Swept Issue 2 Volume 1 - OCTOBER 2013 by Swept Magazine

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Content Local Lit

More Than Words

Mary

Nestling

By: Greg Loon

By: Magda Wolak

Pay Phone 8 By: Jordan Legg

Soup

Space Odyssey

Salvation Mountain

By: Colton Gilson

By: J.P.

By: Rebecca Byers

City Moments 26

News & Opinion

By: Nicholas Lachance

Civics Curriculum 24 By: Alex Lambert

Gun Ownership 30 By: Neil McKenzie-Sutter

Hickeys 32 By: Janie Ginsberg

Meet the Legal Grower & The Medical Marijuana Regulations 36 By: Janie Ginsberg

Subways Can Change A Neighbourhood 40 By: Alex Coop Technology Made Me Literate 44 By: Nicholas Camilleri

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Masthead Nicholas Camilleri Founding Editor

Jen Alvarez Managing Editor - News and Content

Alex Lambert Managing Editor - Copy and Research

Neil McKenzie-Sutter Local Lit Editor

Magda Wolak Content Resourcing

Dona Boulos Feature Reporter

Colton Gilson Cartoonist and Illustrator

Ivan Kostynyk Art Director - Editorial

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No big-bang launch By Nicholas Camilleri

In today’s age where crowd funding and kick-starters are one of the leading methods of getting funding and launching a product, some might wonder why the team here at Swept took the more traditional approach of working from the ground up. The first reason would be that it wouldn’t work. I can see crowd funding’s resourcefulness when a company is trying to launch a new product that will require a lot of development and all the research to go with it, dealing with manufacturers and suppliers and the whole bit, but this isn’t needed to make a digital magazine. As my editor at the Brampton Guardian had always told me, “It’s not rocket science.” Swept, unlike some other ventures, benefits from the lack of hype. The editorial team and I often joke around about how we have a super underground following of Toronto hipsters who talk about our articles and local poetry. We joke because we know our following isn’t nearly that influential. The site hovers around 130 hits a day since the launch in October, with a few spikes where we were in the 500 range. The bright side is our numbers are on the way up and if we keep producing content at the rate we have been we will be able to attract proper advertising and sponsorship. However, from social media, we can see that the networking we do ourselves is reaching people. When Neil first came on board last year, we had a big meeting where we floated ideas about what Swept would be, and what sort of content we were going for. Emotions ran high and we had grandeur visions of what Swept would one day come to be. Since then, we’ve had our share of challenges, and have learned a few lessons the hard way, which is probably the best way to learn a lesson. One of those lessons is not taking too much on by yourself, which is something that as the Founding Editor of this publication, I struggle with often. You may notice a few things are different about this issue. Recently we welcomed Ivan Kostynyk, a designer and brand specialist, as our new Art Director. He is in charge of putting together the magazine visually. While this volume will remain designed for Issuu.com/PDF format, our next volume will be completely digital. We’re looking at different formats to publish with, but it will be digital, and Ivan will be a part of that development.

In addition, we have also brought on a little help for the website. Mike Krupski has been working in the background to tweak our website to serve you better. This week we made a few changes to the front page and have also given readers the ability to comment on posts through their Facebook accounts. Again, I want to highlight the fact that Swept functions as is, without a huge cash flow or state-of-the-art office, yet still our team continues to grow. We recently started a photography series called City Moments where Toronto photojournalist Nicholas Lachance takes to the streets and asks one question to accompany various photos. His first segment is included in this issue. Look forward to more of it! Readers should note that Humber College journalism student Janie Ginsberg has two stories in this issue and is hungry to publish more with Swept. We have also recruited Rebecca Byers, who has been supplying us with some awesome photo journals from unique spots, like Salvation Mountain. As for the editorial team, we continue to plan and plot our next moves and big ideas. We are now writing columns nearly every week and our content flow on the site has significantly risen over the last few weeks. We have content published nearly every day and as always, it will remain free! Make sure to visit the website. As always, be swift and do it live.

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By Greg Loon

Her bones became the ashes of the grailâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s embrace. Her shivery skin in the fogland of the Northern isle. In the glistening minutes of a final day. She wandered off blurrier and into a lambent light. She never opened her eyes. Mother Mary my mother. I will pray the deepest in most days with every sigh. I will always remember you.

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NestLing I sit beside Miss Carr’s tree and count joggers filing them into colour categories of which there are few and all neon— they dance out the figure eights appointed to them by the city their silent waltz no.2 and my knees hurt to think I could run with them as if—

By Magda Wolak

Magda Wolak

I drop— pieces of timbits and bagels in lazy arches to the tap-dancing ducks below webbed heels frozen to ice floats bouncing in quack ecstasy— Home is guilt when I don’t show up above all it is routine— settling into morning into time like a well worn chair to see the same sun everyday and to find it just as special five minutes from now as the day before only difference being bagel flavour (which the ducks pick up on) leaving us quicker than usual because they don’t fancy cinnamon and butter—

The journey from home is soft dictated attendance at 4 am leaning over the loosening railing by the boathouse to look over at the slowly maddening sky— to take pictures of the different tints of pink washing over mostly grey water watching naked 5-people boats their masts piercing clouds like loose porcupine quills—

Trudging through drying ice to return to my puffy wasps nest nestled between fifty others— melting into a single visibility and sameness, with closed eyes I find it tuning my antennae to the hum of my elevators frequency.

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Pay

(A mostly true story)

phone

By Jordan Legg

The Tube doors whooshed open as I let go of the hand rail and stepped onto the Underground platform at the Liverpool Street Station. I walked toward the gate out into the main station and reached into my pocket for the little wallet that held my Oyster Card. Swipe. I had come to the United Kingdom two Thursdays ago with my mom and brother as part of a team of thirty-eight. We were here to do some volunteering for local churches, specifically Saint Paul’s Anglican, offering manpower for a holiday club they were running for local kids in the West End. The trip was almost over, and we had been given the freedom to sightsee for a day or two before heading home. The station was filled with people of all kinds, shuffling briskly from one platform to another. Since my arrival in London a week and a half ago, I had marveled at the city’s diverse assortment of races, languages, cultures, styles, and religions, all gloriously represented across the city’s sleek glass, metal, and chrome transportation systems. I checked my cell phone. I didn’t dare call or text anyone until I returned to Canada, but I was on a time crunch. 5:46 pm. Good. It took me a bit of wandering around to eventually figure out which side of the station I was on, and which side I was looking for. Eventually I was able to match up the street adjacent to the building with the label on my map. Bishopsgate. Facing Bishopsgate. Excellent. A double-decker bus stopped in front of me, and the crowds of people around me piled into its open door. I turned to my left and began to walk. Crossed the street. It started to spit. Brushfield Street. Where was Brushfield Street? By the look of the map, I should have hit it by now. I had spent most of the day touring the Tower of London with friends, and after wandering through the castle, had emerged intent on seeing Platform 9 ¾ at King’s Cross Station, and the British Library right next to it. Earlier on in the trip I had met a man named Keith, who had shown me his copy of the 1529 Tyndale New Testament—an exciting document, both as a religious and a cultural cornerstone of Western thought. I had admired Tyndale for a long time as the first man to use the original sources to translate the Christian canon into English. It was his conviction that there ought to be universal access to sacred knowledge, and to truth in general, because it was universally important. Keith had encouraged me to go to the British Library

