Incite Magazine - April 2009

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EDITORIAL

ve been thinking about the past four years a lot recently.

As my last year at McMaster turned to my last months and now to my last few weeks, I have counted down some landmarks in my undergraduate education: final mid-term, final essay… soon to be joined by my final class and final exam. Making such tallies automatically forces me consider the reverse scenarios, trying to reconstruct in my head my first university assignment or my first 2000 word paper. Often my recollections have faded substantially—I’m a bit amazed at my ability to learn so much for such a short amount of time—but just realizing all I have produced for my degree is daunting.

Over the last four years, I’ve written thousands of words and spent countless days reading and studying. What, then, have I received in exchange? I don’t just mean that piece of paper with the Germanic font and few Latin words that I’ll receive at convocation. Earning it wasn’t the reason I came to university, and I certainly hope it isn’t the only thing I look back on in a few decades’ time. The sum total of my university experiences must have shaped me in some way, whether intellectually, emotionally, or socially. I haven’t yet been able to pinpoint how.

I’m confident that there have

been changes: I think about issues and problems differently now, and I’m certain that I’ve become a better writer.

Yet it seems a bit implausible that I could immediately identify any changes and their causes, especially while I’m still a student here. One has to dig a bit deeper to say something truly meaningful, and it’s not really a possibility at the moment.

This realization has made me wonder about the use of any instant retrospectives in the first place.

Nevertheless, the desire to offer quick historical analyses persists. And why not? We’re all accustomed to constantly consulting our memories and picking out the relevant facts. We love sharing stories and looking back (either fondly or not so fondly) on personal histories. It’s only natural to want to do the same when it comes to big occasions in our lives, ones that inherently section off and label periods of time. Graduation ceremonies tell us that here we were high school students and there university students, as though they are shorthand for entire identities during these important times.

Having lived through four busy undergraduate years, there’s an assumption that I’ll be able to say something interesting about them. To some extent, that’s true; I can offer up my take on platitudes concerning personal growth and forging an identity, such as how the

Editing and Production Co–ordinator

Ben Freeman Editors

Muneeb Ansari Nick Davies

Chris Evans Zsuzsi Fodor

Siva Vijenthira

experiences I’ve shared with friends have marked me. While they might be serious and wholehearted statements, they couldn’t possibly properly summarize McMaster’s legacy on me. It’s simply a matter of timelines. The long-lasting, subtle effects of my education will only be apparent to me many years into the future. Trying to find profundity while still enrolled in university and before having put my education to use is almost nonsensical. One can’t look for answers before all the facts have been collected.

Despite this inconsistency, our society constantly pushes for instant analysis and up-to-the-second evaluation. Whenever an event takes place, there’s an urge to capture the reality in a catchy sound bite. Obama’s election: a turning point in American race relations. The recent financial crisis: clearly the beginning of another Great Depression and the end of world capitalism as we know it. Or perhaps a momentary slowdown that needs requires just a bit of government intervention. Never mind that these interpretations are inconsistent; we want labels and summaries to help us make sense of the world around us.

Such interpretations are often incorrect or, at the very least, drastically incomplete. But these problems do not deter analysts or the news media from tossing out opinions left and right. If one

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Graphics Co–ordinators

Chris HIlbrecht Ishani Nath Graphics and Layout

Qiao Qiao Will van Engen

McMaster Photography Association

Breaking Off...Into the Ocean

Printing

Hamilton Web Printing Impact Youth Publications 1105 King Street West Hamilton, ON L8S 1L8 incite@mcmaster.ca http://www.incitemagazine.ca Incite is published six times per academic year by Impact Youth Publications. 10,000 copies are distributed in the McMaster University–Westdale area. Entire contents copyright 2008–2009 Impact Youth Publications. Letters up to 300 words may be sent to the above address; they may be edited for length and clarity and will not be printed unless a name, address, and daytime phone are provided. Opinions expressed are those of the author, and do not necessarily reflect the views of Incite’s staff or Impact Youth Publications.

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INSIDE FEATURES

Layout Co–ordinator

Yang Lei

Contributors

Melissa Charenko Justina Chong

Jeanette Eby Katherine Georgious

Garnet Johnson-Koehn

Anna Kulikov Rob Lederer

Kate Logan Marcello Mercanti

Raman Nijjar Hilary Noad

Andrew Prine Hannah Webb

Michael Wexler Catherine Wiebe

Adira Winegust

hypothesis falters, simply issue a new one.

A number of factors create the conditions for quick, knee-jerk reactions: the rising, constant consumption of news and other information; a shortened news cycle; and a need for reporters or writers to distinguish themselves by going beyond the “mere” facts of the situation. I often fall victim to these same tendencies, looking for in-depth examinations only moments after an event has occurred. When inconceivable amounts of knowledge are just a few clicks away, it can be hard to wait for meanings to develop on their own.

Will these realizations keep me from proposing analyses of my time at McMaster? Probably not. When someone asks you to talk about your experiences, it’s easy to get carried away. “That class changed how I understand notions of individual identity.” “I approach that issue in a much more critical way now.”

Those nice-sounding phrases just come too easily. What I said would have some merit to my situation, after all.

But I’ll try to remember that the most important sources of meaning can’t be found through superficial readings. It’s only upon reflection and with the aid of posterity that we can figure out what has mattered most. So I won’t worry if I can’t think of anything too intelligent to say for now—I’ve still got a thesis to finish.

for Thought 4 Food An Interview with Catherine M.A. Wiebe 7 Banksy The World’s Most Famous Graffiti Artist 10 Photos McMaster Photography Association .O.V. 13 POriginal Fiction by Garnet Johnson-Koehn Jeans and Batty Boys 14 Skinny Letter from London for Less 16 Life Hamilton on a Dollar a Day Twittering, Twit 19 Twitting, The Strange World of Celebrity Twitters Nippon’s Revenge 20 Miss Fiction by Justina Chong

DEPARTMENTS

Cover Art by Chris Hilbrecht and Will van Engen

3 6 8 12 18

Happenings: News from Near and Far Column: Mac in Time Review: Historica Minutes Column: Eat Column: Reframing Hamilton

Happenings

MINUTES FROM LAST MONTH selected news from near and far

Homegrown Vaccine Mycobacteria beware: a new Tuberculosis vaccine has been developed at McMaster. Researchers in the Department of Pathology and Molecular Medicine announced last month that they are about to begin clinical trials of a vaccine made from genetically modified cold viruses containing part of the TB genome responsible for immunity. Multiple pre-clinical studies done on mice, guinea pigs (who, along with being cute, are apparently prone to TB), and cattle have shown the vaccine to be a promising defence against the disease. This is an especially exciting development since TB not only kills nearly two million people annually, but has in recent years become increasingly resistant to antibiotic treatments.

A Splitting Headache SEATTLE—An international team of scientists has developed a mathematical model for predicting the success or failure of marriages. The formula, developed by a team of American and British mathematicians, has proven to be 94 percent accurate. The model was tested on 700 newlyweds whose marriages were tracked for 12 years.

The formula itself is a little too complicated to include in this bubble, but it’s based on just 15 minutes of videotaped interaction between husband and wife. The conversational contributions of both partners are assessed and scored based on things like warmth, humour, joy, sadness, affection, interest, and belligerence. After the results

inside the bubble

Come Fall in Love with Stran- Working for the Man gers Are you a stickler for independent film?

The Staircase Café Theatre on Thursday, 16 April is showing the premiere of Michael Wexler’s Hummingbird.

This short film, written and directed by the Montréal native and Mac student, focuses on that moment of ‘What if?’. It explores our impulsive romantic desires and the idealism of our imaginations.

Made in collaboration with Montreal indie band Code Pie, currently at work on their third album, Hummingbird is to be submitted to film festivals across the country this year. Check out hummingbirdthefilm.wordpress.com/ preview for tickets and more information.

are tallied the marriages are categorized as likely to fail or likely to succeed. Although most students would be pretty happy to see 94 percent on an assignment, the researchers were actually surprised by their formula’s limited success, stating that it would have been higher but a few of the couples they had predicted would stay together eventually divorced. No wonder mathematicians don’t go on many dates…

Steal City WINNIPEG—One of the coldest cities in Canada has finally reached a milestone not witnessed for decades. No, it’s not going an entire winter without the thermometer dipping below

Want to make like Missy Elliot and work it this summer? There are lots of resources available in Hamilton to help a student in need of employment.

Federally, things are looked after by Hamilton’s Service Canada Centre for Youth, which will be opening in Jackson Square during the first week of May. Hamilton’s SCCY can help with anything from resume writing and interview skills to faxing applications and navigating the labyrinth of government websites and youth programs available for students. Although all of its job openings are posted on the federal job bank (jobbank.gc.ca), many of the openings require applicants to visit the office in person to apply. On a provincial level, Ontario’s Summer Jobs Service, a program which provided over 800 students in Hamilton with work

last summer, is run out of the Employment Hamilton office located at 67 Victoria Ave S. This office also provides a range of career support services for both students and adults. Applications to work for the city of Hamilton generally have to be in by sometime in January, but there are usually still a few spots open in city-run organizations like the Hamilton Public Library. Once again, check out either the federal or provincial summer employment offices for info on these. Other resources include McMaster’s own Career Services department, the YMCA’s Careerworx and the Wesley Urban Ministries employment help centre.

Compiled by Chris Hilbrecht, Andrew Prine, and Michael Wexler

in north america...

-50 degrees Celsius or any “frostbite” warning days. Rather, Winnipeg, has finally gone a whole 24 hours without a single car being stolen! The groundbreaking day was 3 March 2009, the first time in decades that no stolen car claims have been filed. This milestone is postulated to be the continuance of a larger trend of declining car thefts in the city. Last year marked the 11th year in a row that Winnipeg was declared the car theft capital of Canada.

In 2004 alone, 8718 cars were reported stolen, an average of 24 cars a day.

mous Chinatown now faces a massive problem. San Francisco has begun to grapple with serial arsonists. These arsonists are not targeting major landmarks, but over the past four months, over two dozen portable toilets have been set ablaze on constructions sites, leaving a trail of stinky evidence. Each time a port-a-potty is burned down, an estimated $50 000 of damage is done.

To catch these arsonists, the Clorox Company, a cleaning supply company, is offering a $5000 reward and a year’s supply of toilet cleaner as motivation to catch the “toilet torchers.”

Puts the “Arse” in Arson

Compiled by Andrew Prine and SAN FRANCISCO—The home of Adira Winegust Rice-A-Roni, pristine shorelines, picturesque trolley cars, and a world fa-

...and around the world

The Cocaine in Spain is far from had an actual leg fracture, which au- evolve to bypass police. thorities suspected could have been Mundane self-inflicted to aid with the smuggling Führer Over Hitler Art Auction SPAIN—Spanish police have intercepted two would-be cocaine smugglers employing some notably atypical methods.

