird goalie
But File has good reasons for his
eccentric style. As a kid in Slovakia,
he was influenced by Czech great
Dominik Hasek, who File watched
on several occasions. "Lots of people say I look like Hasek, but I'm not
trying to model my game after
him," File says. "I don't really think
when I'm in the net, I just want to
stop the puck." File has been doing
just that for the past five seasons, as
he now holds the UBC record for
most conference games played and
this season posted the 5th best save
percentage in Canada West
For File, goaltending is a family
affair. "My dad used to be a
goalie...when I was young he was a
goaltender and also my coach,* he
says. *I always wanted to be a
goalie.* File recalls a time when he
tried "playing out" but bis team suffered badly for it. "Once we lost 13-
0 and all the way home on the bus
the coaches were talking to me
about getting hack in net" He hasn't
looked back.
When it came time to go to university;' File decided to trtjftand juggle academic commitments and a.
hockey career. The task proved to
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A BC BACKDROP: Heading back home. File will have to say goodbye to BC's mountain ranges and to
the UBC hockey team. But hockey will always be a part of his life, marina ellis photo
be rather arduous, as in Slovakia
there is no university sport. After
two years of attempting to balance
the demands of his coaches and his
instructors, the opportunity arose to
play in the US.
"I had the opportunity to go to
Northern Michigan,* [an NCAA
school} says File. "I wanted to travel, learn English and stuff." Upon
arrival, File found that there were
already two senior goaltenders in
place. After talking to many universities, File was contacted by then-
UBC coach Mike Coughlin, who
offered him a chance to play for
the T-Birds.
After coming to UBC File noticed
rpajor differences in the style of
play in North America. "Here the
game is faster, physical, more about
speed. There are lots of shots. Back
home the game is slower, but it is
more about passing and skill."
But the differences haven't hurt
him any. In his five years between
the pipes for UBC, File has helped
the team improve and this past season, reach the playoffs for the first
time in six years. He considers
clinching that post-season berth the
highlight of his UBC career.
At the end of this term File will
earn his Computer Science degree,
but he's not ready to give up hockey
just yet "I'd like to play more hockey and maybe make some money at
it," he says. File recognises that an
NHL lockout this fall would make it
hard to find a roster spot in any
North American league. So, be
plans to head home to Slovakia in
.*-: ■**■J.
1 , .i".!f4
search of a team. " I have someone
helping me out and he's got some
things lined up. I'll find out in the
summer for sure."
Should the hockey dream not
materialise. File would love to
return to Vancouver. "I really like it
here," he says. "I have to go home
for at least a year, but then I could
apply for immigrant status."
He also feels good about how
he's leaving the UBC team. "The
program is going in a new direction since Milan took over," he
says. "There are good guys coming
every year, but it is hard to get the
top players to UBC because of the
high entrance standards. Still I
think the guys should see the playoffs next year, maybe even into the
second round." ♦
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sarah bourdon By noOtt
today oi? you're put of lucK:
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son detected. They can't be anybody from
the original crew. The computer would recognize their identity if they were. And why
can't the computer locate them? The instruments used to detect the presence of life-
forms are placed all over the ship. The computer identifies the location of those instruments. Thus it identifies the location of the
life-form itself. How can it receive the signal
without knowing which instrument it came
Theories, theories, think of theories.
"Beepl' says the computer.
4 4 4
I wake up. It has been sixteen days since I
was unconscious. I am in my bunk. There
are four bunk beds in my room. There are
seven empty beds. I leave the room without
making my bed.
I go to the dining area. I eat a frozen
cheese sandwich. There are five hundred
and twenty-three of them prepared in the
fridge. I counted. It hurts to eat them. They
are pretty icy. I wish it was a warm grilled
cheese sandwich but I can't work any of the
cooking devices. I can work the computer
but not the cooking devices. I burned myself
when I tried.
I go to the social space. I tire of it quickly.
I don't want to go to the cockpit I don't
want to think of theories why the computer
is convinced there's another person on the
ship. I can hear it beeping. Every eight seconds.
I go hack to the dining room. I explore the
engine room.-"'I snoop around in the
Captain's quarters! I jump on one of the
sofas in the social space. I do not want to go
to the cockpit. I do not want to know. It's
safer for me not to know. I follow the leak.
For horn's.
I go back to the bunk to sleep. There is a
warm grilled cheese sandwich sitting on my
made bed. A note is attached. It reads:
There once was a starship so bleak
So bleakl So bleak! What cheek
To follow that persistent leakl
Soon you may have reason to shriek
To shriekl To shriekl What sneak
For I control that mysterious leak.
I sprint to the cockpit I command the computer to tell me the identity and location of
all those onboard.
"There are currently two people on the
ship," says the computer. It tells me my
information. I am frightened. Do I want to
know? Maybe it's safer for me not to know.
Why did I ask in the first place?
"Identity and location of Human 2
unknown," says the computer.
"Who is Human 2?" It's safer for me not
to know. Why did I ask in the first place?
"Beep!" says the computer.
A note is attached to the outside of the
Mainframe Control Box:
There will be a time when you will agree
Neither logic nor feelings will save you
from me.
I spend the next day trying to manipulate the
computer into giving me information. I
know it knows where Human 2 is. It knows
where the readings are coming from. I think
I want to know where Human 2 is. Even if I
don't get to know who it is, I at least want to
find them.
"Beepl" says the computer.
"Hello," I say.
"Beepl" it answers, five seconds later.
I start fiddling. It takes me only an hour
and a half to find the file that controls all the
instruments in the ship.
I click on the file.
"Access denied," says the computer.
I click on the file.
"Access denied," says the computer.
I stare at the computer. I blink. I straighten my spine. I slouch again. I click on the
"Access denied," says the computer.
"Why is access denied?" I ask.
"Only Human 2 has access to that information."
"Who is Human 2?" I ask.
"Beepl" says the computer.
I click on the file.
"Access denied," says the computer.
"Who is Human 2?"
"Beepl" says the computer.
"Where is Human 2?"
"Only Human 2 has access to that information.'
I click on the file.
"Access denied," says the computer.
"Where are you?" I shriek.
"Beepl" says the computer.
Clearly, the computer is unfaithful. I
hope it is not clever as well.
I wake up in my bunk. I hear the computer
beep. I hear the leak. I also hear footsteps.
I get out of bed. I put on my slippers.
They are fuzzy and black.
I follow the footsteps. I get closer to the
Drip, One, Drop, Two,
Two people on the ship,
The footsteps get louder. Human 2 is
walking away from me. But I am gaining.
Drip, One, Drop, Two,
Two people on the ship,
I approach Human 2. The footsteps are
just around the corner. Is it better for me to
Drip, One, Drop, Two,
Two people on the ship,
I turn around the corner. The footsteps
suddenly become quieter. They are coming
from another part of the ship. Human 2 is
still walking away from me.
The leak is tricky. The computer is tricky.
Accordingly, the footsteps are tricky.
I chase Human 2 around the ship. Footsteps
get louder, turn a corner, footsteps coming
from somewhere else. Follow the footsteps,
footsteps get louder, turn a corner, footsteps
coming from somewhere else.
Human 2 leaves me surprises. Warm
sandwiches on plates in hallways, nursery
rhymes pinned to walls, fragrances in the
air. The sandwiches allow me to chase
Human 2 without ever needing to stop for
nourishment My bed is always made when
I need to rest
There once was a bunny that was chasing a
Funny bunnyi Don't you see?
The dragon is a beast of much mystery.
And you with your fuzzy black coat will dare
This cunning demon? Bun-bun, what dis-
But do as you please, for you'll soon be confronted
You are not the predator: you are prey, you
are hunted.
I stare at the computer screen. I have been
chasing Human 2 for five days. Five days of
just running around. Five days of turning
corners and seeing empty hallways. Five
days of grilled cheese sandwiches. My slippers couldn't take it. They were worn out by
the third day. So I've been running around
barefoot instead.
I have also started wearing a baseball
cap. Backwards. It helps me think.
I stare at the computer screen. I hear
Human 2's footsteps. I feel an urge to chase
the footsteps again. I suppress the urge. I
want to know who it is. I want to know where
it is. It is better for me to know. And clearly,
I'll never find out by chasing. I stop listening
to the distant echo of Human 2's footsteps. I
put on my thinking cap. Backwards.
I log onto the Mainframe. The footsteps
Drip, One, Drop, Two,
Two people on the ship,
I search for the file connected to the
detecting instruments. The footsteps begin
again. This time, they are becoming louder.
I access the file. The footsteps quicken.
Human 2 is approaching the cockpit
Drip, One, Drop, Two,
Two people on the ship.
I click on the file. The computer thinks.
Human 2 is inside the cockpit
The computer tells me there are currently two people on the ship. Human 2 walks
towards my chair.
Drip, One, Drop, Two,
Two people on the ship,
The computer tells me Human 2's identity and location. Human 2 is standing behind
Drip, One, Drop, Two,
Two people on the ship,
I wait for my information.
"Identity and location of Human 1
unknown," says the computer.
I blink. I look behind me. Human 2 is unconscious on the floor. I am bleeding. My blood
drips onto the metal floor in an irregular
pattern. I remember this.
Drip. Drop.
Drip. Drop.
What's that...
Drip. Drop.
Drip. Drop.
Leak...a leak.
Drip. Drop.
Somewhere there's a leak.
Drip. Drop.
Somebody's got to fix it.
Drip. Drop.
Somebody...somebody? ♦ 6
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■Friday, March 26,2004*
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0Hft-TH.e /TREE!
by Nick Hersh
CROATIA—Girlfriends, like mothers, always seem
to know when you're lying. Well, at least with me
anyway. From broken windows to picking my nose
in-public, I have always been caught whenever I lie,
which, pathetically, is quite often. I clearly remember a spring afternoon when I was in middle
school. Having decided that I was old enough to
mow the lawn with our push-mower, my mother
had recently forced me off the couch and out of my
after school routine of lying down, watching Saved
By the BeH, eating whatever I could find and worshipping Zach Morris. However, being an adolescent boy who was used to being lazy, I was predictably bitter, thought myself 'misunderstood' and
did different things to either delay, or never get
around to, mowing the lawn.
A few weeks after I started on yard detail, I had
a little run in with that weeder-outer of inept children: fire. As I was filling up the lawn mower with
gasoline in the garage, I, for some reason poured
some on the ground and lit it. Naturally, a fire
much larger than I expected sprung from the concrete floor of our garage. Seeing flames billowing
from her garage and her idiot son dancing around
the fire like Piggy from Lord of the Flies, my mom
came storming outside.
After the fire was out, the first question was predictable. "Nick, what the hell did you do?*
"Ummm," I said, matchbook in hand.
"You're lying,* she snorted, without even considering that I had not been given the chance to lie.
She was right though. I would have lied and, last
time I checked, there is still a large black
scorch mark in the middle pf our otherwise white
garage floor.
Even today, while doing the most innocent and
innocuous things, I lie.
"My god, you're cheating again!* my girlfriend,
Hannah, stammered, seemingly shocked that a
human being would stoop to the level of cheating in
a game of Solitaire.
"What?! Of course not!' I replied indignantly, as
I swapped the five of clubs for the five of hearts.
This time, however, I feel like my lying was of little consequence. There we were on the island of
Hvar in Croatia, one of the most beautiful places on
earth, and still she's looking over my shoulder and
climbing all over me about a card game.
Granted, it was me who got us into this situation. Coastal Croatia, specifically the islands of
Dalmatia, might be stunningly beautiful with clear
water, fantastic beaches, home-grown wine and
endless seafood, but winter has little to offer. Few
tourists come, so most restaurants and attractions
are closed and the weather is rarely conducive to
sitting on the rocky beaches, eating lobster and
drinking wine. Every guidebook ever published naturally mentions this. I just chose to ignore it.
Instead, I lied to myself, somehow failed to mention it to Hannah and again was eventually caught.
Our time in Hvar was surprisingly one of the
dullest of my life. We had a wonderful little apartment with a view of the town and the Adriatic and
we even got it for one quarter of the regular price,
as we were, in late February, the first guests of the
year. The town is beautiful, set in a little cove with
pine trees and crowned by a castle on a nearby hill.
Yet we were forced to sit staring at each other,
wondering how to entertain ourselves and trying to
ignore the urge to play cards as, apparently, I am a
Other than everything being closed, the main
negative factor to our stay in Hvar was the weather.
And of course/ since ferries are the only form of
transport to and Ironj the island, w^ were stuck
waiting long beyond.our planned exit, date as no
boat was able to make it out to us.
> . .The ferry that did eventually brave the turbulent
seas to take us away almost Jailed Us, though it did
at least provide some much needed excitement.