and see the original copy for myself, and I had set out alone that afternoon for King’s Cross, on his suggestion. I intended to meet up with our team afterward at a prearranged restaurant at 6. I found Brushfield Street just before my map grew too stained with raindrops, and folded it up before it got any worse. It had already suffered a few rips in the creases, and from what I could see, the route to Brick Lane from here was relatively straight. I was still reeling from what I had seen in that library. Near the entrance there had been an exhibit, free of admission, of all sorts of great historical documents. The Magna Carta. Saint Cuthbert’s Gospel. Bede’s Ecclesiastical History. John Milton’s commonplace book. Early Qur’ans. Early Shakespeare plays. Early drafts of Beatles songs. A first-century manuscript of the Gospel of John. And, of course, one of the three surviving copies of Tyndale’s original New Testament. For me, as a Christian, a history buff, and a student of literature, the place was hallowed ground. I had spent a mere twenty minutes in that exhibit, darting from glass case to glass case in order to see everything I could before I ran out of time and had to meet everyone at the restaurant. Before leaving, I blew my last thirty pounds on a copy of Tyndale from the gift shop. After all, dinner had been prepaid. I passed a large stone church labeled Christchurch, which marked the transition Brushfield made into Fourniers Street. I was getting close, and I felt a growing eagerness to show off my thirty-pound find. I crossed an intersection, only narrowly missed by a passing cyclist. Finally I arrived at the Fourniers Street intersection at Brick Lane. Directly in front of me stood a car park belonging to a Bengali grocery store, on either side of which there was a Bengali restaurant. To my left stood a derelict-looking brick building characterized only by a small sign that said

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Adam Zivo “Brick Lane Jamme Masjid.” I checked the map again and realized that I had committed a horrible oversight. By the look of the map, Brick Lane was a surprisingly long street, and almost every building on it seemed to be in some way related to Bengali food. And while I had remembered the time we were meant to meet at the restaurant, and the street the restaurant was on, I couldn’t remember anything being said about the name of the establishment I was looking for. I wandered past the masjid for a while, hoping that some feature or name plastered above the door of a building might jog my memory. I peered into some of the windows, hoping to see our team sitting down to eat. After a few minutes, I turned around and attempted to look for the same thing in the other direction. No success. I quickly dismissed the option of ducking into every restaurant looking for

our team. That would take too long, and the gnawing, noisy emptiness of my stomach reminded me that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I looked down at the name tag that dangled unnecessarily from my neck. Phil, our team leader, had insisted earlier in the week that everyone write down his cell phone number on the back of our name tags should anything bad happen. Obviously my cell phone would be useless, but it couldn’t be too hard to find a phone booth in the area. Surely they had one back at the train station, if I had to go that far. Taking the map in hand, I walked back the way I had come to Liverpool Street, hoping that I still had enough British coins in my wallet to make that call. Five minutes later saw me standing just inside the station, with my name tag on the top of the pay phone as I scoured my wallet’s change purse, looking for the prescribed sixty pence I needed to make the call. Nickels and dimes—no, they wouldn’t do any good. The two-franc coin a friend had given me as a souvenir from her trip to Switzerland. Twenty pence. Three tens. Two fives. Two more twenties. That would do. I piled the coins into the slot. One, two, three twenties. The coin count on the screen said 40p, and I heard one of the coins rattle in the little box at the bottom of the pay phone. I slid it out and pushed it back into the slot. It fell to the bottom. I gave up and used two tens, and then began to dial the number. It started to ring. “Hello?” Phil’s wife, Lynda, answered in her distinctive Manchester accent. “Hi, Lynda, it’s Jordan.” “Hi, Jordan.” “Hey. Um, I’m at a pay phone in Liverpool Street Station and I’ve forgotten the name of the restaurant I’m meant to be at. Where am I going?” I heard a click, and then the dial tone. “Hello?” I asked. “Hello?” No answer. A phone glitch, maybe? I shrugged and checked the change box, hoping that I hadn’t lost all of my coins. A couple of them slid out. I pushed as many coins as it took back into the slot until the screen said 40p. I heard a clink at the bottom of the box—that one 20p-coin still wouldn’t fall into the machine. I tried again. It still wouldn’t fall in. I checked my change purse again to see if I had missed anything. Still mostly Canadian pennies and a two-franc coin. Crap. I looked behind me at three people sitting on a bench. “Excuse me,” I said. “Do any of you have a twenty-pence coin I could borrow? Just twenty pence, for the phone?” They shook their heads. I asked the question louder to no one in particular, hoping someone might hear me and volunteer. I looked at a man in dark business attire, about to walk quickly past me, and asked, “Do you have 20p, sir?” He stopped, dug into his pocket, and fished out a handful of change, including twenty pence. He handed me the coin and continued on. I breathed a sigh of relief. I slid the coin into the slot and dialed the number again. Lynda picked up again. “Hi, Lynda, it’s me again, Jordan. I’m in Liverpool Street Station, where am I supposed to be right now?” “Brick Lane.” “Yes, that’s the name of the street, but what’s the restaurant?” “Ooh, I don’t know. Hang on a minute, I’ll find out the number for you.” She began to ask someone the number, and then I heard once more that distinctive click.

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Payphone

Seriously? I checked the change box. Empty. My stomach gurgled in frustration. I counted the coins sitting in front of me on top of the phone box. A few ten-pence coins and that one stubborn twenty. I looked at the set of instructions plastered above the phone, and noticed with impatience that I was forbidden from placing more than four coins in the coin slot. Desperate, I turned around to any and all passersby, asking for sixty more pence for the phone booth. One. Two. Three people without any change. Finally someone gave me a fifty-pence coin, and I slid it into the phone box along with a ten. I redialed the number. “Hello?” Lynda said. “Hi, Lynda, what’s the name of the restaurant?” I asked quickly, barely stopping to breathe. “Jordan?” “Yes, what’s the name of the restaurant?” “Are you on Brick Lane?” “No, I’m still at Liverpool Street Station,” I said frantically, fearing that the line would cut out for the third time. “Just tell me the name of the restaurant, I’ll figure it out from there.” Click. “Come on!” I yelled at the colossal ineptitude of the little black phone box, and the whole English phone system in general. In my frustration, I picked up my backpack, the useless coins atop the phone box, and the paper name tag with the number on it, and moved to the pay phone on the other side. I refused to believe that every phone in London would sell me a mere twenty seconds of conversation for what would, in Canada, have bought me at least twenty or thirty minutes. I began to angrily thrust coins into the new pay phone slot, and every time I heard the clink of that stubborn little twenty-pence coin at the bottom of the machine. I took it out and put it back in, took it out and put it back in. Stupid machine. It still wouldn’t make the drop. I gave up and continued to ask passing strangers to spare some pocket change. The humanitarian in me thought, “Hmm, this must be what it’s like being homeless,” but it was drowned out by the madcap, screaming desire to raze the pay phone beside me to the ground with the fireand-brimstone fury of Old Testament judgment. Damn it, didn’t the world know I was hungry? Finally, after a few desperate requests, a passing Sikh man with a red turban and long gray beard offered me the coins I needed. He slid the money into the slot, left, and I dialed the number for the final time. “Hi, Jordan? It’s Mom, Lynda gave me the phone.” “Okay, what’sthenameoftherestaurant?” “Where are you?” “Liverpool Street Station. What’s the name of the restaurant?”

“Okay,” she said slowly, methodically, “I want you to walk down Bishopsgate Road until you come to Brushfield Str—” “No, Mom! I know where Brick Lane is, I just need you to tell me the name of the restaurant, and I can figure out where to go with that.” I barely heard the click before I realized what happened and slammed the receiver onto the hook. I was done with this nonsense. Hopefully by now someone in the thirty-eight-person team would have had enough sense to step out of the restaurant and stand in front of it, so that if I walked up and down the street I could figure it out myself. I picked up my belongings, hung the name tag around my neck, piled the remaining ten and twenty-piece coins into my pocket, and stormed out of the station and into the street. Ten minutes later, I found Lynda walking towards me, willing to embrace me with a maternal hug, in an effort to comfort a frightened little boy who was not so much frightened as he was appalled by the technological incompetence of the British phone system. She pointed to a sign just behind me that said “City Spice” and directed me downstairs where the rest of our team was waiting. I sat down and ordered some curry and pineapple juice, and, still panting and out of breath, related the story to the people around me. When I was finished, the girl beside me asked, “Why didn’t you just ask to borrow someone’s cell phone?”

