mcgilldaily_issue_2003_screen_quality by McGill Daily

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Wednesday, November 5th, 2008, 12:30 - 1:30 pm, reception to follow Redpath Museum Amphitheatre

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News

The McGill Daily, Monday, November 3, 2008

Leacock staff suffer sick building syndrome Employees move out of sixth floor complaining of chest pains, numbness, and vomiting; two remain out of work Kelly Ebbels The McGill Daily

fter ventilation problems in McGill’s Leacock building forced several people out of work earlier this year, professors and staff are still looking for answers to what made them gravely sick, and whether the building is safe. According to administrators in McGill Facilities, Leacock has suffered from poor air quality and ventilation problems for many years. But the situation became urgent around April 30, when eight employees – most from the History department’s administrative office – reported symptoms including nausea, coughing, constrained breathing, burning in the throat, eyes, and nose, numbness in the mouth, and sore cheeks. No factor has been positively identified as having caused the symptoms, but a number of theories were suggested – including the possibility that muriatic acid, a toxic and corrosive agent used that day to clean Montreal’s aqueducts north of campus, might have entered the building’s ventilation. McGill requested that affected employees see doctors. When one employee, who requested anonymity, explained her symptoms, her doctor called the Poison Control Centre “to follow standard procedure.” “It felt like my whole mouth was numb, like my teeth were falling out,” the employee said of her health condition in the first week of May, three days after problems were first reported. “It was like I had this mouthful of metallic balls,” said another employee, who also asked to remain anonymous. “By the end of the day, I was slurring my words. I felt stoned. I threw up at the end of the day.” One employee left work for ten weeks. Two staff members have been temporarily relocated to the Ferrier building. One remained on medication to treat a persistent respiratory problem following the incident. Another employee who stayed in the office through early May reportedly noticed her asthmatic condition worsen, and left work on semipermanent sick leave. A sessional lecturer working on the fourth floor also left work sick after the incident – though it was also never determined if symptoms were related. Both have not yet returned to work. Following the incident, a building assessment conducted by McGill Facilities discovered that the building’s chillers – machines used to cool incoming air – had been removed earlier in April. Their removal could have sent a metallic odor through the vents. Further, the assessment found that both humidifiers in the building were not functioning, resulting

in humidity levels as low as ten per cent – below Quebec building codes’ minimum of 20 per cent and far below the recommended minimum of 40 per cent. One humidifier had been known to be malfunctioning for up to a year. In fact, the same employees who fell sick in the spring had also reported trouble breathing and dry air to the Health and Safety Office in fall of 2007. Those affected said that their symptoms suggested chemical exposure had occurred. “Something permeated the building. Our symptoms pointed to some chemical burn or chemical exposure, and it had to have been diluted,” an employee said. However, the University’s assessment failed to prove that any one factor – muriatic acid, the chillers’ removal, or the malfunctioning humidifiers – caused specific health concerns in the spring, explained Jim Nicell, Associate Vice-Principal (University Services). “We realize that people are making these statements, and people feel this is having an effect,” Nicell said. “But we can’t connect reactions reported by individuals with any specific event.”

he employees filed complaints with Quebec’s Commission de sécurité et santé du travail (CSST). But since causality had not been determined, and some employees had pre-existing health conditions including asthma and renitis – a condition making someone sensitive to barometric and air quality changes – the claim was rejected. A spokesperson for the CSST said she could not discuss the case due to confidentiality reasons, but added that between 2005 and 2006 the office had investigated approximately 500 air-quality complaints in workplaces. The University acted quickly to address the concerns. All of the vents in Leacock were changed over the summer – though it was later discovered that the new vents blocked fresh air from entering, and were later removed. McGill also replaced one of the broken humidifiers and will be installing the second within weeks, according to Nicell. The building’s entire ventilation system will be replaced this winter, likely starting in February, at a cost of $850,000. Still, affected employees want to know exactly what happened to make them sick the week following April 30. “I don’t know what it’s going to take to find out what we were exposed to that day,” an employee said. The CSST only intervenes in cases when no action is undertaken in the workplace to rectify a problem, so

Stephen Davis / The McGill Daily

Administrators are unsure if toxic substance entered Leacock’s ventilation system early this summer. McGill’s commitment to repairs in Leacock means employees will not likely find support for another external investigation.

espite the apparent gravity of the health concerns, some workers say McGill’s non-academic staff union, MUNACA, did not do enough to support the employees during their counsel with the Univerisity. Affected employees said that MUNANCA’s President, Maria Ruocco, told them that complaints from just five employees in a building of 200 were insufficient for MUNACA to mobilize. “MUNACA is not an aggressive union. They could have made more noise,” said an employee. “I don’t know how unions work, but I would have taken it directly to Heather [Munroe-Blum, the principal]’s office and said, ‘We have a problem here. People are sick.’” Ruocco said that her office stayed in close touch with the Health and Safety Office, and would be following up with the CSST once the last humidifier is installed this month. “Our job was to get them out of there,” she said, adding, “The problem was being rectified.” She also said that she would contact Legal Counsel to see “what else could be done for them.” But she also admitted that she had not been in touch with the affected employees in at least a month.

he affected employees stressed that McGill has acted in good faith to move forward with repairs. Yet, they say, they still have questions about the communication mechanisms used to address health and safety on campus. “Our biggest insult: Why won’t you tell us what the hell is going on?” the

employee Said. “They have to admit that McGill is old and crumbling – they should reassure us that bricks won’t fall on our heads, that the air you breathe is going to be good. If not, we have to know.” Nicell stressed that because causality was never established, McGill decided against sending a mass email to Leacock occupants about the situation. “We were stuck between a rock and a hard place,” he said. “Is it wise to tell everybody if you don’t have evidence?” Neither MUNACA nor the History Department emailed staff or faculty members concerning the problems as well. Workers from Leacock, Facilities, and Human Resources have formed a new working group to ensure that communication is improved. Louise Savard, Director of University Safety and the chair of the group, acknowledged that communication between the administration, the union, and workers had been insufficient. “To me the problem is there has hardly been any communication of what’s been going on to the people who work and study in that building,” Savard said. Savard stressed that the McGill Health and Safety case was not closed, and the work group would focus on monitoring the repairs through the winter.

his is not the first time McGill’s deferred maintenance troubles have possibly triggered health troubles. Problems in McGill’s McIntyre Building were brought to light in 2002, when a ventilation malfunction on the 13th floor caused students and professors to faint and vomit. Further, three doctors working in the building during the 1990s were

diagnosed with leukemia, and in 2003 one of these doctors died. He alleged that he fell ill due to poor ventilation in the building. McGill currently has a list of 1,570 deferred maintenance projects, mostly due to underfunding from the Quebec government. But an injection of funds announced last year means McGill has been given $38-million this year, $28.5-million next year, and $25-million for each year following to address the list of deferred maintenance projects. This summer it began intensive construction on the electrical and gas tunnel, in danger of collapsing because it is over 100 years old. The Otto Maas Chemistry building’s ventilation system had been next on the list. “We’re constantly trying to play catch-up on this deferred maintenance,” Nicell said. Despite the difficulty establishing causality in the Leacock incident, Nicell said that the symptoms described by some employees would correspond to what is known as “sick building syndrome,” a combination of ailments associated with poor air quality or other conditions in buildings. “Even during the assessment we recognized [Leacock] is not in good shape,” Nicell said. Even though several people will not return to work in the building, neither Nicell or the Dean of Arts Christopher Manfredi thought that there were any eminent health concerns in the building. Still, According to Catherine LeGrand, the chair of the department of History, about five people in Leacock say they cannot work in the building for more than a few hours at a time due to chronic headaches and respiratory troubles. “They’re like the canary in the coal mine,” LeGrand said.

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University of Ottawa

Graduate studies at the Faculty of Social Sciences

It starts here. Why choose the University of Ottawa’s Faculty of Social Sciences for graduate studies? Funded research: second in Ontario and among the top 5 in Canada in research support from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council (SSHRC).

Financial support: over $18,000 a year for 4 to 5 years for doctoral students, and over $16,500 for master’s students.

Bilingual environment: programs ofered in English or in French, the choice is yours! More than 240 professors and 19 graduate programs. Why I chose the University of Ottawa: “I chose the University of Ottawa because Canada’s bilingualism matters to me and because the University of Ottawa provides attractive funding that lets students focus on their studies. The quality of teaching at the University of Ottawa is unparalleled. The Graduate School of Public and International Afairs stands out in this regard. Its professors are not only excellent academics, but also seasoned practitioners. They bring both theoretical and practical knowledge to the classroom. What’s more, they help students develop beyond the classroom by providing meaningful advice and opportunities to put passion into practice.” Ian Anderson, master’s student Graduate School of Public and International Afairs

www.socialsciences.uOttawa.ca scsgrad@uOttawa.ca

News

The McGill Daily, Monday, November 3, 2008

As a result of outdated state laws, incarcerated and released felons don’t vote Courtney Graham News Writer

early 5.3-million Americans will be denied the right to vote in tomorrow’s election because of felony convictions on their criminal records. Laws in all but two states – Maine and Vermont – prevent inmates from voting, and only 15 states allow felons on parole to participate in the democratic process. Ryan King, a policy analyst at The Sentencing Project, an organization promoting justice reform, said that many Americans believe criminals should lose the right to vote. “For a lot of people, this is a way to further punish individuals, by essentially saying you aren’t a real citizen,” said King. “If you broke the law, you don’t deserve to make the law.” According to the organization, roughly 13 per cent of AfricanAmerican men – 1.4-million – do not have the right to vote. Felony laws also exclude 2-million white Americans – including Hispanic and non-Hispanic whites – from voting. King noted that many of these laws stem from the disenfranchisement of slaves after abolition. “There was clearly an effort in southern states to try to quiet the voice of newly emancipated slaves,” King said. Rachel Bloom, an advocacy coordinator at the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU), agreed that black people were more likely to be disenfranchised in the voting process. “In Mississippi, [they listed ten specific crimes, which] black men were more likely to be convicted of than white men,” said Bloom. “That’s still the law today.

“They’re essentially the only Jim Crow laws that are still in effect today,” she added. Aaron Lindh, a law graduate student and member of McGill Students for Obama, noted that Americans idealize a tough stance on crime. American prisoners and felons do not receive much political protection and their rights are not frequently advocated for, he added. As of 2002, prisoners gained the right to vote in Canada, as is the case in many other democratic nations. The only Canadian citizens in the country who cannot vote in federal elections are the Chief Electoral Officer and his or her assistant. There is uncertainty about how the absence of the felon vote will affect the presidential election. “Historically, it’s the part of the population that votes Democratic.... Is this going to affect the race in some states that are particularly close?” asked Lindh. “We don’t know.” King echoed Lindh, adding that such a large number of voters could make a difference in tight battleground states. “You’ve got 5-million people who can’t vote,” King said. “It’s going to vary state-to-state, [but] I think that in certain states with razor thin margins it will affect the outcome.” In general, however, it is unlikely that polls are conducted among this group of disenfranchised voters, whether in or out of prison. Current polls, therefore, do not misconstrue the numbers by including felon voters. “If the polls are to be believed, it’s not going to be affecting the presi-

WHAT’S THE HAPS

U.S. presidential election excludes felons

Music For Change Monday, November 3, 7:30 p.m. Petit Cafe Campus, 57 Prince Arthur E. Groove to Tara Hall, Soulstice and Francois Graham from Surface of Atlantic to support homes for street kids in Pune, India. $5 pre-sale; $7 at the door. Film screening: torture and terror Friday, 7 November, TBA Ex Centris Theatre, 3536 St. Laurent The documentary film Under the Hood: A Voyage into the World of Torture tells the story of torture survivors. Meet with the filmmaker, Patricio Henriquez and Adil Charkaoui, a Montrealer who was detained under a security certificate in 2003, spent two years in prison, and continues to live under strict house arrest. Admission is $10, $7.50 for students.