The boat was alternating between pitching violently from side to side and pitching violently from
front to back. I sat with my eyes closed, hoping that
at least the other places in Croatia and Bosnia-
Herzegovina would five up to what I had said about
them and wishing in vain that the waves would
wash me away from glowering girlfriends and
obvious lies.
Of course, every trip has dozens of these little
stories and occurrences that, at the time, might
seem simple, dull or downright annoying.
However, looking back, I always seem to hold onto
and remember the little things just ais well as the
wonderful and awe-inspiring events that I have
been lucky enough to see. My trip to the former
Yugoslav Republics of Croatia and Bosnia-
Herzegovina has epitomised that, and I have seen
the simple and everyday and the once-in-a-lifetime
blend together into an unforgettable and amazingly
unique experience, Aji experience that helped me
to grasp*the confusingpast ofTugoslavia'and, even
more importantly, clear my mind of the lies and
presumptions of its present .,£._._   , ,. ...
A region torn apart
One of the glorious perks of my year studying
abroad in Germany is the semester break. From
mid-February through mid-April there are ho classes and most students take the time to iitaJce some
money, catch up on school work or enjoy the beginning of spring. Being an exchange student with
minimal scholastic responsibility, few marketable
talents and no real life to leave behind, I reasoned
with myself, kissed my already dwindling bank
account goodbye and picked up a map of Europe.
Not having the money or patience to float
around western Europe, I decided to stick mainly to
the periphery: Malta, Italy, Croatia, Bosnia-
Herzegovina, Hungary, Slovakia, Poland, the Czech
Republic and Denmark. For the most part, I had a
rough idea of what towns I'd be going to, how I'd be
getting around and where I would be staying. At
first, I was considering going alone, but I have had
enough of sitting alone in a pension room, listening
to the pouring rain outside while wishing I spoke
Bulgarian so that I coulcj-at least talk, to someone.
Having this in mind, I discussed it with my girlfriend and she decided to come along.
Eastern Europe, and Yugoslavia in particular,
has been fascinating me for years. Until now, however, my chances to see it have been short, superficial, or just plain lousy. Other than the aforementioned bout of loneliness in small town Bulgaria, I'd
seen a bit of Romania, Budapest and the beautiful
town of Rovinj, Croatia. Having had the best experience in Croatia, I decided that on this trip I would
try to see and understand more of the former
The history.of the Balkans is as complex and
confusing as it is interesting. After being controlled
by everyone from the Romans, to the Turks, to the
Austro-Hungarian Habsburgs, to the Nazis, the
Yugoslavs were united in the 1940s under the communist rule of Tito. By ignoring the region's numerous and conflicting religions and forcing his Soviet-
modeled, socialist economy on everyone, the
charismatic Tito pulled off a small miracle in keeping the mutual enmity of all of Yugoslavia's various
ethnicities at bay. This was not made easier by the
fact that most of the republics within Yugoslavia are
not homogenous, meaning that Serb communities
can be found in Croatia; "Albanian groups in
Serbian Kosovo; Muslim, Croatian and Serbian
groups in Bosnia, and so on. When you consider
that all of these cultures and ethnicities had been
bickering and feuding neighbours for centuries
through peace, war and mutual oppression (with
fighting amongst themselves continuing through
World War II), the scope of Tito's deeds must be
respected, in spite of a few uprisings during his
rule. However, relative peace could not last eternally, and just over ten years after Tito's death in
1980, the turbulent past and deep-rooted hatred
within Yugoslavia came roaring back to the
For a time I could do nothing but stand there and
stare at all of the public
buildings and
, the interiors having
been gutted by fire and the
facades destroyed by
artillery and small arms
fire. When I asked a man
when they would be rebuilt
he just chuckled and mumbled something to himself.
Without getting tangled in questions of right and
wrong or trying to relate the numerous atrocities
that all sides committed during the wars of the
1990s, I will do my best to simplify a situation that
I myself can hardly wrap my head around. Of
course, much more took place than I can explain,
.but I only wish to give some background information on the countries we visited, Croatia and
Bosnia-Herzegovina, without opening up entirely
different cans of worms, like the actions in Kosovo
against the ethnic Albanians.
In 1991, Croatia declared independence from
Yugoslavia and fighting broke out almost immediately between Croatia and the relatively small population of Serbs who lived within its borders and
who did not want to be separated from the Serbs of
Yugoslavia. The Croatian Serbs were quickly backed
up by the Yugoslav military, made up almost entirely of Serbs, who did not wish to let go of Croatia or
allow the country to push around its kinsmen. Over
the next few years, before the UN ultimately
stepped in, thousands died and hundreds of thousands on both sides were forced to flee their homes
due to fighting forced emigration or fear of ethnic
In Bosnia-Herzegovina, war broke out in 1992
as the Bosnian Serbs started seizing land and laid
siege to the capital city of Sarajevo in an attempt to
prevent the nation from leaving Yugoslavia. Camps
were even set up to 'cleanse' the country of the
Croatian and Muslim minorities who wanted independence. Matters were not helped when the
Bosnian Muslims and Croatians started fighting
amongst themselves. In mid-1993, the UN tried to
help, but its efforts failed to do much and Croatia
soon entered the fray to defend Bosnia's Croatians.
Eventually, in 1994, the UN used more force and by
the end of 1995, peace talks were in progress.
Nevertheless, out of a pre-war population of four
and a half million, two million people either died or
were forced to leave their homes.
The wars of independence and separation from
Yugoslavia in the 1990s were among the more brutal of our time. Everything from three-way wars to
civil wars and 'ethnic cleansing' took place, leaving
a story much too intricate and head-spinning for
me to unraveL However, by war's end, midway
through the decade, tens of thousands of people
from all over the region had been killed with millions more having been forced to leave their
Finding a local perspective
Having grown up during the wars and now visiting the countries involved, Hannah and I could
not banish the thought of war from our minds as
we visited towns and met locals.
After our 'peaceful' and 'extended' stay on Hvar,
we were more than excited to pack up the cards and
glares and move on to Dubrovnik, at the extreme
southern end of the Croatian coast Dubrovnik is
famous for its stari grad, or 'old town,' which is a
beautiful and walled in section of the city with
winding streets, clay-tile roofed houses and marble
everywhere from the streets, to the walls, to the
many fountains.
In 1991 and 1992, Dubrovnik was laid under
siege for eight months by the Federal Army of
Yugoslavia. About 2000 shells were shot into the
old town, and approximately 70 per cent of the
buildings sustained damage, not including the hundreds of shells that damaged the streets and the
towering, two kilometres-long stone wall that surrounds the old town and port. After the war ended,
much focus was put on the reconstruction of
Dubrovnik, and 12 years later you could hardly see
evidence of the drama the city has recently seen.
We spent our time in Dubrovnik scampering
around the great wall, all of which is open to the
public, including the numerous towers and turrets.
When we got tired of stone steps and walking, we
went out of town and sat on the boulders next to the
sea to enjoy the glittering blue Adriatic and warm
sunshine. Dubrovnik was amazing—different from
what we expected a once war-torn city to be. I was
also very relieved that, after the false promises I
had given about Hvar, Dubrovnik did not fail to
restore at least a little faith in my word.
Next we travelled by bus through the mountains
to Mostar, Bosnia-Herzegovina. Like Dubrovnik,
Mostar is a beautiful city with a deep history, epitomised by the stari most, or 'old bridge,' which was
built under Ottoman rule. However, Mostar was
also one of the cities most affected by the Muslim-'
Croat fighting of the early 1990s, and today the
town is still divided by a frontline—Croats staying
on one side and Muslims on the other.
Walking along the frontline towards the old
bridge, which is almost rebuilt since its destruction
during the fighting in 1993, was an extremely
sobering experience. None of the buildings escaped
unscathed, most having been scalded and ravaged
by the war. For a time I could do nothing but stand
there and stare at all the public buildings and
homes that were now shrapnel-riddled shells, the
interiors having been gutted by fire and the facades
destroyed by artillery and small arms fire. When I
asked a man when they would be rebuilt he just
chuckled and mumbled something to himself. I
decided not to push the issue.
What stood out even more in Bosnia than the
destroyed buildings were the cemeteries. In Mostar
and Sarajevo what had once been public parks and
open spaces in the cities were now filled with
graves. This was made more disturbing because,
although I searched, I could not find more than a
handful of graves that were not from 1992 or 1993.
It was hard to believe that a few days before, my
feet had been dangling in the sea and I had been
naively wondering if all of the former Yugoslavia
had been rebuilt like Dubrovnik had been. It was
even harder to believe that I could get on a bus in
Sarajevo and be sleeping in my bed in Germany by
the next day. I was in a different world, not
Europe's 'periphery,' though thoughts like this only
helped to contribute to my false ideas and presumptions about where I was visiting
Sarajevo was the city that I was most interested
to see. I remember watching the news as a kid, seeing so many images from the snowy hills around
Continued on page 8. ^^sa__Il3_g?_.,
6      RANT
by Maureen Evans
college. In the dim and quiet, I wondered if there was anybody there, if
somehow I'd made a mistake, and if I shouldn't just come back the next
week. But then I saw a room busy with light and students. I felt invisible as
I crept behind the group, while they propped canvases and chose their
brushes. I tried not to think about the big platform of softly layered cloth or
the sunny portrait lights. I listened to George, whom I'd met a few weeks
earlier, explain the rules of proportion to the class. Then George came over
and pointed me to a screened corner that was my dressing room. My pulse
bolted. What are you afraid of, the artists?, I asked myself, as I kicked off my
shoes and peeled off my socks. My shirt. My pants. My underwear. I felt like
an onion, I felt odd—I was literally naked at school, although I'd never had
that nightmare. I could hear George explaining the virtues of the contra
posto figure through art history, and I knew he was killing time for me. He
knew I'd never done this before. I stepped out
My then-friend now-lover once called me 'the least naked person* he
knew. This was due to a lack of conscious physicality to be naked in. I have
long had an unusual relationship with my corporal being; of irreverence,
denial, or fondness at best Barely feeling as though my body exists, I have
cared about it to the extent that it kept my mind going, for my mind is the
basis of my identity. We are what we do, says Kierkegaard, and my work is
cerebral. My mind was the writer, and my body incidental to its existence. I
wandered around in the mindset of the invisible man, until finally I decided to be the most naked person in a room full of people, in order to prove
to myself that I actually exist That night was to be a personal revolution: I
would be naked for the first time.
But the invisible man cannot be naked. When I emerged from behind the
screen, everything was fine. My heart settled down just as it does on the first
day of any new job. In fact, I felt completely comfortable; the only strange
sensation was the acute absence of anxiety. I walked around without any
clothes on. I still didn't feel naked. I discussed die position with George:
weight on my right leg, left foot as if stepping slightly forward, left hand on
my hip, eyes looking to the top-left corner of the room. I tried to relax into
the contrived position naturally. On the platform, my skin was warm and
washed with light The students' eyes were all over me as they mixed the
shades and colours of my body onto their palettes. My usual stream of consciousness buzzed on unphazed. And I thought How curious; I'm still not
naked. Why had I never experienced the self-awareness so bound to nudity
in our culture? We are, after all, an obsessively body-conscious society, for
which being naked in public is the stuff of nightmares. To be exposed physically is to be exposed absolutely, and most people dread the thought of their
bodies, of which they are highly critical, being naked in public. This is especially true for women, but increasingly for men also, as our cultural obsession with the phantasmal, beautiful, perfectly-managed self transcends gender. Unless you meet the standards of fantasy, your naked body is an object
of shame, a flaw that must be kept private, and must be punished in private
as well—eating disorders are on the increase for both sexes in a culture
where 95 per cent of women overestimate their body size, and little girls
often begin diets at nine years old. This skin-deep fanaticism is often accompanied by the degradation of concern for both larger and smaller spheres of
existence. It erodes understanding of basic human interdependence, of the
way each of us exists as part of society. It eats away at consciousness of the
value and responsibility of our social selves, to the point where a walk down
Robson Street feels like a walk through a disjoined gathering of empty
human skins. It is clear to me that most people in our society are body-conscious, but in a horrifying way that makes me glad that I do not think that
way about myself.
For me, everything is upstairs; I have science-fiction fantasies about existence as pure thought, based on neo-Buddhist philosophies that our waken
lives are molded solely from the clay of ideas. I have always defined the
most physically-grounded attributes of identify—my gender and my sexuality, for example—in purely intellectual terms. I interpret others in the same
way, and find myself relating to people as collections of ideas, as expressions of thought, as lambent minds glimmering within the grey tomb of the
human form, as aesthetically disregardable to me as any prison. One of my
personal favourite pastimes is lakeniiving at night in the iceless winters of
Southwestern British Columbia. I leap straight off the dock fully clothed,
and once I resurface, I move as little as possible, and tread just enough to
keep my nose breathing air. My clothes become heavy, and my breath drifts
away in clouds. The weedy-smelling, frigid lake gradually creeps into my toe
bones and finger joints, then my calves and my arms, then my shoulders
and knees, until the delicious, liberating moment when I cannot feel my
body at all. When I am just a mind full of thoughts floating up in the stars,
then I am free.
