VIDEO REVIEWS

Lord of the Flies

If you've read the book, now watch the movie. It's almost the same except you don't have to turn any pages.

Lord of the Flies is an example of excellence in film making. Based on the Nobel prize winning novel by William Golding, it suffers only slightly in its translation to the big screen.

 Following closely the original scenario, and retaining an atmosphere of terror and mounting tension, we are taken into the inner world of self, where a wild beast lies in wait, much pimpled and suffering from bad breath. The gradual descent into the inane realm of primeval savagery by a group of British school boys, the deadly and thought provoking climax, is chock a block with powerful imagery and symbolism. Watch it and weep.

Rating: Five dead fish.

Up in Smoke

Due to a new law recently passed by the very sensible Conservative party, it is now illegal to watch other people smoking naughty looking substances. We therefore do not recommend this movie to any one. It has come to our notice though, that due to a slight oversight on the part of the very sensible Conservative party, it seems to be merely the watching that is against the law, and not the smoking. We consequently suggest that you roll a big fat joint, laced with a liberal sprinkling of dried camel droppings, sit back with all your friends, and get stoned out of your little heads. Next you should pretend that you are in the process of viewing this neat movie, which is all about two people who never know what the movie is about. Invent some good bits and chuckle. Giggle at an imagined nude scene which features strange devices and slippery lubricants. Go to the toilet during the slow bits. Imagine to your hearts content. Best of all, in fact better than best, laugh your heads of at all that hysterical stuff they forgot to put in the actual movie.

Happy viewing.

Rating: Two dead fish.

The Razors Edge

Do you like films with blood and guts and bad people exploding all over the screen? Do your knees throb with delight when you see darling people who drive fast cars, engrossed in peculiar pass times and other people's bare bodies. Do you just love to see those Hollywood bimple pushers and Neolithic nincompoops all frolicking about on the screen? If your answer is, "Yes yes and yes!" don't bother to watch this one.

The Razors Edge, a dramatisation of W. Somerset Maugham's classic novel, moves by degree through the story of a mans quest for truth. (And if you believe that you’ll believe anything). Starring Bill Murray in his first serious roll, (his mother said he had to), we watch as this thoughtful American turns from the frivolous and trivial life style of his contemporaries, moves to Paris, and begins to seek out the way to enlightenment. It is a journey into new landscapes of culture and religion, which offer our protagonist a variety of beaten tracks and trails.

Rating: Four dead fish.

Jagged Edge

Jagged Edge, starring Jeff Bridges and somebody else, is one of those American movies made by a bunch of people wanting to make lots of money. They probably did it too. This is a fine suspense thriller which, perhaps unwittingly, gives hint of the obtuse levels of deception and egoistic mania we are all capable of.

The basic idea behind this engrossing movie is did he do it or didn't he. Did the smooth talking and likeable Bridges murder his millionaire wife, as accused, or was it someone else. Further more, will his cute and cuddly lawyer decide she will reveal more than her briefs? and if so will he notice? Will the judge order they stop beating about the bush? and will they, instead, use whips around a tree? Why does he consistently hide his left molar when smiling? and his big toe when laughing? This is a film posing many questions, and does in fact manage to answer most of them. One point however is left unresolved: Who's paying for the pop corn?

Rating: Four dead fish.

If it's hard -it must be love

Freshly Cut Grass

The air sings with the fragrance of freshly cut grass. As a backdrop to other things, children are working hard at play, swinging too and fro, running and skipping; there are toddlers who toddle and mindful mothers who watch on in painful and patient distraction. The sun is everywhere: in the corners of the pavilion, bearing down on the tennis courts, caressing the flower beds, the convection of its heat pulling at the carpet like lawns, dragging out bodily its scent.

Meanwhile the park keeper potters about, the days work done, reluctant to leave His eternal garden with its endless memories. All His life, or so it seems.

"There's no place quite like it," He thinks in paraphrase. "A world within a world within a world." And on a day such as this He feels it His. His.

Standing in the shade of elm He drifts away, and almost never comes back. He half watches half feels the bumble bees bumble about from flower to flower, as if in search of something, but they appear, as usual, unsure precisely what.

Else where there is great inactivity, and everyone is busy doing it to a degree close to perfection.

The park keeper, a simple man in blue overalls, T- shirt, straw hat, blue pumps and pockets full of silence, seeks out the cool of deeper shadow, retiring to the hidden security of His tool shed, where He sits in the stripy curve of a well worn deck chair. Door ajar, pipe smouldering, gazing out into the summery world through eyes bright with the light of nearly wisdom, He surveys His universe with unhurried care.

A days grass cutting concluded, the park keeper presently plays part of an extra, superfluous to the tale's needs, and knowing this he fades from focus.

 

Over aways, cross legged, mounted on a blanket and hiding on the inside of a book, sits the person of Doris, who, like her name, is of another age. On display, for the world to see, like a dusty exhibit in the quiet unvisited corner of a dead museum, she awaits the attention of an appreciative visitor. She will wait all summer if needs be. Needs be.

These days, on those rare occasions, during those hot, sticky, sweat filled interludes, she has a strange feeling the men she sleeps with are simply having sex with them selves. She feels like an incidental, an accidental, an irrelevance. It seems to her a solitary sport.

Thirty one years old, she wears shoulder length hair of a blondish tone, which is to say, muddy. Doris uses expensive "Botanical Formula" hair conditioner, imported from Sweden, which makes the blonde streaks shine and sparkle like golden rays of summer sunshine- or so it says on the bottle. Like her age she is not fooled by it, but buys the stuff, and in quantity, anyway, anyway.

It is Friday afternoon. All of it. Doris nibbles half heartedly on a cucumber sandwich, its crust removed, and sips hot black coffee from a thermos with similar lack of will. She inhales the fragrance of freshly cut grass, and feels the force of its intoxication take hold. Thus, inebriated, it pulls her back through time, through a life time of parks and cucumber sandwiches, to a place where the pain and the wanting bleeds from her mind, draining the life force in its scarlet stream. To a place where her emotional demise first shook her by the hand, and would not let go. Through the years she tumbles, and seeing the ground coming up fast she gives out a cry, for she has reached a time when she knew life, felt life.