Michelle Kwok / The McGill Daily

dential race...but it’s not the only election going on. There are local elections, too,” said Lindh. Because many decisions in the U.S. are made at the state and local level, people are arguably much more affected by those races than the presidential one. Inequality is especially apparent in communities where districts are more populated by a certain minority demographic; having a large chunk of that group missing can have devastating effects on results, explained Lindh. Even in states where released felons can register to vote, ex-convicts often consider the process difficult and do not complete it. “[When] you’re out registering voters in the community, time after

time you hear people saying they can’t vote because they were locked up,” said Bloom. The ACLU found in a telephone survey that many election officials were unaware of their state’s law on voting by felons. “In Colorado...50 per cent of elections officials did not know individuals on probation had the right to vote,” said Bloom. “People are legally allowed to vote, but are being told by election officials that they can’t. It ends up being so confusing.” The Democracy Restoration Act (2008) was proposed to congress on September 26. If passed, it will restore the voting rights of the estimated 4-million Americans who have already been released from prison, and are still disenfranchised.

Voting policies for felons by state All convicted felons are denied voting rights for life, except in cases approved by the government In Kentucky and Virginia no exceptions are made

D. C.

Felons cannot vote during their sentence, parole, and probation

Heart set on Medical or Grad School? Friday, November 7, 11 a.m. to 4 p.m. McConnell Engineering and Leacock Hallways, 3480 University and 855 Sherbrooke O. Meet reps from graduate and professional programs and get a head start on admissions requirements. Tune into alternative media Friday, November 7, 7 p.m. Leacock Room 132, 855 Sherbrooke O. Listen to Democracy Now’s Amy Goodman on “Independent Media on War and Elections.” Feeling dramatic? Send in scripts by November 7 of ten to 60 minutes on any theme, style, or subject matter for Tuesday Night Café’s ARTIFACT festival to tnc.artifact@gmail. com. The Barriere Lake Struggle Continues Tuesday, November 4, 6 p.m. Native Friendship Centre of Montreal, 2001 St. Laurent Get the latest on Barriere Lake, a First Nations community protesting government relations, from activists on the frontlines. Free dinner served by Midnight Kitchen.

In California, Colorado, Connecticut, New York, and South Dakota, voting rights are restored upon discharge from parole

Released felons can vote

Felons can vote in prison Source: The Brennan Center for Justice (NYU School of Law)

A Panel Discussion on Clean Water Provision Wednesday, November 5, 7 p.m. EV building, 1605 Ste. Catherine Engineers Without Borders Concordia is sponsoring a free panel discussion on clean water access. Email non-profit events to news@mcgilldaily.com.

Interested in student issues? Want to get involved in campus life? Elections McGill is accepting nominations for the following positions in the First Year Committee of Council (FYCC): McGill Association of Continuing Education Students

1. President 2. VP Internal 3. VP External 4. VP Communications 5. VP Academic 6. VP Finance Elections McGill is also accepting nominations for Yes / No committees for the next set of referendum questions. Nomination kits are available online at www.electionsmcgill.ca or from the Elections McGill office, Shatner 405.

Nominations are due Monday, November 10th at 4:00 pm Shatner, salle 405 (514) 398-6474 contact@electionsmcgill.ca

NOTICE OF ELECTIONS WEEK AND ANNUAL GENERAL ASSEMBLY!

Elections Week: Nov. 24th to 28th. Run and/or vote and enter into a great RaďŹ&#x201E;e. For details and Application Forms, check Maces Website: www.maces.mcgill.ca

Annual General Assembly: Friday November 28th at 6pm. Free Pizza & Drinks. Maces Conference Room 4th Floor, 3437 Peel St. Tel.: (514) 398-4974 Valid McGill ID card required for entry.

News

E R U T L U C K C O SH 8 0 0 2

The McGill Daily, Monday, November 3, 2008

Charkaoui condemns racist immigration laws Max Halparin The McGill Daily

he growing trend in national security to inflict high consequences with low legal standards is extremely disturbing, said members of the Coalition Justice for Adil Charkaoui in a Culture Shock event Monday. “We have very racist – and I’m using the word racist – mentality inside government, inside CSIS [Canadian Security Intelligence Service] agents, inside courts of justice...and we have horrible laws from the Middle Ages called security certificates,” said Charkaoui, a Moroccan-born French teacher who has lived in Montreal since 1995. In 2003, Charkaoui was detained under a security certificate, which allows the government to detain nonCanadian citizens without trial under threat of deportation. He spent the next 21 months in jail, and has lived under a strict set of house arrest con-

ditions since his release in 2005. These conditions forbid him from leaving Montreal, using fax machines, the Internet, or any phone but his home phone, allow police 24-hour access to his home, and require one of his parents to accompany him at all times. Charkaoui must also wear a GPS-tracking ankle bracelet – which he referred to as his “bracelet of shame.” After two weeks in jail, Charkaoui received a 400-page file qualifying his detention that contained biographies of Osama Bin Laden and news articles on 9/11. Only 14 pages pertained to his case. “Nothing [was] against me or linked to me,” Charkaoui said, adding that the document identified him as a sleeper agent – a spy awaiting assignment – for eight reasons: he was young, Arab, Muslim, married with children, had a business, attended university, was a martial arts expert, and had travelled around the world. Charkaoui, a father of three, has still not seen the secret evidence against him, and has never been

Josh Chapman / The McGill Daily

Despite living under strict house arrest, Charkaoui completed his Master’s in 2006 and is working on his PhD. charged under the Criminal Code. “Tonight, after five and a half years, I cannot get justice in this country,” he said. Charkaoui criticized the government for fully cooperating with states like Syria and Sudan, who brutally treat their detainees, while condemning them publicly. “Behind those big and beautiful slogans, we have a lot of hypocrisy – full coopertaion, collaboration, and complicity in torture,” he said. In 2007, the Supreme Court of Canada ruled that security certificate laws were unconstitutional, but decided that the ruling would not come into effect for one year. In late October 2007, the Conservatives introduced Bill C-3, a new security certificate law that Charkaoui

Migrant worker exposes farm exploitation Matthias Lalisse The McGill Daily

anada’s 20,000 foreign migrant workers’ rights were highlighted Tuesday as part of QPIRG’s Culture Shock week, exposing some of the exploitation that local agriculture workers face. Roberto Rodriguez, a former seasonal worker who participated in the Seasonal Agricultural Workers Program (SAWP) for 18 years , addressed the attendees and stated that the increasing number of exploited worker testimonies were characteristic of the program. “According to our contract, we have rights and obligations. But really we only have obligations,” Rodriguez said. When Rodriguez refused to do construction work – which was not part of his contract – his employer tried to deport him. SAWP began in 1966 to recruit foreign workers from Mexico and select

Caribbean countries to Canadian farms. Paid the same wages as Canadians, migrants also receive living space and compensation for immigration and travel expenses from farm managers. According to Rodriguez, foreign workers are attracted to Canada by the promise of higher wages and better working conditions, yet the long working hours – 16 hours and no overtime pay – and abusive managerial practices taint the industry. “A lot of Canadians don’t know that we come here and we’re basically used as work machines,” said Rodriguez. Increasingly, migrants have been coming forward with stories of exploitation by their bosses, ranging from confiscation of their passports and legal documents to reports of blatant racial discrimination and even sexual abuse. Anna Malla, an activist at the new Agricultural Workers Support Centre in St. Remi, which targets systematic abuses against agricultural workers,

explained why SAWP migrants are often exploited. “Coming here is a necessity for the vast majority of the people in the program,” Malla said. “The Canadian government knows that, and so do the employers. That’s where the exploitation comes in.” Seasonal workers, who pay Canadian taxes and health and employment insurance premiums, officially have the same rights as Canadian workers. But foreign workers, who often speak neither French nor English and have little exposure to Canadian society outside of their agricultural workplace, are almost never aware of their legal rights as workers and rarely access crucial services. The Agricultural Workers Support Centre has played a key role in informing migrants about their rights under Canadian law and also encourage workers to unionize. “Employers are starting to see that there’s someone out there to help us,” said Rodriguez.

described as a carbon copy of the old law, only worse. It closes some loopholes and introduces a false notion of legitimacy with the “Special Advocate” – a lawyer privy to secret evidence in the case, but cannot relay this information to the detainee. The Conservatives passed C-3 in February. Charkaoui’s recent experience with Special Advocates highlights key problems with the process, which denies attorney-client confidentiality. He had to choose his Special Advocate from a list of eight lawyers – though, after little research, Charkaoui found that one candidate was friends with the judge, and that others were defending CSIS at the Supreme Court or had strong Conservative links. Mary Foster, a spokesperson for

the Coalition, detailed several recent examples similar to the high-profile case of Maher Arar, in which Canada chose to deport non-citizens despite evidence showing the detainees could face torture or death in their home countries. “We should really rethink deportation as exile – all these people have their families and their whole lives here,” Foster said. About 50 people attended the event, which was co-hosted by the Coalition and QPIRG-McGill. Bilingual banners used at past protests hung on the walls, as were photos of demonstrations from 2003 onward. To hear Charkaoui’s talk, check out the October 28 edition of Off The Hour at ckut.ca.

Quebec central in history of alt media Andrea Damiano News Writer

o kick-off CKUT’s Media Democracy Days last week, writer, radio host, and McGill alumna Anna Leventhal presented a history of the rise of alternative media in Quebec. A wide collection of publications were showcased from the social and political movements of Quebec in the 1960s and 1970s. They were generally radical, socialist, and experimental in content, and discussed protest, community organization, the environment, and women’s liberation. “You have to think about who owns media,” Leventhal said. “It is also meant to entertain you as much as inform. It capitalizes on stereotypes.” The rise of alternative media in Quebec came in the wake of the Quiet Revolution. Frustrated with the single, hegemonic views of mass media – which were largely in tune

with governing institutions – independent publications were developed as avenues of democratization and communication. Fuelled by cheap and available production materials and technology, the papers had minimalist and practical designs which allowed them to be distributed to a wide audience. Quebec became a hub of independent media for the United States and English Canada – particularly those that feared repercussions at home. But in spite of this historical impact, Levanthal cautioned that independent media must constantly reinvent itself – because of its unique structure, it lacks a common institutional memory. “A lot of [what the media did] and their history gets lost in the air,” she said. She also voiced uncertainty for the future of alternative media in the age of technology, and was dubious of the internet. Leventhal hosts “Venus” on CKUT and blogs for Shameless.