I was comfortable, although alienated at times, with this surreal concept
of my body, and with being abnormal in a society where normalcy amounts
to critical obsession with the appearance of your physical fornu I cared for
my body adequately; each day Ibathed aridbbiind myhaijD andthen got on
with the industry of thought; quite- happily. But for every zone of mainstream culture there is a zone of subcultural resistance, and there have been
social uprisings—of feminists^ primarily—in which empowering the naked
body is the ultimate form of political revolution. Ironically, it was these
alternative models of body consciousness that first caused me to question
the health of my identity a few years ago. Feminist Abra Chernik wrote critically of her reaction to puberty: 'I resolved to eradicate the physical symptoms of my impending womanhood.* She developed eating disorders, and
recovered only after realising the 'illusion of anorexic power.* For feminists, this illusion is symptomatic of the many ways in which women are
pressured to be smaller, both literally and figuratively, in our society. *I
grasped the absurdity of a nation of adult women dying to grow small,'
wrote Abra, 'feminism has taught me to honour the fullness of my womanhood and the solidity of the body that hosts my life.'
Feminism, which I had associated with since perhaps the age of six, sent
a Trojan horse of mutinous ideas into my welcoming cerebral state. I may
not have been anorexic in regards to food, said feminism, but I was sexually anorexic. In love with minds and not bodies? A sick state of illusion, due
to the patriarchal oppression of desire. For the first time, I was pathologised
by and excluded from alternative thought. I panicked at first, under full
siege within my community of the alienated. I wrote my way through it, and,
as always, undeniable truths glimmered for me in the embers of the attack:
*I wish to be thought and experience. That is enough to explain the rift in
my being. If I were not a woman but a Buddha instead, this rift would be the
round edge of an empty bowl." I drifted away from feminism, but in retrospect I must credit it for acting as a catalyst of personal revolution.
Revolution scares us; it explodes us from the inside, and scatters us out like
stars beyond the limitations of our previous existence. We come to know
ourselves best through personal challenge and change, and perhaps I even
brought an ounce of the feminist spirit with me to the art college that night
where I attempted to expose myself, physical ghost that I am, if not as a
woman's body, then at least as a personal, political statement
Other revelatory experiences beyond feminism helped to transform my
body consciousness as well. Despite leading a predominately cerebral existence, I have still faced physical challenges, which have earned my body my
own respect and compassion. This clumsy vessel has proven to be strong
through voyages—on the arduous West Coast it pushed its way through the
shifting sand and sandy wind and muck and grind and salt-water-on-the-
peeled-raw-heels of an advanced eighty-kilometre hike, though I still mostly
credited the power of my mind. Then a longer trek, from Shanghai to
London—by vehicles, granted, but significantly, my body was the only constant and known place. My body was my home. Everything in my possession
was on my back, and my feet took me everywhere. And my body took everywhere into me-T-I ate my way through, twenty-two countries—and my body's
health; was: an expressioiL of the' health of Most of the World's people, who
were eating the same poverty-sodden street food as I was for much of the
'■■■■■ My damaged body pulled me back to Canada. I was ill for twelve long
months. It was like living that nightmare where you want to run away from
danger, but your body won't move. Terrifyingly, I have no memory of my life
through the worst of it. I know that I would come home after school, stumble just inside the door, stand there a moment—and wake up curled fetally
on the spot, several hours later. My digestion wasn't working: eating anything hurt I slept sixteen hours a day for weeks, and still felt exhausted,
though my mind was' desperate to get moving again. I was in despair.
Doctors ran lengthy batteries of tests, but they couldn't figure out what was
wrong with me. They blamed it on an invisible bug, and pumped me full of
antibiotics—the nasty stuff normally reserved to assist the depleted immune
systems of those with AIDS or cancer. It left nothing alive inside my body but
me, and barely. Rather than the invisible man, I felt then like the visible
woman: a clear plastic tomb of numerous complicated organs to be studied
and prodded. My body, pushed to its limits and paying the price, was so vulnerable, so real, and most importantly, so restricted in its ability to create
art as to elicit my genuine concern.
Physical illness made me admit that my body was both real and necessary. It made me slow down, take care, and even stop writing for a while.
When it imposed restrictions on the ability of my mind to create, it threatened my cerebral identity as an artist Or exploded, or evolved, I guess,
because it was only then that I fully realised that my body is integral to my
identity as an artist I took the time to tend to my sickness, to my nutrition,
and to my body in general. I went to a Boddhisattva-mad acupuncturist who
brought the chi to my belly again; she unprescribed the antibiotics and had
me eat burnt cardamom and drink oregano oil until I felt like a walking
pizza. But I slowly began to move again. One day I went for a walk. On another, mind bankmind bank a swim. I stretched. It may all sound obvious, but
caring about my body was actually an epiphanic experience for me. My
mind had been dangerously like that of Phaethon, the proud and fevered
child of the gods, who took the chariot of the sun on a joyride across the sky.
His ambition and heedlessness for the earth below would have burnt it out
completely—as my unruly mind would have burnt out my body—if Apollo
hadn't struck him from the sky.
This experience transformed my conception of writing, as well. I understood the cooperative relationship between bodily perception and mental
abstraction more deeply, now that I consciously embodied it. Of course, I
had always known intellectually that ideas come to us physically, through the
senses—and that my artist's task of bringing colours, sights, smells, sounds
kmg nontfictkm wirin^r
and textures to the mind of the reader is really an appeal to the mind bank
of their own physical experience. And of course I had known just as well that
all of the images that I create are reflections of my own tactile existence. It's
just that my primary fascination had always been with the mystical way that
language gets the job done—the way that an imperfect series of scratches on
paper, when translated through the gentle physical act of reading, can give
birth to entire perfect universes in the mind. I have concluded that my
estrangement was primarily artistic, and from art I have found company in
exile. I agree with die feminists that the concept we hold of our bodies can
be symbolic of our place in the world—we are what we do, after all—and I
find real joy in celebrating human sensuousness. But above all I believe that
human beings, in our uniquely complex awareness of that sensuousness,
can transcend temporal confines—the fears and fig leaves of culture—in
order to transcribe universals of human experience. Human beings that do
so are artists, and they come to inhabit artists' bodies. Of course this has different meanings to different people, but I am not the first writer to have
found herself alienated by my place in the world, and thus my bodily existence and experience. John Keats wrote, 'A poet is the most unpoetical of any
thing in existence....The sun, the moon, the sea and men and women who
are creatures of impulse are poetical and have about them an unchangeable
attribute—the poet has none; no identity." Or as I see it the poet is the contents of an alms bowl, a non-identity, an empty shell just full of mirrors,
reflecting no visible image or object I believe that it is this very experience
of forgetting oneself for the artistic vision that has alienated me from society—or is it the other way around? We can never know—and from my body
But I still believe in personal revolution. I never want to be sure of myself
to the point where I cannot grow; there is always something to gain from
adventure, as my experiences have shown; and in the end my experience at
the art college was no exception to this. The artists spent an hour and a half
painting me; I spent an hour and a half listening to them paint and thinking
about paint and writing in my head. I felt the folds of cloth beneath my feet
but as usual I was not really there. I was a mind full of thoughts floating up
in the top left corner of the room. I felt pretty good up there; the room smelt
of art When George called a five minutes warning, my right leg was a hot
iron pillar, my sight was completely burnt out by the track lights, and the
innocent crease in my left wrist had caused the circulation in my hand to
sputter out But I thought of myself as that idea a writer has, perhaps when
they're walking down the street that causes them to scramble for a pen and
a scrap of paper to just get it down before it's too late. I stayed put for art's
sake. When George said the time was up, the students breathed out in
release of their concentration. It took longer for my right hip and knee to
agree to release theirs, but I shook them like a handkerchief until the stiffness dropped out and I hobbled back to my change room. I sat there in a
chair for a long time.
Underwear. Pants. Shirt Socks. Shoes. I emerged from behind the screen
again, but this time I was dressed and the room was empty, except for the
static congregation of easels and the Ml smell of paint drying in the room.
I was not very interested in the many blurry canvasses of content and colour;
they so much belonged to the room I had thought through to the last drip of
the last draught of my interest I was drunk on experience; I was a bowl full
of that room. I stood there a while to reflect on it all. I guess I'm good for this
job, I thought mostly because I don 'tfeel like I'm doing it This satisfied me—
and I might just have made the mistake of being sure of myself—but as I
turned to leave the room I caught a glimpse of George's easel. And suddenly I was naked. ♦ Zti^am
. the ubf isff; rnigafine:
Friday, March 26; 2004
"■        ing picked up al 85.
f        ^ Vis    " ing picked up al a. g
^«—^ lA+W     +     A-f-R
I,.., -,»-,- -«,.;,.,,— « - —— ^
V*, at the Ubyssey, the official student newspaper of UBC, feel that we should be doing our
most to recognize and encourage activities and events that develop and strengthen a sense of
community on campus. On our 80th anniversary in 1998, we established^ $50,000
endowment that will fund the Ubyssey Community Contribution Award. This annual award
recognizes a returning UBC Student who has made a significant contribution to developing
and strengthening the sense of community on the UBC campus by:
1. Organizing or administrating an event or project, or
2. Promoting activism and awareness in an academic, cultural, political, recreational, or
social sphere.
The 2003-2004 award went to Christopher Ste-Crok in recognition of his contribution to
campus safety and related services.
The award is open to all returning, full-time, UBC students, graduate, undergraduate and
unclassified in good standing with the Ubyssey Society. We will award $3,000 to this project
and the award will be disbursed to the successful candidate in September 2004.
Nominees for the award will be judged on:
1. The impact of the contribution made-the number of people involved or affected.
2. The extent of the contribution - the degree to which it strengthens the sense of
community on campus. -
3. The innovation of the contribution - preference will be given to recognizing a new
contribution over the administration of an existing one.
4. The commitment of the individual to UBC as a community.
Nominations should include a cover letter by the nominator, either an individual or a group,
briefly stating the nature of the contribution made, the individual being nominated, contact
information of the nominator and the nominee and a letter (approximately 500 words in
length) describing the contribution made and how the above four criteria have been met.
Students are welcome to nominate themselves, but those doing so must attach a letter of
support from another member of the campus community. The award will be judged by a
committee chaired by a representative of UBC Student Financial Assistance and Awards office
and members from various parts of the campus community.
Deadline for submission of completed Dominations should reach the Ubyssey, room 23, SUB,
no later than Monday, April 19th, 2004.
For further information, please contact Ferine Pereira, Business Manager, The Ubyssey, at
'"*') 822-6681 or email: fpereira@interchange,ubc.ca
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Amongst tfie broken buildings
and shell-shot bridges, the
people of former Yugoslavia
find the will to move on.
Continued from pages 6-7.
the city as the Bosnian Serb
artillery lobbed shell after shell
into the town. The siege of Sarajevo
lasted from 1992-1995, and the
inhabitants' only link to the outside
world was through a one kilometre-
long tunnel that ran under the airport. Over 10,000 of Sarajevo's
people died, with thousands more
having been injured by sniper and
artillery fire. It was a surreal experience as, not even 10 years later,
we descended from the same hills I
had seen on TV into the same
snowy city.
Sarajevo holds the distinction of
being the only place I have ever visited that was both exactly as I had
expected it to be while at the same
time being completely different.
Though glimpses of past fighting
and the old Yugoslavia were everywhere, from a few burned-out buildings to a rusty sign welcoming peo-,
ple to the Sarajevo Winter Olympics
of 1984, signs of a quickly changing
city were even more prevalent.
Internet cafes were everywhere, and
all were filled with kids playing
high-tech video games: Fashion conscious people could shop at any one
of at least five United Colors  of •
,=^."C-;^ft   ,'»i. ;.>;1    ;s^ Jr
'■ Benetton stored and have their pick T
of Hollywood's newest and hottest
films. Yet, despite so many western
influences, the smell of wood smoke
was ever present—many places,
trendy shops included, were heated
by wood-burning stoves.
However, despite both progress
and signs of age, it is easy to get the
impression that the people of
Sarajevo and the former Yugoslavia
want to forget the war and become
regular citizens of the world again.
Forgetting my presumptions, I can ":
Not knowing what
to say after a lull in
our conversation, I
blunderingly asked,
"So what was it like
here during the
He looked up
from his feet for a
second before
answering, "You
can imagine."
see that they have moved on.