 

Even in those days she was not the prettiest of girls. Not quite ugly, she possessed an air of plainness that others found difficult to breath. It was the nineteenth of July. Doris was twenty years old. She checked her watch distractedly. She was feeling ill, physically sick, needing to vomit. The park keeper was busy cutting the rich green grass of summer England. Filling the air with its sweetness, its foul smelling sweetness, the strands of grass fell in a parody of mutilation. She hardly saw any of this. Him. Doris was an atheist, and anyway, her eyes were focused somewhere distant, where no one else could see. Perhaps she had glimpsed her future. Doris, impatient, wandered over to the park shop where she bought a cup of Styrofoam coffee. She sipped its sweet bitter flavour, swallowing as if sensing the emotional drought that would one day come. She was sad, mindlessly sad. Worried, mindlessly worried. She needed to cry, but there was no one to see her tears, so she held them back. How long would he be? She had said eleven o'clock an it was already ten past. Maybe he wasn't coming. Maybe he didn't care. Maybe he wasn't coming. Maybe he didn't care. Maybe he wasn't coming. Maybe he didn't care. Then she saw him, walking beside the rose beds with hands lost in his pockets. Doris calmed to a state of panic.

"Hello Jeff."

(At last).

"Hi," he told her. "What's wrong?"

"Sit down," she said.

(Calm down Doris. Take it easy. Do it properly).

He sat.

"How are you?"

(Delay the moment. Beat about the bush).

"I'm okay. What's it all about?"

"It's nice today. They're cutting the lawns."

(I wonder if he can see it in my eyes? If the fear is written on my face?).

It was, but Jeff could not read.

"I don't have too long you know. They'll miss me at work."

"Oh."

(You hate the place anyway).

"What's wrong?" he was eager to get on his way. He was not a park person, like Doris, though she pretended he was.

"I have some bad news."

(Bad news! That's a good one. Bad news: it will rain tomorrow. Bad news: my mother's ill).

"What?"

She took out a cigarette.

"Want one?"

(Take one, please. I need more time. I don't know how."

Just then the park keeper walked by, and even then he looked as old as time, and almost half as forgetful. He offered a warm smile to Doris, who grabbed it with an eagerness born of need.

(Thank you).

"Thanks," Jeff took one. She made great labour of lighting up.

"Your hand's shaking."

"Yes."

(Out with it. Just say it. Tell him).

"I'm pregnant."

(I did it. Maybe he doesn't care).

"You sure?"

"Yes."

(Of course I'm sure. He doesn't care).

"Jesus Christ."

(He doesn't care).

"Jesus fucking Christ."

They sat in silence for a moment.

(He doesn't care. Why doesn't he say something?)

"Don't you take precautions, for God's sake?"

"                      "

(                      )

"So what you going to do?"

(Me? Us. What are we going to do?)

"I don't know."

"You'll have to get rid of it." The need to vomit became unbearable. Doris hurried over to the ladies toilet, where it came burning up her throat. In that moment she lived and died forever. She walked back to the bench where Jeff stood waiting.

"Listen, I've got to go. They'll miss me. Call me. Okay?" She looked down to her feet.

(Oh God oh God oh god oh god. Help me).

"Okay?" Doris glanced up to his cold dark eyes for the briefest of moments. They were like pit shafts descending into the bowels of the earth. Black and dirty. Dirty. As she looked into them some of the filth came off, onto her pale white skin.

"Okay?" he insisted.

She said, " Okay." It was the hardest word she had ever been forced to say. With it she knew he had been set free. The worm had wriggled free.

 

She never saw him again. She saw him everyday for the rest of her life.

 

It was all so long ago, akin to a dream. It had been real enough though, and she is thankful for it. Thankful to have known existence, and felt the terrible pain of it. She can almost feel the echo of its sorrow.

Doris is all but dead, and she all but knows it. The fire of her life is fuelled by a few remaining drops of hope, but even they will soon be exhausted. She stands to leave. Walking by the park keeper in his hide away, He gives a smile of recognition.

Of His routine, she know it well. Next Friday He will once again mow the lawns, releasing their fragrance into the air, to fill the world with sweet perfume. Doris will be there, to breathe it deeply, gasping for more, until it fills her mind, until she becomes drunk, once again, with that smell of freshly cut grass.

Issue Two: November 1987

EDITORIAL

Bob Donnelly and Keith Waddington

Well here we are again with issue number two. We hope you enjoyed the first issue. We did see an unusually large number of students reading in the cafeteria a few weeks ago on a certain Friday morning when BROADSIDE issue number one was made available. Yes, we know there were typos and grammar inconsistencies and a few other minor problems but you have to start some where right?!!!

Student response was pretty good overall after the first issue and we only wish more people had expressed their feelings and views in a letter rather than through a brief comment in the corridor or cafeteria. We want to hear from you and we want to know what you really think of BROADSIDE so far. Remember that all you have to do to submit material, letters, poems, letters of admiration to your favourite teacher, your recommendation for student of the week award, why you think Montreal didn't win the Stanley Cup, or whatever else is on your mind. BROADSIDE will only be as good as you make it so keep reading, and even more importantly, keep writing.

 

Turning the pages (and reading the squiggly lines sometimes referred to as printed words), the more astute of you may notice that this issue is rather more serious (or less silly as we like to think of it) than the last one. The reasons for this are so complicated even we have a hard time comprehending them, and so it would be foolish to try and explain to you lot. Any way, read and enjoy. The bits you don't like cut out and send in a brown envelope to your mother, or at least some one's mother.

To conclude, a great deal of hard work goes into this paper, and rather than simply thanking those members of the BROADSIDE staff that you know, why not surprise us with cash, money orders, or offers we cannot refuse.

ENGLISH TEACHERS CAN'T DO MATH

English is by no means an exact science, though for purposes of scholastic consistency a certain degree of standardisation must be employed. One example of this already in use is the M.L.A. format which all papers, even those outside the English department, must conform to; grammar too abides by certain universal laws. Why then is the method of grading English papers left to the whim of the teacher concerned? Why, with so much at stake, is the professor of English a law unto himself? a king in his own egotistical domain? When we, at a later date, present our grades to a prospective university they cannot be qualified by a stating that, "Well yes, I know I only got a 65%, but the class average was 42. The marks must stand alone, and they can, often, create a false impression.

Let us look then at 2 teachers in the St. Lawrence English Department and see just how inconsistent is the system (or non-existent) of grading papers.