Commentary

The McGill Daily, Monday, November 3, 2008

Obama’s chats with Iran can The U.S. shouldn’t grant highmake meaningful headway level talks with rogue nations

Classifieds To place an ad, via email: ads@dailypublications.org phone: 514-398-6790 fax: 514-398-8318

Cost:

Steve Aylward

POINT

resident Bush’s policy on diplomacy with Iran has been to make cessation of Iran’s nuclear program a precondition for presidential talks. This policy has clearly failed to contain the threat of a nuclear Iran. A September 15 report from the International Atomic Energy Agency indicated that by January, Tehran’s nuclear program will likely have the capacity to create sufficient weaponsgrade uranium for a bomb in a matter of months. Senator Obama proposes a departure from this course of action when he states, “I would be willing to meet with Iranian leaders if we have done sufficient preparations for that meeting.” In other words, Obama would not make all of the benefits of direct negotiations contingent upon fulfillment of just one criterion. The provision for “preparations” means that such talks would occur in circumstances in which the U.S. believes it could make meaningful headway. Obama is not naively suggesting that the U.S. should open talks for their own sake, but rather that where the possibility for advancing U.S. interests exists, they should not be precluded by any single issue. The policy of isolating Iran diplomatically is largely of symbolic value, and does not generate any progress toward finding solutions to problems like nuclear proliferation. It indirectly benefits Iran because it cannot set the sorts of deadlines and requirements that parties undertake in negotiations. The extra time gained by this policy is useful to Iran, as it continues to research and develop nuclear arms. The only foreign policy tool available to the U.S. without opening negotiations is the threat of military attack, which apart from not being very credible at the moment, is precisely what creates such a strong incentive for Iran to pursue a nuclear weapon in the first place. Iran wants the bomb because it feels that its existence is not secure, not least because

the U.S. will not recognize its government as legitimate by engaging it in direct talks. In negotiating directly with Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad – or more likely Khomeini, who is actually in charge of foreign policy in Iran – the U.S. might be seen to be appeasing Iran. But this perception could be offset by raising pressures in other ways, such as increasing economic sanctions. It might also be seen to support Ahmadinejad, but this oversimplifies things. By treating Iran as an evil country that it won’t even talk to, the U.S. legitimizes Iranian hardliners, whose outrageous rhetoric is predicated on America being the archnemesis imperial oppressor. If Iran engages in upper-level talks with the U.S., it becomes more difficult to paint the U.S. as an unknown evil. By engaging in such talks, the U.S. can make gains in the propaganda war it is currently losing so badly. Strategic decisions are plagued by a lack of perfect information about competing intentions. Direct negotiations serve as an important means of reducing this uncertainty, by building personal relationships, combating insular interpretations of opposing interests, and generally building confidence. It was, for example, direct negotiations with Nikita Krushchev, former First Secretary of the Soviet Union, that ultimately led to the removal of nuclear missiles from Cuba. The threat presented by Iran achieving a nuclear weapon makes it clear that such avenues are critical for reducing tension in crisis situations which could quite conceivably arise, but also for rationalizing outcomes in other issues in which both countries have overlapping interests, for example, the refugee flows from Iraq. It is only by directly engaging in presidential talks without preconditions that all of these benefits can be achieved.

SEAN HAYWARD AND JOSH STARK

COUNTERPOINT

arack Obama thinks that government officials should engage in unconditional talks with hostile regimes, such as Mahmoud Ahmadinejad’s Iran. Whether this was a slip of the tongue that had to be retroactively defended or a real policy decision, it is not a productive strategy for America or for the people of Iran – or any other country whose ruling regime is hostile to the U.S. John McCain, to his credit, does not favour unconditional talks with hostile regimes. First is the problem of defining “without preconditions.” Does it force the next American administration to sit down with any leader, at any time, in any venue? Obama is not clear on this issue. When Nixon sat down with Mao after the SovietSino split, there were preconditions that ensured a favourable outcome for the United States. Henry Kissinger, a man that Obama often mentions, spent months planning the event to make sure that his president would not be embarrassed or be used as propaganda. Stating that the American administration will meet leaders who may represent a real threat to America “without preconditions” creates a situation with an uncertain outcome with no apparent benefit. Engaging in these talks would also legitimize rogue states to the international community. Without setting any preconditions, these high-level talks can only be about appearance. Two heads of state are not going to hammer out real policy in a meeting that lasts only a few hours. However, such a meeting will attract hours upon hours of news coverage. Leaders of rogue states crave the attention that dialogue

with high-ranking American officials offers. Ahmadinejad can easily seem docile at a press conference while masking his true ambitions. He did this when he wrote a timid letter to George Bush before the Iraq War. Offering these high-level talks effectively gives these leaders a pulpit from which they can sell themselves to a western audience. If these regimes are hostile to the U.S., offering such an opportunity is not in America’s interests. Further, this dialogue is used as propaganda in tyrannical states. These leaders, such as Ahmadinejad, often try to deflect domestic criticism by playing up an outside threat – such as the U.S. or Israel. If offered high-level talks with the U.S., Ahmadinejad would sell it to his domestic audience as an example of his ability to stand up to the West – regardless of what the actual content of the meeting would be. If the U.S. truly wants a liberal reformist in power in Iran – perhaps through the re-election of Mohammad Khatami – it shouldn’t give Ahmadinejad an opportunity to shore up domestic support. These problems make it very difficult to apply real pressure on countries like Iran, and would allow Ahmadinejad and others to strengthen their positions, making it hard for the international community to commit to sanctions. No American president, even one who thinks he is the prophet for this age, can talk down these terrorist regimes. If enemies of America want to engage in dialogue, they must accept conditions and improve the situation for their citizens. Highlevel talks should be used as a carrot, not offered freely.

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Steve, Sean, and Josh are members of the McGill Debating Union. Debaters are often asked to defend positions which may not be their own, meaning the arguments above do not necessarily represent the personal opinions of the authors. Tonight, the Debating Union is hosting “You Decide,” an event presenting the policy opinions of both campaigns in a series of debates at 6 p.m. in the Lev Bukhman room.

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The Literary Supplement

the literary supplement

matthew donne

Infinite Honey Was this from the Philly show at the Starlight Ballroom? Oh, so you’re the asshole who kept shouting ‘TV PARTY’,

D. Projectors Show, Nov. 2016. The Old Mincemeat Factory

No one even knew what it meant.

Concerto Muito BOM! The performers kick hard

Whip the whale, booger. Surrender

into the first song. Shambalah! This

your tender body to the crowd. Tear HIM APART

is what meditation is. WE E E E

an old timer says unravelling his belt.

are TIRED of YOUR ABUSE he sings,

Infinite Honey, the guitar squealing

underwritten by the shimmer of two

klara duplessis

& his head back, REALIZATION

Scaffold and toy boy

that instead of thinking, doing is adding. Touch my sculpture, Kiss my mouth. Not to say no because my brain is the launch pad. I’m born into it.

female back-up singers. I REALIZE IN THIS MOMENT I can collapse the hierarchy of intelligence. I see some things. Buck Fuller sees some things. He learns to speak w/ detail about SPACE,

Still figuring out what’s in all TIME, DIMENSIONS. Seeing things in different ways. these beautiful wooden cabinets.

A woman’s neck cuffed

Not letting them grow higher than the waist. It’s that new joint a guy leans over Of course tend to them. But not to let them

In the embrace of a black scarf. Before her another she alike With cuff, scarf and willingness to clinch. Additional women supine With scarves as shrouds

& whispers in my ear, it sounds Like HEAVEN’S BIRDS. It sounds like how burnt French Toast tastes. All this is allowed. High school for me was a few bucks

Grow wild. After we leave the gig my clothes are soaked & everyone crowds Up onto the streetcar, this one in particular we bought from an old transit company called

& a pocket of Lah. R.I.P Wandah,

Chicago Transit Authority. green & cream.

This is a procession of sibyls.

Outside a fifteen-year-old kid

Out the window I see the dark lake

There is a noose chiming the hours.

hisses a phrase in red aerosol along the brick.

and the reflection of the dark lake in the sky.

Swinging loose and dim

R.I.P Young Gun. Never sleep boyy,

I grasp my breath to the pinpoint. Steaming windows,

When the executioner comes.

I’ll meet you in my dreams.

So many warm bodies pressed in here.

Quickly stop those who want to shout!

REPRESENT. Bee’s wings. North Dakota.

HOLD ON says the driver

Ankh arriving at the gallows.

THIS IS OUR TOWN.

I’M TAKING YOU ALL HOME.

And fingers nubile sigils.

the literary supplement

suzie philippot

More tell: Last words for Dutch Schulz Flegenheimer the hidden rhymes of click and dipping ammonia. Aging afternoon, colder evening, a green shape to enter into hallway here, to take the flight of stairs up to this room down a corridor of echoing concrete. The light in vested interest in the pooling fills every iron or the snow set of flickers and the tap in the bathroom sink a metal shaft of stillness resonating on the floor. Beyond the melee of the final reverberation the fate tell the last words the noise of machines the now in between the delirious sets of gasps and the obscured details of the end in the john. A record: “Oh stop it, stop it; eh, oh, oh. Sure, sure, mama: Whose number is that in your pocket book, Oh – please, please. Reserve decision. Oh, oh, dog biscuits and when he is happy he doesn’t get happy he was a cowboy in one of the seven days a week fight It is from the factory. Sure, that is a bad. I don’t want harmony. I want harmony. It is no use to stage a riot. The sidewalk was in trouble and the bears were in trouble and I broke it up. Please put me in that room. Oh, sir, get the doll a roofing.” the electric clip of the record play and then: “Open this up and break it so I can touch you.”

Watch what a railroad makes A walk home each day to avenue J, with its unfinished front steps (the taxes) and the trees out back (grafted). We added the perfect mud for imaginary slave drivers, and assembly line pies. Near that was the window for sneaking, and back door for opening quietly, and the place where the snow grew so thick that it took three hours to find a proposal in (it was not wanted). Every visit we were afraid to go into the basement or the room with more than twenty framed faces on the wall both places had too many eyes staring that might say, “Youngest, you are not going to live up to the standards of those who previously occupied that pink high chair.” And then we’d take two steps at a time to get away from the smell of cellar. To Baba’s bosom which is softer than most other morning things and the milk that pours out of the cow-shaped container is smoother for your cream of wheat and blueberry pancakes. (We all have to share the shower.) Yellow light, morning, noon, and somehow, night. The TV, a dark portal to space, was never on. Besides these things, there were a couple dogs before, apparently, but they died long before me, and Dido just a few months after. My first plane ride (to the centre of the plains, of course) first to say hello then to say good bye. Now there are only budgies in the living room, and always family on couches. But this was before the moves, and the house that we pilgrims drove to remains now only on two things: a grave stone and the apartment wall above the dwindling homemaker’s dishes that are never washed anymore. (She is forgetting, so am I.)

the literary supplement

tracy wan

Footnote: A Fairytale Sever where the gangrene has not spread, the underbelly of the skin already blue in places you crawled in unknowingly. Where the body is nude there are no lessons of illness, no remnants of tenderness. Lie in sheets small and partial, a mitten in a blizzard or something as lonely, wondering how to spend a heart and whether it will suffice as refuge before the wind turns. In the spring they fall out of love, it’s not cruel or vile to expect. The skin will grow back flushed and forgiving. The body will forget who brandished the knife, whether there was such a thing as a wolf at all.