I realised the extent to which my
interior falsehoods and assumptions had taken my ideas of the former Yugoslavia during a walk up a
hillside in Sarajevo, where I got into
a conversation with a guy named
Sunny. Sunny was 13 during the
siege and now works in a tourist
office. Not knowing what to say after
a lull in our conversation, I blunderingly asked, "So what was it like
here during the siege?'
He looked up from his feet for
a second before answering,  "You
can imagine.
I blushed and barely managed a
laugh, trying to hide my shock.
How could I even begin to imagine? Here was a kid just a few years
older than me who had seen and
suffered through so much, thinking
that I could even come close to
imaginirig what he'd been through.
Did he realise that 1 don't walk by
thousands of recent graves on my
way to work? Or that I still find the
need to cheat over card games and
then lie about it? Or that my idea of
a traumatising childhood'was a few
dead pets and the cancellation of
The A-Teaml
Looking at my confused expression and thinking he'd suddenly
struck gold. Sunny quickly added,
"Well, if you have any more questions, take my tour of the city tomorrow. You could learn a lot*
This not-so-subtle salesmanship
brought'me back to my senses and
made me realise that, yet again, I
had been lying to myself. AH around
us in Croatia and Bosnia-
Herzegovina were foreigners who
had come as much to see the effects
of war as they had to "see the cities
and culture, and Hannah and I were
no different. The tendency to think
■ of these- people gimply^'as w§r victims is easy, biit we" forget how similar all of us actually are. The stigmas of 'Bosnia' and 'the former
Yugoslavia' are held too strongly in
most of our minds, and no matter
what else we see or hear, the memory of war hinders our senses.
It has been hard, as a 21-year-pld
kid from suburban Philadelphia, to
try to understand and write about a
concept as alien: to njfe.as starvation
or famine: that of war. I came here
not seeing the people I was meeting
as students, shopkeeperstof fathers,
but as survivors pf war and extremely tough times. In talking with the
people I met, I expected them to
have sullen, seen-it-all expressions.
But I couldn't have been further
from the truth. The people were as
accommodating, hospitable, happy
and genuinely friendly as any that I
had ever met. My presumptions had
just kept me from expecting it.
It is funny how, in cities as grand
as Dubrovnik and as shocking as
Mostar, a simple conversation with
a guy I randomly met left a bigger
impression than anything else.
After seeing so much and talking
with people like Sunny, it will be
impossible to forget the images of
war in my mind. However, after that
conversation, I realise that those
images belong to Croatia and
Bosnia's past, despite the presump-
lions we have in the west or how
buildings in towns might look at
present. The citizens of what was
once Yugoslavia have moved on—so
why not us as well?
After all. Sunny may be my age
and he may have been through
more than I have, but that doesn't
mean that he is less in touch with
the world than I. He is still just
a kid like me, and why should I
think of him as anything but that?
After all, I'll bet he even lies to his
girlfriend, and maybe even his
mother. ♦ 8      RANT
Shaving Days
snap rum-fictkni winner
by Trevor Kew
every other morning, but instead of my usual
replaceable Mach 3, I was using an electric
razor. Things weren't going well. The electric
wasn't cutting it. Three rotary blades spun
their wheels on my face, plucking random
strands from the scruffy patches on my
cheeks. Prickly tracks of razor burn began to
heat up beneath my skin. I glanced down at
my watch: five minutes and the bus to work
would be gone.
I thought these things were designed to
save you time and energy!
There had to be something wrong with it. It
had always worked fine at Grandpa's house.
Wondering if it was clogged, I turned the
blades off, pressed down on the side-latches
and uncapped the headpiece.
A small clump of grey hairs, as small and
fine as dust, tumbled out onto the counter and
trickled down into the sink.
4  4  4
This razor, a Philishave 980, was a gift
from my late grandfather. The morning before
he passed away, quickly and quietly from
prostate cancer—that ubiquitous curse of the
male gender that seems to get all of us if we
live long enough—he'd used it to shave, one
last time. After he died, my grandmother
asked if I, his eldest grandson, would like to
have it. Of course I said yes.
He'd let me, no, made me use it before.
From the age of eleven, when early murmurs
of peach fuzz began whispering around my
chin, I was under intense grandparental
scrutiny from the moment I walked into his
always-spotless one-storey bungalow. My
grandfather wouldn't stand for anything but a
clean-shaven grandson. If I showed up at his
door with a five-o'clock shadow, he would
direct me to the small bathroom at the front of
the house where he kept all his toiletries.
"You look like a bum," he'd say. "Shave.*
And he'd smile, place his fingers under his
impeccably-shorn chin and flip them out at
me like an Italian mobster: palm up, rounded
like a cup. (It was an in-joke of ours. I'd told
him it meant "Have a nice day;" when its actual meaning was synonymous with the North
American middle finger).
I remember shaving days at Grandpa's
house. The razor was always in that same spot,
a bracket on the wall: plugged in, recharging,
ready for the next morning. It made short
work of my adolescent whiskers. Afterwards,
my skin always felt fresh and clean, as if I'd
washed so vigorously, scrubbed so hard that a
whole new face was staring back at me from
the mirror.
4  4  4
The day I helped carry my grandfather's
coffin to its final resting place was miserable.
The mud squelched all over my best shoes and
the rain streamed down my face, mixing with
the salty drops that were trickling from my
The coffin was heavy, good quality; it took
eight of us to lift it And its blue fabric cover,
concealing the eyes and mouth and teeth and
chin and the rest of a man I'd known so well,
felt smooth and soft beneath my five unsteady
When the coffin was in place at the
gravesite, we listened to the priest recite traditional Catholic funeral prayers over my grandfather. The words sounded cold and mechanical to me, giving none of the wonderful details
about a man I'd known and loved for my
entire 22 years on this earth. These same
words, I'm sure, were said over his father's
grave. And his father. And his father. Our
Tossing handfuls of sand on the coffin,
another ingredient of the timeless regime of
Catholic rituals, also felt wrong. A man who
had prized cleanliness and good grooming so
highly: covered in dirt forever. I apologised
under my breath as I patted the coffin and
walked away, flipping my fingers under my
chin, palm up. Have a nice day.
4 4 4
When I washed those grey hairs down the
drain, I buried my grandfather in my mind.
They swirled around in the sink, the last of
him fluttering like ashes in an updraft, before
they disappeared forever, only ever seen by
When I had rinsed the last of the hair from
the headpiece, I slipped it back onto the main
body of the razor. It felt cool and quick against
my cheek. My face lost its shadow, crisply
clean-shaven and smooth. But temporary
always. Tomorrow and the next day I'd be
standing at the sink again, shearing stubble
from my cheeks.
4  4  4
Last week, I emptied the razor again. It was
full of tiny black hairs, fine as dust, yet among
the powdery black whiskers were scattered
specks of silver-grey. Staring at the mirror,
reflecting, I hoped and prayed that these grey
hairs did not belong to me. ♦
snap ni5n-fictii5n runner-up
by Erik Kallberg
out of the corner of my eye; something
not quite right Did I Just see what I
thought I saw? Please no, not now. Then
confirmation comes in the form of a
blur. That thing, which didn't look quite
right, now looks like something censored on television. Are jou serious?
Now the blur covers much of my vision.
I know what is coming, and I know it's
going to be bad. I'm chained to the
tracks. Damn it!
The blurring has faded. I can clearly
see the headlight about to destroy me.
Crap. The pain arrives. I can hear it
becoming stronger with every beat of
my heart Why me? I'm hit full on with
a relentless pounding in my brain.
BAM! BAM! BAM! No. The pain increases and I begin to lose feeling in my fingers. My hands clench and my lips start
shaking. I try to speak but only a
slurred mess comes out of my mouth. J
can't talk! My entire body is falling
The rest of my body has begun to
feel the pricks of pins and needles. I
start to lose my vision again, not to the
blur, but to the darkness. I lean over
the side of the bed and vomit into the
garbage. Please stop, please! I'll do
anything just stop.
But it will not. I am being trampled.
My entire body is shaking. I cannot
move my fingers. I have to do something- I can't take this any more. An
idea comes into my wreck of a brain.
Knock yourself out. Smash your head
on the wall hard enough so that you
won 'thave to feel any more pain.
The idea sounds good enough. Why
not? I prop myself up on my elbows and
look at the wall to my left. Hit it hard,
bit it fast, and you will feel no more. My
mind has begun to betray me. I cock my
head back and whip it as fast as I can
toward the wall. SLAM! It hits the wall
and I collapse to my bed. What happened? I'm still here. Tlean over and
vomit again. It didn't work. The act of
desperation has only added to my pain.
Now I can feel something running
down the side of my head. At least I can
still feel. My hand reaches up and touches the liquid. I look at my fingers, they
are covered in blood. No one can help
me. I'm alone. I can feel another trickle
on my face, but this time I don't reach
up. I know I'm crying.
The train of pain rolls mainly
through my brain.
Seven hours after seeing something which didn't look quite right,
the pounding is gone. All that's left is
the dull ache and the inability to function normally. The after-effects will
last for days.
The train has passed, but I'm still
chained to the tracks. And the next one
is on its way. ♦ PAGE FRIDAY
Friday, March 26,2004
tJHt; iif|i«I pagaiiiiiffflftv
he ot
Queer Ey
ing io me oiner te
e soundtrack brings out the inner dance fiend in hardened rock fan
[Capitol Records]
by Momoko Price
Make no mistake, I am a red-blooded rock'n'roller and don't let anyone
else tell you any different I'll get
down with classic AC/DC, Van
Halen, Guns n'^ Roses and Led
Zeppelin one after the other. The sex
appeal, the bravado> the hair, the
tight pants, I love it all. If you tried to
convince me that a comparably talented singer, has emerged in the
mainstream media since Robert
Plant, I'd be inclined lo call you stupid to your face.
So when I was given the Queer
Eye for the Straight Guy soundtrack
to review, chock-full of dance music,
I took the album with disgust I took
it home and decided to give it an
unbiased spin. Widelife's , 'All
Things (Just Keep Getting Better)*
blasted through my speakers with
outrageously flamboyant 80s beats
and Simone Denny's diva voice
practically shattered my windows.
AH things just keep getting better,
eh? I thought
But by the time Basement Jaxx's
driving, dramatic "Good Luck" was
halfway through I noticed something alarming: My toes were tapping! My head was nodding along
with the beatl Good Godl I rushed to
my computer and stopped the track.
My heart was pounding. My hands
were shaking. And even though I
told myself over and over that I was
just experimenting musically for
the sake of a review, that it didn't
really mean anything, I knew that
something inside me had been
I didn't listen to the album for
another four days after the incident
But before long my curiosity overwhelmed me. I dropped it into my
discman, so that my roommates
couldn't hear. In the privacy of my
room, I shook my booty to the
Chemical Brothers' spaced-out
remix of Kylie Minogue's "Slow"
(complete with laser gun-like sound
effects), Junior Senior's latin-infused
"Move Your Feet* and Prophet
Omega's saucy "An Area Big Enough
To Do It In." The songs were energetic, pumped with bubble gum and
adrenaline, and I liked it
And you know what? I'm not
ashamed anymore. I bring the CD
on the bus, I listen to it in the street,
and damn it, I don't cafe. In fact, I'm
proud of my love of cheap, mass-produced dance music (I make no pretensions about the quality of this
music, it's campy, but in that so-bad-
it's-good way). I am out of the closet
and it feels good. And the next time
I'm in a club and I see disgruntled
rock fans nursing their beers by the
bar while the DJ spins a remix of
Sting's "Never Coming Home,* I'll
shrug them off and head to the
dance floor. They don't know what
they're missing. «fr
wtosic fiiii
A prcjp
FOUHIV/ y \jr
onic oain to our ears
Vancouver's Sonicjoy
spread themselves
thin, leading to a
shallovv album overall
Urban Angel
,' ,   feyJleriii Cameron •
After listening to Sonicjoy's Urban Angel a
few times, it sat on my desk for a couple of
weeks. The reason behind this is simple: it
wasn't that good. Sonicjoy makes an
attempt at combining trance and acoustic—
and not very successfully.
Sonicjoy is a completely independent
Vancouver-based band that meshes Indian
melodies with Electronica. Joyelle Brandt
(vocals) works with Sam Ryan (djembe,
bass), Mike Jevhe (sampler, percussion)
and Shawn Jacobson (keyboards) in an
attempt to create a mysterious sound that is
supposed to allow us to connect with our
selves spiritually. Listening to the album, I.
only connected with the stop button on my
The music is very dreamy, with the occasional entourage of electronic bleeps. I just
couldn't get into it at all. Sometimes the
guitar Would come in, and I just thought
'why?' Everything in this album seems
overly thought-out, from the elaborate electronic sounds to the beat of African drums.