 Bob Donnelly: First year Com' and Lit':

Class average: 81.3

Number of fails: Nil

Highest mark: 92

 Peter Thomas: First year Com' and Lit':

Class Average: 62

Number of fails: 5

Highest Mark: 90

 

How can this discrepancy be justified? Is there such a difference in the 2 classes basic level of intelligence? Surely not. More than likely these 2 teachers are using different standards to measure individual ability, rendering the numbers themselves completely invalid. It seems rather like stating one person is 6,1 and another 1,9 and failing to add that the former is of the imperial system and the latter metric.

Grades must be relative, but the question we face is, relative to what? The way things stand now, they are proportionate only to the teachers own personal judgement.

The entire English Department, if they have any collective conscience, should meet and come to some agreement to insure a greater degree of standardisation. Perhaps though they are reluctant to lose a small degree of that almost absolute freedom they have bestowed upon themselves. Power is indeed corrupt, n'est pas!

 

This seems an appropriate moment to remind students that a review board does exist should you feel that final marks do not accurately represent your abilities and the work you have produced. This should be seen as a last resort however, and if things do seem to be heading an unfortunate direction, speak with your teacher as soon as possible. The review board is more than likely to agree with your teacher unless you have very strong arguments and evidence to the contrary.

STUDENT COUNCIL—ONE MAN SHOW

After a lengthy interview last week, I came away from room 134 with an uneasy feeling that not only is the student council not working for our benefit, but also that it simply is not working. Since then an inside source, whose name I promised not to reveal, has confirmed my worst fears: The student council is not only a hive of inactivity but one shrouded in secrecy. This one man show starring Marc Fortin is rapidly becoming a farce, with funds laying dormant since last year and a singular lack of will to effect any changes. Marc refused to tell me how much money remains for this year, though I have since learned that it is considerable. He asked me not to mention, in effect to remind students that an interest free loan service is available for those in temporary difficulty, in case people should ask for one! Another member of the council refused to give me her name lest she should appear in a bad light; this girl it then turns out is not only vice president but is also busy manipulating events in order to assure her succession to the position a president, when Marc leaves at the end of this semester, without the holding of elections. Why all this secrecy?

Inside the council "there is conflict," and it was likened by yet another source and member of that council as being akin to a "soap opera." The farce does not end there though, for although Marc, with power of veto on all decisions, does indeed feel it a one man show, the reality is quite different, for he is nothing more than a puppet of the administration, that embodiment manifesting itself in the form of Mr. Stewart, who pulls the conservative strings and makes Mark dance in a bizarre parody of free will. There has even been a vague rumour that since BROADSIDE is funded by the council we should not become too controversial- or else!

One look at "Inside the Student Association" column is enough to confirm that indeed nothing is happening during the meetings. Not only is the Council lacking in creativity in its endeavours to find useful ways to spend our money, that we might all benefit from, but that also, even when such is proposed from an out side source (such as the radio room), they dilly and dally and finally cause more confusion than one could think possible. And so thousands of dollars sit in the bank like some symbolic offering to the God of inactivity. Another example of the councils willingness to do nothing, is its refusal to purchase a computer for the use of the year book and news paper. We are not short of money, just the will to use it. Meanwhile one is forced to consider the strangeness of the Councils priorities after learning that financial aid was given to students wishing to see an Expo game!

Setting out to write this article my first intention was a simple report on the Student Council and its activities, there was no searching through trash for a scandal, though it soon became apparent that the story was taking a new direction of its own accord. This is our Council and they play with our money, yet we can get our hands on neither. Marc Fortin claims he enjoys organising and helping people as reasons for his position as president of the council, though in one uncharacteristic slip of the tongue he admitted that it will make for a nice addition to his university record.

Things could be worse I am assured. First year students may not realise that last year 900 dollars were left in a broken safe and not surprisingly stolen. Conflict between president and vice president, then Marc Fortin, was extremely high. And so perhaps we should thank our lucky stars. This year we have a puppet and a puppeteer, and though the show consists of nothing, it is a quiet nothing, with secrecy writing most of the script and the student body blissfully unaware that anything is amiss.

The Big Guy

Mr Murphy is a name with little or no meaning to many students; that he is our lord and master, director of the school no less, may then come as something as a surprise . The purpose of the following interview then is two fold: Firstly, a number of questions which for many weeks have rumbled through the corridors will be answered; and secondly some idea of the man behind the desk may be obtained.

Please note that all quotes are direct, though some editing and condensing was needed; This in no way, however, changed the answers or their connotations.

Q. Why is there no mid term brake in St Lawrence when all other CEGEP's do indeed benefit from one?

Mr. Murphy. The academic calendar for each semester is supposed to contain 82 days, which does not include registration days. We finish on the 18th of December, maybe the other CEGEP's have classes on the 21st, 22nd and 23rd, and since we have a lot of students with distance to travel, to run too close to Christmas would be a bit of a hassle.

Q. How do you justify the limitation of personal freedoms under Regulation 33?

Mr. Murphy. If someone has failed 50% of their courses, maybe they have proven by that time that they need some . . . . . ..urging to succeed; and after the second time around they will not be allowed back. We could ignore everybody and just let them go and fail again . . ...I think it's not a matter of some one trying to control some one else's life or any thing, its a question of urging them to make the step. Nobody is interested in suppressing any one's freedom, the goal is to get people to succeed.

Q. Do you feel that teachers should be allowed into the Student Macintosh room while Students are not allowed into the teachers room- which has the only laser printer?

Mr. Murphy. There are only, after all, 3 or 4 computers in the teacher's room, so some times they need to use the other one's.

Q. But don't you think that certain exceptions should exist? After all a rule without exceptions seems to exist simply to serve its own purpose, for its own sake, rather than to serve the people who made the rule.

Mr. Murphy. Then of course you see every student will say he has a right to be in there if one or two have. That's one problem.

Q. Who decides on the prices in the cafeteria? And is it run as a private enterprise?

Mr. Murphy. Yes it is, and Mr Girard, who runs the thing, sets the prices. I don't know if you realise that, I think it was 4 years ago, the business students made a cost analysis and they found out that they'd better drop the issue. The prices are highly competitive let me put it that way.

Q. Do you feel the conservative atmosphere in this school is a reflection of your self?

Mr Murphy. I don't know how much you can connect to an administrator in a collegial structure. I don't know if there is any essential cause and effect relationship or not. If some thing's a success everyone's responsible, and if it's a failure no one is. Failures are orphans - success' have many fathers. I'm not sure I even agree that we are conservative here.

 

To conclude I pass on a message that Mr. Murphy's door is open at all times and to all students who feel they may need his assistance.