kate knibbs kian slobodin

Michael

here he is. There’s Michael. Michael coming at you with his shoelaces untied and spit running down his chin. I’ll kill you I’ll kill you! Michael with his face red swinging his thin white arms and his eyes like a crazy person’s, bright with tears. Michael running hellbent for leather through the lashing sawgrass, taking the split-rail fence in one wild desperate leap, tumbling down into the ditch beyond and leaping up: Missed me! You missed me! Couldn’t ever catch me! Never! As the blood ran down his dirty legs we laughed, tossing the brightly coloured leaves into the air. We couldn’t help but love him, although it might not have been enough to save him. Michael in the falling down rotten house with the damp feather pillows and the broken cups and the three babies that came after him always underfoot, always with snot in their eyes and jam on their diapers. Michael there’s Michael with the scabs on his lips and the trail of fading finger marks across his arms and neck. Michael the swaggering five-year-old spitting and hitching up his trousers on the playground. The eight-year-old riding his bicycle with the sun in his eyes (and we laughed brightly the leaves colouring the sky) – falling – the ten-year-old staggering forward under the weight of that secret, collapsing with the creaking of muscle and the breaking of bones, downward toward that hardness. Michael who said fuck your mother fuck you fuck anyone. Pushing the word out hard with his tongue, his lips wet and loose. Eyes big and squinting and bright. FUCK you. And the arms crossed tightly across his chest, eyes staring blankly and fiercely at nothing. But that was Michael. And us? Oh he would kill us fuckers kill us all if he had to rip our fucking eyeballs out if we didn’t stop looking at him like that for christ’s sake don’t think that he wouldn’t. And would you Michael? We couldn’t help but love him, the way he ran with the bright blood and the leaves drifting down (we laughed) calling wait up wait up. But Michael never had time for anything too slow, he was running just as fast as he could away from that house falling down around his ears and who wouldn’t have? Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t we all have been that way. Running tall and underfed and lanky in the hayfield with our heads held high and fists and teeth and feet ready to kick the living shit out of anyone who ever tried to hurt us anymore than life already had. Running. Always running. There he is. There’s Michael.

Reservoirs Canyons. Water, land, Land aching toward more land, the vast atlas-lasted impasses back against cracked stone, beat green. Plumb, aloof, proven hollow solitude found alone again, petulant, late. Camping out of a yellow tent Frayed nylon near a fearful cliff, now We slept head-to-feet, silent, emphatically platonic, two for whom distance is a dare. Abandon I remember rowboats, salt on the oars, bent Wednesdays on the lake, crescents, Refuse to believe those phases of the moon, Please. AND these lakes don’t taste the same, The water tarnishes every jar.

todd frei

the literary supplement

Translating transparency

’m drifting through languages. My obsessions have turned to the names of things. I’ve stopped seeing actualities; rather, just forms of expression. It’s the order of words, how they fit into a system. And I step between. Arranging and rearranging orders. My adjectives are all over the place, jumping back and forth over nouns. Sometimes they’re given genders. A house is a she, same with a car. A glass is a he, as well as the wine that fills it. Other days my words lack the sexuality of gender. I’m stuck seeing the world in two separate ways at the same time. Where do I fit into this subjectivity; I’m becoming adjacent to myself. The people around me have lost their individuality to lists of descriptions. I talk with people but never actually know anything about them. Just a collection of words shifting through languages. You become an inventory of places, possibly an adjective is involved. It’s the process of watching a person become transparent. I’ll tell the history of my life as though reading a carefully considered essay. I’m losing stories. Once they were called memories; now they have taken on different forms, obscured by syntax. There was a girl I once knew, and even loved. She has become a neat set of sentences, translated into simplicity. I no longer remember the emotions. And all of our reasons. I’m sure we had so many. Instead there are bare facts, the cruelties of a foreign tongue. And the friend who saved my life. Or did I save his? All I know is that there were moments and fears and anxieties. And now there is only the failed attempt at conversion. I lack the ability to laugh or tell a lie. It doesn’t translate. There is something missing. Or perhaps the correct phrase is: so much.

The blindness of butterflies

t started with a blind woman listening to the butterflies. These were not real butterflies, but an art installment. Thousands of plastic butterflies suspended from the ceiling in the shape of a jet plane. All different colours, they hung close to each other and would softly rub wings, creating the sound of flutters. This is where I found her, holding her cane and smiling as she stood beneath them in the centre of the gallery. She said she could feel herself surrounded. That the noise was so intense it felt as though it was lifting her into the air. I thought I saw tears in her eyes but it may have just been a reflection. Either way, I was inventing God out of her presence; and she was inventing angels out of darkness.

claire caldwell

The summer I learned to love humidity Same summer I figured “god is a violinist in the neighbourhood park” but spent more time on the fire escape feeding cats, watering the breathless weeds. * That summer I could have been sixty, fat slow peeling an apple on the stoop browning steadily, nodding off mostly to tires, car stereos, midnight sighs. * One July afternoon almost converted me to a doe-eyed missionary, two mormon saints swooning in my doorway. I folded them into paper fans: a final act of defiance. * By dusk it was cool. The sky shook out, wrung. Standing on the porch with damp hair. The bow poised and sinister. My taut strings buzzing.

the literary supplement

sarah mortimer

Piano man

is fingers were like children playing hopscotch across the keys. The envy of the playground, they hit every coordinate with magical ease, sparking notes like a match turns fire. It was impossible not to want to be inside of him; to wish to know what it was he felt when his fingers danced over the black and white and his eyes drifted beyond the chords that held his world together. Just to be near him reminded you that nothing was simply this or that, but that in an instant, the elements could change, dissolving into something lighter, something better.

hat Wednesday, he had lit up the darkness that inhabited Eddie’s restaurant with the spirit of a day that was no different from the others. His mother had come to visit from Vermont, as she did each year, with a suitcase of stories about a town he no longer knew and that inhabited his mind only when it gave recourse to memories that sweetened the present. He met her at the airport where she stood in front of sliding doors, smoking cigarettes from the pocket of a fur jacket. “Mom!” He put his head out the car window. The man who sat behind Eddie’s piano sang in a voice of his own. They exchanged a hug before she got into the car. James turned to face the lanes behind him where planes came down to touch, examining the fine distances that separated the lines from each other. He climbed into the car, and drove. The sun had peaked early that evening, leaving just the faint traces of light that poured from the streetlights to guide their way home. His mother sat in the passenger seat, breathing smoke into the small space that they shared, polluting it with her

nervousness, a light fog. James asked his mother how things were at home. He no longer knew this home, the place where he had grown from boy to man; or he knew it, but not in the way that one knows the smell of another person. His mother turned to face the window at her side. She painted the pane with another breath of cloud. “The neighbours had their hedges trimmed by a professional,” she began. “Stan and I tried planting flowers but the cat likes to eat them.” All this time, she was facing the window at her side. “She gets them in her teeth and your sister and I have to pick them out. It’s hard work. The yard is empty now. I just can’t compete with a yard that’s got a barber.” As she spoke, she sang in dull, flat rhythms. She had a way of weighing down the lightness of the things she spoke, combing the details into unharmonious chords and playing them, long, hard. As she spoke, the sound of unhappy discordance grated against James’s ear. “Florin has gotten a pup,” she continued. “And the Whitmans complimented her for taking good care of it. Of course, I remind her to feed it – it’s a small pup, but not so small that you don’t need to feed it every couple hours or so to keep it quiet.” She had a way of taking something good and making it her own. It was another one of her habits; not fatal, like smoking was, but it had a way of fixing her the way that all habits did. James couldn’t remember if she had looked this old the last time he saw her. They say that when you no longer see someone each day, the changes in their face become more apparent. He had not seen her in a year, and the lines haunted her face like the slums of a city haunt its peripheries. Part of him suspected that they had always

been there, disrupting the harmony of her skin and collecting scattered notes between their creases. Here she had remained all these years sitting in the passenger seat talking of hedges while James drove on. His mother looked through the front window, examining the distance ahead. Her eyelids were lowered and her lips tightly pursed. Was she looking for smudges on the window shield? (something collected between her brow). Was she waiting for a green light? (there it was).

o sooner had she set foot in his doorway did he wish to disappear from her sight. Here she was again, in his house. Here it was again, the luggage she insisted he carry and those terrible notes that she played in his ear. “Up the stairs, Jamie! To the right! No, no, to the left!” He carried her bags up to the guest room. When he dropped them on the bed, they bounced and fell onto the ground. Even the springs of a mattress couldn’t bear this weight that she insisted he share. As he walked down the stairs to the room where his mother had settled, he asked if she would like some wine. “You know my answer to that, Jamie.” He did. “Pour my glass, Jamie. Not a skinny one. Not like you.” He filled the empty glass with the bloody liquid, giving the glass a sort of flesh, a life that now ran down its sides. “Thank you, Jamie.” His mother examined the contents of the glass and decided that they were suitable. “You’re welcome.” She began fingering the pattern on the couch. “Did I tell you about your sister?” “About what the Whitmans said

about her?” James replied. “Oh...yes. That.” She drank her wine solemnly, emptying her glass with slow greedy gulps, and developing a faint crimson mustache above her feathered lip. Silent, she stared into the glass, scanning for un-caught drips. “There’s more.” James offered. “Fill me up,” she said, handing him the empty glass. James began walking to the kitchen, his eyes fixed on the time above the oven. He was called back to the living room by his mother. “Jamie!” “Yes, mum?” “Nothing.” “What is it?” She wanted to be asked. “You know it’s not quite that easy.” “What isn’t?” She played the keys over and over. “You know what I mean.” He didn’t. He knew the rhythm, but the melody didn’t make sense. It was noise. “It doesn’t quite work for me as it does for you,” she insisted. “You seem fine.” James lied. “I’m old.” She sang in baritone. “Why don’t you go to bed?” He was tired. “I guess. But...you must know?” “No. Go to bed, Mum.” His mother handed James the glass, but underestimating the distance between his hand and her own, it fell to the ground, and shattered between them across the cedar floors. “Don’t worry, I’ll clean it up.” James examined the shards between them. But she was already asleep. Her body was tangled like a puzzle and drool was couched between a pillow and her skin. James swept up the pieces of glass

with a small broom and dumped it in a garbage can. He looked into the can, forgetting momentarily why he had come there. But he did find something. There was something musical in the way the shards rang against the tin as they collected in the bottom. In the morning she left as she had came. She smoked through the silence of the car ride, and when they came to the airport, she waved before being swallowed with the crowd by a pair of sliding doors. She had come and she had gone, as she did now and as she had, when he was younger and the lines on her face seemed less permanent. Still, he only knew the parts of her, the pups, the wine, and of course, the hedges.

he audience watched him intently, as, more captivating than stuffed artichokes, he had become the spectacle of the night. They watched him as he stroked the keys tenderly, working knots out of the spine of the instrument with a doctor’s touch. Sound rose and fell from the piano like dominoes, its rhythm difficult, but soothing. The heat of his fingers against the keyboard contrasted the dark cold of the room. People were gathering around him like kids on a playground, huddling around the piano like it was a new toy. Huddled like campers by a warm fire. All the while, his eyes were focused on a distant somewhere, a place no one in the room had ever been. At the end of the song, his fingers were hot and full of blood. They were filled with the heat of some sort of knowing, burning with the heat of knowing something lighter, something better. As bodies huddled close, he shared with them something intimate – a quality of knowing, something like knowing another person’s smell.