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SOUP By J.P.

Dear Campbell’s, My name is Joshua, a 23-year-old from Brampton, Ontario. I appreciate your company and the many excellent products you have to offer. This is my story. After a long day, I came home exhausted. Too tired to cook anything extensive I decided to open my cupboard and examine its capabilities. “Campbell’s Chicken with Rice soup! Awesome!” Without hesitation I had the top of the can open with enough speed and precision to leave a NASCAR racing brain surgeon in tears. The can opener was back in its drawer before the soup even hit the cooking pot. I have indulged in this flavour before, but today there was something different. I stir the soup, and I hardly see any rice or chicken. I’m aware of how hard it is to see through the yellowish, deliciously resourceful chicken broth, so I took an educated guess and optimistically told myself “it’s alright, the good stuff is at the bottom!”. I’m a “save the best for last” kind of guy – all the way. That’s why I haven’t married my ex-wife yet, or even met her for that matter. Who needs kids anyway? That’s just more soup I’d have to share, and you can’t pay for child support with soup. So I’d probably be a horrible dad. But I’d have healthy kids from all the salt you’ve taken out of your soups. My children thank you. Anyway, what was I going on about? Save the best for last, right. So I get to the bottom of my bowl and what do you know, there’s a tablespoon of rice and six centimetre squared cubes of chicken! (I didn’t count. I’m just guessing. There might have been eight. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt). However, there was an abundance of carrots! Lots of carrots. I thought there might have been a race war between the carrots and chicken and rice, and the rice and chicken had suffered great casualties in the battle of Campbell, allowing for the carrots to regenerate their population. But then I realized America would never choose to be a healthy vegetable, and I didn’t find any evidence of currency that would lead me to believe they were able to sustain their own economy. And the living conditions inside a sealed can would be treacherous for any living organism. If it was possible they would have had the technology available to open the can from the inside and invade my cupboard. I’m now led to believe that there may have been a problem before the soup entered the empty can. I’ve added the UPC code and manufacturing code as you have requested. Please help the rice and chicken in their fight for equal portion rights, they have been discriminated against by the carrot for far too long. I don’t believe there is any need to get the The United Soup Nations involved. Cream of Broccoli does not get along well with the others. I believe you have enough firepower to handle this on your own. If you require backup or additional munitions, feel free to contact me and I will deploy my platoon of quality control mercenaries on a moments notice. Please keep me updated on your progress with this mission. Best of luck. Yours truly, General Commander, First Rank, Second Cup, Corporal Lieutenant, Private Personnel of the Stomach of our Great Provider

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“Space Odyssey”

Colton Gilson 13

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Salvation Mountain

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Salvation Mountain

Imperial: California’s Last County By Rebecca Byers Situated along the borders of Arizona and Mexico, as well as California’s Riverside and San Diego counties to the north and west, respectively, Imperial County is the most southeastern and last county established in the Golden State. It was added in 1907. However, it seems there is no shortage of ways to describe Imperial County if the name itself doesn’t ring any bells. A part of the Southern California border region (one of nine regions divided for the purpose of geopolitical and economic consideration) and nestled in the Imperial Valley, the descriptor of Imperial County I prefer when describing my experience is the home of both the best and worst smells I have yet come to know. Located within the Colorado Desert, much of the county is below sea level, not to mention the region’s proclivity toward earthquakes, based on its position directly on top of the San Andreas Fault. Our rendezvous down to Imperial County was somewhat a result of happenstance. Having just arrived in L.A. to begin a road trip with my friend Krista, whom had just completed a five-week yoga teacher training in West Hollywood, and having acquired a rental car, we found ourselves

barreling southeast toward Joshua Tree National Park within 48 hours of my arrival on the sticky LAX tarmac. At Café Gratitude for dinner my first night in L.A. with Krista and several of her yoga teacher training companions, the discussion turned to our plans for a Joshua Tree jaunt, to be fuelled by white sage, creamy Jif peanut butter, and chocolate covered almonds from Trader Joe’s. Jesse mentioned the proximity of Joshua Tree to Salvation Mountain, a folk art project located just outside of Niland. I was astounded by the kitsch factor apparent as Jesse scrolled through Google Images to show us a glimpse of Leonard Knight’s legendary artificial mountain conceived to convey God’s universal love.

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In my memory, our transition from Riverside into Imperial County is framed by the seemingly endless rows of wind turbines along the Coachella Valley, through the faded section of highway adorned with flashy signs for the luxurious Palm Springs spas (most things that involve water seem fancy in the desert), a pit stop for WIFI, iced coffee, and gas in Mecca, and a particularly disturbing radio broadcast by a pastor who, while fervently referencing his wife, apparently in the front row, as if to assure us that he was cool with women, described the necessary role of a wife in recognizing her husband as her most true connection to God through the act of obedience and personal sacrifice.

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Salvation Mountain

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Turning off of the road that plays host to a short stretch of storefronts that make up main street Niland, we had barely rounded the corner in our obnoxiously shiny, fresh-out-of-the-box SUV rental car before the imagery of the name “Slab City” began taking shape. The winding desert road connecting main street Niland and Salvation Mountain and the entrance to Slab City is a scene of trailers and dilapidating prefabricated homes, varying between seemingly vacant or with a solitary individual sitting in a lawn chair, sipping a can of beer and staring us down in front of a makeshift wall of tarps or taped together garbage bags. One of the only homes along this strip to have a silver chain link fence is adorned with floral wreaths spelling out “GOD BLESS AMERICA.” A couple feet later a trailer sits silently, a full folding table full of McDonald’s toys out front ready for any potential garage sale patrons but with no seller in sight. As we exhale finally as the road and the car become surrounded by empty, forbidding desert, we silently keep our eyes peeled for what we expected to loudly jump out of the salty, dry, monotone earth, finally a sign reading “Salvation Mountain: God never fails” that looked to be made from papier-mâché entered our view. Whether one is religious or otherwise, Salvation Mountain is a sight to be seen.

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Salvation Mountain

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Made from hay, adobe, and an incomprehensible amount of paint, I’m not quite sure how Salvation Mountain appeared so differently in person than in the images I had seen beforehand, and I’m still not sure; perhaps the images were dated, perhaps too staggered of vantage point. As something that is still taking shape, I imagine many of the photos of the three-story mountain I’d seen didn’t accurately portray its external form that is still now in flux, over 30 years since its creator Leonard Knight began his labor of God-love. Even in person, it’s quite a challenge to process or understand in terms of scale and depth perception. We ran up and down the Salvation Mountain’s “yellow brick road” and I took as many pictures as I could, feeling like I’d stumbled on some great folk art secret. From the top of the hill, you can see far and wide across California’s badlands, like the RVs of Slab City, formerly Camp Dunlap, a U.S. Marine Corps training facility in WWII, (that I wish I could have experienced in a

pre-Breaking Bad world, truthfully, for imaginations sake) as well as the Chocolate Mountains, home of the Chocolate Mountain Aerial Gunnery Range (rumored to be where Navy SEAL team 6 trained for the Osama Bin Laden attack), and a bit of the Salton Sea. Even if I didn’t believe in God’s love, so to speak, I could feel the love that went into that place, as I occasionally glanced at a young couple lazily wondering around the site, on what I assume were mushrooms, and while the gentleman casually strummed his guitar without shoes on.