An Interview with Keith Waddington

By J.P. Champagne

It is hard to avoid knowing or at least having heard of BROADSIDE's ace reporter Keith Waddington. Yes, the crazy Englishman who is into all the private scandals and sleazy affairs in S.L.C. But what makes this "bloody fool" tick? This interview attempts to answer some of the most often asked questions about Keith. Let us begin this revealing interview.

 

Q. Are you really English?

A. Just the top half.

Q. Are you really crazy?

A. Just the top half.

Q. View on Quebec v. world?

A. Quebec 2 World 3.

Q. View on sex, alcohol and drugs?

A. I don't do one without the others.

Q. How do you like the women in Quebec?

A. Well done.

Q. Are you married, divorced, separated, homo?

A. Yes, no, yes, no comment- but I'll see you later darling.

Q. Favourite sexual position?

A. Upside down, hanging from a chandelier and singing the National Anthem- which is hard when your mouth’s full.

Q. Any kids?

A. Yes, 7 years old; her name is Yumée, and, as you can imagine, she's just as charming as I am.

Q. How do you like S.L.C.

A. I have only one criticism: I spend more hours on the Newspaper than other students do on homework in three weeks; and a lot of it is damn hard work. I'm not looking for thanks, but I'm fuckin' sick of stupid people telling me what I should and should not write. And I don't appreciate a certain person coming up and threatening me, in all seriousness, that I should watch out what I say about the Student Association. If people don't like something I say they should write in and give their side of the story. That does entail knowing how to read and write however, so I understand all the reluctance! If students want a paper that’s good to hang on the walls, with flowers and butterflies and all that harmless hogwash then I'll quit now. I can do other things with my time, Jesus Christ- (may he rot in hell).

Q. View on journalism?

A. I'm glad I don't do it for a living.

Q. View of Administration ad Teachers?

A. @#$!!!&&*(*^^#)!!!

Q. Habits good and bad?

A. Yes they are.

Q. Likes and dislikes?

A. See answer to question 4.

 

Perhaps I have not revealed all the secrets of this man shrouded in mystery, but hopefully, through this interview, you may better understand the lunatic that is roaming the halls of St. Lawrence. Please note: All quotes are direct.

Sunshine Boy Banned

Our intention to include a nude photo of the BROADSIDE "Sunshine Boy" has unfortunately been voted out by an overly conservative editorial committee.

Video Reviews

Moby Dick

Not simply a film concerned with the plight of a big fish (whale actually) but a look at one man's single minded obsession, which results in his ultimate demise. The theme then is don't be overly obsessed unless your pants are off, and even then takes brakes in between.

This is not the best movie I have ever seen, so why not read the book instead? It lasts longer that way too, and we all know how important staying power is, don't we? Make it last as long as possible and enjoy every minute.

Rating: 2 dead fish.

 

By the way, if you have pay T.V or rent video's watch out for "Link", a great movie- and it's from England to boot.

The Lady in Waiting

Tick.

 

Doris lives in a squalid flat in darkest Clapham. There she lives out her dreams and masturbates from reality.

 

It is ten A.M. Doris awakens to the sound of autumn rain splashing in her head. It is a sound she finds strangely comforting. She climbs from bed and makes over to the gas fire, taking the ankle length flannel night-dress with her for company. Striking of match and twisting of knob bring warmth and light to her world. Doris huddles to it, arms out, hands spread like the tails of two ageing peacocks, soaking up its energy. Warmed, she takes to kitchen, where egg is boiled, bread toasted, and crusts removed; kettle is filled, teapot fed, and table set. She turns on the radio, twiddles the dial to favourite station, which she never listens to, and finds a love song is playing. One she likes.

The desert of sand has fallen through distorted test-tube and egg is ready. Extra toast leaps form the cage of burning bars and falls dead to the counter top. Kettle whistles, screams and cries. It is a familiar nightmare to Doris, and as the tea seeps in boiling water, she herself seeps in a bubbling caldron of scolding loneliness. On this day though, with rain bouncing down outside, she is partially reprieved. Doris has hope for company. Her sorrow has been sent on holiday.

 

Tock.

 

Doris eats breakfast as formality would have it, slurps tea as required by the Queen. Bringing cup to lips her little finger sticks out in forty-five degrees of phallic rigidity. Meanwhile the rain, thousands of miles away, beats down on the street outside, hammering the heads of red Indian post boxes, knocking the sense from forgotten garden gnomes.

Doris dresses, looks through tear stained window pain and sees herself, reflected in transparency.

Doris works in the evening, serving fish and chips to people she would like to know.

Doris' life stretches ahead like a dark road going nowhere. A cul-de-sac of unevents.

 

Later she becomes a supermarket trolley woman, truddling along, humming tunelessly to herself.

"Hello, dear." The till lady greets Doris. They are of a kind. There is a feeling of camaraderie between them. Their fading dreams share the same bed.

"Hello." Pork chops, one pound seventy-nine.

"How are you?" Mince meat, one pound fifty.

"I'm fine. On top of the world really," Doris answers. Cabbage, forty-five pence.

"You working tonight?" The fish and chip shop is two doors away, down the parade, next to the Dog and Gun. Tomatoes, seventy-four pence.

"No. I've got the night off." Biscuits thirty-five pence.

"That's nice. We could all do with a break." Eggs, forty pence.

"Yes." The black road begins to carry food to its end, where it piles up like a scrap yard of dead cars, awaiting some kind of purpose. Wine, three pounds eighty-two. The till lady's eyes register the bottle. It is not something Doris would normally buy.

"Going to a party, are we?" Her fingers pause on the till's insecure buttons, buttons that need the constant attention of their keeper; buttons with an unquenchable desire to be touched and fondled.

"Something like that." Doris holds the secret to her like a sick child.

 

Tick.

 

Walking home the rain continues to pour, but she remains dry, protected by an umbrella of brightly coloured expectation. Her plastic bag is overflowing with booty: packets of dream, cans of hope, for this is no ordinary time: Doris has been shopping with purpose, buying with reason, and even if the vegetables remind her of herself, perhaps she will turn out, by the end of the story, to be a succulent strawberry and not simply a bland radish. There is meaning and direction to her stride and Doris scales the staircase to the third floor flat with the agile sure footed movements of a confident and seasoned rock climber. Coat removed her breasts have renewed buoyancy; she is alive with the demands of regained youth.

Doris, singing, looks almost pretty.

 

Tock.