the literary supplement francesca bianco

A visit I came to see you, after four months. You had to get a pass to go outside. I brought towels. The clothes you peeled off hung like loose skin, hand-me-downs from an older sibling. We stretched out on the hospital lawn, where the heat found our oiled bodies quickly. I couldn’t stop looking at your hips, at your shoulders protruding like the handle bars of a child’s bike and I could follow the sunken line between flesh and bone, the places where your body sucked itself in, holding its breath, how even the sun made you sad, your doll face keeping its eyes almost closed, lids stirring wildly, a staccato off the beat. And then I was driving home in the winter, through the maples that lined the road, their skeletal limbs reaching out into the white expanse, waiting silently, for spring.

anna trowbridge

Big Deal

samuel woodworth

Nightride Drowsy roll of America thru

like me

Hooksett, Croydon, Enfield,

and you too

past bulrush pockets and height

under silenty banana moon.

of snow lazy White Mountains – We have come together Stars charade for anyone

to night’s heavy swung gate.

right outside this bus window The land, America, and alone women play sings, “Ooohyahdannieee,” with wedding rings. and sturdies back Heavyset hairy man holds on hind hips to see against checked flannel breast his tickets for travel,

who will walk

a big ole hungry tongue

with openest eyes

jus’ goin’

so alone up the road.

good mile-and-a-half from the office, and I’m still stuck on that look given to me by the newest kid on staff. Stan was going around introducing us all and the whole time this guy was staring at me. Even Cheryl noticed and she doesn’t notice much besides keeping her eye on how much time’s left till lunch. Of course she thought he was checking me out – I bet she’s gone as far as thinking we’ll be doing it by Christmas. I know different. The kid is cocky, with an awful case of nerves. That’s a funny mix: well-dressed, with his hands in his pockets, not so impressed with our office (newly renovated) – but dancing side-to-side, practically off-kilter he was so full of jitters. His name is Jeremy, studied business at Waterloo, which is a big deal, I hear. Good for him, I say, though I can’t imagine it’ll be very useful. The work here is pretty specific. I didn’t have too much trouble getting the gist but I’m smart with this kind of paperwork, doesn’t get me all flustered like it does some people. I just get through it, look over most things once or twice, and make my way home. Don’t think about it after that. Kids like Jeremy worry about work their whole lives. I’ve met others like him straight out of school. They stay two years, never really get the hang of things and then go back for their next big degree. It’s strange that Stan goes on hiring them. They must make jobs up on the spot for the kids, too, because often there’s time in between: the last one before Jeremy, Kristina, she left last December and now it’s September and the kid’s only just arrived. That means half a year his desk is empty, and no trouble here. I bet Cheryl’s going to spread to the whole staff that Jeremy and I were making eyes at each other. That’s just the kind of thing she would do. And everyone would be excited by it because it’d be like a T.V. show where everyone is having sex all over the workplace. Well, I won’t be taking off my shirt in the supplies room. I’d never do a thing like that. All I want is to be left alone to do my job, and for everyone else to do theirs, too. Stan’s said he thinks I’d make a good boss. That won’t happen, things being set the way they are, but he’s right – I would. Sometimes all it takes is to know you’d be good at something and not have to do it. When you get into the habit of having to prove how good you are, that’s when you start worrying. I don’t get the feeling that’s obvious to most people. Jeremy, for instance. What’s been bothering me this whole time is thinking he might’ve felt sorry for me. There he is, knowing I’ve been here the four years he’s been in school and that I’ll be here when he leaves. And he thinks that’s sad. Maybe he thinks I’m simple – that the reason why I’m comfortable is something to do with a narrow head, or too much T.V. and not enough books. Well I can tell you I read dozens of books. And I get every single one. They’re all saying the same thing over and over, but I read them anyways because I don’t mind hearing it. I don’t mind hearing that you’ll never see the big picture until it’s too late. And it won’t all be what you thought it was. Why a person would try and guess I just don’t know.

the literary supplement

nicholas cameron

Anthems of a seventeenyear-old girl (an excerpt) January 14th, 2008 I’m not really sure how to start this. I mean like – I’ve had a bunch of these journals but I’ve always scrapped them halfway through. I get bored or don’t have enough time to write down all my thoughts and I lose track. Over time, I guess I just lose interest. But don’t worry. I promise I won’t lose interest in you. Then again, that is what I said to Beatrice. Beatrice was my last journal. She was a black, hard-covered notebook I bought at Pages, just like you are. I like to imagine Beatrice had a snappy attitude, and one of those “you go, girl!” voices. Every so often, I would imagine her snapping her neck from left to right while shouting a “mhmmm” or a “that ain’t gone pay mai baills,” to the different things I wrote. She: Sing it again, sista! Now that I think of it that might have been Lashanda not Beatrice. Oh, right! Beatrice was the one who came before Lashanda. Wait, that’s impossible because Lashanda never existed. So who was after Beatrice then? Try to figure that out, smart-ass! Enjoy figuring out who you are while you’re at it.

January 16th, 2008 It’s 7:50, Wednesday and I’m on the streetcar, headed toward school. Since I’ve already skimmed through the Metro, and having read the

Celebrity reports, I’m writing. Thank god for you. Otherwise I’d have to endure the useless thoughts that go through my head every day: Is this sweater too thin? Does that woman notice the cookie crumbs around her lips? I wonder how the streetcar driver chose to be a streetcar driver. I hate how this guy has brought his dog on the streetcar and expects everyone to smile and ask about it. I don’t care if it’s a rare breed; tell it to stop humping my leg.

January 24rd, 2008 Wednesday was the most insane night of my life. My friend Jim’s band played a concert. Ok…the band’s not necessarily good but whenever they play a show it’s always at Jeff, the singer’s, house. His parents want to be supportive. Allowing a house party in the middle of the week with drinking for underage high school kids makes all our parents detest the Lalondes. But to the rest of us, they are golden, pious liberators from boredom. So, Jeff was having this party. By like, 11:30 I was buzzed because Imogen, Erin, and I did our usual Wednesday night routine of mixing vodka into three coke bottles in a Starbucks bathroom. When we arrived at the party we were immediately offered a bottle of wine from Mr. & Mrs. Lalonde, which we graciously accepted. Erin was too drunk to function so Imogen tended

to her while I went and danced. In my drunken state, it felt like I was listening to the messiahs of rock. I was dancing like mad. Imogen, Erin and I had already arranged an elaborate plan to stay out all night. I told my mom I was staying at Imogen’s. Imogen told hers she was staying at Erin’s. Erin told hers that she was staying at mine. That way we can just crash whenever and wherever we want. Usually we just all go home at 3 or 4 a.m., and if our parents ask the next day why we are back from the person’s house and came home in the middle of the night, we just say that Katie called us a slut, and we broke down crying and needed to come home. When they ask us why we didn’t call them to pick them up we just say that we love them too much, and wanted them to sleep. HOW GENIUS IS THAT!? I’m the one who thought of it! We all use it! Every single month! And Katie doesn’t even exist. Oh man. I don’t know where we would be without Katie. Ok, anyways. A lot of people had gone home, but the band was still playing. They started doing covers, of songs I don’t really remember but I know that they were covers. So I’m dancing, dancing, dancing, and this guy comes over. I didn’t see anything wrong with him. He was handsome

and seemed nice and he wasn’t too aggressive or anything. After four, maybe five songs he leaned in and kissed me. Now, I don’t remember much about the sex. I don’t really see how I could after what happened next. Here’s the deal. He thought I was someone who he knew that was on the pill… or I was on the pill or something… and I thought he was wearing a condom. So, after the sex, when I came back from the bathroom, and he hadn’t gone yet to throw out the condom, the conversation went a little like this: Me: Aren’t you going to go throw it out? He: Throw it out? Me: Yeah. What, are you going to keep it as some kind of memento? He: What are you talking about? The roach? Oh, I forgot to tell you, we smoked a spliff. I didn’t think it was that important but now I feel like if I didn’t tell you about the weed I would be lying to you… or something. Me: Ok, well, like, his parents want people out soon and you should get rid of the condom so just go flush it and we can go downstairs. I turned around to see his mouth ajar, his face white and his dilated pupils bulging out of like some sort of insect. He: What condom? Me: What!? He: I didn’t use a condom! I thought you were on the pill.

Me: No! Why would you think that!? He: I don’t know! I thought you were this girl who’s on it. Me: You thought I “was this girl?” He: Yeah. Me: You are so fucking retarded! We’ve got to fix this! He: How?! I didn’t really know. All of a sudden all these words rushed through my mind. Teenage pregnancy. Condoms. The pill. Wedlock. Birth. Pregnancy. Morning-after sickness. Bloated. Eating for two. Me: I know! We’ll go to the drugstore, we’ll get the pill. The morningafter pill. He: It’s past my curfew. Me: If you leave me now, not only will I kill you and chop your balls off but I’ll tell your parents you tried to leave a drunk teenage girl, who you just impregnated through unmarried, unprotected sex, to carry your child and walk home alone in the middle of the night. He: Ok, ok! I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Let’s go. We took the night bus to Yonge St. from Runnymede Station. Something weird happened on the way there. We started to hold hands. We didn’t talk, we didn’t argue, we barely made a noise.

Culture

The McGill Daily, Monday, November 3, 2008

On the home court Basketball tournament brings McGill students to the Filipino community

Braden Goyette / The McGill Daily

Braden Goyette The McGill Daily

s a steady autumn rain came down over Montreal the weekend before last, ten three-man basketball teams faced off in the Cote-des-Neiges Sports Centre to support kids in the local Filipino community. I entered the Shadd Gymnasium to bright lights overhead and the scuffling of shoes on the court, as the players jostled back and forth, keeping chase in pursuit of the ball. While they were engaged in the game, there was a casual atmosphere in the room, with friends chatting on the sidelines and participants throwing relaxed hoops between sets. This was the McGill University FilipinoAmerican Students’ Association (MUFASA)’s third annual charity basketball tournament – held this year for the first time outside of McGill. MUFASA Co-President Andrea Neufeld explained how the group has taken steps to integrate with Montreal’s Filipino community over

the past few years. Though the group has been sponsoring the Philippine Women’s Centre since it got started in 1997, it was in large part through basketball that MUFASA made its way out of the McGill bubble and into the larger community, building ties with the Philippine Basketball Association of Montreal (PBAM). Basketball is the national sport of the Philippines, and it plays a major role in uniting the community. “It’s how they get their kids to preserve their culture,” Neufeld said. “They meet other Filipino kids, families get together…. It’s really a community activity to spend a day watching basketball.” She emphasized the significance of this year’s tournament taking place in Shadd, a place that most members of the PBAM have grown up around. For transparency’s sake, I should say up front that Neufeld is my cousin. But that’s how most people got to the tournament today – by being part of the extended family. “We call it the barkada, the family clan,” she explained, elaborating on a central concept in Filipino culture,

a version of family that expands to include friends, neighbours, and significant others. Coming to Montreal from Hong Kong, she was surprised at the cultural mixing she saw here, despite Quebec’s storied multicultural growing pains. The people who grew up here are distinctly North American, she stressed, but still rooted in Filipino values – particularly the importance of family.

his is the first year that MUFASA is directly supporting the Elite Hoops Academy, a local initiative that organizes basketball camps for Montreal’s Filipino youth. Jeff Dosado, coordinator of Elite Hoops, grew up in Montreal and went on to play varsity for American International College (NCAA Division II.) Now that he’s back in Montreal, he said, he feels a sense of social responsibility. “I want to open up certain doors for them,” he said, citing the fact that most basketball camps are unaffordable for many local kids, going for around $500 a weekend. Elite Hoops, on the other hand, charges between $40-50 for two full days.