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Salvation Mountain

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Schools need better civics curriculum By Alex Lambert

The Senate expense scandal currently unfolding in Ottawa is a potential wake up call for many all too trusting Canadians. But besides those in the media, those involved in politics, and political junkies, who’s really following this? Outside of political observers and those who are expected to know, this story’s flying under the radar of a lot of Canadians - definitely the majority of young Canadians, who probably aren’t interested and wouldn’t understand it anyway. Let’s face it, who’s got time nowadays to be concerned with issues like political accountability and transparency? More importantly, who actually cares? Our youth? Fat chance. Many of them wouldn’t even have a clue what accountability and transparency are referring to in this context. And though apathy and lack of comprehension do play a role in a story this big going unnoticed by many, it’s good old Canadian naiveté that’s the real culprit. And in terms of that quality, we Ontarians are probably some of the worst. Many of us trust our politicians implicitly, or have such little understanding of our political systems that we just don’t care to participate, or we do participate, and we end up being totally mislead. So, what’s to blame for this political ineptitude? Well, at least in Ontario, it’s quite obvious that the public school system is the problem. In other provinces, it’s the complete lack of any sort of mandated political curriculum. By this admission, we’re all to blame for not pushing for a more comprehensive politics curriculum, or just to have one at all. The thin gruel that has passed for politics (civics) curriculum in Ontario has been very vague, has done little to explain how Canadian politics functions, and has, at times, been erroneous. But there is hope.

The revisions, made to the curriculum this year, include adding a number of terms, such as constitutional monarchy, responsible government, and parliamentary democracy. An article on tvo.org, written by The Agenda with Steve Paikin producer Hilary Clark, explains that not only were these and scores of other important terms left out of the last version of the curriculum, but it also contained a number of errors, including wan incorrect definition for the term Parliament. Clark’s piece goes on to explain that with Ontario’s old curriculum, textbooks were “uniformly filled with egregious errors” and teachers with potentially little or no knowledge of politics were forced to “rely on flawed textbooks – promoting a vicious cycle of ignorance.” The lack of interest and understanding that follows the kind of education received through the old curriculum keeps our youth woefully unprepared to make informed decisions about how they want to vote. And if choosing to not participate at all is their decision, it’s certainly not surprising. The class that’s supposed to teach them about politics doesn’t do much to make it any easier to understand, so they say to hell with it – they disconnect. And outside of Ontario, they just aren’t taught anything about politics. Undoubtedly, it’s often this frustration with lack of political knowledge that results in many young Canadians choosing to waive their votes. For those who choose to detach from politics completely, being apathetic, naïve and uninformed doesn’t really matter when you’re not voting. But for the ones who don’t completely give up on politics, they’re easy targets left wide open to all the rhetoric, propaganda and spin that politics has to offer – meaning they more than likely won’t be voting for what they think they are, and for that matter, what they want. This debases our democracy, because most of our voting young people are simply unable to see through the bullshit and therefore actually vote for who will best represent them. Don’t think this is just a problem for our youth, though. As a result of such inadequate or non-existent political education, many adults grow up to become overly credulous, and will end up inadvertently voting for who and/or what they don’t want. And as I said before, it’s not just a lack of comprehension and naiveté that are the problem – many Canadians just don’t give a shit about politics. Looking at sheer numbers alone, one can see how bad things have gotten in terms of apathy. The 2008 federal election saw the worst voter turnout in Canadian history, with only 58.8 per cent of eligible voters going to the polls. The turnout in 2011 was 61.1 per cent – only a slight improvement. In Ontario, the 2011 election produced the province’s all-time worst turnout, with only 49.2 per cent showing up. Going beyond the numbers does not paint a better picture. When Statistics Canada asked those who refrained from voting in 2011 why they decided not to go to the polls, more than a quarter of respon-

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dents said they weren’t interested or thought “their vote would not make a difference in the election results.” Nearly another quarter of respondents said they didn’t vote because they were too busy. So what’s clear in all of this is that many people aren’t showing up, many don’t see voting as a priority, and things are getting worse. In any case, the state of Ontario’s civics curriculum (at least before this year’s revisions) and the lack of any civics education in all other Canadian provinces, has resulted in uninformed, disinterested people who are not participating in politics. This lack of understanding, apathy and gullibility opens a treasure trove of opportunity for politicians to lie, cheat, obfuscate, evade, and generally have pretty low accountability and transparency. As I’ve sat and watched the Opposition grill the federal government on the details of Nigel Wright’s payment to cover Senator Duffy’s improperly claimed expenses, I’ve been a bit surprised by what seems like brazen, bold-faced lies coming from the federal government (not to say they have a good record on being honest). But you’d think a more honest approach would be to their advantage at this point. Still, Harper and his proxies in Parliament maintained that Nigel Wright acted alone, took full responsibility for what happened, and that no one else in the Prime Minister’s Office knew about it until well after the deal went down, even while reports had already proven that last part to be false. According to the RCMP, a number of people in the PMO knew about the deal. And beyond what the RCMP knows, I think many of us – myself included – would find it hard to believe that a prime minister as controlling as Harper knew nothing about the deal. Here’s the problem. First of all, many people, and I would argue most of our young people, are unaware of the RCMP reports, and many of them would take at face value whatever comes out of MP’s mouths anyway. Secondly, no one watches the House of Commons. This has become abundantly clear. Question period has deteriorated into the ridiculous farce that is its current form as a direct result of the apathy, credulity and lack of political knowledge in Canada – especially that of our youth. The reason our politicians get away with droning talking points off sheets of paper, lying through their teeth, double-speaking, and incessantly responding with non-answers is that they know no one’s watching. If our youth were actually politically informed and engaged, things would be totally different. If, as a Canadian politician, there was a threat of discrediting one’s self in front of scores of politicallysavvy young minds glued to CPAC, there would be a massive shift forward from the pathetically low level of accountability and transparency seen in Parliament today. These young minds would then grow up to be even better

informed, even savvier voting adults. With all those eyes watching, accountability and transparency would have to be improved. Scandals like the one going on now would spell the end of political careers. So no matter how bad things are right now, I’m optimistic that with better education, this can be a reality. In any case, hopefully Ontario’s civics education will continue to be improved, and other provinces will follow Ontario’s example and move to mandate civics curriculum. It’s inarguable that higher political literacy is in the best interests of our democracy. Still, though I’m ecstatic that revisions have been made to Ontario’s curriculum, seeing a change in our citizenry will take time. As things are now, even though political education in Ontario is beginning to improve, it’s still the only province with mandatory civics curriculum. So for many Canadians, by the time 2015 rolls around, the Senate debacle currently unfolding will be a distant memory. For many others, it will be something they glossed over that won’t have any effect on how they vote. And as scary as that is, it’s just a symptom of the disease of political illiteracy, which will only spread unless we continue to ensure our youth are informed, engaged and interested through better education.

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What is an amazing experience you can share from living in Toronto?

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Actually working here in Kensington Market has been one of my best experiences. You experience so many different cultures in one area, so many colours and sights, sounds and smells. I think working and living in this neighbourhood has been one of my best experiences living in Toronto.â&#x20AC;?

Issue #2

city moments By Nicholas Lachance

Paul Bourne 45 years in Toronto, from Manchester, England

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City Moments

Matt: “It was really cool to go to the Arts and Crafts record label [party] for their 10th year anniversary. They have a big concert at Fort York with all their local bands, so that’s probably up there. Good atmosphere and good vibes.”

Tetyana Heruch 2 years

Angel Liu 15 years

Tetyana: “I like biking around Toronto in the summer. The best place to bike around is in residential areas to look at all the beautiful architecture.”

“I think the most amazing thing that happened to me was one day it was freezing cold in the winter, I was short a subway token and all I had to do was ask someone going to the subway if they could give me one, and they said ‘Of course!’ So that was pretty amazing, I don’t think that happens in other cities.”