The first was a man wearing a “cast” that was in fact made up of compressed cocaine. Along with stashes hidden in cans of beer and hollowed-out stools, the man had almost 11 pounds of the drug on him. He was apprehended when officials sprayed the cast with a chemical that turns blue when in contact with cocaine. The criminal even

attempt. Not to be outdone, two weeks later another trafficker was seized with a 42-piece dinner set made of dope.

Forty-five pounds were concealed in plates, cups, pots, and saucers, each painted blue and elaborately decorated with yellow sunflowers. Authorities did not comment on the methods’ elaborateness, but given Spain’s high rate of cocaine consumption and its status as an entry point for the drug into Europe, it seems hopeful drug smugglers must

ENGLAND—Thirteen watercolours, including a self-portrait, from Adolf Hitler’s pre-genocidal-dictator days as a budding, albeit amateurish, artist will go on auction next month. The paintings were found in Essen, Germany in 1945, and sold to an undisclosed party who has kept them out of sight ever since. Richard Westwood-Brookes, of Mullocks auctioneers has said that the series of flowers and landscapes, paint-

ed in 1910, is expected to fetch tens of thousands of pounds. He noted that “there is tremendous fascination with Hitler these days, and this sale will provide bidders with a rare opportunity of obtaining a work by Hitler at a time long before he started his campaigns of mass murder and world domination.”

Hitler was rejected from Vienna’s Academy of Fine Arts twice, in 1907 and 1908, after being told he was not a competent enough artist.

Compiled by Ben Freeman and Chris Hilbrecht

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INTERVIEW

Food for Thought

H

amilton-based writer Catherine M.A. Wiebe’s newly-published first novel, Second Rising, is a poetic memoir of the relationship between a young woman and her grandmother. An elegy on memory, aging, and food, Second Rising’s rich language and meditative style mark a powerful debut for Wiebe, a recent McMaster graduate and former editor-inchief of this magazine.

We sat down with Catherine to chat about writing, memory, and baking bread. Second Rising, is available from www.bluebutterflybooks. ca and will be making its way to bookstores soon.

What led you to write Second Rising?

It started with my undergraduate thesis. My plan was to write a few short pieces accompanied by some expository writing on postmodern fiction.

Then my thesis advisor, Dr. Nina Kolesnikoff, said “Why not just write fiction? That’s what you really like.” That got me to focus on my writing in a real way. As for the subject matter, I have always loved to cook. My Mom had given me a cookbook for Christmas that she made from our family recipes—this giant binder. It had pictures of me and notes from my grandmothers about particular recipes. That binder allowed me to start cooking more, because I had all these recipes at my fingertips, but it was also a real impetus to start thinking about the link between food and memory. When people ask the question “What would you save if your house was on fire?” this cookbook inevitably comes up in the top five.

So food and the preparation of food are very important to you.

So important. What I like most about cooking is how it’s such a good way to love people—to cook for them and to share food with them. It seems to me to be a facilitator of relationships.

From the time I was old enough to cook for myself, I’ve always liked to bake cookies for friends and have people over for meals, and try these elaborate recipes.

I guess it’s just always been part of my life and makes so much sense to me. It’s this thing that we all have to do anyway, so why not do it well and do it beautifully, and make this thing that’s going to be part of your life whether you like it or not into something that adds beauty and joy to your life and other people’s lives? To me it just makes sense.

That makes it especially relevant for university students who so often eat Kraft Dinner.

It’s so true. People always used to ask me, how do you cook these elaborate meals when you’re a student? Well, you decide that it’s important and you make time. If playing Dance Dance Revolution for three hours at a stretch is important, you make time for it, and if food is important you make time for it.

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What was it like to write Second Rising?

If I was only allowed to use one word to describe the process, I’d call it draining. It was exhausting physically, emotionally, and mentally, but it also gave me the beautiful feeling that I was giving myself up and that I didn’t have anything left at the end. It was also lonely. I would send excerpts to my friend Kerry who was in London, and she would write comments and send them back—we had this wonderful book club across the ocean—but it’s pretty sad stuff. You’re not reading it and laughing out loud. Thinking about death and dying, losing your memory, all the time, really takes a lot out of you.

What carried me through was this powerful conviction that I was writing about important things and that someday someone was going to read them and it was going to do something to them. I think that’s necessary for writers: this totally irrational belief that what you’re doing is important because otherwise you’re saying to yourself “I’m sitting alone at home talking to myself all day.” So it was draining and it was lonely, but I knew that I was doing something good.

The tone of Second Rising is both poignant and placid. Reading it, I had the impression that I was kneading dough, because the narrative wasn’t lengthening, but deepening: it had these ingredients that were set out at the beginning and the book was a treatment and a development of them. Is there a reason you chose to structure the book in a highly meditative, nonlinear way?

Well, we don’t remember things linearly.

Even when someone asks you how was your day, the bright points jump out first and then you backtrack and fill in the details. The way I wrote it was fragmented as well. I didn’t write the first page and then the second page, I wrote little pieces and then patched them together. Everything I was doing was about how we remember.

We want to have a trajectory, to say “I was born, and I did this and I did this and I’m a successful person,” but we don’t. I wanted to capture the feeling of these bright points and these faded points that you notice in your memory and revisit, and how the revisiting at different times in your life can produce different recollections.

I wanted the form of the novel to add another layer to its meaning.

A major focus in Second Rising is the difference between oral history and written history; the recipes that were remembered by the grandmother have to be passed on in writing. Is there something lost in the transition from oral to written, something that can’t be gotten back?

Something is lost in any transition between mediums. Even if you’re wearing a blindfold, attending a live concert is a different experience than listening to a CD. And there’s definitely something lost in writing down recipes, that sense of cooking by feel and by touch and by intuition. It’s something built up from years of watching others cook, practising yourself, and making spectacular flops. That intuitive sense

can’t be communicated in writing. It’s not just the oral telling, but a mentorship between two cooks, or trial and error on your own.

I’m obviously an advocate of the written word, but I do write my stories explicitly to be read aloud as well as read in your head. There’s so much more contained in the way things sound.

You can put a lot of that on the page, and very skilled writers can put almost all of it on the page, but there’s something about that conversational act that’s very intimate. Just with recipes and cooking there’s that intimacy between generations.

There’s something about telling your stories to someone else that’s necessarily a beautiful, intimate thing. I found that even in reading aloud to people, it’s like you read to them and then afterwards you’re checking to see if you still have your clothes on. It’s baring yourself to someone, especially in a smaller setting. What’s lost in the transition from oral to written word is the intimacy of conversation.

Do you see yourself continuing in the tradition of any specific authors? What are your influences?

My influences are pretty wide, but in terms of the very precise poetic style, I would one day like to approach some fraction of Anne Michaels’ greatness. Her book, Fugitive Pieces, is so beautiful. If you’re the kind of person who underlines or tags when you’re reading, you’re stopping literally almost every page just to meditate on some gorgeous phrase. But it’s a gripping story as well.

I also aspire to be like Marilyn Robinson.

She takes these extremely small, almost domestic miniatures, and imbues them with so much significance. Her first novel, Housekeeping, is all about these kinds of domestic routines and what she does with them is unreal.

What’s next for you in your literary career?

I’m really looking forward to doing readings and publicity for Second Rising. A lot of authors, I’ve heard, like their writing but don’t like going out in front of people. But for me, this is what I’ve been working toward for the past three years. I say bring on the people! It’s like being an actor and having to wait to get any applause until the closing night of your performance. I want to interact!

In terms of future writing, I have another novel-length project that’s simmering in my mental crockpot. I’ll probably commence it in earnest in the summer or fall. In the meantime I’m just working on some shorter pieces which are fun and a totally different set of muscles to use.

Is there anything else that you’d like to say?

I’m excited for people to read Second Rising.

I hope that it will awaken something inside of them and change something about them. That’s the thrilling thing about being a writer—people you’ve never met and never talked to can read your words and it can make their life different.

How rad is that?

An Interview with Catherine M.A. Wiebe

By Nick Davies An excerpt from Second Rising: You cannot tell someone with no past to remember. She will only mistake her invention for memory and send you all into town when you meant to go sit in the park.

She did not remember yesterday, or the day before. She does not remember getting dressed, and so she pulls on slacks over her skirt, and sweaters she may once have knitted over blouses and undershirts. She does not remember eating, and so she reaches for the box of stale crackers, before she forgets again what to do with them in her hands.

She does not remember that tomorrow is her birthday, that all of the bright paper squares, folded and set up in the window, are hers. That tomorrow she is leaving for a while.

She has no past, anymore, so she has made one for herself, as girls make stories for their dolls. She points to herself in the mirror by the door, before we go to the park: you are looking awfully nice today, she says. Do you want to go to the park? Me and my friends are going! And she gestures over her shoulder to the mirror behind her, across from the one she is gazing into; she smiles, coy and slightly cross-eyed, at the smaller and smaller selves receding into the space behind the mirror.

We go to the park often. There was a nice boy there, a nice boy, too bad… he was such a nice boy. This is the park where I met your grandfather, she says to my mother (though I think she means to speak to me). What a nice boy, he was such a nice boy. We were dancing in the kitchen to one of his mother’s records, that boy sure couldn’t dance, what a nice boy… she trails off like this often, smiling and ending with words that didn’t mean anything, even when she understood them. A nice boy, Oh say! It was interesting, Funny how that happens, Well that was a different day, then—She isn’t as young as she used to be.

We have been to the park many times. It is a lovely park, there is a piece at the back where the people from...from...(here she flaps her hands, trying to mean the people from the stitched-together houses without grass in the front), where they can grow vegetables. She tries to smile, but the effort of holding both compassion and condescension in her mouth is too much, and it comes out as a grimace instead.

Do you want to go to the park? she says, noticing me. Her hand flaps again, like she is petting a dog this time. I met your father at

the park, she says, still looking at me (though I think she means to speak to my mother).

What a nice boy, he was such a nice boy. Did you know that he proposed before he had even met my father? That sort of thing wasn’t done in those days, you know. He said I’m going to marry you, if it’s the last thing I do! Doesn’t sound much like a proposal, does it, but your father always knew what he wanted, and I wanted the same thing.

Let’s go to the park, what are you waiting for? She’s impatient now, stomping and flapping, and we should have switched her shoes onto the right feet while she was distracted by her stories. What are you waiting for, girls, we’ve got to get going, we’ve got to get going, your father’s coming home before you know it, we’ve got to get going. I am confused, looking to my mother for direction, but she is looking back at me, and I realize that we must look very like the two sisters that my grandmother is mistaking us for. It’s okay, I say, it’s okay, we’re ready to go. We’ve got your jacket, we’re ready to go.