“Everybody’s just looking to make money,” Dosado remarked, “I just want to do things the right way.” He was enthusiastic about the McGill group’s support this year. “I’d like to continue being involved with them,” he said. Dosado related Elite Hoops to organizations like the Centre Jeunesse d’Emploi, that provide some structure and skills training for young people whose families have just moved here. “Basketball’s really become a science,” he said. In addition to fostering social and recreational activities, the camps also provide instruction on “sports nutrition, strength and conditioning, biometrics, and working on footwork and balance.” More than that, basketball also prepares you for other life situations, fostering discipline and maturity. “If you’re selfish and a jerk on the court,” Dosado said, “you’ll probably be selfish and a jerk in life.” It seems to be a commonly held wisdom; according to a New York Times interview with Barack Obama’s brother-in-law Craig Robinson, when Michelle first met her husband in Chicago, she insisted on

seeing how he handled himself in the game before deciding to commit.

he PBAM dates back to 1971, when Jun O’Clarit, who had played semi-professionally in the Philippines, organized a tournament with some friends. Present at that first game was Jake Maguigad, one of the PBAM’s founding members, who still sits on its board of directors. His son, Jody Maguidad, was among the participants at MUFASA’s tournament. “I met all these guys through basketball,” Maguigad said, gesturing around the room. “Apart from that, I didn’t meet a lot of Filipinos.” Today, according to Dosado, the PBAM boasts around 700 athletes, ranging from six or seven-years-old to in their fifties and sixties. Maguigad pointed to the teams skirmishing in front of us. “See those guys over there? I’ve been watching them play since I was a kid,” he said. Now he’s watching the younger kids coming in. “It’s like a generational thing,” he said, smiling. Judging from the look on his face, it’s a gratifying sight.

14 Culture

The McGill Daily, Monday, November 3, 2008

Patti Smith dreams of horses Biopic captures the melancholy beauty of a punk rock icon

Veronica French Culture Writer

itting in the third row of the movie theatre, I am overwhelmed by this crazy shot of a clan of horses kicking through the dirt, whipping up a cloud of dust in a hazy shade of maroon. I almost instinctively chant with the opening song – Patti Smith’s “Land:” “When suddenly Johnny gets the feeling he’s being surrounded by/ horses, horses, horses, horses!” Patti Smith: Dream of Life, is a spiritual collage, a scrapbook that has been put together absolutely spectacularly. It’s a must-see for anyone who has ever felt a deep connection with music, for anyone who has ever bought a rock’n’roll album, and felt, looking back, that the exchange was an act of fate. You won’t regret experiencing of this labour of love, that took the artist over a decade to create. Directed by Steven Sebring, the film is like a memory chest unlocked. It bares Smith’s experiences since the death of her husband, following her on tour in cities like Tokyo and Rome, visiting with the parents, backstage with her children and bandmates. The relics she has collected during

her lifetime that could easily fill up an I SPY book. What’s great about the film is that it’s not your typical “bizarre star” documentary. We do get the regular “secret shots you’ve never seen before,” and the “oh my God, I didn’t know she was friends with Thom Yorke and Michael Stipe!” moment. But what makes this film unique is its poetry. Watching it was like going back to your good ol’ English Lit class in high school, analyzing a poem densely packed with latent symbolism and recurring themes. Death, I believe, is the most constant motif in the film. Smith wanders through cemeteries like a fascinated, day-dreaming child. Her love of photography brought her to take pictures of the cold stones marking the graves of those she admired most, among them William Blake, Allen Ginsberg, and her late husband, Fred “Sonic” Smith. The film’s black and white shots, coupled with its dark content, could understandably be interpreted as depressing or sinister. Strangely, this combination made the film ever more alluring, connecting the viewer to each of Smith’s multi-dimensional waves of emotion. It’s hard not to sense the melancholic curtain hovering over you as you watch, even as you leave the cinema. But the sad tone in the film still has its moments of brilliance. Of course, Smith continues to live up to her avant-garde artist persona, her punk image – but what really shines through is her dazzling sense of humour. She’s treated just as one of the guys among her bandmates. Is

it strange that her anecdotes – like when she secretly pissed in a plastic bottle during a flight through the African desert while sitting next to the oblivious pilot – brought me a little closer to her? She’s the crazy aunt everyone wishes they had. It’s the blunt honesty running throughout the film makes it most

special. After all, this is what poets do: spit their soul out instinctively, like a llama. There’s a certain frankness in the way Smith’s dumbfounding, androgynous beauty is portrayed. This earnest beauty resonates throughout, making Dream of Life all the more enchanting and irresistible. Within the world of the film,

Gritty honesty characterizes the music of Patti Smith

the apparent lines dividing different mediums of art – poetry, film, photography, music – have all vanished. An artist’s truth is never a bed of roses, and Patti gives us gravestones and horses. Dream of Life is now playing at Cinema du Parc.

Photo courtesy of Films We Like

Spy vs. Spy New book reveals Larry Chin’s thrilling infiltration of the CIA Marielle McGovern Culture Writer

he closing lines of Tod Hoffman’s prologue to The Spy Within: Larry Chin and China’s Penetration of the CIA tell the reader that his latest book “is a ghost story.” While labelling the book as such might seem odd, in reality it’s quite appropriate – Hoffman demonstrates that in the world of espionage, answers are never completely clear, people are never who they seem to be, and it’s difficult to discover anything that doesn’t disguise itself or disappear altogether. Hoffman, a McGill graduate and an eight-year counterintelligence veteran at the Canadian Security Intelligence Service (CSIS), provides remarkable insight into the world of espionage, intelligence, counter-intelligence, – including

double and even triple agents – who apparently do actually exist outside the realm of James Bond. The Spy Within chronicles the story of Larry Chin, a top Chinese linguist working for the CIA who was responsible for the longest running penetration of an intelligence organization ever uncovered. Chin spent 33 years selling information to the People’s Republic of China, a period of time that spanned the Korean War, Mao Zedong’s Cultural Revolution in 1966, the Vietnam War, and President Richard Nixon’s visit to Beijing in 1972. Thirty-three years of undetected espionage is unheard of in itself – but the fact that it was conducted during such a critical juncture in U.S.China relations and Chinese history is almost unbelievable. These were the formative years of an important but troubled relationship between two great powers, and Larry Chin had a

hand in it all: some of his information actually passed directly to Chairman Mao. Hoffman excels in painting an insightful picture of Chinese culture and history, the roots of which shaped their spies and their methods of gathering intelligence. The book begins with the launch of an FBI investigation into a suspected spy within the American intelligence community. This spy had been identified by a high-ranking source in China’s Ministry of Public Security called the PLANESMAN. The PLANESMAN was for the United States what Larry Chin was for China (lesson #1 of being a spy: trust no one). Passages describing the investigation sometimes flash back more than 50 years to discuss how a young Larry Chin was recruited specifically to infiltrate the United States. As a university student during the Cultural

Revolution, Chin was desperately looking to find a place in Mao’s “new” China. So, when he was encouraged by a Communist security officer to apply for an entry-level position at the American consulate in Shanghai, he jumped at the opportunity. He was hired, and at that moment his career in espionage began. He moved up the ranks, eventually securing a position with the CIA and becoming an American citizen. Investing, as the Chinese government did, in a process that could potentially take decades to yield valuable results is very different from the American approach to espionage. According to Paul Redmond, the onetime head of counter-intelligence for the CIA who was interviewed by Hoffman, “the Chinese do not think in terms of hours, days, or weeks, but in terms of decades. They are an ancient civilization. They are able to

deal with the intricacies of long-term planning.” Hoffman is a skilled writer and definitely succeeds in producing a page-turner. It is written much like a screenplay, with a lot of attention paid to describing characters, their thoughts, and their surroundings. He lets you live inside the mind of a Chinese spy, an American traitor, or a stressed and sleep-deprived FBI agent. Hoffman allows you to experience the isolation, the fear, the adrenaline, the disappointment, and the huge responsibility weighing on the shoulders of all of his characters. This book was born to be made into a great spy thriller movie – and with a killer last line, Hoffman even leaves room for a sequel. Spy Within: Larry Chin and China’s Penetration of the CIA is available for $26.95 from Steerforth Press.

Culture

The McGill Daily, Monday, November 3, 2008

Pedestrian power Whitney Mallett/ The McGill Daily

Alexander Weisler chats with Walkable City author Mary Soderstrom about sidewalks, cities, and urban sprawl

n 1852, Emperor Napoleon III commissioned Baron GeorgesEugene Haussmann to rebuild his capital, transforming Paris from a mélange of industrial slums into the deceptively compact and eminently walkable cultural hub we know today. If a top-down grand plan for urban redevelopment was presented to Montreal – or any other North American city, for that matter – that included modifications such as mass evictions in working-class quarters and the widening of roads to increase police power, citizens would be aghast. Such a plan presents a veritable “what not to do” checklist for urbanists. Ironically, Haussmann’s model is still considered an exemplar of urban planning. Canada’s own darling of urbanism, anti-development activist Jane Jacobs, managed to avoid commenting on the Haussmann affair throughout her career. An opponent of urban renewal, it was hard for this woman of contradictions to deride Paris, a city that she enjoyed as a tourist. After all, the strollable rues of Paris exhibit the vital street life that Jacobs celebrated in her own neighbourhoods: New York’s Greenwich Village and Toronto’s Annex.