 

The flat sighs with age, its walls groan with fatherly concern. It has seen all of this before. Will see all of this again. It has seen sorrow and pain, laughter and joy. Has heard rusty bed springs tapping out the rhythms of frantic lovers, heard the discordant cries of orgasm. It watches Doris through wall paper eyes of fading roses, listens to her breath with its thread bare furnishings. And in the dark of night, when Doris gives comfort to herself, it turns away. Some things are too much even for a wise and elderly flat to bear.

 

Tick.

 

The morning is years away. Doris puts away the provisions in orderly rows. The cans stand to attention in her presence, but who knows what they do when the cupboard door is shut. Doris makes coffee, strong and dark and dependable.

The armchair takes her in its dying arms. The life remaining it would gladly give to her, if only she would take it. Offering what comfort it can, it moulds itself to Doris' tired frame. Sipping drink, gazing out window.

There is silence in the flat. A ticking clock divides that silence into neat segments, just as Doris likes it. Orderly. Out of the window the rain has stopped. Doris places the empty cup on coffee table and takes in a room full of air; her breasts strain to escape the constraints of dress and circumstance. Meanwhile Doris herself decides to escape, into the outside world for a while, to walk, to see what can be seen, while the light is good, while the mood is positive.

 

Tock.

 

Doris moves down the hall, down the staircase, leaving tracks of creaking steps as she goes. As she descends the final flight the landlady appears from her secret chambers. A narrow lady, dark haired, fighting off forty- winning the battle, yet losing the war. She is a caretaker of sorts. The house is not hers, it belongs to itself. She has never owned anything in all her years, except a few toys when she was child. There is a black man who thinks it his, who paid money to bank, signed papers of transfer. A black man who visits his caretaker by night, to rattle her bones, to play music on her xylophone ribs, to own another property.

"Hello, Doris," says the lady who keeps inferiority stashed away in her handbag.

"Hello," says the lady who's handbag lies empty, unused.

"Shocking weather we're having."

"Terrible," Doris agrees.

"Shocking weather we're having."

"Terrible."

"Shocking weather we're having."

"Terrible."

"Shocking weather we're having."

"Terrible."

"Be seeing you."

"Yes, by the by." They are both adrift, on different oceans with no common points of reference.

 

Tick.

 

The sun shines with withered autumn strength. The avenue is covered by a kaleidoscope of rich leaf canopy, of multi collared foliage, of protective tree hands, outstretched in transparent salutation. A bright light flashes. Doris closes her eyes and sees the after image of sorrow hang its head in shame. An old friend. She is comforted. This day is no run of the mill day: it is laced with prospect, chilled with the unknown, though sometimes, of course, it is nice to return to the warmth of things we know, no matter what they might be, and she offers sorrow a half hearted smile. Doris walks into the local park, along a mosaic foot path of sodden leaf.

 

Tock.

 

Evening comes on silent feet. The sun dies another death. The black man plays his percussive music. The caretaker takes good care of her obscure desires.

 

Tick.

 

The time is nigh.

 

Tock.

 

Doris prepares a meal fit for a king.

 

Tick.

 

It is seven fifteen. Yesterday she had met a man in the park. He was called Harry. He was a few moments older than she.

 

Tock.

 

They had retired to a public house where they nestled in a corner.

 

Tick.

 

Doris manoeuvred her knee against his leg. Felt her heart b.b.b.b.b. beat. Felt her loins moisten.

 

Tock.

 

He was charming. He was divorced. He was charming. He was divorced. She could feel the warmth of his breath tickle her ears with the sweetness of whispers.

 

Tick.

 

She heard herself ask him over, during a pause in laughter, tomorrow, for dinner. She heard him smile, glance down momentarily at her breasts, accept, with seeming pleasure.

 

Tock.

 

It is seven thirty. Food is cooking itself and Doris retires to her bed chamber to dress. The smoothness of silk holding her gently in its smooth cupped hands, telling her she is desirable. And the funny thing is, there is a certain truth to it. Doris at this moment is desirable.

 

It is seven forty-five. Doris uses make-up sparingly. Doris is ready.

 

She returns to the living tomb to sit. To wait. He is to arrive at eight o'clock. There is nervous silence about the place now, only the ticking clock seems calm. Deceptively at ease.

 

She pours herself a cup of coffee form the drip-drop machine to pass away the time. Sip, sip. How nice.

 

Not much longer, she thinks, and begins to prepare her script. What she will say and what he will answer. What she will think and what he will do. She plays this game like hop scotch, bouncing from one idea to another. Doris dares not look up to see the time, though she knows it is passing.

What he will think and she will do.

 

It must be almost time.

 

What he will want and she will offer.

 

Maybe it is past time. Maybe he got held up. Maybe he will be just a little late.

 

Forever has gone. There is silence. The moment is endless. She knows it is passing. She knows it is his passing.

 

Sip, sip. The coffee , with the passage of too much time, becomes sickly, almost putrid.

 

A plainness begins to cover Doris from head to foot. A cold creeping plainness. She stops playing and listens. There is something odd, but hard to place. She examines the air, searches out the enigma. Searching she does not find. Seeing she does not see. There is a stillness, like the after birth of a passing storm, the clouds gone, the woods silent, something missing, that was there but now is gone.

With blood curdling horror Doris discovers what it is. The cold lips of death whisper the answer, bite her nipples, excite her, and laughing he slips away into the night.

Doris knows by the silence his words were true, but fear and the cold chill of despair hold her rigid, prevent her from confirming that which surely must be.

The grip is loosened. Doris listens, hard.

 

There is no sound.

 

The clock has stopped.

 

Doris looks up.

 

Its hands are still.

 

The clock has stopped its hands are still.

 

The Lady in Waiting breathes horror.

Issue Three: November 1987

STUDENT COUNCIL TO BE HIT BY ATOMIC BOMB DISGUISED AS RED HERRING

Once again our very own Student Council is the centre of intergalactic galactic controversy with its blatant refusal to support students in their call for strike action last week. In protest of government cut backs, respective to student loans, all other CEGEP's in our region saw fit to take heed of this one day universal stoppage, no doubt suggested by their own Student Council's, though our own unelected body lay dormant, awaiting the dispersal of those dark clouds of discontent, knowing that with time the sun would return to their quiet introspective world of inflated ego and delirious dream. I have news for you: the light shineath no more; the day of dark is come; there must now be a final reckoning.