The three of us troop out the door to the park, my grandmother still telling us we’ve got to get going, though her voice is quieter once we’re outside. We turn the corner and now she is telling another story, this one about a man from the train company who called for your grandfather—oh sure you are, I said, and I’m the Prime Minister! Your father even smiled at that one— The park is that way, she interrupts herself, tugging on my mother’s arm. Why aren’t we going to the park? We turn left at the brick house, and left again at the wooden one, that’s how we get to the park. I remember, that’s how we get to the park. If we turn right here, we will come to the end of the street, not to the park. I used to go there all the time, she says, with an authority known only to children and the very wise, we don’t turn right here. (But we do, I think, she must remember that we turn right here—left leads into town, surely she knows that, surely she is just mistaken.)

I look at my mother, both of us making up reasons to make her reasonable.

It’s getting dark— The sun’s too bright— We say at once, and start to laugh, pitying ourselves and our lies and this strange woman who knows that we must turn left.

You’re right, I say, and my mother nods; we do turn left here to get to the park, but why not go right, and you can tell us about the

neighbourhood there?

Why not, echoes my mother?

Why not, says my grandmother, and we turn to the right, towards the park, through the past and into this present, imperfect and beautiful.

Interested in hearing or reading more?

Catherine M.A. Wiebe, David Dawson, Daniel Coleman, and Ross Pennie present an evening of readings and engaging conversation with the authors.

Thursday, 7 May 2009, 7 PM Gallery on the Bay 231 Bay Street North, Hamilton, Ontario Refreshments RSVP to Bryan Prince, Bookseller at 905-5284508, 800-867-0090, or staff@princebooks.net

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COLUMN

Mac in Time

by Melissa Charenko and Kate Logan Trivial Pursuits

M

cMaster has a rich and amazing history that few McMaster studentsor even alumni know anything about.

The names of the buildings on campus may become just a series of initials to most students, but there was once a real person behind each name who had a significant influence on the University and shaped the institution we know today. In this series of columns, we have tried to show you how our McMaster evolved. As our parting gift to you, dear readers, here is some trivia to astound and perplex; perhaps you might learn something this year after all.

1. McMaster students set a record in March 1974 for the most participants in the half-mile as they ran past all the women’s residences and the Faculty Club. This wasn’t your average half-mile run though — all the participants were nude and it ended with a panty raid.

2. Campus security started cracking down on streakers in 1974, but some students were displeased with the power the law enforcement team wielded. Students mostly complained that university police were over-zealous in enforcing laws against liquor and other minor regulations. They eventually forced the head of security to resign.

3. In the 1920s, a chapel was planned between University and Hamilton Halls. Since University Hall represented the arts and Hamilton Hall the sciences, H. P. Whidden thought the chapel would serve as “a symbol of the place of true Religion in relation to the study and pursuit of truth as contained in the arts and sciences.” Construction was put off due to the Depression, and was never revisited.

4. McMaster has a number of well-known grads, including Dalton McGuinty, who studied biology here before going on to become Ontario’s 24th Premier. Roberta Bondar, Canada’s first female astronaut, graduated from Mac Med in 1977. Comedians Martin Short and Eugene Levy also regularly performed on stage when they were students. Three Nobel

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Prize winners have taught at McMaster and 35 Olympic athletes wore maroon and silver before sporting red and white. Some, such as kayaker Adam van Koeverden, went further, adding a touch of gold during the Games.

Tommy Douglas, Father of Medicare and voted Greatest Canadian, was part of McMaster’s class of 1933.

5. Most of the stone carvings at McMaster were done by William Federik Karel Oosterhoff, who later became the Parliamentary stone carver in Ottawa. There he carved the crests, emblems, and busts that adorn the arches at the base of the Peace Tower and designed some of the sculptures that decorated the lobby of House of Commons and Senate.

6. The Latin verse on the sundial on front of Hamilton Hall (AUT DISCE AUT DISCEDE) is translated as “Either learn or leave.” Different interpretations abound, with some taking it to mean “Shape up or ship out” or “If the heat’s too much, get out of the kitchen.” Our favourite interpretation comes from a dishevelled chemistry student who understood it as “Cram or Scram.”

7. The sculpture in the Arts Quad is a tribute to Edward Carey Fox, who was a member of the Senate and Board of Governors for more than 50 years. He was Mac’s first honorary Chancellor and donated a lot of money to the school. The eagles represent freedom and the aspirations of university youth and scholarship.

8. The stained glass window in Faculty Club comes from Senator McMaster’s home in Toronto, and it has his personal emblem in the middle.

9. A replica of the bust of William McMaster can be found in the CIBC at Commerce Place in downtown Hamilton, the bank he helped found.

10. McMaster once offered a credit course in introductory biology on TV. It was the first of its kind when it aired in 1961 on CHCH-TV. 11. Dr Alex Roncari, a professor who studied the environmental effects of radiation here starting in 1960, was the last remaining direct descendent of Christopher Columbus.

12. There used to be an infirmary in McKay Hall. Is there any coincidence that it was also the first co-ed residence?

13. Whidden’s middle name was Primrose.

14. Any connections between salmons and fish tanks in the auxiliary bookstore, The Tank, are coincidental. It got its name because it used to be a boiler room for the Arts Quad. Bridges was also a boiler room before becoming Refectory Rathskeller.

15. Arthur Burridge, of gymnasium fame and former Athletic Director, introduced the forward pass to Canadian football.

16. In the 1940s, first and second year students had compulsory physical education classes.

17. After his death, Einstein’s brain was divided into pieces for scientists across the globe to study. McMaster is the proud owner of one of these pieces, located in the Psychology Complex and currently being used to study the effect of music on brain development. Our piece is also the largest one in the world.

18. McMaster students in the 1940s and 50s entertained themselves by bowling in our very own on-campus bowling alley, located in the Rec Hut, the student centre built during the Second World War. Students looking for a bit of pocket change could find employment putting up the pins.

19. Up until the mid 1940s, senior students wore formal gowns (similar to those worn at Convocation) at all classes. While the gowns made chemistry laboratories challenging, they were very popular with students.

20. If you ever want to feel at home on another university campus, you’ll likely find McMaster’s shield somewhere in your travels. It’s at Queen’s University, Hart House at U of T, the University of Western Ontario, the dining room of Renison College in Waterloo, the library of McGill, the University of Winnipeg, and Memorial University. Most surprising is that it is found at the University of Queensland in Australia! Wherever you go, McMaster will be there.

PERSPECTIVE

Banksy

, The World s Most Famous Graffiti Artist

By Marcello Mercanti

W

ho is Banksy? I can’t tell you his real name because I don’t know it—no one does. What I can tell you is that he is one of the world’s most famous graffiti artists. He is considered by some to be an outlaw, while others, like me, see him as a hero.

His controversial pieces satirize important political and social issues. His works, both legal and illegal, appear in major cities worldwide. The earliest and today most painted areas appear in the English cities of Bristol, Bryson, and London. The publicity-shy Banksy and his unique style of paintings have left us with a sense of wonder, mystery, and controversy.

Banksy’s style is not like the graffiti you regularly see in urban environments. He was inspired

by Blek le Rat, also known as Xavier Prou. Blek was born in Paris in 1952 and is regarded as the godfather of stencil art. Using stencils, Banksy is able to create clear, definitive images avoiding cartoonish images and bringing real-life visuals to blank walls in a matter of seconds. If you see any of his pieces around a city, you’ll instantly know that it’s a Banksy.

I have known about Banksy for quite a while now but it has been difficult to track down legitimate sources of information, seeing how no one is certain about his identity. The BBC claims that he is a 32-year-old from Bristol named Robert Banks. Whatever his identity, he shuns the spotlight. His gallery shows have been run by a group of his representatives, dashing the hopes of many attendees to spot Banksy in the flesh. Even if someone were acting conspicuously, there would be no way to know for sure—anyone you meet could be Banksy.

Still, he has made some public appearances. An English television show called The Culture Show interviewed him, though obviously not in person.

Certain steps needed to take place in order to contact him. The Culture Show’s reporter, Zina Saro-Wiwa, had to beg and plead to Banksy’s representatives. Banksy eventually agreed, but some strings were attached to the deal. Her questions had to be sent via email. He then recorded his answers on a tape and scrambled up his voice to make it unidentifiable. Further, he sent a box to Saro-Wiwa’s office that was ornamented with an original work an art. Inside the box was the audiotape with his answers.

The first question Banksy answered was why he remains anonymous. He comically states, “I don’t really like the attention and, uhh, I’m ugly.” He

then continues on about his youth and his artistic technique. He said that the inner artist came out of him at around 13 or 14 years of age. He began stenciling because he was very slow at free-hand graffiti. He explained further why he uses stencils: “Stencils are good. You can make a very detailed painting in thirty seconds and just be gone.”

Banksy is criticized in certain cities and has been labeled a “graffiti terrorist.” Organizations like “Keep Britain Tidy” view his graffiti as a crime. Local and national governments believe his artwork threatens communities as a socialist form of revolt. He again puts a humourous spin on the accusation by responding that, “If you damage someone’s property it’s good to show some dedication to it. If you just slop it up… it’s a bit rude.”

A recurring symbol in Banksy’s artworks is the rat. “The thing I love about them is that they can be in the lowest place in the city to the highest. I see them as the triumph of the little people,” says Banksy. Police and government officials are frequently depicted as well. Many of his pictures display these figures in a negative way.

For example, he has an image of a police officer painted on the bottom of a building. The officer is kneeling with his nose to the ground doing cocaine, symbolizing corruption in the ranks. Banksy explains, saying “It’s not about the actual cops; it’s about the hypocrites and the liars.”

One of Banksy’s most controversial paintings was done on the Israeli government’s Separation Barrier between Israeli territory and the West Bank. Many works were displayed on the wall: a girl soaring upwards off the ground as she holds on to a bundle of balloons, a ladder that reaches all the way to the top of the barrier, a window that opens up to a tropical paradise on the other side, and many more. In his commentary, he stated that, “Well it is a very big wall.

More significantly, it is the ugliest and most inhuman thing I have ever seen in my life.”

An interesting aspect about Banksy’s artistic career is that he does not sell all of his paintings.

He makes his money through the odd gallery show, the creation of album artwork for his favourite bands, and his several best-selling books.

Lately, he has been working on more canvas-based pieces. He has remixed well-known works and given them a new look. He turned Warhol’s Marilyn Monroe into a Kate Moss. He destroyed van Gogh’s sunflower and filled Monet’s garden with pylons and shopping carts.