Finally, two years after Jacobs’s death and over a century into Haussmann’s time residing in Pêre Lachaise cemetery, the two are now in dialogue with one another thanks to prolific Montreal writer Mary Soderstrom. The Walkable City explores the concept of an accessible, sustainable urban landscape at a time when concerns of the climate, economy, and resources are forcing us to reconsider our geography. “A walkable city, in modern terms, is a city with a core that is still vibrant, that has housing, street life, and neighbourhoods that may be on a transportation hub,” the author explains in an interview. The definition describes the author’s own neighbourhood of Outremont. “The density in this area is such that it can support shopping streets, and there are a lot of schools around. The transportation has always been good, and like I said, you can walk,” she elaborates. “My husband walked to McGill every day for 40 years. He can walk there in 35 minutes.” A native of southern California, Soderstrom relocated to Montreal after studying journalism at UC Berkeley when her husband received a position at McGill in the late 1960s. “I didn’t speak any French, and the institutions were very different, so most of my expertise went out the window,” she recalls. Still, Soderstrom was able to learn the language, work as a freelance journalist, and raise children in the home she still inhabits; she even found time for community activism in between drafting 11 books, an assortment of

novels and non-fiction. Among other small-scale political endeavours, her campaign for a new library in Outremont reminds one of the crusade Jacobs once led against a New York City highway proposal. Soderstrom begins The Walkable City with a tale of house hunting in the dead of winter, and ends with a summary of what makes her neighbourhood so great. Yet there is surprisingly little information about Montreal in between. The text primarily examines the situations of Paris and Toronto, with excursions to suburban Ontario, California, and Vancouver, as well as a chapter on the rest of the world. “The whole book is informed by Montreal,” Soderstrom insists. “Montreal is the background for everything I do.” After an introduction, Soderstom summarizes the anthropology of walking, finding artifacts of bipedal mobility in thoroughly modern cities. In our interview, Soderstrom pointed out some local instances of this heritage. “All the côtes,” – Côte SteCatherine and Côte-des-Neiges,” she explains – “those are all Amerindian paths that go around the mountain.” Some instances are surprisingly recent: Rue Gilford in the Plateau, which mysteriously abandons the grid as it crosses St. Denis, was a footpath trampled down at the end of the 19th century. Workers walked that way to build houses on the quarry at Laurier and Christophe Colombe, and at some point it was paved into a street. Soderstrom avoids statistics and inconvenient truths, choosing to focus

on immediate realities facing the urban realm. After all, cities revolved around foot travel long before it was good for the environment or cheaper than filling up the tank. In the first chapter, Soderstrom writes, “I discovered that the idea that a city might not be walkable would never have occurred to anyone who lived before 1800.” An observation that seems so apparent is actually quite profound when phrased so bluntly. Not only does our suburban expansion lead to long-term distress, it can also lead to mundane absurdities – like those the author recounts in a horror story set in Vaughan, Ontario, where running any sort of errand in the barren landscape requires a car. Soderstrom is full of refreshing opinions, one being that suburbs are not intrinsically evil. Though suburbs built for the automobile cannot easily achieve walkability, those developed around old trolley or commuter rail lines have some promise; in fact, many operated as independent villages before the proliferation of the car. Soderstrom sees potential in some West Island suburbs. “There’s always been rail service out there,” she says. “It was set up so you’d have to drive to the station, but now there is more condominium construction around these stations. Assuming you get decent rail service, you can get to downtown Montreal fairly quickly.” The book addresses North Vancouver as an example of a high-density suburb that is accessible without wheels and remains connected with the city core. The author’s view on gentrification is more complex than the usual deri-

sion; she remains characteristically pragmatic and free of contradictory hipster jargon. After chuckling at the enormity of the topic, she remarks, “It fits both ways. I think it’s essential for several reasons. One is to maintain a housing stock, and [another is] to keep services, because the middle class have a sense of entitlement, and they’re going to put out petitions for things like stop signs on street corners, and that doesn’t hurt people. There is a problem with pushing out people who live there their whole lives and I don’t really know the solution to that other than to pull everyone up.” Though they stroll the gardens of Paris and the streets of Toronto together in Soderstrom’s book, Jacobs never fully confronts Haussmann’s actions in The Walkable City. The Baron’s grand plans would surely upset her principles – but, Soderstrom says, “what saved the Haussmann renovation was that it was built on a human scale. Of course there were a number of human tragedies, but what was left as a city is so compact and walkable…. There’s so much going on.” Just as Jacobs avoided confirming whether such sacrifices were worth it, Soderstrom’s The Walkable City avoids much discussion of gentrification or economic inequality as expressed in the landscape. At times, it seems like there’s no answer to the dilemma for the time being – at least not a fair one. The Walkable City by Mary Soderstrom is available for $22.95 from Véhicle Press.

16 Culture

The McGill Daily, Monday, November 3, 2008

Subverting subversive cinema Mike Hoolboom compiles conversations on creativity and filmmaking Meghan Wray

not satisfy those seeking definitive conclusions; its strength is in capturing an ongoing evolution of filmmaking. Whether for the cynic or the hopeful, Practical Dreamers refuses to be a pretentious fringe film viewer’s manual. It is not a categorization of “worthy” films that stand in rightful opposition to society-degrading blockbusters; neither is it an underground indie film snapshot. In a conversation with Daniel Cockburn, Hoolboom asks, “Doesn’t your work rely on an audience already hip to art recordings, savvy in the ways of stolen pictures, drunk and drunk again on deconstructive cocktails?” His tone is both earnest and ironic as he subtly questions the legitimacy of the filmmakers’ motives and art. Jubal Brown also admits that his reason for making movies might be “to talk to other videomakers…or maybe it’s directed bitterly at a lack of audience.” Emily Vey Duke avoids the stigma of intellectualism by finding new avenues to transform Nietzsche quotes from affected to endearing – by making animals her film stars. She muses, “Imagine how irritating it would be if Cooper and I had per-

Culture Writer

Courtesy of Marc Bell

Do-it-yourself absurdity Marc Bell’s Illusztraijuns refutes comic conventions Aaron Vansintjan The McGill Daily

have always been puzzled by the courage and audacity of the DIY scene – the idea of working on a project while knowing that you will always be classified as “indie” and appreciated only by a small group of friends. There has to be a certain drive, an ideology, that supports life more than the meager income does. Marc Bell is the driving force behind a network of Canadian cartoonists, artists, and zinesters that prefer the DIY ethos over anything else. At his art show at Drawn & Quarterly last Tuesday small groups of friends chatted amongst each other in a cozy environment – not quite the povertystricken and hollow-cheeked “starving artists” that one might expect. Also on display was a large majority of his work in book form. Bell’s newest work is a book called Illusztraijuns For Brain Police, and compiles many of his black and white drawings, including some collaborations with other artists. At the art show, I admired his works, as others approached him to chat. After seeing me snooping and lurking around for a bit, he approached me and drew a cool doodle in my copy of the book, after which he asked me to email him some questions instead of asking him on the spot. He was certainly not the assertive character that I thought he might be, and maybe that’s because

judging by his art, I expected him to be a lot crazier. Even though Bell’s drawings might seem pointless at first glance, they do have an objective beyond DIY for DIY’s sake. As the title of the book states, they are meant to illustrate certain ideas, and those ideas are everything that Bell deems fit to scribble onto a page – from totemic figures to multi-legged sausages, mindless short stories and lots of feet. His art is all over the place; he draws improvisational pieces that demand as much attention to make as they do to take apart. With so much going on in his art, Bell is able to describe the world around him in the minutest detail, and transforming it into his own creation. He calls himself absurdist, and this raises the ever-present question: can absurdist art tell us more about reality than realism does? And is realism more pointless than absurdist art? Somehow, I am reminded of Nikolai Gogol, who wrote absurd, almost postmodern stories, that commented on society by describing its most minute and inconsequential details. “I read this great line once from Mayo Thompson,” says Bell in response to the subject of art, “where he said that he thought it was important to be a failure some of the time so that people don’t expect too much from you. I think these big famous fancy-pants serious-artist types usually end up disappointing ‘cause they’re so lionized and blown out of proportion.” This reinforces his DIY

ideology: he prefers to undermine his own work with absurd humour and spelling things wrong on purpose. Bell’s artistic process is expressed not only through the content of Illusztraijuns, but also by the book’s mode of production. “It’s the same process they use to create these cheap promo copies of books that go out to press,” said Bell, “I just thought I’d make it a ‘finished’ book.” Inverting publishing norms, it appears, is Bell’s joy. Why make a book for full price when you can pay half? Why spell things right when you can spell them wrong? Why buy a car when you can walk? The downside of our capitalist system, says Bell, “is that we are a little spoilt by excess.” Influenced by counter-culture cartoonists like R. Crumb and Julie Doucet, inspired by Chicago “Imagists” and Ray Johnson, Bell wants to use his “weird stand-alone drawings” – he doesn’t like terms like cartoons, comix, art, or illustrations – to show the other side of culture. Because Bell is part of a very small scene, he has room to work on many projects and not feel threatened by competition. But according to Bell, “Canada seems to be stuck in a bunch of yammering,”he says: the U.S. is far more open to underground art. Regardless, Bell seems to enjoy his niche here in Montreal, making a precarious living off of his own art. When asked if he would like to move away from the DIY scene, he responds, “I’m A-okay where I am, really. [It’s] a pretty good place to be, I think.”

idéographe, a promoter of independent media arts, is a small building sandwiched into a residential block just north of Mont-Royal. It was here, on October 18, in a modest room with only a large projection screen and around 20 chairs, that Mike Hoolboom introduced his book, Practical Dreamers: Conversations with Movie Artists. The book is a compilation of in-depth dialogues with recognized fringe filmmakers. At the launch, Hoolboom introduced three of the artists featured in his book, and screened one of their films. Rather than simply drawing upon passages from Practical Dreamers, Hoolboom had a quick conversation with the three filmmakers standing in front of the projection screen. The artists were asked their opinions on issues such as their place in the sphere of filmmaking and the accessibility of audience viewing. Instead of returning to his already published conversations, Hoolboom drew upon the present. In front of the white screen with the filmmakers, Hoolboom Don’t indie films rely on an projected a new image audience already drunk on – one of immediacy. Practical Dreamers deconstructive cocktails? aims to explore the – Mike Hoolboom belief that, as Hoolboom Author, Practical Dreamers explains, “the more personal a work can be, the more universal it becomes.” Many of the fringe films formed the dialogue between the discussed in the book delve into otter and the muskrat…where one of the personal through reappropria- them quotes Nietzche to the other. It tion. For instance, one artist spoke would have been insufferably pretenabout subverting racist Western films tious.” Hoolboom’s book, like the movby reworking their content, but still using film sets from the originals. He ies he investigates, is not a spoonexplains that the “Native” canvas is fed, time-condensing read. It is a repainted through the formation of a behind-the-scenes guidebook that palimpsest – a text which has been is far from user-friendly. This book reworked many times, but still retains begs its reader to follow the practice traces of past interpretations. This is that it preaches: reading Practical one of the fascinating treats often Dreamers requires stepping into hidden within the lengthy interviews a time vacuum where any definite product is sacrificed for the artisof Hoolboom’s novel. Many parts of the novel appear tic process. While certain parts like excerpts from a movie artist’s are striking, others tend to form a journal, and despite promising a narrative lull. Although Practical jargon-free reading in the book’s Dreamers sometimes lulls its reader introduction, some anecdotes are to sleep, it is a sleep of dreams. The tedious asides. Conversations often conversations are a probing exposé rotate around subverting a subver- into the dreams of filmmakers, and sive film; this peculiar circularity Hoolboom is one hell of a dream reflects some of the bewilderment of interpreter. reading Practical Dreamers. While Some of the artists featured in the detailed makings-of threaten to swallow up the more interesting Practical Dreamers: Conversations points of the book, a slow digestion with Movie Artists are featured on of the conversations proves more the author’s web site, fringeonline. fulfilling than sampling the chapters ca. Practical Dreamers is available selectively. Practical Dreamers will for $29.95 from Coach House Books.