Matt Drego 21 years

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Kerry Brock 12 years

Scott Maynard 25 years

“I would say the greatest experiences I have had were at the art festivals the city hosts, like Nuit Blanche - it’s great that the city comes together and puts on these things, and that corporate citizens come on board and help ensure art is accessible to all different kinds of people for that night. It’s a cool experience.”

“I think my favourite experience of living in Toronto was during the blackout. Everything stopped, all the streetcars were just stranded in the middle of the street and everyone came out, no one really knew what was going on. It was sort of like this post-apocalyptic film thing going on. We ended up going to a bar and they were trying to get rid of their beer stock, because it was going to go bad so we ended up drinking beer for cheap, then we ended up at the CNE. They had a generator and had just built the roller-coaster they were going to use for that year, so we just got to ride on the roller-coaster for an hour looking over at the city that was completely dark, except for the business buildings that somehow had their own power as well. But the only places in the city that had power were the business buildings at Bay Street and us on the roller-coaster. So that’s a pretty good one.”

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My Canadian ( And therefore Invalid ) Perspective on Gun Rights In America By Neil McKenzie-Sutter

3-D printer Photo by Subhashish Panigrahi

After recently watching the Vice documentary on 3-D printed guns I decided it was time to write this editorial. Not because I think I can do much to affect the direction of the gun debate in the States, but because I’m seeing and hearing some of the progun dialogue come over here in my personal life and in public discourse since Harper took office and I want it to stop because it’s idiotic, unnecessarily paranoid, and dangerous. I think the pro-gun argument is idiotic because the wording of the Second Amendment of the U.S. Constitution, the basis for the whole pro-gun theology, doesn’t necessarily guarantee individuals the right to bear arms. I’m not a U.S. constitutional scholar or anything like that, but if you read the Second Amendment it only guarantees the rights of states to run well organized militias. There’s nothing specifically guaranteeing individuals the right to own guns. People on the pro-gun side can argue you can interpret that differently and this is true, but it’s also true that for the majority of United States history, the popular legal interpretation of the Second Amendment was confined to the idea of well organized militias. The opinions of private gun ownership advocacy groups were ignored by and large in mainstream American society until about thirty years ago and the Second Amendment’s legal definition was only

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changed to protect individual gun rights in 2008. So what happened 30 years ago? For more than a century the NRA was a group primarily dedicated to gun safety and training, but in 1977 the group was taken over by what was formerly a fringe group of opinion and the group was rebranded into the powerful gun rights lobby group it is known as today. Since the late 1970s, the NRA has spent unspeakable sums of money and has become one of the most effective lobby groups lobbying American politicians and lawmakers to make changes to laws that make it easier to buy and sell firearms. Unsurprisingly, some of the NRA’s most frequent financial donors either are or are connected to the gun manufacturing industry: in other words, the big business of gun sales. This last fact alone, I feel, should almost entirely discredit the NRA-fueled pro-gun argument. It shows that the NRA and other prominent gun advocacy groups are primarily interested in their own gain, not citizens’ ability to defend themselves. However, it seems the pro-gun argument is the third rail of American politics at the present moment – a fact I find upsetting because really, if you actually analyze the pro-gun argument for more than two seconds, you can see what they’re advocating is actually repulsive and asinine. Because really what they’re arguing for is to kill people they don’t like or are afraid of, and that society (in most cases, U.S. Society) would be better off or safer if more people were enabled to kill people they don’t like or are afraid of. This is indeed a repulsive argument, but I use the word asinine to describe it because it also doesn’t hold up in reality. Compared with all other developed countries, the United States ranks first in terms of gun-related deaths. Given this, it’s clear America is not safer because it has more guns. Many on the pro-gun side of things, however, argue that this is a small price to pay for keeping the tyranny of government at bay, but I find this ridiculous as well. I witnessed a great example of this attitude in the reaction to the police handling of the Boston Marathon bombing earlier this year. Upon seeing video of police driving armoured vehicles on the streets of Boston during the episode, Bill Maher (a known liberal voice on some issues) was prompted to say something about the U.S. becoming a police state, and his concerns have been echoed by many others. What makes the situation a police state? The fact the police exist and they’re doing their jobs? This strikes me as a dumb observation. If police hadn’t tracked down the bombers, Bill Maher would complain the government is incompetent, under-equipped and should be doing their jobs better,

so there’s no way government could win in this case. They got the guys. That’s all that really matters to me. But at the same time, why are people so surprised police in the United States are equipped with these kinds of units? The fact that there are enough privately owned firearms in the U.S. for 90 out of every 100 American citizens to have a gun (the highest gun ownership rate of any country in the world) is common knowledge, and as I’ve already said, if police were unaware of or unprepared to deal with these circumstances it would be justly criticized anyway. I could argue facts up and down and sideways all day, but really when you get down to it the pro-gun argument isn’t

based in fact so I want to stop treating it that way. What do you say to the argument that guns don’t kill people? But they do kill people! It’s an argument so ignorant it’s not actually an argument. It’s more like a statement: I don’t care if you’re right or wrong, but I don’t care because I can shoot you. It’s an argument based in fear. Fear of what? I don’t know. But it’s probably mostly fear of unknown scary things. What is the answer to this? I won’t pretend to know, but it sure isn’t guns. I know that much. And I know it starts with education and ideas and engagement. Not hiding out in your basement and waiting for the world end. One final note: while I don’t believe the Second Amendment guarantees the rights of individual gun owners, when it comes to militias, it may actually protect those of paramilitary corporations. If you want to worry about something, you might want to start there.

3-D printed parts Photo by alexpb 31

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hicke

By Janie Gin

Toronto dermatologist Dr. Fred Weksberg

eys

nsberg

Issue #2

Kailia, a 24-year-old student from Toronto, takes us back seven years to the summer after high school graduation, when she was first branded by the mark of passion. “I was 17 and my friends and I pretty much did anything crazy,” she says, “so we decided to meet up with a guy I met on one of those teen dating sites that were popular back in the day.” Ending up on his rooftop patio, the two started kissing and things got a little hot. Kailia told the guy “you can’t give me a hickey though, seriously,” and he kept saying “chill, I’m not. It’s cool.” She returned home to discover an unsightly formation on her neck – it was a hickey and she was horrified. “It was actually the biggest, darkest and most disgusting hickey I’d ever seen on anyone,” she says. The relationship between love and pain – a kiss and a hickey – can be traced back to ancient literature and donkeys having sex. If there was ever anyone ahead of their time in concepts of sexuality, it was Havelock Ellis. Born in the mid1800s, Ellis was a writer, social activist, physician and psychologist whose views on the concepts of sexuality ranged from progressive to morbid. Ellis wrote in Volume 3 of Studies in the Psychology of Sex that the love bite, commonly known as a hickey, was first noticed in the behaviour of many mammals during or before mating rituals.

Ellis points to the exertion of power as one of our most primary instincts. He says we are in line with the ancient traditions of the male to female pursuit – where males delight in domination while females find joy in submission. This rather binary approach is obviously dated by no fault of his own (he’s been dead since 1939), but it does have merit. Today, although the exertion of power is more of a gender free-for-all, the primary impulse of power, as recognized by psychologists, is ultimately driven by love. Hence the term love bites. What better way to talk about the things we do for love than reference the sacred Kama Sutra. In The Kama Sutra of Vatsyayana, we come across the fifth chapter – “On biting, and the means to be employed with regard to women of different countries.” Although the latter is irrelevant, the former is quite interesting. According to the ancient texts, all places that can be kissed are in fact all places that can be bitten, except of course the upper lip, inside of the mouth, and the eyes. Gouging someone’s eyes out with your teeth is definitely not sexy.

It was not uncommon, Ellis stated, for the male to have the female’s neck between its teeth in order to obtain a firm grip prior to doing what they do on the Discovery Channel.