 Suggestions that the "One Man Show" article was unfair and that I deliberately set out to show Marc in a bed light should now be seen as erroneous. The petition recently passed around the school proved categorically that many students are unhappy with the lack of will manifesting itself in the council, its manic fear of upsetting the status quo and its inability to focus and enlarge student will. What exactly are they up to? Is the council to represent us or the conservative stagnation of administrative doctrine? Whose council is it any way? The goal of the petition, I hope, was not to see heads roll, but to set eyes a twinkling with a clearer view of reality. As an editor of this, dare I say, tactile weapon of the student consciousness, I demand a public apology from Marc as a representative of the entire student council, and if none is received that we declare nuclear war and wipe out the whole lot of them.

 

Please note: a meeting will be called next week for all those interested in the election of the next president after Marc leaves. Watch out on the notice boards for when and where.

S.L.C. Teachers Acquitted on Murder Charge

A turn out for the books indeed: It was suggested to me by a half crazed English teacher, whose name (Bob McBride) I promised never to disclose even under threat of torture, that St Lawrence students lack of will to participate in out of class activities is the result of the heavy burden of home work and pressure to attain high marks. He went on to say that indeed perhaps the social lives of students are effected too. Could it be? Are the teachers in our school systematically killing, yes killing, the social lives of their pupils? This reporter decided the situation needed close examination, that this charge of murder must be put on trial. The only course of action seemed to be to conduct a survey which would be broad enough to settle things once and for all, yet obscure enough to allow for generous jiggling of the statistics and thus prove any point that took my fancy. It was in this direction that I began to move, slowly, admittedly, but I did move none the less. I moved right on down to the cafeteria where I sat with my friends, put my feet up, my hands down, and my nostrils on the table, and decided to conduct the poll some other day.

Finally it was done, but shock horror, the answers I got were not the ones I wanted. I decided ignore my better instincts, forget about being a journalist and for once speak the truth, no matter how distasteful it might be:

One hundred students were questioned and the results were quite astounding. More than fifty percent believed that their home work load was quite fine thank you very much and they had no complaints. I said, " Are you sure?" and they replied "Yes." No complaints, not too much home work. Needless to say I was aghast. What the hell is the world coming to? I pondered aloud to myself, drawing a few strange glances from passers by in a note book I keep in my pocket. Further, many of the other students who said indeed they did have too much home work added that they didn't do it any way! What then is the reason for this incredible lack of participation? Take BROADSIDE as a perfect example: A medium now exists through which students may speak directly to every other person in the school, to share ideas and feeling, to say what ever is on their minds; and what happens? Nothing. Hardly anybody bothers. Why is there such lack of will? Why is this lethargy running rampant in our corridors? What has happened to the spirit of rebellion which in other generations has caused blood to be spilled and illegal substances to be consumed? Where is the defiance, the solidarity, the desire to belong? And then, as I sat on the bus on the way to choir practice, it came to me all of a sudden, as if from God, (who happens to be a good friend of mine, who often asks my advice and even laughs at my jokes). Yes it came to me, I finally figured it out. I realised that though you all look like students you are nothing more than programmed clones fabricated by the Conservative party of Canada and planted here to ensure that nothing ever happens and that nothing ever will; a life time guarantee that there will be no change. It all suddenly made sense.

 

 Please note: Although this article was written in a facetious manner, an actual survey was conducted and its results have been accurately presented.

Toward a More Responsible Journalism

By Pierre Gagne, Social Convenor

Resolutely, S.L.C. student Keith Waddington has embraced all the facts of the ever demanding, controversy-provoking journalistic vocation. Along and through his newly brought forth and inky comrade Broadside, college-level Keith duly and almost monthly delivers pertinent informative articles, relishingly humorous reviews, and artistic and suspense pieces of writing to his fellow students. Keith's self set task is truly threefold: he has to bring under the limelight certain S.L.C. individual's and groups' immoral, tumultuous and scandalous conduct, to express his opinion on movies and books, and to spin captivating yarns. There is Keith the reporter, Keith the reviewer, and Keith the short story writer. Nothing can be reproached to the two last Keiths: Keith's journalistic output as a reviewer and a short story writer is a skilful, competent and impeccable one, and we ought to be grateful toward him for his broad, lively and generous contribution to S.L.C. literary life. On the other hand, from what Keith wrote in his last month "Student Council One Man Show", it is clearly perceived that his approach to the reporter's job is utterly incorrect. When a basic, simple reporting of facts is needed, Keith seems to be slightly more interested in having the Queen choked up out of indignation with her 5 o’clock daily cup of tea than in sticking to the facts. Perhaps he is reluctant to admit that the approach to reporting is not that to story-writing. Perhaps he just has never thought that there should be a difference. But there must be one. There must be a difference between the fashion in which one approaches reporting and story writing. One cannot be allowed to play around with facts, create situations and manipulate events in a report as one does in a piece of creative writing and that even if it entails that the writer must be more passive and less creative, and that his work must be more monotonous and less dazzling. St. Lawrence Campus is not and does not have to appear as corrupted as New York, Detroit or Hollywood. This does not mean that the reporters style of writing should be a non-existing, non vivid and non-rapturing one. This only means that a reporters style should be modified so as to suit best the facts, and not the opposite.

As most industrialised countries, Canada has freedom of the press which is mainly derived from and supported by Article 19 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Freedom of the press grants any journalist in Canada the right to think and to write whatever and about whatever he fancies. However, informative articles, because of their very nature - they are factual and first and foremost intended to inform properly the readers, have inevitably curtailed this freedom and entailed the establishment of a journalistic code of ethics. This code of ethics, although it is no governmental law, is almost always systematically obeyed by the press because disobedience directly implies refusal to inform properly the public; that is, refusal to fulfil its mandate. Canada's journalistic code of ethics clearly reflects Canadians view that journalists have the responsibility to deliver the public unaltered, unshortened and unbiased reports of what is taking place regionally, nationally and internationally. The very credibility of the newspaper as a medium of communication revolves around this sense of public responsibility since the journalist, being an "agent" for the citizen in the gathering of information and knowledge, is in a position of trust and great influence. Journalists must be fair, accurate, thorough, comprehensive and balanced in their presentation of information and they must be competent in judging and selecting what is to be put aside as trivial and irrelevant and what is to be emphasised as being the key point of an issue. Of course, they must also ensure that the widest possible range of views is expressed and that they are capturing the dimensions and nuances of the issue so that the public can have an adequate comprehension of it. (Journalistic Policy, Canadian Broadcasting Corporation).