The difference between Banksy and these older, more traditional artists is clear. He has kept his identity secret but still is able to release his works to the public. Will he ever show his face to us? Even if he doesn’t, it seems he will keep on with his passion. He described his works as something that “should have your pulse racing, your palms clammy with nerves and the excitement of creating something truly original in a dangerous environment.” I’m sold.

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REVIEW

Bite-Sized Pieces of Our Heritage Incite Reviews Historica Minutes

Dr. Wilder Penfield

Superman

By Hilary Noad

By Anna Kulikov

Dr. Wilder Penfield pioneered techniques for treating epilepsy and probing the human brain while working in Montréal from the 1930s to’50s.

Montréal, 1934: The scene opens with a snowy night time shot of an elegant house. We hear a woman’s panicked voice in an accent that we suspect is supposed to sound French, but that comes across as vaguely Eastern European. Questions about the speaker’s ethnicity are forgotten as the video cuts to the house’s interior.

The woman, extremely dressed up for a simple supper with her husband, utters the classic line, “Saul, toast is burning.” Her husband, who is sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper, absent-mindedly mumbles something about there being no toast. Suddenly, she collapses in an epileptic seizure, her husband just barely catching her before she hits the floor. The scene then transitions to an operating room where a brain surgery led by Dr. Penfield is underway.

All of the medical personnel are dressed identically in caps, masks, and long gowns, but Dr. Penfield is set apart by his warm, soothing voice and calm, yet confident, demeanour. Despite the fact that the lady’s skull has been cut open using only local anaesthetic and that the surgeons are happily poking around, she answers all of Dr. Penfield’s questions with a blissful smile and in a wistful tone of voice. Clearly, the doctor has found the way to the woman’s heart: through the brain, of course.

The video ends with a victory shot of Penfield, still in full surgical garb, in a dark room illuminated from above. The scene’s lighting might be intended to make the doctor look angelic—he’s a miracle-worker!—but it overwhelmingly reminds us of the opening sequence for Mr. Bean episodes (in which Mr. Bean is dropped into a spotlight.) As the lady extols Dr. Penfield’s accomplishments in a rapturous voice-over, the doctor slowly removes his mask and surgical cap to reveal... a middle-aged man with goofy hair.

Rating: Three pieces of burnt toast and a dollop of strawberry jam for serving up important Canadian history with a hint of romance.

Superman’s creator, Joe Shuster, tries to sell his new character to the American public.

Cleveland, 1931: Joe Shuster, returning home to Toronto, emerges extolling his plans for what would soon become the greatest character in American comic book history: Superman. As often happens in Canada, Historica embellishes Superman’s creation with dubious flair and too many obvious Canadian stereotypes. Joe enthusiastically describes a man who quickly sounds very familiar: “He can lift anything at all,” he tells his companion Lois.

“By day he is a mild-mannered reporter… Faster than a speeding bullet!” All the while, the name of Superman’s American co-creator (Jerry Siegel) is suspiciously left out.

Lois, in the meantime, is far from the superhero’s archetypal squeeze whom we all love. She’s a raspy American blonde who has no faith in our Joe: “A hero in tights, it’ll never fly!” she scoffs dismissively. “Honestly, you Canadian kids!”

The Lois that Shuster and Siegel originally created was inspired by two actual women: Joanne Carter and Torchy Blane. The former was a model whose physical appearance was transferred to Lois and the latter a popular reporter featured in a series of films in the 1930s. The one portrayed

by Historica, on the other hand, little deserves the title. “See what your cousin Frank says in Toronto,” she says finally, subtly referring to Joe’s famous cousin, who made up half of the Canadian Wayne and Shuster comedy duo.

The Canadian novelist Mordecai Richler fittingly described Superman as the perfect Canadian hero: a “man of steel” who hides under the ordinary guise of a weak and clumsy reporter. Unfortunately, Historica does not do our Superman heritage justice, obsessing over the Canadian-American relationship, giving flair where little exists and not enough credit where it is rightfully deserved.

Rating: Three men of steel for the less-than-accurate historical rendition and caricatures of Canadian meekness.

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Étienne Parent

By Melissa Charenko Not radical enough for the French Patriotes, but still opposed to the government of Lower Canada, Parent was imprisoned for “seditious scheming” in Quebec City.

Québec, 1838: Loud French insults, a corrupt regime, and secret messages hidden inside pies— these are not what most Canadians think of when they reflect on our history. Perhaps the Historica Minute on Étienne Parent includes these elements because Parent was not your traditional historical figure. As tension mounted between the French and the English in Lower Canada (present-day Quebec), he called for an end to the armed insurrection of 1838. He was loyal to the cause, but, as we see in the Minute, believed that Francophone Canadians would be able to “thrive through education, political economy and industry,” not uprisings. These views were expressed in his newspaper Le Canadien, earning everyone’s contempt.

The Historica Minute begins in his jail cell and we immediately note that the dark stone-walled prisons of the 1800s are not a great place to be. Amidst the gloom and squalor, Parent scribbles away with a pie at his side. It is one of the best-looking pies you have ever seen, with cross-hatched openings displaying succulent fruit. But Parent does not take a single bite. Instead, he slips his prose under the pie plate and hands it to his visiting friend. The guards are suspicious—who would refuse a pie, especially since it doesn’t look like many are getting their fill in prison?—but they do not find the paper.

Parent’s musings thus found their way into the editorials of Le Canadien for months while Parent toiled in jail. With his influence as a journalist well established, Parent later became a member of the Legislative Assembly of the Province of Canada, though the Minute chooses to focus on how his views later “transformed Quebec a hundred years later in its Quiet Revolution.”

Rating: Five stars if this were a baking show, but four stars since it’s not.

Building Democracy Siva Vijenthira

Expo ‘67

Soddie

By Ben Freeman

By Hannah Webb

Montréal has been assigned to 1967 World’s Fair but is struggling to find a place to stage it.

Montréal, 1963: The planned World’s Fair will be the size of 64 city blocks, and as one of the city planners smugly points out, “There’s no land left in Montréal.” The obvious solution? Build the entire complex on water, of course! “We’ll build islands,” the dreamer says, with a gleam of anticipation in his eye. His colleague appears unmoved, but his demeanour changes when the other pulls out his Ace in the Hole. “They’re digging a subway, remember?

Take it from there… and you put it here.” As they look out on the watery expanse, the scene changes to a montage of trucks and heavy machinery dumping and moving enormous piles of dirt, complete with informative voice-over and background music.

Having finally realized the project’s potential, it’s the previously sceptical planner who’s caught daydreaming. “We don’t want to keep Mayor Drapeau waiting,” his friend reminds him. Certainly not waiting while such an amazing new plan waits to be realized! Finally, we’re presented with images of Expo ’67 itself, while the narrator informs us that it was the “most successful World’s Fair of the 20th century.” And we owe it all to that one municipal employee and his harebrained scheme.

But wait—in the English version the two actors are an Anglophone and a Francophone, while in the French edition they’re both Francophone!

Seems like a language equity whitewash to me (it’s the same actors, incidentally). And the ad’s central claim is disputable: not everything about Expo was great. It left us with possibly two of the most inanely catchy theme songs ever recorded in the country: “Ca-na-da,” sung by a children’s choir (it goes “CANA-DA!/One little two little three Canadians”), and “A Place to Stand, A Place to Grow,” Ontario’s unofficial anthem (the one with “Ontari-ari-ari-o!” every verse). But at least Expo was a financial success, something that can’t quite be said for the Olympic Games that took place nine years later.

Rating: Four planners for convincingly demonstrating a solution to excess dirt problems worldwide.

Pioneers struggled to build houses from sod in the Canadian hinterland.

When I was a child my dream was to be a pioneer. I desperately wanted to find a way to travel back in time so I could be a settler on the Canadian prairies, sewing quilts, wearing calico dresses, using gas lamps, and carrying my lunch to school in a pail. I wanted to live on a farm, do the harvest, and take care of animals, a particularly unattainable and fascinating prospect to a city girl with family members who had deathly allergies. In light of my inability to escape the time period I was in, I did the best I could: I devoured children’s pioneer literature (Laura Ingalls anyone?). One of the highlights of my youth was a class trip to Heritage Park, a reproduction early settlement town, where we had classes in the one-room schoolhouse and drank root beer in an old-fashioned bar.

This Historica Minute, highlights the complete ridiculousness of my dream. Seriously, whose idea of a good time is it to work yourself to death, spend most of your time half-starving, and have to be constantly popping out children, most of whom will die anyway? The Minute focuses on the plight of European immigrants attempting to build a sod home and establish a new life in Canadian wilderness. It was a tough life, and I don’t really know why anyone would want to do it. Not to mention that I am now aware of the repercussions of European arrivals on Native cultures. I romanticized the life of the pioneer, which was more controversial than I used to understand or what the movie demonstrates. But while I separate myself from my former dream, I retain something of an idealized respect for the undeniable difficulties the pioneers faced—a sentiment it seems the makers of the Historica Minute share. And I will admit, my most cherished pair of shoes is boots I chose because they look like something a pioneer girl might wear.

Rating: Five years of tribulations for the music, the link to my childhood dreams, and the ability to capture a whole range of feeling: hardship and determination combined with glimpses of hope and satisfaction.

The birth of the Baldwin-LaFontaine AngloFranco political partnership in the midst of tumult over potentially uniting Upper and Lower Canada.

Quebec/Toronto, 1841: Oh, how exciting those pre-Confederation elections used to be! This Minute begins in Lower Canada (prematurely called “Quebec” in the caption), soon after the quashing of a Francophone rebellion against the upper classes.

A torch- and rake-wielding mob of dapper Francophone men marches through darkened streets, holding aloft their impossibly attractive favoured candidate and shouting his name: “LaFontaine! LaFontaine!”

They arrive at the polling station only to find it surrounded by a torch- and rake-wielding mob of slovenly Anglo men. Beautiful LaFontaine asks them in subtitled French to let them vote, but one thug—we know he’s a thug because he says “ain’t” and doesn’t have a top hat—somehow overcomes his compulsion to swoon in time to brutally attack a “lousy rebel,” whose top hat topples. And here come those iconic lines that echo in my dreams!

LaFontaine: “Pas de violence!” The now-hatless Frenchman, madly predicts LaFontaine’s election loss as he gets dragged away: “Tout cela est une moquerie! Une moquerie!”