A good bite and skin suckle ideally needs to be performed by excellent teeth free of defects, according to the Indian sex gods.

Essentially, we can thank the scientists who have spent countless hours watching donkeys have sex for providing insight into the origins of hickeys.

The next time someone tries to give you a hickey, do a thorough inspection for the following things: teeth equality, pleasing grades of brightness, proper proportions, and sharpness.

With that being said, the indulgence in such acts of sadism in humans is pretty normal. According to Ellis, the association between love and pain occurs among normal civilized men and women who possess well-developed sexual impulses.

If hickeys don’t get you going, then your hickeygiver most likely has blunt, protruding teeth that are both rough and soft, large, and loosely set – how unfortunate.

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Hickeys

The Kama Sutra goes on to list the different kinds of biting. The “hidden bite”, with a description that closely matches that of the modern day hickey, is a bite “which is shown only by the excessive redness of the skin that is bitten.” Those who are looking for a more lasting effect would perform a modified version of the “coral and the jewel”, which is meant to be imprinted on the cheek. This is done by “bringing together the teeth and the lips…where the lip is the coral, and the teeth the jewel”, as the ancient texts describe. The Kama Sutra gets an A for creativity, but how are hickeys actually formed? Why does your neck resemble a red gradient artist’s pallet after a night of heavy petting? Toronto dermatologist Dr. Fred Weksberg has the answer. As we sink comfortably into his leather couches he lays out a handful of almonds and munches on them between our conversation. His voice is both soothing and informative – a perfect doctor voice. “A hickey is a type of bruise,” he says.

He goes on to explain that little blood vessels under the skin are fragile, especially in thin-skinned area like the neck (a hickey magnet). If enough tissue is injured, the blood vessels will break and cause some bleeding under the skin, creating a red patch. This is called a hickey, he says. Weksberg says the most common way to acquire a hickey is from suction, biting, and very forceful kissing. What question does a doctor get the most from his hickey-bearing patients? How to get rid of it.

He laughs and says the only way to really get rid of a hickey is to not get it in the first place. There is no quick way to get rid of a hickey, “it’s just like a bruise and bruises will go through certain phases of fading – first red, then dark blue, gradually becoming green and yellow because that’s what happens when you get red blood cells that start to degrade,” says Weksberg.

The best thing you can do if you see a hickey forming immediately is to put something cold on it and apply pressure to encourage coagulation of the blood vessels, he says, “but most of the time what’s done is done.” However, motivated by desperation and fear of judgment, some people succeed with hasty remedies – Kailia being one of them. “I took a hair brush with really hard bristles and started to brush the hickey in a downward motion,” she says. “After that I decided to try a quarter. I basically stretched the skin with one hand and combed the hickey with the other as hard as I could.” Sounds painful. Worried about potential bruising from the procedure, she slept with a bag of ice on her neck, and to her surprise it was completely gone the next morning. This process worked for Kailia, but how does the doctor feel about home remedies? In his experience, different ways of spreading around the blood vessels doesn’t usually do much. Skeptical of such home remedies, Weksberg says “the problem with that is that you can damage the skin even more by pressing hard and trying to flatten out the blood cells.” He is especially doubtful of remedies that claim to work 24 hours or more after acquiring the hickey, such as popping pills to accelerate healing.

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“I don’t think that taking aspirin after a number of days is really going to do much. In fact I think taking that can make it even worse because the blood vessels are still pretty fragile, so once you have a bruise and you start taking aspirin there’s a potential for the bruise to get bigger,” Weksberg says. Love bites might be fun, but passion trumps the consideration for placement any day. Do you think the Kama Sutra researchers stopped mid-heat to think about where to put the coral and the jewel so your boss doesn’t see it tomorrow? Sara, the 24-year-old manager of a Toronto BCBG Max Azria store, knows all too well what happens when employees show up with love marks. Sara has worked in retail for six years in five different stores, and for three of those she was in a managerial position. We went through the employee handbook and came across the “Personal Appearance” section. It stated, “As a representative of BCBG Max Azria, appearance, style and personal grooming are all indicative of the company’s standards. All associates shall comply with the image and personal presentation guidelines while on company time.”

“Hickeys are a grey area because it doesn’t directly say in the wardrobe guidelines that you can’t come to work with a hickey on your neck, so if you come in with one I can’t necessarily send you home on those grounds alone,” she says. The good news is, “more often than not employees are embarrassed by it so they’ll already have it covered up and dealt with before work,” she says When you get down to it, hickeys are all in good fun if you nip responsibly. The power play involved is rooted to the survival of our most primitive practices of courtship. Like Ellis said, “if a man is convinced that he is causing real and unmitigated pain, he becomes repentant at once. If this is not the case he must either be regarded as a radically abnormal person or as carried away by passion to the point of temporary insanity.” From the way I see it, for the most part, it’s a harmless act and if you have a radically abnormal person sucking on your neck you’re pretty much screwed from the start anyway.

Reflecting the brand is key. We talked about what steps a manager should take when confronted with a love bite ridden employee. First, she says, ask what happened because you cannot assume the mark was formed in an inappropriate way. If they admit it is indeed a hickey then you can ask them to cover it up, preferably with makeup or a scarf. Okay, say that they admit to it but refuse to comply. Then what? Sara says you actually can’t do much about it because hickeys in the workplace, as frowned upon as they are, kind of lay in a grey area.

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Mike Federman

Issue #2

Meet a Legal grower & canada’s new marijuana regulations

By Janie Ginsberg

He starts to roll some grass and I hold the lighter – it’s We walk downstairs to his a joint effort. After lighting up, he enthusiastically hands me Toronto home’s basement and a folded piece of paper from his wallet. It’s a license for medical marijuana that he uses to battle chronic back pain caused sit on leather couches. I feel by a compression fracture in his spine. of an herbal variety fills the air and the aroma instantly comfortable. Across and focusSmoke in the room instantly changes. I’ve never seen a man more excited to talk business – from me is Mike Federman, weed business, that is. who is a licensed marijuana “The new regime gives us a chance to explore new medical applications that allow for alternative treatments of grower under the current conditions that were previously unable to be treated,” he says. Due to new regulations introduced by Health CanaMarihuana Medical Access effective Oct.1, the old system that relied on homegrown Regulations program (MMAR). da, medical marijuana operations will be replaced by the Marihuana for Medical Purposes Regulations (MMPR), which will commercialize the industry, according to Canada’s minister of health, Leona Aglukkaq. According to the Health Canada website, new regulations will “change the way Canadians access marihuana for medical purposes by allowing for the creation of a system of supply and distribution by licensed producers.” These rigorously regulated licensed producers – appointed to produce medicinal pot for users with prescriptions – will take over the designated personal production role. Federman was one of these designated producers, but is now applying to be an Alternate Person in Charge

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“

Meet a Legal Grower & Canada’s New Marijuana Regulations

It’s a very speculative business environment, but then that’s where the real money is...The investors who are looking at this market right now may do very well if they plot a favorable course through the red tape and regulations. Jeffery Rybak

”