Sonicjoy is trying so hard for an original
sound that the final product sounds like a
cross between house and a cheesy lounge
band. Not my idea of revolutionary music.
Despite winning a songwriting contest
on Z95.3, Sonicjoy's lyrics are by far the
most aggravating aspect of the album.
Joyelle Brandt asks me to fly away with her
far too many times. I don't think there is
much more than one verse per song, be it
"the energy is rising* or "you touch me, you
take me there.* I found the lyrics uninspiring, cheesy and annoying.
Some of the songs on Urban Angel
attempt to create that sexy vibe. Unfortunately, they are too oddly connected and
wistful to accomplish that. I'm not sure if
Sonicjoy wants you to dance, romance or just
chill out.
Aiming to quantity over quality, the
band tries to use as many odd instruments
as possible in order to fit into as many genres as they can. Saxophone just doesn't
work with acoustic guitar and synthesizer,
at least not like this.
This blend of acoustic, jazz, trance and
everything else just doesn't amount to anything solid. It's not exciting, it's not catchy
and it's not sexy. Sonicjoy is simply trying
way too hard to be Important, and their
album. Urban Angel, falls far short of
becoming anything with staying power. ♦
^rxirne a w a y
Win a Eurail Pass
want Co give you a free
first class Euraft pass!
Just tell m five reasons
why students should visit
Europe, and you could win!
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See tiie world'your w§y
UBC SUB ,„.........„ 604-822-6890
UBC Marketplace „. 604-659*2860
-will be
Lord of the Rings Week!!!
Screenings @ Norm Theatre in SUB
Admission: $3 and Membership: $20
Film Society Hotline: (604) 822-3697
Wed. March 24
6:00&10:00PM: LOTR: Fellowship...
Thurs. March 25
6:00&10:00PM: LOTR: Two Towers
Fri. March 26 & Sat March 27
6:00&10:OOPM: LOTR: Return of King
Sun. March 28
12:00PM: LOTR: Fellowship of Ring
04:00PM: LOTR: The Two Towers
08:00PM: LOTR: Return of the King
M   C'
.  -j
.- /
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f||||fjf||6|s|||ff RANT       9
La danse d'Atcheson,
or "The Game's Afoot
){ -iit-m *s
pcj^try winner
by Shane C. Walters
Dada Dada Dada, a roaring of tense colours, and interlacing of opposite sand of all contradictions, grotesques, inconsistencies: LIFE.
—Tristan Tzara, Dadaist Manifesto, 1922
beers, combs the cupboards, in truth, for black rums to go with 1/2 filled
bottles of mixes; "The Game's Afoot* says he. See, he gets into these extreme fixes—
Atch stoop-shouldered on a scarred wooden bench, a proto-Nietzschean Ubermensch,
but short of something classified
who clung seasick to iron-painted rails atop tumultuous tides
who paraded to fife and clappers of brass, best spit-polisher, first in line for growlies in
steel galleys, who shined belt buckles, webbing, & wild gas masks
who attracts the unwanted: country-music old fossils who look fine from behind, retarded
little gals with vacuous eyes, men in drag, fat ladies who sigh & sag
who steal his stale beer, lip smacking & burbling in sour little sounds from jellied guts—
Atch (any little thing turns him off, more picky than he should be) tuts!
who prefers the witless, spectacled shy young thangs with ravenous appetites & bedsheet
seepages & dark hair in bangs
who daily dream of hot-flash liaisons with hairy hunks in hotel rooms, flasks of gin by fake
■ mahogany side-boards above the Gideon bibles, and Atch, to his chagrin-
can never escape the scenes: can't think up good lines, can't tie his ties, can't see without
the specs he fears'll be punched into his liny red eyes
in leather vest and beat boots in barroom corners, double-fisting double rums, looking to
get laid, in limbo, with eyebrows arched in puke-green pool-halls of Halifax holydays,
tattooed arms akimbo, Atch alone—
who's proud of his stories of horses and whores in Amsterdam, 100 pint-clubs in sun-
downed London, parochial Boston combat zones
looking for classier club dames, big-haired, legs crossed, known from drooling distances,
playing games, in superb strobelight profiles & fancy flowered pinks, dangling thin mint
cigs & sipping umbrella'd drinks
who can afford to ignore the roar & shining faces of adorers galore; navy scum can't
pray for, or pay fori But Atch—
who, knees cracking, blind, belly Ml o' gas, cruised into the substantial behind of a bright red
dress he found abeam a beer sign: a fortyish fleet hag around for eons-in-flagons!
Whose fattish thighs aplash on bar torn stools, who's never on the wagon—Atch
lies, glares at his gargantuan watch, straightens with a hiccup, snegglies in his beard,
outwitted in each of his nosebelching cries by those pierced eyebrows that peered; she
flicks the cigarettes with a contemptuous wrist
I wouldn't want bim any other way, he, much missed—
who draped clothes of smoke and cologne over lame-legged chairs & broken telephones,
started the party aboard grey-painted old-plated ships, buying 50 cent beers from pop
machines, 'tween trips
who couldn't sleep without cigars and a 6ix pack or two, a pill, hands in innocent pockets,
playin' pocket-pool, playin' the cool fool still
who in teary sequences fought & fidgeted, huddled for hot dogs, farted, pissed, & spitted
against steamfrigid concrete walls of Cold!
He smiles at these sated scenes of his anarchistic youth, Atch—
whose only crime was a side of fries, a big plate of chicken thighs (and, yes, a few other
mens' wives), suddenly subsides, chuckled
thrusts a ham hock into his maw with a sigh as the booze runs out; the last
few dregg'd drops nursed, he suckled. ♦ ;*IEE>rF©Rl^iftlftWS!«aBH
Friday, March 26,2904
FRIDAY, MARCH 26, 2004
Hywel Tuscano
.   Megan Thomas
Jonathan Woodward
John Hua
Jesse Marchand
Heather Pauls
Michelle Mayne
Paul Carr
Iva Cheung
Sarah Bourdon
Bryan Zandberg
ihe Ubyssey is ihe official .student newspaper of the University of
British Columbia. H is published every Tuesday and Friday by The
Ubyssey. Publications Society:
We are an autonomous, democratically run student organisation,
and all students are encouraged to participate.
Editorials are. chosen and written by the Ubyssey staff. They are the
expressed opinion of the staff, and do not necessarily reflect the
views of The Ubyssey Publications Society or the University of
British Cotumbia.
The Ubyssey is a founding member of Canadian University Press
(CUP) and adheres to CUP's guiding principles.
Ail editorial content appearing in The Ubyssey'\s the property of The
Ubyssey Publications Society Stories, opinions, photographs and
artwork contained herein cannot be reproduced without the
expressed, written permission of The Ubyssey Publications Society.
Letters to the editor must be under 300 words. Please include your
phone number, student number and signature {not for publication)
as well as your year and faculty with all submissions. ID will be
checked when submissions are dropped off at the editorial office of
The Ubyssey, otherwise verification will be done by phona The
Ubyssey reserves the right to edit for length and style.
"Perspectives" are opinion pieces over 300 words but under 750
words'and are run according to space.
"Freesty!es"'are opinion pieces written by Ubyssey staff members.
Priority will be given to letters and perspectives over freestyles
unless the latter is time sensitive. Opinion pieces will not be run
until the identity of Hie writer has been verified. Tbe Ubyssey
reserves the right to edit submissions according to length and style.
It is agreed by al! persons placing display or classified advertising
that if the Ubyssey Publications Society fails to publish an advertisement or if an error in the ad occurs the liability of the UPS will
hot be greater than the price paid for the ad. The UPS shall not be
responsible for slight changes or typographical errors that do not
lessen the value or the impact of the ad.
Room 24, Student Union Building
,  6138 Student Union Boulevard
Vancouver, BC V6T1Z1
tel: 604-822-2301
fax: 604-822-9279
web: www.ubyssey.bc.ca
e-mail: feedback@ubyssey.bc.ca
Room 23, Student Union Building
advertising: 604-822-16S4
business office: 604-822-6681
e-mail: advertising@ubyssey.bc.ca
Fernie Pereira
Dave Gaertner
Shalene Takara
r am bitter that my submission did not get accepted into rant
Here is my stoij which was unfairly and AniaMafify rejected. I
waDang down ihe sun lit street with Kevin Sabarit »nd Hywel
Tuscano Then I saw him. Levi Barnett Cool waves of passion
swept through my burgundy Megan Thomas being. Then Jesse
Marchand lept out from the tear-stained bushes screaming
'Paul Evans" No I thought only Greg Drsic could speai ihat
name But Sarah Bourdon and Dan McRoberte had silenced his
bold, brawny Marina F.]1j_ voice which _F>d the tenacity of an Iva
Cheung and Jonathan Woodward collaboration. "Alex Leslie is
coo],* the wind whispered in Spanish (Alex Leslie est coole).
Then Paul Carr and Biyan Zandberg came waDdng down the
street in an elephant costume. It was cozy inside like Michelle
Mayne's basement Momoko Price techno could be heard floating from the apartments above. I cried out to the crimson God
of love: "Bring me home, baby, just like Ihe sweet sweet mothering tones of Jenn Cameron and Heather Pauls's guitar tones
of love " Thai is my submission. Fuck you, Zandberg, far not
printing &
Bryan Zandberg
Paul Carr
Canada Port 5f3a» Agreamant Numbar 40878022
In the US, a bi-partisan commission has been
created to investigate the causes of 9/11 and
recommend solutions to prevent such an attack
from happening in the future.
Most of us would breathe a sigh of relief that
something is being done to investigate that government's complicity in the terrorist attacks—
finally—and to expose whether terrorism was a
little too low on the Bush government's
priority list.
Recently, the idea of whether killing bin
Laden would have prevented the attacks has
received considerable play in the media, defensively prompted by the testimony of former antiterrorism czar Richard Clarke, among others.
Clarke claims that the Bush administration
didn't do enough to combat terrorism prior to
9/11. The Bush administration claims that
Clinton didn't do enough to combat terrorism
before his term ended. But the claim that
killing bin Laden would have stopped this is far
too simplistic—and symptomatic of the black
and white policies of the administration.
. > The Bush government says it over and over
again: states are with us or against us; motivations are good or evil; and assassinating a head
of state, or imprisoning soldiers of an enemy
country against the Geneva convention is
wrong—but killing a terrorist leader and
imprisoning 'illegal combatants' is a righteous
act of a world superpower.
The lines are drawn in creative ways. And
often, they're done to justify acts of war.
Having the committee find that preemptively Trilling terrorists to prevent attacks is okay
will only justify Bush's war on terror, and the
subsequent right of government to kill citizens
who they label as terrorists.
But it would be ineffective: terrorists are
networks, not individuals. Cells operate for
years in isolation from their leaders—that is
Deep iho\Ajkh„%
Somtitffc me,   wat
'Vttiife   House.
their insidious power. And individuals are not
causes except in their violent end—killing a
leader kills a figurehead, making him a martyr.
We're seeing that now with the death of the
spiritual leader of Hamas—rage is rising while
Israel washes its bands, occupying the
Americans' callously drawn 'white.'
It would also be unethical. Having a nation
kill another nation's leaders in a war is simple
to categorise. If Libyan special forces directly
targeted our citizens in an act of war, what
would we call it? Terrorism, of course.
We pride due process in our justice system
when we unleash punishment. Due process
simply can't he achieved from the cockpit of a
helicopter gunship. Citizens can't be offed simply under the pretext that they are terrorists.
It becomes clear that blaming  9/11  on
Clinton's failure to kill bin Laden is just a trick,
and we've seen it before. Every government
blames the previous one when things go sour.
We've seen Paul Martin blame the Chretien
legacy for every aspect of the sponsorship scandal, our BC Liberals blame the NDP's tuition
freeze for our skyrocketing fees and we're seeing it now with Bush. It's funny that they waited so long to pull this card.
h Maybe now, with Clarke flinging accusations and a bi-partisan committee i following
every lead, the Republicans will have to deal
with their own problems and take some
responsibility. But as always, there won't be
one person—Clinton—to blame. It won't be as
simple as black and white, but a compbcated
gradient of causation and scapegoating in
hindsight. ♦
Rethinking the logic off food banks
by Graham Riches
I read with alarm your report,
'UBC could see a food bank for its
students' (the Ubyssey, Tuesday
March 16, 2004). It is very important that the Alma Mater Society
(AMS) give this matter their utmost
attention and consider alternatives
to the charitable food bank
approach. While food banks in
Canada have, over a period of 20
years, become institutionalised
and publicly acceptable (currently
feeding 750,000 hungry
Canadians a month), there is little
evidence that they solve the prob
lem of hunger or food poverty. Not
only do they not guarantee the
availability of nutritious foods,
they play into the bands of governments who wish to keep welfare
benefits and student loans at minimal levels, thereby undermining
the right of low income peoples
(including students) the right to
adequate food. There is a growing
literature which explores these
issues and that of food security
both within Canada and globally.