A few months later, after an unnecessary letter-delivery scene that exists mainly to show us LaFontaine’s fetching profile bathed in natural light, our elegant hero enters a carriage in Toronto with his new bud Baldwin, a graceless but likeable Anglophone who thinks LaFontaine can win a seat in Upper Canada since Lower Canada won’t have him. They ride off to begin a beautiful cross-cultural friendship and make history and work for responsible government. Lesson learned: Ontario > Quebec. Obviously.

Rating: Five rakes for Guy Richer and sudden violence. And for Francophones talking to Anglos in French because they know the subtitles will clarify everything.

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PHOTOGRAPHY

McMaster Photography Association

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COLUMN

, , One Man s Trash is Another Man s Treasure

“I

By guest columnists Alex Business and Severin

was taught to drive with one eye on the road and the other on the garbage.” With that, Cheese Monkey (not her real name) explains to us how her relationship with trash came about from her upbringing, with parents who promoted recycling in its most literal sense. Much of her childhood home was furnished with reclaimed goods. Walking home from high school, she used to search through huge bags of discarded bread from the green bins in front of bakeries, handing out loaves to people on the street like a saint from biblical times; these offerings were often refused. As a university student, C.M. has maintained this strong abhorrence of waste, recently living off of “garbage” for five whole months.

Carrying on a family tradition is not the only reason to engage in some clandestine shopping, though; the motivations for dumpstering are legion. Dumpster diving attracts those who abhor waste and care for the environment, risk-taking adrenaline junkies who enjoy the treasure-hunting thrill of rummaging, anarchists who want to fight against the capitalist system (man), as well as cheap bastards who will do anything to avoid opening their wallets and drunk people looking for a snack in those quiet hours between last call and the morning special.

In all seriousness, though, dumpster diving is a reactionary action against the excesses of our consumerist society in which most people discard as much as they consume. This last development is a slap in the face to the approximately 704 000 Canadians who use emergency food services each month.

The food waste endemic in modern society can be attributed to two main causes: the commodification of food and suburbanisation. Beginning in the mid-20th century, food moved from the farms to the factories, becoming a commercial product subject to the whims of the free market. Before this, most families purchased their food from local farmers and neighbourhood markets, supplementing their diet with home gardens. The industrialisation and globalisation of our food has resulted in its over-accessibility—we now pay less for our food than ever before. Since food has become a commodity, the cultivation of staple foods which make up the bulk of the standard North American diet, such as corn and soy (and their uncountable by-products), has become largely unprofitable without government subsidisation. This leads to a devaluation of food across the board, to the point where we now have little conception of the true cost of what we eat.

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Suburban development in the post-Second World War era saw increasing numbers of people migrating from densely-populated urban areas to the surrounding countryside.

This, along with the proliferation of affordable refrigeration technology altered the purchasing habits of the North American public. The popularization of supermarkets capitalised on the growing distance between homes and food procurement, making it more convenient to buy food infrequently, but in large amounts, than on a day-to-day basis. Thus, we see the fundamental change from buying food as needed to stocking the larder, a tendency that increases the chances that some food will not be consumed before it goes bad. This is a common thread in the food supplier industry: supermarkets, restaurants, and bakeries generally prefer to overstock and later waste than risk understocking and losing business.

No one likes waste, so why not do something about it? There are two approaches: cut down on the level of waste produced by the food industry, or intervene in that waste’s journey to the landfill by giving discarded food a second life.

“It’s not like we’re eating peoples’ halfeaten sandwiches,” J. Billz (his real name) had to explain to his grandmother when describing his 3 AM shopping expeditions.

Dumpster diving is growing in popularity, but there are still many misconceptions as to what, exactly, it entails. The vast majority of foodstuffs reclaimed from dumpsters is completely untouched, often still in its original packaging, since suppliers are legally bound to discard anything past the sellby date even if it hasn’t yet gone bad. Even fresh food that is perfectly edible may not be deemed aesthetically pleasing enough to sell, as an estimated 30 percent of produce never makes it to the shelf for purely cosmetic reasons. Every day bakeries throw out garbage bags full of loaves, pastries, muffins, and other baked goods, since after a couple of days (at most) it is considered unsellable.

If you are willing to undertake the effort, the bounty found in back alleys is plentiful indeed. The people at a recent gathering had, at various times, found: 20 pounds of organic butter, large bags of flour, the ingredients for a complete stir-fry dinner, whole loaves of fresh bread (both sliced and not), cases of Tetrapak soymilk, a score of granola bars, trail mix, yogurt, organic dog food, assorted fresh produce, an entire cake (and frosting to boot), pizza, mini-quiches and pies, as well as hundreds of bagels, muffins, and doughnuts. Not one person had ever gotten sick as a result; in fact, it could be argued that

eating foods of slightly questionable provenance boosts your immune system.

To dive or not to dive, then? That is the question we deliberated over pints with J. Billz and Cheese Monkey and, call us biased, but we have to say the arguments in favour are overwhelming. Whether you forage in bins for the sake of the environment or your wallet, or just for the thrill of the hunt, dumpster diving can be a fun activity for the whole family to enjoy. Really, you must ask yourself: why not?

P.S. Send us your stories! Amazing scores?

Horrifying security guards? We want to hear them! And publish them too! Send anonymous dumpstering stories to us at hamiltondives@gmail.com, and maybe we’ll put them in a zine or something. We will, this summer! Thanks!

Check Yourself Before You Wreck Yourself • Don’t be a dick: Do not rip into bags willy-nilly. Be discreet—feel bags for familiar shapes before diving in—and clean up after yourself. Businesses are capable of locking their dumpsters and will do so if you abuse them.

• Don’t be greedy: While it can be fun and ridiculous to score big bags of Timbits, if you aren’t going to consume everything you find, don’t take it with you!

• Don’t be stupid: Avoid compactors. Most big grocery stores or chains have compactors. Remember Star Wars? You don’t have The Force (but nice try).

• Be prepared: If you remember what your hot Boy Scout leader taught you, you will always carry a flashlight, a knife, some extra plastic bags, and gloves.

• Be seasonal: Local organic isn’t just for rich yuppies, but you really don’t want to be eating warm meat or dairy from a summer dive—leave that for the colder months. It’ll give you something to look forward to in the winter.

• Be cautious: Always, always, always be sensible about what you eat...While best before dates are mere suggestions, your nose knows. Also, if you dive a large amount of food, try a little bit before feeding it to all your friends.

FICTION

P.O.V.

By Garnet Johnson-Koehn

I

I did?”

“Didn’t have to. You running. That says it all.”

“Oh yeah?” The boy glared at the man, a good two metres between them. “Well, maybe I ran because I knew you’d blame me, no matter what. Ever think of that, huh?”

“I did. Gave me pause at first.” The old man reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out something small. The sun was just starting to come up behind him—red dawn light glinted off the little arrowhead as he flicked it to the boy. “Then I found that, under her skin.”

The arrowhead disappeared into the underbrush at the boy’s feet. He glanced down at it, then raised his head and spread his arms.

“Yeah, alright, you got me. Take me in.”

“Ain’t taking you anywhere.” The old man raised his arm, until the gun barrel pointed at the boy’s chest. “You’re not gonna live long enough to use it, but here’s a lesson for you.

You do that to a man’s daughter, this is what you get.”

“She’s not your daughter!” The words exploded out of the boy, and he raised his chin defiantly. “She’s not even from here! Just some damn stray you brought home!”

“There’s more to family than blood.”

“Less, too.”

“Sometimes,” the old man agreed. “You’ve done a horrible thing to yours, here. How do you think your mother’ll react, when she learns what you did? What you are?”

“Got me.” The boy took a step forward, his arms still stretched out with palms facing upward. “I guess you’ll find out soon enough, though. Looking forward to that, huh?”

The old man didn’t say anything to that. The sun was climbing higher behind him, bathing the woods in the first, pale light of the day. The two men, one young and defiant, the other old and mourn> Train to be a teacher in one year ful, stood in silence as the woods > Qualify to teach in Australia and Canada started to wake up around them. > Primary and Secondary Programs The boy spoke, breaking the silence. “I’m not sorry.”

APPLY NOW FOR COURSE COMMENCEMENTS “I know.” The old man sighed IN JULY 2009 AND JANUARY 2010 heavily, and thumbed back the CONTACT AUSTRALEARN hammer on the old gun. The click Toll free 1800 980 0033 or canada@australearn.org was loud enough, just for a second, to cover up the cicadas. “And I know you don’t think so, but that’s the real tragedy, here. You don’t even know what you did wrong, do you?”

The boy shrugged, his face still. “I got caught,” he said, letCRICOS NO 00102E ting his tired arms drop at last. He

GRADUATE DIPLOMA IN EDUCATION

waited a moment, then added, “And I didn’t do it sooner.”

The old man flinched, the gun barrel twitching for a second before he recovered.

The barrel rose and the old man sighted along it, lining it up with the boy’s head.

“Doesn’t this make us the same?” The boy spoke up, again. He tilted his head a little, a fringe of blond hair falling over one eye. “I mean, why’s it okay for you, and not me? Just because I did it first, is that it?”

G RAPHIC BY CHrIS H ILBRECHT

t was a warm summer night, warm enough for the cicadas to be out in full force. Their steady drone, a one-two croak of one body part rubbing against another, provided a constant background sound in the woods. Beyond their tone, every now and then an owl would hoot, or a squirrel chitter.

And as quietly as he could, a boy panted.

He stumbled, catching his foot on an arched tree root, the misstep nearly sending him sprawling to the leafy undergrowth. He put out a hand to stop himself, grabbing at a low-hanging branch as he fell, and grimaced as the movement reopened the wounds along his arm. Four long, thin gashes dripped blood.

He took a moment to steady himself, glancing over his shoulder, his eyes constantly darting back and forth. The exertion of the run made him flush in the face, the rush of blood contrasting sharply with the bruise on his cheek, a sickly yellow-green blotch ringed by mottled blue and black. He started forward again, his sneakers sliding through the brush, just as he’d been doing all night. He started, but a sight brought him up short.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find you?” the voice said. A man stepped out from behind the trees up ahead, a heavy pistol hanging down from one hand. He slowly walked forward, toward the boy. “After what you did, you thought you could just run?”

“What makes you think I did it?” the boy asked. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders, his eyes tracking the gun and not the man. “Did somebody say

“The fact you even have to ask tells me how far gone you really are.” The old man took a deep breath and began to squeeze the trigger. He stared down the pistol’s sights, keeping the barrel level, aimed straight between the boy’s eyes. The boy watched him, his eyes never wavering.

“Goodbye, Dad.” The gunshot startled a pair of rabbits, and a flock of robins took flight. If the cicadas noticed, they paid it no heed. Their droning continued, low and steady.

The second shot didn’t bother them either.