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Culture

The McGill Daily, Monday, November 3, 2008

The 30-day novelist National Novel Writing Month champions whirlwind creative output Aditi Ohri The McGill Daily

ovember is a month overflowing with activity. It houses American Thanksgiving, GIS day (for all you Geography students in the loop), as well as Movember (the Australian moustache-growing competition – celebrated as a beard growing competition in the United States, “NoShavember”). It is also a month of awareness: Pancreatic Cancer Awareness Month, Alzheimer’s Disease Awareness Month, and National Homeless Youth Awareness Month. Luckily for all of us, November just got busier! National Novel Writing Month begins November 1. National Novel Writing Month – affectionately dubbed “Nanowrimo” by its participants and creators – is a 30-day exercise in sheer output. By the end of the month, those who have written and submitted 50,000 words can pat themselves on the back and grin with smug satisfaction. The event functions on an honour system; no one is policing to ensure a simultaneous starting line, although its deadline for submission is absolute: November 30 at midnight. “This is not as scary as it sounds,” says the Nanowrimo webpage – and it’s true! This event is not meant to be an exercise in brilliance, but a tool by which writers with reservations can shake their writer’s block and kickstart their ability to make words appear.

Nanowrimo is not for professionals with a serious ambition to produce incredible work that will forever, indelibly mark the world. Take it from Andrew Campana, an undergraduate student at UofT and a veteran Nano writer. He calls each one of his November novels “a book-length work of deeply flawed fiction.” “I’ve read quite a few other Nanos,” he tells me. “As a rule, they’re awful, but also kind of wonderful. There’s a lot of rushed prose, plots that don’t make sense, and general crap, but there’s always great gobs of raw potential and hints of genius that rise from the muck, always a sense of ‘Oh my god I’m actually writing a novel!’ joy that shows through in every page.” Getting overwhelmed is likely the biggest obstacle to starting any work, be it a novel or your next 30 per cent Poli Sci paper – but the lesson here is to just start writing and let your reservations unhinge: write now, edit later. To anyone writing this November, whether it be a 50,000 word novel

or an epic thesis: keep your pen poised and your keyboard clicking. Good luck! Register to participate in National Novel Writing month at nanowrimo.org.

Aditi Ohri / The McGill Daily

In defense of Jane Doe Shannon Stewart addresses the Pickton murders through poetry

Dana Drori The McGill Daily

alloween has come and gone, and many of you probably dressed up as a “slutty nurse/librarian/maid,” hot vamp, pimp’s ho, boudoir-inspired courtesan – or even an original instance of man’s plaything. Spooky. Perhaps it made you feel sexy, uninhibited, free – if only for the night. And amidst all the candy and alcohol, you might not have stopped

to think about the real implications of the identity you adopted, or how oppressive your costume actually is. And I don’t just mean the corset. The truth is, we rarely stop and think about the meaning behind sex roles that women are placed in. With at least nine deaths a year, prostitution has become the most dangerous job in Canada. STDs aside, sex workers are threatened daily with assault, rape, and murder. And, taking “sex work” off the streets and into the home, we never consider how the social perspective of prostitutes can, and does, affect all women’s sexuality. Vancouver poet Shannon Stewart addresses these issues in Penny Dreadful, her second collection of poems. Named after the genre of cheap 19th century sensationalist magazines, the poems starkly centre on the dangers of prostitution, specifi-

cally the Robert Pickton trial and the 49 prostitutes that he maimed and murdered. The first five poems portray the extremely lurid facts: how Pickton brought these women to his pig farm in Coquitlam, killed and butchered them, and fed them to his boars; how he then brought their remains to a fatrendering plant on Commercial Drive in Vancouver, where he disposed of whatever was left. These opening poems are named after places in and around Vancouver where Pickton did his work. Titles like “Pickton Pig Farm: 953 Dominion Avenue” and “Westcoast Reduction Ltd: 105 North Commercial Drive” place these horrifying events within the normalcy of a city or suburb. These poems do not need analysis. They read straightforwardly and don’t use traditional poetic techniques, but rely instead on blunt

details: lines like “entrails, bones, blood” evoke the horror of Pickton’s actions. And that’s what makes these poems so important – almost 50 women were killed and defiled in one of Canada’s biggest cities, and no one cared. Women continue to be tortured and murdered in our cities, and we don’t acknowledge it, but just “read past / headlines so obscene” and revert back to our day. Stewart reveals this in the succeeding poems, in which she describes instances of daily life and how something like the Pickton massacres can, does, and should seep into our own worlds. This is especially the case for women, who continually define and redefine their sexuality against either degrading or confining scripts. Stewart targets a few in the succeeding poems: cow, slut, bitch, whore,

girl next door, debutante, and even the anonymous “Jane”, a name that pertains to ten different women, including Yeats’ prostitute and one of Pickton’s unknown Jane Doe victims. These are the roles that women are pressured to move between. None are self-determined. So when it comes to women, Stewart’s point is this: no matter who the woman is, so much of her disappears in the role that she is confined to. In the extreme case of Pickton’s victims, the consequences are physical. But a similar principle applies to every woman, in subtler ways. So the next time you find yourself deciding what kind of woman you want to be – if only for the night – define the type for yourself. Penny Dreadful is available from Véhicule Press for $16.

18 Culture

The McGill Daily, Monday, November 3, 2008

Laura Petryshen for The McGill Daily

TRANSSEXUALS IN TRANSYLVANIA The Rocky Horror Picture Show lives on at Montreal’s Rialto Theatre

or those of you who have seen the Rocky Horror Picture Show, you know it’s not about seeing Susan Sarandon in seventies lingerie. The movie aired at the Rialto over Halloweekend; it has become a launch pad for people to experiment with sexuality and gender in ways they might have never before. For one night, those usually confined to their gender-scripts can forego their boundaries without feeling judged or scrutinized. Rocky Horror is a communal experience; a safe place where anything goes and no one feels threatened. Plus, how often do you actually get to be active while watching a movie, to play out the feelings that it evokes? Halloween has become a means for people to embody an attitude they otherwise wouldn’t feel comfortable expressing. Rocky Horror, especially in an alternative and progressive city like Montreal, is even more open to that freedom. And, come on, a little drag is good for you. – Dana Drori

Alexandra Miekleham for The McGill Daily

Compendium!

The McGill Daily, Monday, November 3, 2008

Lies, Half-truths, & Metro-blockhead-ass-brains

I know you, campus buddy Katie Burrell The McGill Daily

Hallowe’en treats 2

40 43 45

That’s right folks, the classic Compendium comic Make Way for Duck was all a dream. Stay tuned for a new edition of Margot Nossal’s Sterling Street every Monday!

Choose Death eyes SSMU club status Winston Jeffries The McGill Daily

ollowing the success of their sister-group at SSMU Council last week, the new student group Choose Death has begun collecting the necessary paperwork to

Across

Regina Phelangi 1

Margot Nossal / The McGill Daily

verybody has a campus buddy – that guy or girl you see everywhere: in the Bookstore, on the lower field, in the Cybertechque. Walking through Redpath to the stacks and he looks up from his spot in the fish bowl – you make eye contact. Exiting the bathroom, he walks bye – eye contact. Climbing the stairs, he’s descending – bigtime eye contact. Taking the same elevator in Leacock. It is so intense. So powerful. It is a silent relationship, but it is strong. And there is more eye contact in it than in a 50 Cent music video. You wonder, “Does he know?” Here’s the issue: everybody at McGill thinks it’s cool to pretend they don’t know you. Campus has this effect on people; one night you’re having fierce disco passion with a tousled hair anatomy major, the next day he walks by you with an obnoxiously blank look that says, “Don’t talk to me please do not address me I am so busy walking to class I cannot stop I am a train.” But he knows exactly who you are, you know exactly who he is. You made out in an alley for two hours. Get real. You know me. To clarify, you haven’t ever made out with your campus buddy. You just happen to have a similar schedule. So when you see him at a house party on Saturday, and you’re a few deep, you decide it’s a perfect moment to vocalize your buddy-ness. Things go really well if, unlike me, your campus buddy isn’t the biggest metrosexual-blockhead-ass-brain at McGill.

So campus buddy has been looking at me across the fucking room all night. Doing the eye contact, pulling the “we kind of know each other, don’t we” face. I’m staring back, thinking to myself, “Tonight’s the night Katie, come Monday, you’ll be saying regular hellos to your campus buddy – on campus.” Then it happens: he walks toward me, he needs to use the bathroom, I’m blocking the door, he’s asking me to move, I’m not moving, I don’t know why I cant move, I wish I could move, I don’t move, I say, “You are my campus buddy.” He says, “What the fuck is a campus buddy?” Really? I thought everybody knew. Maybe it’s one of those things that’s there, but you aren’t supposed to ever talk about. Like fat. I start to explain the “campus buddy” concept to him: “You know, that person you see like five or six times per day, you have the same schedule, but you don’t know each other.” So simple. He gets it after about 20 minutes. By this point I’m starting to question whether I made up “campus buddies” and have actually been stalking this guy. I’m about to evacuate the situation, never to bring up campus buddies ever again, when we have a a breakthrough. He says, “OH! Like that really hot chick you always notice because she crosses paths with you everyday!” Yes! He gets it and is about to tell me he thinks I’m hot and my life is finally coming together and he turns to me and says, “Yeah, no, I’ve never seen you.” Fuck you campus buddy. Its over. I’m taking a new route on Monday.

1. Trig function 6. NBA ancestor 9. Grocery vehicles 14. Alabama town 15. cry 16. Caribbean voodoo 17. Frightening Halloween goodie? 19. Holy city 20. The record man 21. Standard 22. Died down 23. Approximation 25. Hotel California band, The 29. Enclosure 30. Archaic pronoun 31. Story 34. Host 39. Terrifyingly tasty Halloween candy? 42. Promoted 43. Fast feline 44. Freudian error 45. Niihau necklace 47. Investment option 49. Mummy’s Halloween treat? 55. Disconnect 56. Slangy assent 57. Jerk 60. Lifted, so to speak 61. Ingres work, “La Grande “ 63. Pokémon species 64. “For a jolly ...”

apply for interim club status – mostly because the system isn’t online yet. Choose Death’s co-founder and Med II student Hunter Acula said he and the other group members feel their views – that conception begins at death – have been discriminated against in the liberal media. “See, we think like Choose Life,

65. Woo 66. Fights with 67. Crumb 68. Mine passage

Down 1. Swear 2. Carnivorous ocean dweller 3. Thailand, once 4. Ring bearer, maybe 5. “Spare ?” 6. All excited 7. Salves 8. “Raiders of the Lost ” 9. Mixer 10. of light 11. Blood supply, vasa 12. Be silent, in music 13. Block the sun 18. Fluffy dessert 22. Ingested 24. Burst 25. Carve in stone 26. Call to a mate 27. Gunk 28. User of the Force 32. Jellied garnish 33. African antelope 35. Flat-topped mountain 36. Poker action 37. Give off 38. Catch a glimpse of

but opposite,” Acula said. Acula said the group will mobilize around dead women’s rights, since these issues are too often neglected in the abortion debate. “People have this double standard – everyone puts so much emphasis on living people, and none on corpses,” he said.

40. Laziness 41. tunnel syndrome 46. “Yikes!” 48. Morals 49. Transition points 50. Draught 51. Not fauna 52. Relating to thread 53. Actress Winona 54. Bread ingredient 57. “Barbie Girl” band 58. Ride the waves 59. Badger’s den 61. “Look here!” 62. Fifth note on a scale

Solution to “Zombie Life”