Keith Waddington, consciously or not of it, repudiates this code of ethics on his "Student Council One Man Show". If he, or and other influential Broadside journalist, continues to abjure Broadside's responsibility toward the students and just go fooling around, not minding instilling untruths into the students mind, we will end up the year reading a rag. When interviewed in Broadside last issue, Keith said he did not like having people telling him what he should or should not write. He was in his right. He is free to write whatever he wants; however, while striving to prove that he is not intimidated by anybody, he might be oblivious that responsible, healthy journalism has its rules and that these cannot be violated without distorting the key points of an issue. There is the journalists right to write what he wants but there is also the readers right to be well informed. Since Canada's sound journalistic policy is seemingly encrusted in Broadside's ignorance of bad faith, here it is as a reminder for its editing board. "Defamation is the generic term used for the words libel, and slander." (CBC) Anyone reading "Student Council One man Show" would be astounded by the number of defamatory statements in it. For illustration, let us pick the following paragraph. " . . .not working for our benefit, but also that it simply is not working. Since then an inside source, whose name I promised not to reveal, has confirmed my worst fears: The student council is not only a hive of inactivity but one shrouded in secrecy. This one man show starring Marc Fortin is rapidly becoming a farce, with funds laying dormant since last year and a singular lack of will to effect any changes." (Waddington) This paragraph is a fragment case of statements concerning an individual's office, profession or trade and it is even more deplorable to learn that the above sentences in addition to being defamatory, are sheer lies. And since this piece of writing is also an informative article, let us show that mere factual sentences are as eloquent as well-folded, metaphorical ones.

 

Activities organiser, sweat pants and shirts sale, bands, New York Trip . . .Marc Fortin. Expo trip . . ..Esther Paradis and Bernie Kuhn. School jackets . . ..Al Vermette. Dances and yearbook . . ...Pierre Gagne. Radio room . . ..Gary Levesque. Money In $11,250.00 Money Out $17,250.00 BALANCE $6,000.00 Posters: At least two per activity.

 

Where is the one man show? Where is the hive of inactivity? And the funds laying dormant?? And the secrecy? I fail to see, just as I fail to see the reason of using sarcasm and cynicism when only 15 students (student council) out of 700 can recognize them as so. Admitted, student council members do not go around in the cafeteria informing students of every detail of the planning of oncoming activities. But should they? Marc Fortin claims he enjoys organising and helping people as reasons for his position as president of the council, though in one uncharacteristic slip of the tongue he admitted that it will make for a nice addition to his university record. (Waddington) This paragraph does not hint at and even less make clear that Marc was joking when he said "this it will make a nice addition to his university record." Perhaps the writer meant that "slip of the tongue" means a joke. That Marc was joking when he said this would strike and be confirmed by anyone who knows him a little, that is to say, at least half the school, but not Waddington. At any rake, if Marc were president only in order to make "a nice addition" instead of to be able to organise and help people, he would have quit the presidency a long time ago. Getting a nice addition to one's university record is simply not worth all the s . . . one gets as a bonus with the presidency of a student council.

 

Believe me, I could easily go on proving that thoroughness, fairness and accuracy were in no way reached in "Student Council One man Show." But I will not. I will not because I have already caused and do not want to cause further tension between the student council and BROADSIDE, two excellent teams that work for us. the students. I will not because I believe Keith is one of SLC's most skilled, most gifted and most creative writers and because of his this exceptional writing ability it would be sad if her were working against the student population when reporting. It would be really sad because, after all, a student newspaper will always be reflection of the students themselves. How should BROADSIDE be perceived? As a sort of SLC Enquirer that digs up scandals or as a sort of SLC Time that provides students with relevant and truthful and insightful reports? Because the power of the newspaper as a medium of communication is tremendous and must not be misused or abused, I believe BROADSIDE ought to be like the New York or London Times, I believe that Keith's agile, creative and entertaining per can easily switch to a reporting that would bring all a step closer to a healthier, more responsive journalism.

A Reply

Well Pierre, what a nice letter. I loved every syllable. I had planned on a lengthy reply in which I would systematically destroy each and every point of contention, which you so lucidly conveyed, and in doing so prove that there is no absolute truth, as you would have us believe, and that there can be no real objectivity in a world where subjective sense is the only sense possible. To give both sides of an argument leaves the reader unstimulated, to balance the good with the bad results in a simultaneous cancelling of the two and we are left with a none entity. Due to lack of both space and time though I have decided instead to summarise my response to your letter in a global manner, rather than a methodical reply to each of the points you brought up.

Firstly, and most importantly, I am not a journalist, have no desire to be one and never shall. That in itself seems to take care of every thing you say, but I shall continue. BROADSIDE may be referred to as a newspaper, though in truth it is nothing of the kind. Show me which paper in the world fills up page three to its entirety with short stories. Show me which first page contains humorous fictional articles. Bring to me a paper that endeavours to fill all its pages with articles from people not actually employed by that paper. BROADSIDE is a meeting place for ideas and opinions, a point of congregation for culture and word. BROADSIDE has become the epitome of free speech where truth may manifest itself with all the subjectivity that makes for real expression of real people with real points of view. Because so few chose to make use of this unique "journal," for want of a better word, for indeed there is no utterance able to succinctly describe what BROADSIDE really is, it is no less valid nor less vital to keep in circulation. BROADSIDE lives, ink is as blood, ideas its breath.

An Imaginary Interview with a Typical S.L.C. Student.

Me. Hello.

Student. What the hell do you mean by that?

Me. Just hello.

Student. It's not a test or any thing?

Me. No.

Student. Are you sure?

Me. Yes.

Student. Oh, well, hello- I suppose.

Me. I wonder if you could tell me what you like most about St. Lawrence?

Student. The holidays.

Me. Apart from that.

Student. The lounge out side the biblioteque.

Me. And is there any thing you don't like?

Student. Are you going to write this in the paper?

Me. No.

Student. Well in that case listen. I hate the way they treat us like kids in this place. I mean it really gets on my fucking nerves. Who the hell do they think they are any way? Treat us like God damn kids they do; like little iddy biddy kids.

Me. What's your favourite leisure activity.

Student. Watching "Passe Par Tout" and flying my kite.

Me. I thought so. Now then, how many students do you think it takes to screw in a light bulb?

Student. Are you sure this isn't a test?

Me. Yes.

Student. And you won't put any of this in the paper?

Me. None. I promise.

Student. Well let me tell you something: I never did understand those light bulb jokes. What do they mean?