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LETTER FROM

“I

Skinny Jeans and Batty Boys

f it is a choice between Richmond and death, I choose death.” After being chased down by her husband, the Virginia Woolf of The Hours makes this plea for a full-time return to London life. And while her city-or-suicide ultimatum may seem extreme, even with today’s vastly improved transport links between the suburbs and city-centre, I cannot condemn Cunningham’s Woolf for her frenzied need for “the violent jolt of the capital.” In London’s concentric-circle zoning scheme, Richmond is in distant Zone Four; I’ve only left Zone Two to get to the airport. While looking for my first London home in September, I channeled Woolf’s pastoral prejudice, joining a three-person flat near the trendy part of the East—Whitechapel and Shoreditch—and carefully avoiding the Wimbledons and Cockfosters at the fringes of the Underground map. (In addition to “Cockfosters,” there are two other deliciously dirty-sounding Tube stops just waiting for an immature ear: “Goodge Street” and “Shepherd’s Bush.”)

The East hasn’t always been a nexus of hipster life. It was typically known as a place of squalor, a port for immigrant populations and other marginalised groups. Over a century ago, poor Irish and Jewish immigrants flooded the area, and it was around this time, in 1888, that Jack the Ripper first struck, all of his prostitute murders taking place in and around impoverished Whitechapel—one even happened within sight of my front door, and sometimes a tour of Haunted London stops by the site. Some of the other murder locations are now overlaid by unglamorous architecture: for instance, a parking lot. This makes me pity the poor guide who must verbally convey the story’s ungodly terror at the foot of a P for Park sign. Within the last 60 or 70 years, Brick Lane has been transformed by an influx of Bangladeshi immigrants, coming to popular attention through Monica Ali’s novel Brick Lane. Now the area is at an awkward moment of metamorphosis. Shady ex-council blocks, originally built for people left homeless by WWII blitzes, stand next to chic warehouse conversions. The most recent colonizers are an army of indie kid clones, their uniform an homage to Clark Kent’s whole life: plaid from his Smallville ranch days matched with wide-framed reporter specs. The East is half hipster catwalk—evidenced by the number of Agyness Deyn look-alikes—and half stomping ground for the dispossessed.

The East, of course, is hardly the only London district with tumultuous historical roots, and these back-stories inform each region’s often-outdated popular mythology. Before finding my own place, I lived with relatives in ritzy St. John’s Wood. They told me, above all else, to avoid living in “The South”—meaning, south of the river. The Thames slithers through the heart of the city, and everything of note, everything classy and recognizably London, is said to lie to its north or, at worst, on the South Bank: the Tower of London, Westminster Abbey, Parliament, the London Eye, the National Gallery, the British Museum, and the Tates Britain and Modern all meet this geographical standard.

The majestic sounding districts of the South—notably Elephant and Castle—do not live up to their nominal hype. Snobbish wisdom teaches that, if the North is Posh with hints of Ginger’s tackiness, then

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the South is trashy Baby (having babies) in Sporty’s tracksuits—a Scary combo on the nightbus home.

More recently, however, my uncle noted that, because of its transport links and historical charm, Brixton—a southern community made notorious by its 1981 riots—wouldn’t be such an awful place to live. To understand London, I’ve realized that you need to untangle historical prejudice from modern day reality—often incredibly disparate.

And this process can be tough, because everywhere in London, history is inescapable; that’s one of the reasons I decided to move here for grad school. So much of my academic career has focused on European culture—its history, literature, philosophy—and the prospect of studying in a city where it all happened was too tantalizing to resist.

I wanted to read Charles Dickens in his favourite pub, to follow Mrs. Dalloway’s stroll down Bond Street, to listen to Fergie while walking across London Bridge. At Mac, I was often accused of being a Toronto snob by people from lesser communities; but it just seems natural to think of London as the centre (or at least a centre) of the universe. So much culture has originated on its streets, in its pubs and flats, squares and parks, I expected a true sense of authenticity to permeate the city. One of my big disappointments with the East—a supposedly Bohemian neighbourhood—was its stark resemblance to Urban Outfitters communities I’ve strolled through in North America. The closest thing I’ve seen to a trendsetter is a girl wearing a table runner as a headdress. (And all I could think was, what would Nina Garcia say?)

In a way that North Americans can only imagine, on these streets, fashion is a daily adventure. At Mac, half of my fourthyear housemates wore sweatpants at least five days a week. Even at the university here, customarily a forum for casual dress, I rarely see sportswear worn as everyday apparel. To prepare for London’s infamous downpours, I bought a sturdy MEC rain jacket, functional though not fashionable. Now, every time it rains (which is a lot), I draw stares, because Londoners know only two kinds of protection from the drizzle: the umbrella and the trench coat, both of which facilitate an obsession with style, the former providing protection without tampering with dress, the latter being stylish in and of itself.

Rainwear aside, it’s difficult to escape the critical eye of London’s fashion culture. I stepped off of

A letter from London the plane in what I thought were stylish skinny jeans, and two weeks later they appeared out-of-date and baggy—and baggy not because the standard fish and chips, morning fry-up, and every-night-is-pubnight diet sparked some Star Jones-like weight loss, just baggy by comparison. At the end of every episode of Project Runway, Heidi Klum says, “In fashion, you’re either in or you’re out,” and I did not want to get her auf wiedersehen. So in the next month, I traded my wideeyed, apologetic Canadian style for true East End brood-wear, super-skinny jeans and all. And there’s a simple reason for that—I could. In North America, dressing hip-

ster says something integral about your personality—the music you listen to, the clubs you attend, even your political leanings and thoughts on drugs and sex. But in London, fashion sense says very little because almost everyone is self-conscious of the clothes they put on in the morning.

I’ve said that regions of London carry with them mythologies that are difficult to escape, but Northern bias is just the beginning of London’s geopolitics. In my case, it’s not just the region you inhabit that dictates the flavour of life; my nearest intersection is an unsubtle hint at the social circles I run in.

Located at Batty and Boyd Sts.—“batty boy” being a Caribbean slur for gay man (or, translated literally from Ali G’s website, “Bum boy”)— it seems only natural that my time here would be filled with dirrrty-dancing, critical-theory-obsessed gays and tacky, grimy, gropy bars, which I love because they’re the only ones that will indulge my requests for R. Kelly’s “Ignition (Remix).” My Gay London is peopled by three constants, whom I met at the beginning of my stay: a male neuroscience student, who looks like a jock and dances like Beyoncé; a liberal lesbian in Republican clothing; and her coursemate, a homebody who

eats men—and codeine—for breakfast.

With red wine lips, our foursome have been taking on the often-judgmental, though always-amusing, gay clubs since October 2008, and I’ve learned a lot in the process: for instance, “to pull a bloke” means, contrary to expectation, “to pick up a guy”; and dancing ironically to S Club 7 doesn’t need to be pretentious—and even if it is, it’s still fun.

Traditionally centred around Soho, London’s gay community is expansive, much more so than Toronto’s scene. Each regional offshoot, like the East and Vauxhall, satisfies its own niche—alternative boys and hairy, older men, respectively. Each has a really fascinating dynamic, because unlike most straight establishments, the crowd at gay bars tends to defy age. A friend of mine runs into his PhD supervisor more often at the less-than-wholesome Joiners Arms, iconic on the East End scene, than at the British Library. This mix of maturities can create uncomfortable moments on the dance floor, but more optimistically, it demonstrates a coherence to Gay London, a community that is more all-encompassing than I initially realized. It is possible to live in Toronto without speaking a word of English, so long as you don’t leave certain areas; likewise, you can exist in London almost wholly without exiting the gay scene. One friend of mine used to attend gay swimming on Sundays, and, at gay bingo, I met two Australian visitors who were on their way to gay salsa dancing at the London School of Economics.

A Canadian friend who is also studying here has unwittingly joined one of the UK’s other fringe groups. I have only felt subjugated because of my sexuality once since arriving—by a fellow nightbus patron—but I see my friend get discriminated against everyday in what I have affectionately termed “Ginger Shoutouts.” I have never seen anyone with hair so effervescent and

orange; he would put the Weasleys to shame. And I don’t think I have spent a day with him where someone hasn’t heckled his hair colour. One girl wanted to take his picture (her explanation: she likes taking pictures of weird things); others query whether he’s related to Prince Harry, or if he is Prince Harry. Each time I introduce him to a new group of English people, the first five minutes are invariably a Q&A on life as a redhead. Once, and only once, have I seen his hair inoffensively complimented, by the fish ball ladies at Brick Lane’s Up Market; I say inoffensively because he is often called attractive…for a ginger. This peculiarly British prejudice has been linked to lingering animosity towards the Irish and Scottish. Mean Brits mock him; sensitive Brits pity him for what seems to them an unfortunate handicap; I encourage him to go brown, if only so we can talk about something else.

Unlike Paris, London was never planned under a single vision, and this shows in the topography of its streets. In my first grad school class, the professor described the city as a maze, streets bending one way then the other in no coherent fashion, often making it difficult to find one’s bearings. But I have found (getting lost every ten minutes notwithstanding) that it is not so much that London has an infinite number of streets, but rather an infinite number of ways to traverse them. No two people’s Londons are the same, and yet we all circulate through the same network of landmarks and icons.

At the end of another Saturday evening in central London, the nightbuses gather at Trafalgar Square, orbit once around Nelson’s column, then carry us all off to our corners of the city. Some head for the trendy East, others to the duck-down duvets of St. John’s Wood. And some even brave the long ride home to Richmond.

Cheers, Rob Lederer incite 15

TOOLBOX

Life for Less

Hamilton on a Dollar a Day

By Andrew Prine rine—otherwise my diet wouldn’t have had any fat in it. So today I spread my potato-cooking wings and experimented with some pretty cool inventions: maple syrup for sweet potatoes, soy sauce for a panAsian feel, and ketchup for something like a vegetable. As my willingness to live off the apples of the Earth and the fruit of dumpsters might demonstrate, I don’t get much work as a food critic, but even I wasn’t too crazy about potatoes mashed with mustard. I caught a lucky break on the free food front, though. Usually Sundays are slim pickings, but today I happened to trade my talents as a paper editor for some three-cheese pizza pockets and brownies.

The jury’s out as to whether it was a fair exchange, but I like to think that I earned my keep.

Day Three:

T

THE TATER TaLLY

he student life ain’t easy, especially at this time of year. Budgeting’s a great skill, but when you don’t win big on the OSAP lottery, things can get a bit tough. Knowing this, Incite sent out one of its thriftiest writers to help work out how to live for less. His budget: six dollars. His timeline: six days. No canned goods or leftovers— only the condiments he had on hand. Thank God for olive oil and margarine.