(someone responsible for supervising activities at a cannabis production site when another supervisor is absent) at a new facility that is in excess of 100,000 square-feet (pending approval from Health Canada). He is now part of a team consisting of doctors, security specialists, and marketing and sales professionals – currently being advised by Ron Marzel, a lawyer who has successfully fought for critically ill patients to be able to access a safe, sufficient and quality-controlled supply of affordable pot. The group is now working towards a collective goal of providing the highest quality medical cannabis for those who need it. The Canadian Press reports that there are currently 156 applicants for the new large-scale grower licenses, with two companies already approved in Saskatoon. Federman’s group is one of the companies awaiting approval. He says they are in the middle of a $2 million to $3 million application process that includes acquisition and setup costs. Statistics from Health Canada show there are currently 37,400 people qualified to use marijuana for medical purposes. However, by 2024 this number could increase to as many as 450,000. Under the new rules patients will have to go directly to designated growing centres to buy their drugs. Patients currently in the system will have to destroy home crops by March 31, when Health Canada plans to have phased out the old MMAR regulations. Police officials have raised serious health concerns regarding the production of medical marijuana in private dwellings (as permitted by the old MMAR). These concerns include “the presence of excess moisture in homes creating a risk of mould (particularly associated with drying of marihuana); electrical hazards creating a risk of fire; and exposure to toxic chemicals like pesticides

and fertilizers creating risk to residents…”, according to Health Canada. In Abbotsford, B.C., police services reported an electrical fire at a licensed residential grow-op caused by extremely high voltages coming into the building on Feb. 12, 2013. Police officials also say the old program was vulnerable to criminal abuses – mainly the diversion of cannabis to the illicit market. The state of the old program also poses other obvious public safety concerns, such as grow operations and nearby residences being susceptible to robberies and other criminal activity. As a result, an integral part of the new law focuses on tough rules. Under the new regulations, growers will have to keep record of their inventories, ship products by secure delivery service, and heighten security. The hope is that privatization will ensure a higher level of supervision, eliminating dangers that plagued the old MMAR regulations. As Federman talks about his budding business, he says, “Our security measures will not only meet Health Canada requirements, but will exceed them.” Federman’s new facility will include perimeter fencing, biometric numeric access, a reinforced vault for storage, drive-in bays for delivery, extensive surveillance cameras, 24-hour security, and limited access for employees. One of their top security professionals came out of retirement just to be a part of the venture. Federman says the man was previously in charge of security at a major federal institution with one of the highest levels of security clearance. Despite the new security requirements, Health Cana-

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da says they are placing no limits on the number of these new capital-intensive facilities, and under the new regulations, producers are able to set their own prices. Capital-intensive is an understatement. Federal projections expect revenues to hit $1.3 billion per year by 2024. How will this effect prices? Currently, medical pot in Canada is sold for $5 a gram. Compared to the average of $10 a gram for dried bud on the street, that’s pretty cheap. However, the cost will go up as producers set their own prices. Health Canada predicts that the cost of the new legal weed should start at $7.60 per gram, but could drop even lower over time. Sophie Galarneau, a senior official with Health Canada, in an interview with The Canadian Press, said competition fostered by a free market will keep prices controlled. Federman passionately supports the idea of a free market dictating the prices of medicinal pot, and says that’s the way it should be. “With a self-regulating market creating competition, people will know exactly what they’re getting at the quality they demand,” he says. “It’s all about control.” The new regulations are an entrepreneurial dream. Jeffrey Rybak, a business law lecturer at the University of Toronto, says there is a lot of interest in getting in on the ground floor of this industry because businesses are optimistic about changes in the future. “It’s a very speculative business environment, but then that’s where the real money is,” says Rybak. “The investors who are looking at this market right now may do very well if they plot a favorable course through the red tape and regulations.” Large rewards in the future, for businesses like Federman’s, are imminent. With the medical marijuana industry already burgeoning in Canada, the prospects are great

“

...an integral part of the new law focuses on tough rules. Under the new regulations, growers will have to keep record of their inventories, ship products by secure delivery service, and heighten security. The hope is that privatization will ensure a higher level of supervision, eliminating dangers that plagued the old MMAR regulations.

for these businesses if cannabis also becomes legal for recreational use. Federman points to recent law changes regarding marijuana in the United States as an inspiration. “The minute that I saw Colorado and Washington change laws from medical to recreational, that was the first brick in the wall that came out, the first brick that signaled the beginning of the end of prohibition,” he says. It seems that support by business and educational professionals is growing. Rybak points to the fact that every major political party in Canada is in favour of either legalizing or decriminalizing marijuana – except the Conservatives. “We’re fairly confident that we’ll have a healthy commercial industry in time,” Galarneau told The Canadian Press. As much as Rybak supports the new laws, he is quite skeptical of the current government’s ability to turn medical marijuana into a healthy commercial industry. “I really don’t think it will reach nearly the number of patients some are predicting,” he says, “but if it reaches even a few more, that’s still better than the current state of affairs.” Also, let’s not forget the enormous potential for advancement in medical research that the new regulations could allow. Federman bluntly states he loves pot just as much as he loves helping people. As lucrative as this opportunity is, his ultimate goal is to help increase people’s quality of life. Plagued with anxiety? Look to the Pharaoh. Tutankhamen, Charlotte’s Web and Satori are just a few of the large range of strains with varying strengths that his team plans to grow. They will have an in-house lab to analyze percentages of elements such as THC – often used to soothe pain – and a component called CBD, which is shown to control epilepsy. This makes it safer and allows them to create strains that target different ailments. Federman wants to focus on children with epilepsy, creating strains with a high percentage of CBD in order to combat seizures. Rybak reminds us that medical marijuana is not a myth. “It can help people undergoing chronic care to function without the worse side effects of barbiturates,” he says. Lighting up another joint, Federman puffs with an introspective gaze and explains: “The more the public hears about marijuana in the media and medical community, the more they become desensitized to the fact that it was thought of as an immoral drug at some point. They are now seeing light…it is much less dangerous than alcohol and tobacco and so significantly less addictive that it can be managed and consumed by employing methods that reduce side effects while enhancing the benefits.”

” 39

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subways can change a neighbourhood By Alex Coop

Issue #2

Shaughnessy Boulevard is a quiet, suburban area nestled within the North York community a few blocks away from Sheppard Avenue East. It’s where my family and I lived for nine years after moving from Hungary. After those nine years, we moved to a small town two hours north from the city right after the SheppardYonge subway line opened. Today, Shaughnessy remains largely the same as it did back when I lived there; quiet, diverse – with townhouses and apartment buildings breaking up the pattern of regular houses dotting the silent streets – and green, with many trees looming over the neighbourhood. Travel a bit further south however towards the Fairview Mall, and drastic changes begin to take place. The “Stubway” has lingered in the east end of Toronto since 2002, and has quietly transformed the immediate area surrounding the stations on the subway line, including Sheppard and the Fairview Mall area, into the familiar inner city jungle it is today. Construction is non-stop, high-rises spike out of the ground in every direction like stalagmites, and that exclusive sensation I felt back in the day was immediately lost as I returned to the neighborhood a few days ago. Prior to the emergence of the Sheppard-Yonge subway extension, the area felt more exclusive, even around the Fairview Mall where most of the bustling activity occurred. There were no condos surrounding the shopping centre, and it still felt like you were part of a relatively unique area. There was the suburban hub where I lived, the Peanut Plaza which offered residents a small dosage of everything from groceries to clothing, and a few blocks south of it was the Fairview Mall for all your other needs.

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Subways Can Change Neighbourhoods

“ “Subways are suitable where you have high-density populations, and conversely, wherever you have subways, you attract high density populations,” said Vice-Chair of the North York Community Council, John Parker. “Sheppard would be a far more attractive roadway if it consisted of a corridor of mid-rise buildings, rather than nodes of high-rise buildings.” The affluent Bayview Village community was once home to a variety of homes, and I travelled there often for dentist appointments as a kid. It had executive and raised ranch-style bungalows, split-level houses, and garden design

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The way it sits now, it’s kind of a wasted line,” he said. “Aside from rush hour, there are usually only two or three people on the platform with me.

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Subways aren’t the only way of doing this. They’re a particularly expensive way, and for the same investment of dollars we can achieve a lot more satisfying results if were to go light rail...