Currently the United Nations
(Food and Agricultural Organisation, Commission on Human
Rights and the Committee on
Economic Social and Cultural
Rights) is developing guidelines to
promote the progressive realisation of the right to food by states.
They are directed at ensuring that
governments meet their international legal obligations to 'respect.
protect and fulfill* the right to food.
Sadly, Canada, despite being food
secure at the national level, is not
meeting the food needs of its vulnerable peoples. Food banks are
both a symptom and a symbol of a
broken social safety net
Are there alternatives? Certainly. The good food box program pioneered by Toronto Food Share is
one example. These support local
organic food production and provide healthy, affordable fruit and
vegetables. Food co-ops based on
collective purchasing are another
option as are collective kitchens.
The Brazilian model of the popular
restaurants also spring to mind
and could well make available
affordable nutritious meals to students, staff and faculty alike. Surely
these are options which should be
explored before AMS goes down
the food bank route.
Of course it is correct that if the
right to food is to be implemented
in Canada, and be inclusive of students, adequate income support
programs and affordable bousing
must be key priorities. The problem is, if we continue to accept
charitable food banks as the appropriate response to hunger, whether
on our campuses or in the communiiy, we will fail to see the policy
alternatives before us. It seems to
me that AMS has a great opportunity to open up and lead a critically
important local and national
debate on this issue. Hunger
is a political question and merits informed analysis. It also
demands answers from our elected
assemblies. ♦
—Graham Riches is a professor
and the director of the School of
Social Work and Family Studies
Woefully misinterpreted
Although I'm flattered that Tamara
Segall-Taub considers me eloquent
(letter to the Ubyssey, Tuesday,
March 23, 2004), she woefully misinterprets my opposition to Israel's
so-called 'security fence.' Her letter
reflects the semantic nature of the
'fence' or 'wall' debate, which acts
to obscure any meaningful discussion of the effects of the 360-kilometre long separation barrier on
the Palestinian population, as well
its place within the broader context
of Israel's illegal occupation of the
West Bank and Gaza. While chiding
the Ubyssey for its 'poorly
researched journalism,"   Segall-
Taub informs us that the barrier
doesn't prevent free movement in
the occupied territories and exists
solely for the security of Israel. The
truth is precisely the opposite.
The separation barrier does not
run along Israel's pre-1967 borders, rather it cuts deep into the
occupied territory, flagrantly violating international law. It snakes its
way deep inside the West Bank,
devouring fertile land into de facto t
Israeli-controlled areas, encircling
residential areas, ghetto-ising and
imprisoning the Palestinian population. If built in its entirety, the
first three-phase wall/fence alone
will constitute the largest confiscation of Palestinian land since 1967,
devastate the agricultural base of
the West Bank and destroy any possibility of a viable Palestinian state.
For an example of the human misery the structure inflicts, we can
turn to Qalqiliya, a city of 42,000,
now surrounded on all sides by the
barrier, its single entrance and exit
opened and closed at the whim of
the Israeli military.. Residents are
no longer able to access neither the
nearest hospital nor the local
school. This is the fate that awaits
village after village as the construction of the monstrous structure
continues. • -
Amnesty International and
other human rights organisations
have strongly condemned what vet
eran Israeli activist Uri Avnery has
called the "wall of shame.' Israel's
separation barrier is neither an
instrument of peace nor security;
rather it's an instrument of the settlers, an instrument for further dispossessing the Palestinians and an
instrument of terror. Surely time
has come for Segall-Taub and others to once and for all abandon the
myth that it is possible to have
peace and occupation at the same
time; that peaceful coexistence can
occur between an overwhelming
military power and the population
that lives.under its rule.
—Riaz Behra
Arts4 10     RANT
Long nmvfictLon runner-up
'" 1rf<J
by Trevor Kew
Wait. I'm not sure if that's accurate. Maybe my mind has
juggled semantics, played tricks on my memory of this
Let me try again.
I was 18 when I decided to write my sister's life.
Beginnings are always confused and conflated, I hear doors
shutting the shower running, toilets Hushing, washing
away, white noise in my head. I write noises into the dead
of night Sound when there should be no sound. An alarm
clock rings; it is time to start the story, even if it has already
begun while I slept
I woke up an hour before school on my birthday. I didn't
feel any older, but I did feel hungry.
In all my gangly teenage glory, I flopped down the stairs
to the living room, spun left into the kitchen and nearly ran
over my mother, who was slicing up apples on a small white
cutting board. She smiled, five-foot-nothing in her slippers
and dressing gown, and gave me a playful whack on the
back of the head.
"Watch where you're going, donkey,' she said.
"YoinkI' I replied, as I snatched a slice of apple from
under her chopping knife. This act of thievery was met with
a slightly more forceful cuff to the head.
"Mom, that really hurt!' I pretended, wincing in mock
agony. My plea for an apology fell flat in front of an unsympathetic audience.
"Eighteen is a bit old to go crying to your mother."
"Yes Mom. I'm crying. You hurt me. You are strong and
I am weak."
I grinned, cheeky in my morning glory, bending down
from a considerable height above her to receive a peck on
the cheek and a motherly squeeze.
"Happy Birthday, donkey,' she laughed. Tm going to
make you an amazing breakfast"
As she turned back to her cutting board, my younger
brother sludged sleepily through the doorway.
"What's for breakfast?' he inquired.
"Sausages, bacon, scrambled eggs, toast and a fruit
salad,' repbed my mother. "Wish your brother Happy
With a noisy slurp of orange juice, I dove into my birthday breakfast. My brother, sitting proudly at my elbow,
stuffed his face with large heapings of bacon, proclaiming
that I should try to have birthdays more often if this was the
type of cuisine that we could expect.
I raised my head from the trough as my father, late for
work, rushed into the kitchen, grabbed a muffin and buttered it frantically.
"Happy Birthday, bud,' he beamed. "Eighteen! Why are
you still here again?'
"Free-loading off you, Big Guy."
As my brother and I returned to our massive morning
meals, my 16 year-old sister, looking tired and slightly pallid, entered the kitchen. She walked over to the refrigerator,
picked out a bowl of yogurt and granola, and left without
speaking a word to anyone. My brother and I, so entrenched
in the bliss of consumption, did not even notice the looks of
parental concern that flashed across the room from mother
to father and back again.
"What the fuck is wrong with her?' I exclaimed. "She
loves birthdays."
My use of the vernacular resulted in a choral "Watch
your language!' from my parents.
"Your sister has come down with that awful flu again.
She was up late with it last night"
Throughout high school, I loved to eat I mean, don't get me
wrong, I still think highly ofmealtim.es. Purchasing, preparing, cooking, sampling and eating food would still easily
make my top-ten list of Things To Do on a Saturday night.
Thinking about food would be a close runner-up.
But my current affections fall far short of the passionate
love affair of my adolescent years. Food was the love of my
adolescent life. On an average morning, I would spring out
of bed and inhale two fried egg sandwiches, a bowl of cereal, two bananas and a glass of orange juice. And I would be
hungry again by recess.
I was lucky that, while I ate like a thoroughbred, my high
metabolism and participation in athletics kept my weight to
a minimum (in fact, more of a minimum than I would have
preferred). I could eat circles around most people for weeks
without gaining a pound.
As a ravenous 17 year-old, I struggled to understand peo
ple who placed limits oh their eating. To reject food seeMed
bizarre, self-destructive, almost counter-evolutionary. My
mother's occasional dieting whims were baffling to me. My
sister's increasingly frequent refusals of greasy, fatty or
sugary dishes were a source of amazement to my teenage
mind. I must now admit, though the guilt eats at my heart
like a malignant disease, that I used to revel in her rejection, feasting my scavenger's eye on her portion of the riches before circling around her plate, fighting off my younger
brother, and staking my claim on the food. This almost
nightly ritual became a great source of entertainment and
amusement for the family, who thoroughly enjoyed making
me suffer for my sister's leftovers. My father laiighed and
made mock-threats, my mother chuckled at the competitiveness that developed and my sister giggled as we vied for
her affections with ridiculous*promises and pledges. My
brother even managed a grin despite his always unsuccessful campaigns. I smiled, smug in my victory, and thanked
my sister profusely, proudly lying that yes, I would clean
her room, and yes, I would fix her bicycle.
How do I begin to write a life? After tour years away from
home, how do I End the words to tell my sister's story? Any
piece of writing must, by definition, contain a number of
words. And yet the words I choose never seem to reflect her
individual struggle, never move beyond stereotypes
towards actual experience.
Guilt is buried, surfaces, and is buried again. My mother's tears fall in the snow as she shovels the driveway. They
dot the icy surface of the concrete, barely seen, impermanent markers of her daughter's battle. The unrelenting
snow covers their tragedy, wraps my mother's sorrow in a
sheet of white Makes and keeps falling on the road.
The bathroom in the house where I grew up sits midway
between my sister's bedroom and the bedroom that my
brother and I shared until I left for university. The bathroom door is made of sturdy oak, four inches thick, painted
white. Once a year, my father and I would get out our paintbrushes and touch up a year's worth of damage to the door.
Scuff marks, screwdriver gouges, dog saliva, crayoned portraits and other typical family residue were swept away in r~"
Friday, March 26,2004
tfteiif ss«f; fflifiiine:
Spain editorial
misses the point
by Dan McRpberts
Last Tuesday the Ubyssey ran an
editorial about the tragic attacks on
commuter trains in Madrid
("Terrorism Works," March 16,
2004). While I agree with the
Ubyssey's condemnation of the
bombings and their stated view
that the attack affected the outcome of the subsequent Spanish
elections, I do have several concerns with the piece.
The first of these concerns
seems almost trivial, but it is of
marked significance. The Ubyssey
inaccurately stated that the elections, were- "a, day after" the
Madrid bombings. Not so. The
bombings; occurred on Thursday,
March llf and the elections not
until Sunday, ^     -•_,'■
'-. The JJbyssey, and _thers (such
as PresidentJftBush): would like to
think: that the terror attacks were
all that made, a difference. If the
elections had indeed happened
less than 24 hours later, this
would not be an unreasonable
In the hours following the
bombings, the ruling Popular
Party laid blame on the Basque
separatist group ETA;, which has
conducted a lengthy campaign of
terror against the Spanish state
and its'ciyilians. if ETA had Indeed
carried out the attacks, the government stood only to gain, given
their strong anti-terror stance.
j As the Ubyssey mentioned, evidence! wasireVealedf. which Suggests' thati al-Qaeda operatives
weret responsible for; the attacks.
Despite 9*thiss,0i Spanish % Prime
Minister Jose Maria1Aznar insisted
that s ETAm was. in some; way
involved! as mxitx xxx', ■x1-" >- '■
ft Did thei bombings change the
mind of some voters, given the
motivation for the attacks?
Certainly. What the Ubyssey conveniently ignores is the well-documented evidence that the government's insistence on blaming ETA
at all costs was also an important
deciding factor for some.
The people of Spain have long
dealt with a serious domestic terrorist threat. It is therefore understandable that Spaniards would
react in a negative manner
towards a government that would
seek* political gain merely by
invoking the name of ETA, an
organisation that has caused great
grief in its own right
Let's get something else
straight The idea that the Spanish
public rejected their government
because of its involvement in Iraq
does not explain the fact that they
also voted out the party that supports strong anti-terrorist pohcies
in the American style of "the hard
line in the sand." Logically, a strong
stance in this area would have been
more desirable after the attacks.
But maybe Spaniards see a different strategy as more effective.
The Socialists are hardly 'weak on
terror' but instead promote closer
relations with Morocco (the country where the suspected bombers
originated) and a greater reliance
on the multilateral approach of the
United Nations (UN). The commitment to remove troops is null and
void if the UN takes control of Iraq
from the American coalition by
"June 30, another, detail- r the
Ubyssey declined to include.
The Spanish situation should
not be seen as a victory for terror-.
ism. It should be viewed as fa
shift to a multilateral, cooperative
approach in Spain's war on terror.
It could also be thought of as a clear
warning to governments who are
willing to manipulate tragedy and
ignore the wishes of their people.
Spain's decision ought to be
praised, not called into question. ♦
a r —Dan McRoberts is
a Ubyssey staff member
e second-year
Detailed infdv
ops April
Starting April 25
Aquatic Courses in:!
As a concerned parent of a first-year
Arts student who has been informed
he will not be able to live on campus
next school year, I urge the student
force to question the following logic:
the school has chosen to offer more
dorms to. first-year students at the
expense of the returning students.