The Staples: Potatoes, 10lbs.: $3.00 Carrots, 5lbs.: $1.75 Bagels, 6: $1.20 Total: $5.95 Weigh in: Before: 119.8 lbs.

After: 118.0 lbs.

Day One: Mis-Steak Although I don’t have the most demanding social calendar, there are a few events every now and again that I’m glad I have to go to. A theatre group I performed with a few weeks ago hosted a steak and beer party tonight, and though I knew I couldn’t partake in the consumption, I was glad to stop by and enjoy the ambience. I ate my taters at home and showed up late in the hopes that I might have missed the steak grilling, but alas, I got tboned. Since I grew up as a beanpole blond in the Catholic end of an Italian town, I thought I knew a thing or two about turning down delicious dinners every time I went over to a friend’s house. But boy was I wrong. I never thought I’d see the day when I had to be force-fed steak, but since I didn’t want to wreck my article, I knew I couldn’t accept any charity. But as the night wore on and the beer went

16 incite

down, I found myself cornered on the couch by an angry Mediterranean threatening to stab me with a steak knife if I didn’t eat some of his sirloin. I tried to resist, but after a few close shaves I decided my journalistic integrity wasn’t worth re-circumcision, so I backed down. I’ve got to admit, it was pretty freaking good.

Day Two: Boil ‘Em, Mash ‘Em, Stick Them in a Stew…

Well, I’m not too tired of taters just yet, but boy, it’s in the post. Looking through the condiment shelves in the fridge was kind of like a trip down memory lane: three nearly empty salad dressing bottles, super-sketchy hot sauce smuggled out of Guyana, and jerk sauce with bits of raw turkey floating in it. Thank God for olive oil and marga-

Condiment Soup Things are starting to get desperate. Soup du jour: condiment. In case you were ever curious, barbecue sauce has protein. It’s also got enough salt in it to preserve a bull moose, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers. There was some good free food in the Student Centre today, although I’m still not quite sure why. If you collected the business cards from two of the vendors, they gave you some free popcorn. Even better, the vendors themselves sometimes gave out comestibles. I’m not sure when I’m apt to need an ice sculpture, but thanks to today’s Student Centre exhibitors, should the need arise, I’ll be ready. I got a last minute phone call from a high school friend saying that he’d split a pitcher with me if I played a set at his coffee house. I guess there really is a God. Day Four: Bagel Bites I broke out the bagels today. I just couldn’t deal with potato primacy anymore. There’s a reason it’s a soup du jour. I thought carrots would give me some much needed crunch and variety, but I’ve had to start rationing them: just two per day from now on. There are lots of interesting ways left to cook

potatoes, but during some fact-digging I learned that I can’t actually try any of them. If you want taters to maintain nutritional integrity, you’re pretty much stuck to baking (or microwaving) them whole and unskinned. One of my housemates told me this evening, “You know, I never felt sorry for you until today.” I feel sorry for me too.

Day Five: Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder…

Good things do come to those who wait. There’s lots of free food to be found on campus if you know where to look, and today I was on fire. That turned out to be a very good thing, since I awoke to the ugly realization that I only had four potatoes left. The first conference I stopped by only had Gino’s pizza and greasy cookies, but I still loved every mouthful. It tasted even better than it does when you’re drunk. After that I also stopped by the MSU Teaching Awards where the folks at Paradise Catering had outdone themselves. For the first time since eating steak at knifepoint, meat entered my mouth; I was overjoyed. The turnout at the event wasn’t bad, but there were still some empty seats. No stranger (and no friend) to awards ceremonies, I was pleasantly surprised by this one. The profs seemed pretty cool and the whole shebang lasted under 45 minutes.

WASTE N OT, WaNT N OT

Day Six: The End is Near The bagels have made me love life again. If it’s possible to nurse a bagel, I did it three times today. I finished off the last of my other foods too, so it was a lucky coincidence that the International Students Office was having a dinner for any students hoping to go on an exchange next year. Pizza wouldn’t have been my first choice, but they had some lovely varieties, along with a wide range of veggies, drinks, and desserts. I probably looked a bit piggish after my third plate, but body weight’s a touchy enough subject that no one bothered me about it.

Final weigh-in results: 118 pounds. Just under two pounds may not seem like much, but when you don’t have much to lose in the first place, it’s not really a number you want to hear. I guess a dollar a day can be done, but probably not for too long.

Tips & Tricks: Potatoes are basically a miracle food. Healthy helpings of potatoes and milk for every meal actually provide everything the body needs. Protein, vitamins, starch, fibre, whatever. The only downside is that you have to eat a lot. That, and I didn’t have any milk…

Dumpsters can be a great source of deliciousness, especially when it’s cold enough outside to hang a side of meat. Generally, bakery dives are your best bet since there aren’t too many immediately perishable foods that you have to wade through to get to the good stuff. Apparently, it’s not even illegal. During the fieldwork for this article I was merrily digging through a bag of trash when the Incite photographer with me told me that the fuzz were here. We thought about booking it, but by that time the squad car was too close for us to make a quick getaway.

I put down the goodies and turned on the charm, and it somehow worked. The police officer seemed a bit incredulous at first that I couldn’t afford nondumpster food, especially since the photographer had a pretty nice DSLR camera in his hands, but after I took a few bites from the pre-wrapped pesto pastries I’d dug up, he seemed satisfied that I wasn’t causing any trouble and went on his way.

If you’re not so keen to pop the campus bubble past nightfall, Union Market has also been known to give away some of its stale-ish bagels at closing time. They may not be the most tender things in the world, but if you’re going to toast them anyway, who cares?

PHOTOGRAPHY BY WILL VAN ENGEN

THE I RISH D IET

AT LEAST THE PASTRIES D IDN’T HAVE A NY FUZZ

incite 17

COLUMN

A

Reframing Hamilton

By Jeanette Eby

The Commonplace of Community

s we have embarked on this journey of “Reframing Hamilton” together, the beautiful, complex, caring place that I call home, I must write my final column by returning to the purpose of community. I call it a purpose, because when we live for the purpose of community we are in a constant search, in constant movement with each other, and this common purpose is never fulfilled. Finding and building community is a never-ending process, and so I do not want to think of my last column as an ending, but as a place to begin anew. There are so many things we cannot know, a lot in life that we cannot control, and it is in the moments where we recognize our smallness, our loneliness and ignorance, that we rediscover the place of community.

One of my favourite definitions of community is Wendell Berry’s: “a locally understood interdependence.” Communities are made up of many parts that are in relationship with each other: children, youth, families, seniors, different cultures and skill sets, different social and governmental organizations, different species and spaces. Because a community consists of relationships, and the dynamics of these relationships are unpredictable, community is messy but it is also full of possibility. I believe that community must be what we return to if we want to find belonging and joy in a suffering world, and if we want to share in that with others.

Community, because it is locally understood, looks different in different places. I discovered community when I travelled to Bolivia two years ago, when I joined my life with the lives of others there.

I went there to help out at two children’s homes, to show the kids how much they are loved, and to do whatever was asked of me. But in receiving the care of the Tias (the caregivers at the home), who were so keen to feed me and make me comfortable, by receiving the incredible love and gratitude the girls showed me, I discovered how deeply I needed care myself. I never forgot this upon my return to Hamilton.

No matter what the place, I believe that a defining feature of true community is mutual care. Roy Herndon SteinhoffSmith (this is his full name!), a professor of care and psychology of religion in Oklahoma,

18 incite

defines care as “our responsiveness to each other, the way we live together in communities by attending to each other.” Care is often marginalized to the work of professionals, or to family members or women who choose (or are forced) to devote their lives to taking care of needy individuals in the home. But, in reality, care is society’s work, in that we all give and receive care whether we recognize it or not.

Community has been the centre of my life here in Hamilton, and I believe it is the centre of all of our lives, even though there are so many pressures that move us away from this necessary interdependence: writing papers, making money, applying for school, fulfilling our own agenda. I have just finished writing my thesis, and at this point, I don’t quite know how I feel. I have never worked so hard on something, nor put so much of myself into an academic paper.

And while writing my thesis about community, I felt so busy and so pressured that I was actually pulling away from community in my own life. I was tired, and simply wanted to devote the last weeks to spending time with people, but I could not. There were those moments of connection, though, that reminded me that community is always here. It is a constant invitation, no matter how busy or isolated we feel.

Mostly, I found community in the care of others who recognized how much I had to do and who offered me constant support and encouragement. They told me they believed in me; they baked me muffins; they asked how I was doing. I needed their care and hopefully, by showing my gratitude, I could reciprocate that care.

“Reframing Hamilton” means seeing the city anew, building something out of the rubble and opening ourselves up to being influenced by this place and its people. It is a constant process in my life. I often feel unsettled: I feel that I have not accomplished anything; I feel that I have not done enough and that I do not know enough. It is, however, a peaceful unsettling, a paradoxical but genuine feeling. I know my purpose, which is community, but at the same time I do not know. For the first time in my life, there is a very real possibility that I may never return to school. Of course, it is likely I will apply for teacher’s college or some kind of Master’s program next year;

at the same time, I could be in Bolivia, I could be working in Hamilton, or an unexpected opportunity could arise that moves me in a new direction. We are constantly being shaped and re-shaped by our history, our relationships, and our circumstances. We are always incomplete, and while this is unsettling, it is also encouraging and reminds us of our need for each other.

A friend shared a poem with me two years ago, on a day when I was feeling upset, confused, and disillusioned about life. A good friend of mine had passed away, I was tired of the world of academia, I was just about to leave the country to a completely unknown place, and I felt quite helpless. She cannot know how much this poem has spoken to me over the past two years, in times of uncertainty, in times where I have stopped and asked myself “What am I actually doing here?” I share it with you now: It may be that when we no longer know what to do we have come to our real work, and that when we no longer know which way to go we have come to our real journey.

The mind that is not baffled is not employed.

The impeded stream is the one that sings.

- Wendell Berry There is no formula for community. Community makes itself up as it goes along, as people relate interact with each other and their locale, without knowing how things will happen or what the next year will look like. We discover our real work in times of uncertainty, when we do not know where we are going, because that is when we recognize our need for one another. Right now, my life is full of uncertainty, and I am willing to embrace it. A wonderful, wise friend once told me to make peace with the questions because they will never go away. This does not mean we stop asking them; rather, they motivate us to continue on this real journey together. That same friend wrote, in our Beasley Neighbours for Neighbours newsletter, that building community is “building something out of nothing.” Out of our own smallness, along the impeded stream, we can find our real work and sing life in cooperation with each other.