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homes. Since the introduction of the Sheppard-Yonge line, it’s been blitzed by high-rises, completely clashing with the park-like vibe the area embraced in the past. Nonetheless, some people have certainly taken advantage of their existence. When moving into the Bayview area, Aida Ghassemzeadeh knew exactly where to look for a new home, and has seen the same pattern in other people’s search for a new household too. “I think most people move into these high rises because they’re so close to the subways,” she said. Long-time resident of Shaughnessy Boulevard, Karifa Magassouba, has witnessed this gradual transformation around the Fairview Mall area, as well.

“It seems like buildings upon buildings are being built constantly, to the point where if you go out on to your balcony hoping to get a view of the city, you’ll be looking into someone else’s place,” he said. “The mall is also more fashion-oriented than it used to be, and has a very clean and modern look. There’s a noticeable difference in culture in the area.” This was evident during my walk down the mall recently. It used to be a place families could go to together, with stores for children and adults alike. I remember the large Disney store on the second floor, an arcade, alongside a bunch of other toy stores. There were of course several clothing stores and other outlets geared towards adults, as well. The Loblaws was a nice touch too, but even that’s been replaced by Sport Chek. A Toys Toys Toys and a Lego store exist in the mall today, but the family tone seems to have taken a back

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seat to the health and beauty, jewelry, and clothing apparel stores that now dominate the entire mall. I’m not suggesting that malls are the place to go for family outings, but it had a noticeable charm years ago that invited people of any age to spend time there if they wanted to. The mall is slick and stylish now, no doubt, but it vaguely resembles its former self. Councillor Parker believes this change in culture comes as a direct result of a subway line running through the community. “The single biggest factor in determining the shape and growth of any city is the kind of transit system we lay down,” he said. “It’s not just a matter of figuring out how to move a lot of people a long distance as quickly as possible. That is a part of the task, but not the most important one. The most important part is recognizing that we’re building a city, and when we plan a transit system we’re also laying down the fundamental structure that will greatly influence everything around it.” The effects of subways on their immediate surroundings are clearly visible, and have greatly changed certain aspects of the communities that house these stations. However, when you’re actually travelling along the SheppardYonge line you realize it’s often quite barren. The eerie silence consumes stations and subway cars along the line for hours, at times, making you feel like you’re in a cave rather than a subway station. Even at peak hours when it’s at its busiest you will find a spot to sit during your travels, unlike the transit on the Bloor-Danforth line, where you’re on the verge of being squeezed out the door. According to the TTC ridership archives from 2012, the King streetcar had an average daily ridership of 57,300. Parker said this number is greater than the daily ridership of the Sheppard subway line. Adam O’Brian, who’s lived in Toronto for 20 years, said the line would serve a greater purpose if it ran through Yorkdale out towards the west end of the city. The planned subway extension of the Scarborough line is often criticized for being too expensive, especially for what the extension is offering. The five-stop Sheppard line came with a price tag of $875 million. The proposed Scarborough extension, which city council voted for over an LRT extension, will only have three stops and will cost the city $3.5 billion. Though the “Stubway” line may seem like a wasted opportunity to some, it will shine in terms of money well spent next to the Scarborough extension, which the city is still struggling to find money for. Subways and high rises aren’t evil entities that need to be banished, but they don’t necessarily fit in certain places

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It’s a terribly expensive business, and we have to consider the impact on the surrounding communities and the type of development that will follow the kind of transit we put in place...

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they occupy today. A combination of light-rail transit and subways could beautifully weave a city together. We’re past the point of no return in certain areas now where subways have been built, but as the city moves forward with the Scarborough extension and future transit projects, it should look at the example left behind by the SheppardYonge line. It’s fast, flashy and convenient for many people, but it’s brought about a series of culture changes and high rises to the North York community that likely wouldn’t have emerged if it weren’t for the subway line, which isn’t even being used to its maximum potential.

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Technology made me literate

By Nicholas Camilleri

I was never a big reader as a child. I think I finished my first novel in grade six and if it weren’t for the Ritalin, I doubt that I would have actually made it to the end. I don’t even remember the title. When I was young and living in a house with a tech junkie for a father, video games were what I did with most of my spare time. And when you’re a kid, that’s pretty much all of the time. A while ago I came to the startling realization of how fundamental those games were in my reading skills.

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Sure, I didn’t have my nose tucked in a book all the time. In fact, I never did. My eyes were locked on to a 20inch TV, and my ears always attentive to 8-bit soundtracks. My personal favourite was Mighty Morphin Power Rangers: The Fighting Edition. I could still listen to the whole soundtrack of that game. Anyone who has ever played a role playing game before voice overs were implemented into the gaming scene knows that most often you were left reading lines and lines of dialogue in between battles. Early on, I learned rapidly pressing A in an effort to skip the dialogue and storyline was probably a bad idea. You had to pay attention. This is true of games like Zelda, Dragon Warrior, and one that I probably paid the most attention to: Pokémon. Pokémon helped in establishing my ability to read as the dialogue between characters often hinted at the main objective and usually where your next check point would be. I never had the luxury like many other kids I knew whose parents would drop $30+ on a strategy guide, forcing me to read through every line of dialogue in an effort to understand my character’s goal or how to solve the puzzle. We often hear about kids spending too much time playing video games. And I, for one, would have been a prime example of one of those kids. As a generally shit-headed kind of kid who didn’t care about anything academic until the last year of high school, it’s pretty ironic realizing that video games not only boosted my reading skills, but perhaps contributed to my love of words today. Now, while video games aided in my ability to read, they certainly didn’t help my writing skills. Getting into journalism was a rude awakening to how rough my writing actually was. For a long time, I was 1 of doze ppl who fail @ writin n shittt. I was roughly 15 when I noticed that some people I chatted with through text messaging and ancient software like MSN actually typed properly. Seeing proper grammar and spelling in messages kind of made me feel stupid and incompetent. It was spending time having convos with individuals who could actually write that made me want to brush up on my spelling and grammar habits. But don’t get it wrong, I am still an abuser of LOL (it’s bad). However, I can’t give Pokémon credit for all of my skills in English. It was my college creative writing classes and literature analysis lectures that had turned what I thought was merely a creative art into a series of graphs and equations. This wasn’t just your regular S-V-O bullshit. This left your brain reacting to sentence structure like it was algebra.

The most important thing I learned in those lectures is something fundamental to being a “good” writer: the ability to face and accept criticism, and make the edits. And despite Microsoft Word calling out your spelling and grammar mistakes, it can’t tell you why something doesn’t make sense (although I’m sure we are not too far off). A program will never suggest that you try another setting or give a bit more on a character’s background, and most importantly, it will never tell you it really liked your piece. In addition, what you’re reading now isn’t even the original document I wrote, and was proofread and edited by the lovely Kate McCullough (@katemccullough) who does what Word can’t – break your soul and tell you to try harder. Even after years of doing this whole writing thing, I could always use a copy edit, and in my case it’s a necessity as I do a poor job of editing my own work. I didn’t exactly grow up in the LeapPad generation, and I can only think about how fast today’s children pick up not just reading skills through technology, but also other skills in terms of math, physics and dexterity. I wonder what the average age is for a child’s first Google search. I still remember my first Google search when we got dial-up installed in the late-90s, and ironically enough it was “Pokémon cards”. I sat there for hours and just drooled over the holographic cards in the image section. I imagine many eightyear-olds nowadays search “COD hacks” all the time. Technology helps people with learning, but it still doesn’t have the ability to criticize – yet. Still, we aren’t too far from the inevitable emergence of sophisticated AI – just look at the simple AIs in our phones and things like Kinect for Xbox. Have you seen the stuff that comes out of the Boston Dynamics factory? One day, just as we use technology as an aid in academic development, we will have to help technology in understanding criticism. Until then, I reserve my judgment for these eight-yearolds who play Call of Duty and insult every other player they meet. If they can brag about their 20-1 odds, they are way ahead of me in terms of math skills when I was that age.

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