; With this knowledge I would like to
inform all prospective UBC students
that they too will highly likely be
given the boot from off-campus
accommodation next year. Incoming
students heed to know this information to make an informed choice
when choosing a school where they
wish to complete their degrees.
—Katherine Rothstein
Maui, Hawaii
Students for Choice reply
We feel that it is important to clarify a
number of issues raised in Kimberlee
Graham-Knight's letter to the Ubyssey
(Tuesday, March 23, 2004).
First, as we made clear in our comments to the Ubyssey in the article on
the Genocide Awareness Project (GAP)
display, we did not misinterpret the
guidelines written by the university.
The guidelines clearly state that a 32-
foot buffer zone "will be honoured by
any other group(s) or individuals
wishing to occupy the adjoining
space.' Nowhere in those guidelines
is there any mention of 'dissenting'
groups only, or Students for Choice in
As. noted in the article in the same
issue as the letter, for the university to
enforce those guidelines only against
Students for Choice or any other "dissenting" individuals is discriminatory. We apologise that Graham-Rnight-
felt confused by our tactics; we did not
intend to confuse students by blocking
their passage, only to draw attention
to the prohibitive and poorly written
guidelines and ensure that they were
enforced in a non-discriminatory
manner. We were following the guidelines to the letter, something that we
believe the university expects us to do,
as they have made clear in the past
It should also be noted that,
despite glaring inequity, SFC respected the 32-foot guideline. After approximately half-an-hour of blocking students. Students for Choice members
and supporters stood holding plac
ards merely informing students of the
potential discipline, they could face
from the universiiy if they entered the
32-foot buffer, allowing a free flow of
pedestrians, as the "spirit' of the
guidelines intended.
Secondly, SFC did not attend the
last GAP display in October of 2003.
Because of unreasonable guidelines
set by the universiiy, we felt that we
could not effectively protest Instead,
a number of pro-choice individuals
picketed the display. Also, Lifeline
did not apply to the University to set
up the buffer-zone guideline after
that protest The guideline's, according to the university, have been in
place, in one form or another, for a
number of years.
To conclude, we would like to
express regret that the pro-choice
demonstrator was unable to respond
to Graham-Knight's questions regarding a more appropriate way to "debate
facts about abortions.' Perhaps she
was speaking to one of our non-member supporters who came out to the
display, as any member of SFC would
have been able to reply, and'would
have expressed our firmly held view
that no productive dialogue can come
of a hateful display like GAP. We hope
that this clarifies some of the issues
raised by Graham-Knight
UBC Students for Choice
eline n
In response to the letter from
Kimberlee Graham-Knight in
Tuesday's Ubyssey (March 23, 2004),
I feel compelled to clarify certain
issues surrounding the barricades
and the buffer zone, applied to last
-Wednesday's- Genocide _ Awareness
Project (GAP) display.
First of all the sentence "Jt]o my
understanding. Lifeline applied to the
university to create a barricade policy
where no dissenting persons could
demonstrate within 30 feet of GAP," is
not quite correct The University sets
the policy. Their buffer zone actually
stood at 50 feet up until this last display. In Lifeline's mind, the purpose of
the buffer zone is not to suppress the
free speech of other students or to
keep members of Students for Choice
(SFC) as far away as possible, but it is
to assure that Lifeline is able to carry
out our right to hold the Genocide GAP
Aquatiq First Aid
GPft, Re^rts,
pool Orj0raio^
Ipsos-Reid, Canada's premier marketing
research firm is conducting research for UBC
and needs 1st year Science Students to
participate in a focus group.
The group is being held
on Wednesday, APRIL 7TH, 2004
between 7:00pm and 9:00pm
in downtown Vancouver.
If you are interested,
please contact us at 604-893-8590.
display without being covered up by
those with opposing views:
The policy of a 50-foot rule came
about through numerous attempts by
SFC to intimidate members of Lifeline
from presenting the GAP material,
and fears by the university and campus security for our personal safety
and the safety of all involved, be it
Lifeline, SFC or any interested students wishing to view the display. The
50-foot rule was established after a
scaled-down GAP display was torn
down by several former UBC students
in 1999.
By establishing a buffer for this
past display, rather than discouraging, the divide fostered debate where
students could communicate with our
club their concerns or questions on
tbe GAP display.
The buffer zone must be distinguished between the barricades,
intended to provide some sort of
separation. Since the university
failed to enforce their buffer zone in
October, we felt that tbe Lifeline club
should take measures themselves to
ensure that students Could tell who
stood for what
Indeed, the GAP display has
brought up a second issue—tbe
issue of free speech. In a society
where abortion is 'not to be debated,' the right to question abortion in
our society is most often suppressed. This has made Lifeline's
attempts to hold the GAP display
more complicated. But I would have
to disagree with the statement, "It
seems things have long since
passed the point of intelligent reasoning." Anyone who stopped by the
display would have been able to
bear that intelligent discussions did
take place last Wednesday. In fact
the discussions we were able to
have at the display proved that people are interested in discussing the
issue of abortion and questioning its
prevalent use in our society and
how we can do better to serve the
women and children involved. GAP
is a stepping stone, in which to motivate our campus in the realisation
that we as a society can do better
than abortion, and indeed if we all
work together we can do better.
We would like to take the opportunity to thank Campus Security for
their efforts in providing a peaceful
and productive afternoon.
—Denise Schmidt
President of the Lifeline club
You may love tteUtiyssey,6t
',i you may hate the Ubyssey.
But for crap's sake, write us a  f
• letter about it instead of doing /
whatthB;dude did.   f  ' :. ;.f
f You only have two more oppor- :f
tunitiesto have your voice heard!:'
,feedback@ubyssey.bccaftf   J; '
:,tasl issue of the Ubyssey yM be;
■ ori stands April 7.:'■; -ftf
an annual flurry of White-lacquered brushes.
The function of the bathroom door is well understood in
most households. The bathroom door's job is to give privacy
to the person behind it to protect them from the outside
world while they go about their most personal daily activities.
It was no different in our house. Family bathroom etiquette
demanded that you locked the door when you went in and
turned off the lights when you went out Even if you were certain that no one was behind an unlocked door, you always
knocked on the door and waited a few seconds, just to be
This rule, of course, worked better in theory than it did in
The day after my 18th birthday, I came home from school
early and, thinking that the house was empty, barged in
through the bathroom door without knocking.
In the coming days, months and years, I would think back
and consider it a sickening drama, a revolting scene that had
been acted out so many times that it had turned into a horrifying ritual, a cruel ceremonial purging of the body. I would position this event as a key turning point in my life, a climactic rush
of disgust tempered by brotherly fear and compassion. But I
cannot he. I did not yet understand the full extent of what
appeared before my eyes as the bathroom door swung open.
My sister lay on the cold blue tiles of the bathroom floor,
her arms wrapped round the white porcelain base of the toilet. Her head drooped onto the vomit-caked toilet seat, her
shoulders and abdomen strained as she retched; her long,
brown hair spread haggardly across it all, strands hanging
down into the black bile inside the toilet.
"Go away," she said, sounding weak and defeated. "Please,
please, just go away."
To this day, I am proud of what I did. I refused to leave. I
sat there with her on the cold floor in that vile, stinking bathroom and listened to her cry. She sobbed for nearly an hour,
relentless in her grief, and I wiped away her tears with
Kleenex and told her that it was okay, that everyone got the flu
sometimes and that she would feel better very soon.
As I already mentioned, I did not yet understand the full
extent of what appeared before my eyes that day.
"I am going to help you," I told her. "I am going to help you
make this right'
Half an hour; afterIhad left her to shower and change, she
came into my room, hesitated, thought about turning back
and then sat down on the end of my dresser.
She stared at her shoes. She tried to look at me. She looked
away, tears hiding just beneath the surface.
"I have to tell you something," she said, trembling with the
effort of each word. "Something about me. I'm sick."
"I know," I replied, "Mom told me about the flu. You'll feel
better soo..."
"I'm never going to be better." A tear fell from her cheek,
landing on my white cotton bed sheets, a small wet marker
sodden with fear and guilt
"I...," she struggled to inhale enough air to expel the words.
"I have... an eating disorder. Bulimia."
Dog walks and bike rides colliding with; backyard soccer
and baseball after eating too many cookies while digging
mines in the neighbour's garden before falling into the tree
fort I built for her dolls I would hold captive in games ofhide-
and-go seek in the snow the white fluffy snow formed into
snowmen but then drifts become deeper and whiter and
blinding it's harder to find you I hope I will Gndyou I hope I
wHl find you the way that we were...
Her crying softened a Htfle.
"It feels so good to finally tell you. Mom and Dad are the
only ones who know. Don't tell anyone else."
"I won't tell anyone," I assured her. "I am going to help you
beat this. Together, we'll beat this."
There was pause in our conversation, a silence while I
struggled to bold in a question that smoldered inside me,
heating up to a boiling point until I could no longer suppress
my need for an answer.
"If you know you have it, why don't you just stop it?"
"I don't know. I can't It's like I go cra2y for a few minutes.
It was my secret for three years. No one knew. Well, it used to
be mine. I want to get better but it's so hard." Her words were
uncertain, quivering with a slight undertone of regret.
Til help you stop," I insisted.
From that day on, I never even looked at my sister's meals.
Just the sight of her leftovers provoked an uneasy, guilty nausea in me. I let my brother enjoy the spoils and endured his
constant gloating and teasing as well as I could.
This should never have happened, I thought This isn't fair.
September came and I moved away to university.
That was when I decided to write my sister's life.
Phone conversations are where it started, I think. I would listen to my sister at any time of day, for as long as she needed
to talk. After these conversations, I would write stories where
a bulimic heroine would face her demons, fight off the disease
and hve a long, healthy, bulimia-free life, happily
ever after.
Ending in failure was my biggest fear of all. I would write
these stories, trying to rewrite the endings but never succeeding. I never sent any stories to my sister. After writing and
rewriting, I always ended up with my index finger pressed
hard on the Delete button, a black cursor blinking back at me,
the only blemish on an otherwise pure white screen.
It wasn't until two years later when my sister came to university that I began to understand the overwhelming power of her
adversary. Since my mother, who worried about her children
enough anyway, was very nervous about letting her daughter
leave home, I offered to hve with my sister for the first six
months to make sure that she could adjust to the new environment My mother found and rented us a two-bedroom
apartment, even managing to force a smile as the taxi arrived
to take her to the airport.
"Take care of each other," she pleaded, her eyes riveted
on me.
The first time that my food went missing, I told her that it was
okay, that I didn't care about the gallon of ice cream, loaf of
bread, full jar of honey, two packages of rice cakes, large box
of cereal and four litres of milk she'd eaten and purged, groceries that I had purchased just one day before. Thirty dollars
in groceries flushed down the toilet I bit my lip hard as I left
the living room, hunger-driven frustration seething beneath
my mask of sympathy and understanding.
The next day, I bought groceries again. Forty-eight hours
later, I returned home late, exhausted from a weekend landscaping job I despised, to discover that the food had all but
vanished. The box of waffles, the ice cream, the milk, the cereal, even the frozen pizza that I was planning to heat up for dinner that night was gone. She'd thrown up my dinner. I stared
at her cowering on the sofa. "I'm sorry...I'm sorry...I'm
bad...I'm bad...I ate it alL*
I lost it
"What the fuckl* I yelled at her and kicked over the coffee
table, shattering several dishes and breaking one of its weak
legs. "What the fuck do I eat?!! Fuck you...I work to buy groceries, to pay for school, and you nicking waste it! Fuck you,
you selfish...."
The worst thing I have ever said to anyone in my life was
met with the most horrifying response imaginable.
"You're right," she said. "You are right*
I left the room, packed and walked out the front door.
Within a week I was living in a new apartment.
<* <*
How do you throw up what you eat what you put inside your
stomach to make you grow and survive the days ahead while
consuming your own body through vile regurgitation sticking
your finger down your throat for years until you
didn't even need to anymore now I never see you the way I
used to I want to so much but when will you be better. I just
want you to be better.
Remaining supportive became difficult after I moved out My
sister's continuing struggle with bulimia was starting to erode
my behef that she would ever overcome the disease. I began
to draw back, to avoid messages and emails, to cut phone conversations short I consistently reminded her how busy I was.
Fed up with the whole situation, I even became irritated with
my mother when she would call, desperately, to ask if I knew
how my sister was doing.
"No, Mom, I haven't talked to her today."
"She won't tell me anything. Ma. I don't know."
"Mom, I already told youl I don't have time for this
right now!*
"Of course I care about her. Mom....aw jeez. Ma...I didn't
mean to yell... I know Dad gets tired of talking about it. Mom,
look... I have three midterms this week. I'll call you tomorrow
or something."