PERSPECTIVE

A

Twitting, Twittering, Twits

by Katherine Georgious & Raman Nijjar

re you obsessed with celebrity gossip? Do you check Perezhilton.com on a regular basis, sometimes three or four times a day? Do you get angry when gossip websites are not updated?

Fear not, for more celebrities have turned to Twitter and Facebook, just like every one of our friends.

Now you can befriend them and have that muchdesired personal communication.

The phenomenon that is Twitter would not be what it is without Facebook. Facebook has spread like wildfire; if you do not have an account then you are using your friend’s account to stalk your elementary school friends or your latest crush. Celebrities have come to use social networking sites as middle men between them and celebrity gossip columnists.

Celebrities use these sites to update their fans on their newest music, movies, and enterprises, and rebut the latest false rumour about them.

Twitter has given the public the power to know everything and anything about their favourite celebrity. In the last few weeks, Ellen Degeneres has made a huge fuss over Twitter, as she has made it her mission to become the most followed person on the website. As of 28 March 2009 she has 452 448 followers. Ellen is twittering about her show and her daily activities; on 23 March she tweeted, “People of Brazil: what do you have against hair? Why is your pain threshold so high? Watch tomorrow to see what I’m talking about.” To some, social networking sites serve no purpose, but for the millions with Facebook or Twitter accounts these sites are not mindless. Rather, they are a way of getting a step closer to their idols.

For the most part when we think of Twitter and celebrities we think of actors and musicians. But twittering is not just a past time for the everyday celebrities. Even politicians have turned to Twitter.

We have Barack Obama and even Toronto mayor David Miller twittering. Today’s politicians are not the hard-nosed and mysterious members of government that our grandparents remember; rather they are hybrids of celebrity and politics.

There are many individuals who do not understand why there is so much excitement surrounding social networking sites, but there is only one way for one to understand the phenomena: become part of it. Facebook and Twitter are a great way to stay connected, whether it is with your best friend or your celebrity crush.

Some celebrity Twitter pages are not for any ordinary follower of the site. Shaquille O’Neal, a.k.a. THE_REAL_SHAQ, who is the seventh-highest ranked Twitterholic, leaves those of the academic world mystified by his tweets. When examining his Twitter page, we found ourselves either humoured or confused, left questioning Shaq’s ability to put together a coherent sentence.

With an affinity for caps lock and making up his own words, Shaq writes tweets that simply don’t

make sense. His biography describes him as “VERY QUOTATIOUS, I PERFORM RANDOM ACTS OF SHAQNESS.” Perhaps his quotatious language and shaqness are only meant to be understood by his fans. For example, one of his tweets reads, “Its freezn n portland, schwlbbbbb schlwbbbb dats da lip shiver sound.” Interpret that as you will.

But just as Twitter is a great way for people to feel closer to their favourite artists, it also serves to increase our obsession with the lives of celebrities.

While celebrities should expect some invasion of privacy as a side effect of fame, the fact that the public wants daily Twitter updates is disconcerting. Should we really care that on 9 March 2008 Britney Spears “Went shopping in Coral Gables, [and] bought some purses and sunglasses”?

While some celebrities need Twitter to satiate obsessive fans, others are using it to try to increase their fan base and celebrity. Twitter has become another way for overexposed celebrities to keep their names in the spotlight. MC Hammer hasn’t had a hit song in years, but he has over 327 000 Twitter members interested in his day-to-day activities. Twitter has become so successful at keeping some names in the press that many celebrities hire “ghost writers” to start a Twitter account and pose as themselves.

The Twitter for 50 Cent, which has over 200 000 followers, is actually written by the head of his digital media team. Celebrities already stare at us from the covers of every magazine at the checkout counter, they told us to vote for Obama last November, and they sell us Neutrogena on television. Why should we be giving them more public exposure than they already have?

A further downside to celebrity Twitters is that it is increasing the trend of celebrity self-importance. While it’s great that celebrities often use their fame to promote social causes and raise awareness about important issues, Twitter has become a way for celebrities to share their opinions on issues that should be left for the professionals. On 26 March, Ashton Kutcher tweeted, “I strongly believe that social media, search,

and Web sourcing is a hell of a lot more valueable these days than the Dewey decimal system”. While we understand that he has the right to free speech, he’s not exactly an expert on the subject of books becoming obsolete. In any case, it’s hard to take his opinion seriously when he spells “valuable” incorrectly.

Celebrity Twitters are overall a very strange phenomenon. Some are great fun, and others are tiresome. While we would love for Tina Fey to keep on twittering her hilarious witticisms and observations, if Kim Kardashian starts using it to extend her 15 minutes of fame, it will be time for this Twitter trend to retire.

Best Celebrity Tweets:

“Happy Friday! Good morning to All May god bless you to have a GREAT DAY! NO EXCUSES today!

We are in control of our own destiny! Let’s go!!!”

–P.Diddy “I like my men like my peanut butter: chunky” Tina Fey

Strangest Celebrity Tweets:

“@chrislnieves shhhhh shhhhhh dats what aggggh shhhhhhh shhhhhh”- Shaquille O’Neal “Hi, this is Perez’s ghost here. He’s one hawt bitch - and so are U!”- Perez Hilton G RAPHIC BY Q IaO Q IaO

incite 19

FICTION

Miss Nippon’s

Revenge Fiction by

Justina Chong

I

sliced the knife into the pale yellow flesh. Coming away with a sizeable glob, I smeared it all over the toasted rye, a painter coating his canvas with gouache. I was not hungry—I was never hungry—but this is the last supper. I took a little nibble from the crust. My salivary glands moistened slowly as I let the buttery morsel roll around the inside of my mouth. Suddenly I became ravenous and I chomped and chomped until the toast was gone.

In one hour I will be hanged for killing Miss Nippon. I shot her with her own pistol. She was supposed to be my lovely accomplice, the Eve to my Adam, my wonderful-to-look-at partner in crime, my Miss Nippon… but she was too greedy.

She tried to kill me! She had to go. The police were there before I had time to run from the flat. Even still, I did not resist when they handcuffed me.

I could have slunk my skeleton hands out of the handcuffs, but life as a prisoner is better than life as a starving artist.

For my last supper, I have requested a light meal of bread and butter, a red apple, a cup of coffee, and some cubes of sugar. “Looks more like breakfast to me,” the guard said as he set down the tray. “Usually the condemned ask for more lavish meals. A five-course meal, some lobster or steak, with flan for dessert.” The bolt clicked as he left me to eat, alone in my cell at a dining table. I gobbled down the second piece of toast, dry. Then I dropped all of the sugar cubes into the coffee and gave it a brief stir. The sugar crystals came apart like a piece of chalk disintegrating in the darkness, smashed to smithereens by an invisible hammer. I gulped it down, the whole cup, and let the undissolved granules tickle the back of my throat. Then I picked up the apple. I gnawed at the skin until my teeth penetrated the cherry red covering and pierced into the tart flesh. I munched through it until only the core was left. Because I was still hungry, I ate it too. Seeds, stem and all.

Fifty-three minutes until I hang like a roasted duck in a restaurant window. Shit. I was still hungry. The guard would not return until fifty-three minutes from now. Besides, once the menu for the

20 incite

last supper is set, it is final. No alterations. I had signed the agreement. But I was so hungry. The last time I was this hungry I had to forage around in the sewer for thrown-out takeout containers. My stomach was about to eat itself, so I scraped desperately at the bottom of the coffee cup, hoping to find some grains of sugar to mollify my gut. I shoved the spoon into my mouth. I felt a tingling on my tongue and my saliva melted the steel. I swallowed down the ladle and threaded the rest of the spoon through my lips, swallowing it too. I was still hungry, so I ate the knife, the plates, the mug, the jar for the sugar, and the tray. I ate the decorative flower, washed it down with the flower water, and ate the glass, as well. Everything tasted like chalk.

It was heavenly! Still, my gut yearned for more. I slurped up the tablecloth, and chomped my way through the table. Then I removed my prisoner’s garb and devoured it. I removed my briefs and ate them, too. Then I was naked.

Forty-seven minutes now until I hang like a strip of tenderloin at the butcher’s market stall.

I had to get rid of the clock. Forty-seven times sixty seconds times one thousand milliseconds—I couldn’t bear to look at the clock anymore, or to hear its measured ticking. I dragged the chair over to the wall and pulled myself up so that I was faceto-face with the ticking monster. I licked its face to soften it and then ate the entire machine, swallowing its mechanical heart with a relish. Then I got down on my hands and knees to work on the chair.

Soon I found myself standing alone and unclothed in an empty room. Thank the Lord I was not hungry anymore.

Suddenly I felt a churning in my bowel. The churning moved up my entire digestive tract and my stomach felt like it was on fire. The fire coursed through my esophagus, and soon it was in the back of my mouth. Before I could scream for the guard, I threw up. It was a white and chalky powder. My esophagus quaked and shuddered as more and more came up. I kept throwing up even after I had drained my digestive organs. Then my insides were summoned forward, from the bottom up. First my

bowels, then my intestines, guts, esophagus, then all of my alimentary organs were threaded out of my mouth by an invisible force. I watched as the organs writhed on the floor, like fish flopping about on a dock. One by one, they disintegrated into a fine chalk dust. Then I felt my toes being sucked up into my feet, and my feet being sucked upward into my legs and turned inside out. I threw up my toes, and my legs. The rest of my body followed; soon, my torso, balls, penis and limbs were sticking out of my mouth. My lips stretched over my head and I threw that up, too. I was now completely inside out. I felt a tingling sensation creep up my body and I crumbled into a fine white powder.

A whirlwind rose from beneath the pile of chalk dust, swirling the white powder around in the air. Bit by bit the white whorl grew, until it formed a cylindrical vessel in the middle of the room. Slowly, an invisible chisel carved into the spinning chalk dust cylinder the figure of a curvy woman wearing a sequined blue evening gown, a sash and a tiara. She pirouetted in place until the carving was complete. Then she collapsed to the spotless ground.

The guard returned to usher Argon to his execution. Instead, he found Miss Nippon, a crumpled cobalt heap on the ground. Her figure was beautiful to behold, her legs long and shapely, neck white as a swan. She stirred. “Oh, excuse me. I must have lost track of time,” she said as she rose. Her breath reeked of chalk, as did her perfume and hairspray.

She pushed past the guard and walked out of the prison cell, adjusting a bobby pin in her hair. In her left hand, under her baby and ring fingers, she clasped the last fragment of the magic chalk.

“I have had enough!” she huffed. She popped the magic chalk into her mouth and walked off to her next photoshoot.

Bibliography: Abe, Kobo. “The Magic Chalk.” Trans. Alison Kibrick. Other Voices, Other Vistas. Ed. Barbara H. Solomon. New York: Signet Classic, 2002.