The receiver clicked on the end of the Une and I was left
listening to a lifeless recording, hanging tight to a phone
cord swinging over an abyss of guilt, no rescuer on the
other end to pull me up. Disgusted with myself, I turned
back to the perennially unfinished story on my computer,
where I plunged into a sea of words, unable to stay afloat
without a lifeline.
My 22 year-old voice pleads
please forgive me Til give you back the leftovers I took
from you at home I'll let you eat as much of my cereal as
you want I'll let you eat my ice cream, my chicken, my
cheese anything you want is yours if you will just come
back into my story the life I wrote for you and I where we
can eat forever and bulimia is not allowed. Why? Because I
wrote it that way.
I was 18 when I decided to write my sister's life and still I have
not finished. Every time I sit down at the computer, I erase
what I have written; the blank screen, whiter than porcelain,
hides years of secret stories erased from existence, each without an ending. So many wasted words lost from memory and
yet still the black cursor remains, chastising me as I write. My
sister, at 20 years of age, is still bulimic. For now, the story
must go on. ♦
,   v, • *->   Jut  .y4 V~r^M-«fi--^
 *—* ■—
.,*-- •
■.________.!-  'Jlii
■_—     i.        »- •~I
Friday, March 26, 2004
at Studio 58
until Apr. 11
by John Hua
In the windy city, there's more than
just a breeze that wisps across your
lips. There's the promise of fame,
fortune and your name across the
marquee. From New York to
Chicago; everyone and his mother
wants their name in lights. But not
as much as Joey Evans, a smooth-
talking, fedora-juggling entertainer
wbo only has the clothes on his back
and the quickness of his tongue to
take him places. Based on a series of
short stories written by John O'Hara
in The New Yorker, "Pal Joey" is a
dark and seedy musical that exposes
tbe part of late-1930s Chicago that
wasn't under the spotlight.
Our pal, Joey, is a charismatic fellow who has a spark of talent, a dash
of charm and a truckload of 'minor
misrepresentations.' Talking his
wayvinto nightclubs and skirts, our
unlikely hero lands himself a job as
the master of ceremonies of a second-rate establishment When he
meets the woman of bis dreams in a
romantic scene outside of a pet
shop, all Joey is singing about is
love—until he starts acting like
In an attempt to save bis job after
tongue-wagging it to ruins, Joey tells
love to take a hike and decides to sell
his soul to the elegantly manipulative Mrs Prentiss Simpson, all in
exchange for everything he's ever
dreamed of: money, his own nightclub and the overbearing shadow of
his infamous mistress.
With a reputation for talented acting and equally technically solid
production. Studio 58 brings "Pal
Joey" and its downtown Chicago setting to life. Dance, song, acting and
stagecraft are all well-done, leaving
Stiles kills the romance
now playing
by Ania Mafi
A present day fairy tale with everything a true magical story entails: a
prince falling in love with an average girl, sweeping her off her feet
into a world she never dreamt she
would be a part of. The Prince and
Me has all of these elements, but
this movie may not be as memorable as the timeless, yet cliche, storyline it reuses.
A pre-med student from
Wisconsin, Paige (played by Julia
Stiles) is a focused and driven young
lady who would do whatever it takes
to get into medical school and fulfill
her life long dream. Working at a
campus bar and living in residence,
this all-Aiiierican college student
unintentionally finds herself falling
for a snobby exchange student
named Eddie (played by Luke Malby).
What she doesn't know is that Eddie
is actually Edward, the prince of
Denmark who left his responsibilities behind in search of some fiin and
crazy westernised wildness.
Trying to fight temptation and
concentrate on her academic agenda, Paige's independent and strong
personality convinces audiences that
she is in no need of a male companion. When she finally surrenders to
tbe power of love, her feelings don't
seem genuine because throughout
her relationship with the prince,
Paige remains rough and blunt in
her demeanour. This not only kills
the romance but gets very tiring to
watch. Reflected in the, rigid and
over-rehearsed acting by Stiles, Paige
unfortunately never lets her guard
down which results in a movie
becoming less about romance and
more about 'girl power' and Paige's
need for independence.
In a role that could be played by
just about any young actress. Stiles
brings nothing unique or interesting
to the screen. At times she's a bit too
unfeminine for the part, trying too
hard to be an average country girl.
Stiles, who is used to being typecast
in defiant-teen-girl roles, said in an
interview, "I think it is very easy to
be pigeonholed and have people
offer you the same sort of parts
because it was a repetition of what
was successful." Although it is hard
to pinpoint exactly which one of
Stile's roles stood out as a breakthrough performance, there may be
hope yet for this 22-year-old actress
to break into more Serious and
engaging roles. Recently wrapping
up filming on The Bourne
Supremacy alongside Matt Damon,
Stiles is currently in London working on a play called "Oleanna"
Co-star Luke Malby, on the other
hand, did bring a taste of something
fresh and new to this film: a cute
smile and an adorable Danish accent
Malby is convincing, natural and
charming in this film. Turning Malby
into the latest heartthrob among 12-
year-olds, this film is for the crowd
that doesn't mind the obviousness of
the plot and the cold communaliiy of
Stiles's performance.
"Something that I am learning is
that movies sometimes end up differently than what I expect them to
end up like," Stiles says. Indeed this
movie may have been intended to
win over hearts of al ages, but all it
does is offer mediocre acting in an
unoriginal remake of an overdone
fairy tale. ♦
nothing to the imagination and all to
the audience's enjoyment.
Taking up a role that was originally moulded by Gene Kelly and
later taken on by Frank Sinatra, Josh
Epstein bad a lot of inspiration to
bye up to with the character of Joey
Evans. Epstein makes the part of
Joey his own, from the cigar-soothed
voice to the graceful slides. The only
thing that wasn't up to par was
Epstein's singing voice, which
derived from a conscious choice of
range and precision over volume.
Grasping onto the reins of song is
Nicola Correia-Damude who holds
nothing back as the rich sociabte
Vera Simpson.
,  V.
In a production fueled by standout performances, Josue Laboucane
is excellent as the villainous Ludlow
Lowell, a con-artist playing agent
The streets of Chicago are set on
a well-crafted revolving stage.
Scenes transition smoothly as the
stage rotates from front to back,
both sides being used in a creative,
fluid and flawless manner.
The music numbers and dance
sequences showcase a large variety
of talent. The tap number performed by the entire cast was completely unexpected, but demonstrates the talent and determination
of this college theatre company.
"Pal Joey* is a success in eveiy
regard, with any shortcomings
being compensated for by other
members of the cast, stage production, music and direction. Director
Robert McQueen pulls everything
together in this wonderfully crafted
production by a continuously unfailing theatre company. ♦
t rolled
838 Thurlow
[Japanese Cuisine]
$3-7 a dish
by Hywel Tuscano
Everyone is yelling at me! At first it
was kind of terrifying, but now it's
kind of pleasant—and expected—
every time I step into Guu. All tbe
employees in the restaurant enthusiastically greet every group of patrons
in an initial yelp from the servers
echoed heftily by tbe chefs behind the
counter. I take for granted that their
warm greeting means "Hello" or
"Welcome" but they very well may be
calling me an idiot
The restaurant is just south on
Thurlow from the absurd double-
Starbucks corner on Robson in a
dimly fit, small space. I usually arrive
at 6:30pm, just as they open, because
a line starts around 7:15pm that can
take anywhere from 15-30 minutes
to get through.
Before discussing the food, it
must be accepted that sushi is over.
Students are munching on California
rolls as often as cheeseburgers these
days in tbe SUB. Guu offers a refreshing selection of homesiyle Japanese
robata barbeque, hot pots, tapas and
more as a respite from the multitude
of Japanese restaurants dishing out
non-stop "Dinner Combo Ds" every
The menu is cluttered and at
first confusing with a homemade,
handwritten photocopy of some
seasonal dishes attached. Tbe
servers constantly yell out each
order and the chefs acknowledge
with a loud huzzah.
Every item on the menu is three
to seven dollars and a meal for one
person usually consists of two or
three dishes. It is, however, best to
drag along a couple of friends to get
yelled at so you can share about two
dishes each and experiment with
unfamiliar items on the menu.
The tofu mushroom salad is a
good starter and a reasonable size to
share. The uncooked tofia is hard to
handle with chopsticks, but there is
an ample amount and the dressing is
light and sweet Other good share
items are the hot pots, namely, the
oyster tofu with shiitake mushrooms
and vegetables, stewed with a light
broth and garlic butter.
For those stubborn souls still
craving sushi, Guu offers two kinds
of minced sashimi. The salmon
sasbimi with garlic soy sauce and
pine nuts is topped with a quail egg
. and has excellent texture and
flavour, making the usual wasabi
accompaniment unnecessary. The
tuna sashimi is plainer than the
salmon, to be eaten in a more traditional sushi style with soy sauce and
wasabi, but excellent as well. We
often end up ordering either of these
just, for ourselves because we tend to
not want to share them.
While my half ass vegetarianism
allows me to dabble in seafood, I cannot attest to the beef or chicken dishes. I watched a friend happily inhale
barbeque beef skewers, however.
Some of the dishes are hit and
miss on the menu—it's like ordering
dim sum without being able to see
the food first We find it is usually
better to order the larger dishes
because the smaller items tend to
amount to an anti-climatic single
tofu ball swimming in a really plain
broth. The croquettes are fried to
round, golden perfection but there
are often only two or three pieces
that disappear quickly. The salty
fresh squid is surprisingly slimy, but
accurate to its description on the
menu. What you read is what you get
The alcohol is reasonably priced
as well. A large sake—warm or cold-
costs only $6.50. Some of my friends
find the warm sake a bit strong and
'kind of like rubbing alcohol,* but I
thoroughly enjoy it Pints of local
beer are $4 and pitchers are reasonable at $12 too.
As the yelling fades into a constant, romantic murmur—probably
the sake—the only real problem with
the place is that the table can get cluttered pretty quickly with all of your
food. Unlike dim sum, there is no
lazy susan to pass the food around.
The overall experience is satisfying and fun, but can get a bit expensive if you are drinking and enthusiastically experimenting, if you sit at
the bar you end up seeing a lot more
food that you want to try as it all sits
out on the counter. It is well worth
trying at least once. So drag a friend
along and smile as they recoil from
the yelling and dread of what unfamiliar non-sushi dishes you chose off
the menu. ♦  '
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NO MAKI IN SIGHT: The view from the bar at Guu. kevin saborit photo
4 12     RANT
psetry: first runner-up
Narmada Maha-Kavya (mantra series one)
by Maureen Evans
This poem belongs to the tribal people, villagers and
activists of the Narmada Bachao Andolan (Save the
Narmada Movement)—these are their words, and it was my
promise to bring them to you.
Quotations from interviews with Devram Kanera and
Shitaram Hirgi ofMadhya Pradesh, in 2001; section three
quotes NBA poet Vishtar. The villages of those interviewed
were submerged by the Mann dam during the monsoon of
2002. The Narmada Development Project is not yet complete. For more information visit www.narmada.org.
peltry. s^coticL runner-up
The landscape here is one
of dreamless sleep,
of stark blue reverie and dry cloud.
The murmured smile
of the plow
turns warm brown
thoughts comfortably over,
and over beneath the lush
spread sexuality
of the trees.
"This fight, this crucial war..."
In Kheda Balavadi
the earth is good
and lived upon.
The children of a hundred families
smile, and the woman are
beautiful strong.
This is not idealism-
human life works here,
surprising as an old watch
found ticking
beneath the dust
'We farm, we eat, and Hve happily. The
land is so fertile that everything grows,
and with ardour.*
The farmers have worked the land
here two hundred years
from Rajastan,
and Aadivasi tribes take fish
herbs and roots just as they have
a thousand years upon Narmada's banks.
their pulse is the rush of the river,
their flesh, Narmada sand,
and their only age is the turn of the
season, from rain,
to crop, to rain
again. It is their land.
"Never shall we leave this river, the river
that courses through our veins, on whose
banks we dance and sing.*
June riverbeds are empty.
The dry days in the thick
of summer burn
and bloom together,
compassionate and cruel
as a mother's palm against
a fresh wet wound.
They plow the land,
as any lover who has found
his goddess
to be a cheat
"I can feel the dam being built, continuously, in my heart"
A Footnote to an Old Poem
by Leigh Kamping-Carder
you give away memories
(this time you hi the lookout on hre with gasoline)
as gifts
i should have tacked on
that he forgets things
important things
and when he remembers
this is also meant to be a gift
i should have put more stock in the stories i heard
he pulled a knife on a kid
punched a hole in his wall
smashed his mother's windshield
while she was in the car
maybe i should have focused
on the facts and figures and fine print
and written less poetry
with him as the star


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