Me. They just mean that you're not bright enough to understand them, that's all.

Student. Oh. But what does that mean?

Me. Listen, do you believe that St Lawrence's image as a college extraordinaire is in any way true?

Student. Yes and no.

Me. What do you mean?

Student. Yes, I think it is true, but no, I don't believe it.

Me. Okay. The last question: Do you feel able, at your age, and being fresh out of High School as you are, to make the career choice our educational system demands of you, which, accordingly, means the classes chosen are representative of that single well defined goal expected of you? Or have you, contrary to the conservative norm, more a desire to sample many different aspects of the human experience and a real yearning to unwrap the gift of education for its own sake? In other words have you put all your eggs in the same basket.

Student. No I haven't.

Me. Why not?

Student. My mother does all the shopping.

 

This space has been reserved for you, the reader, and may be used for writing you very own article. That way there will be at least one thing you like in this issue. Please use it wisely.

Desperately Seeking Susan

Ace reporter Keith Waddington is anxious to discover the identity of a certain female who very kindly left a card thanking the BROADSIDE staff for their work on behalf of the student body. It is, of course, not the student body I am interested in, so could our secret admirer please make herself known by casually handing me her phone number and vital statistics, including heart rate, inside leg measurement and hat size.

Video Reviews

Death of a Salesman

Arthur Miller's classic stage play is brought to the screen. The staring role is left in the capable hands of Dustin Hoffman, who fondles it and does strange things to it , presenting the character of Willy Loman in a credible and admirable fashion. The films success is largely due to the "hands off" attitude of director Volker Schlondorf (Fred to his friends), in that we watch a filmed play rather than an actual film. The decor is all much as it would have appeared in the actual New York stage production, and the images rendered retain the strange surrealism intended by the play write.

The work deals with the deep and complex character of a father and his unrealistic aspirations for his two adult sons. The father descends in a world of what was and what should have been, slipping further and further into this perplexing realm where past and present become the two sides of a spinning coin. No more need be said; take this video home and cry real tears- real because you don't have a video recorder and can only look at the nice picture on the cover. A masterpiece.

Rating: 5 dead fish

Extremities

Farrah Fawcett proves at last that she indeed is not a right charlie. Fawcett, in the leading role, plays a woman who, having once narrowly escaped the violence of a deranged rapist, finds him returned to her home. Fighting back this time the tables are turned and she finds herself captor, and he the captive. Her first inclination is to do away with him, to cut him to pieces and turn him into sausage meat, or to bury him alive with only one book to read as he waits, a book from which she has sadistically removed the last page, or to feed him to her pet gold fish in bite size pieces, or then perhaps to squash his squishies and squish his squashes; but instead she decides to do what the script says, and thus please both the director and the play write. With the arrival of her two female room-mates she is forced to rethink her plans.

This is a relatively good movie which encapsulates a common problem of all rape victims: that of credibility in the eyes of the law; a woman's word against that of a man in a system dominated by males. The films social relevance then supersedes its importance as a motion picture. It is worthy of viewing, especially for guys, if only to bring into mind the nature of rape itself.

Rating: 3 and a half dead fish.

Election Special

Welcome Back

By Guislaine Bulman and Keith Waddington

Welcome back. This semester there will be lots of stuff to do, but don't do it in front of the teachers! Keith and I feel that everyone should participate in school life, and if you don't we'll smack your bums.

Come see the basketball games. Come to the dances. Come all over the place. Participate in intramural sports, and all that kind of stuff.

We have only one more thing to say, be nice to mum, be nice to dad, but kick your dog. If it goes ouch, kick it again until it stops.

P.S. Keith just pretends that we wrote this together, but he did it all himself.

P.P.S. Don't you believe a word of it. She did all the naughty bits.

P.P.P.S. All right, let's just humour him.

ELECTIONS!

Election time has arrived, and though we have plenty of voters, candidates are few and far between. A few positions are being challenged though, mostly thanks to the Dino party, which intends to see that things are not taken too seriously.

Meanwhile, though there is no actual council at the moment, save a few relics from the old one, an interim group has been busy working on issues which could not wait. The next dance for example. They are fifteen or so in number, and together they formed a party calling itself "Students People", and it seems the majority of them that are destined to become the actual council for want of an opposition. The seat of president and a few others however are up for grabs and of course your vote should be used wisely.

All candidates in contested positions and or interested parties were offered space in BROADSIDE in which to explain why they wished to run for their respective post. No limitations of space nor content were stipulated.

One point of interest is the fact that the only serious challenger, i.e not from the Dino party, Mike Simard, running for president, was also the only one who either could not be bothered to write a piece in BROADSIDE, or decided, for some reason, not to.

Issue Four: February 1988

Election Fever Kills Patient

S.L.C. Elections, in relative terms at least- and compared to previous years, turned out to be something of a success. 46% of all students actually took the time, an incredible thirty seconds or so, to vote, and we can all rejoice in that. All that is except the 54% who didn't bother.

The final results were:

 

President:

Mike Simard 115

Pierre Gagne 184

Abstentions 6

 

Vice President:

S Nellis 38 

J.P Chaampaigne 250

Abstentions 17

 

Financial Officer:

J.A. Poulin 52

Marc Antoine Adam 228

Abstentions 25

Election Special Flabbergasts Teacher

In a lengthy conversation with one of St Lawrence's most popular (and hardest to understand) teachers, Mr Kwack informed this reporter that the Election Special was less than he had hoped for.

"I wanted to see a balanced view," he said with an inscrutable smile, which I matched with a childish grin. "I think it was too one sided. It isn't right what you're doing."

As it happens the lack of balanced view was the sole fault of presidential candidate Mike Simard and his supporters. As with all candidates being challenged, Mike was informed that there was space in BROADSIDE for his electioneering, but it was only a few hours before the press deadline that he actually jotted down a few hurried lines. Mike was also informed that his supporters should also write on his behalf, for otherwise the paper would appear biased. He returned with a few one liners from his friends.

Not only the Election Special but BROADSIDE itself is a paper of opinions. If things are not balanced then it is the fault not of the newspaper but of the students who can't be bothered to write.

BROADSIDE, like Mr. Kwak, is unique. The only difference is, BROADSIDE is not too good at badminton.

SPANISH INQUISITION

During the days leading up to registration, with most students intent on enjoying what remained of the holidays, there was in fact great activity in Mr Fraser's office. Four men were busy deciding the fate of students who had failed more than half of their courses last semester.

Hour after hour the "interviews" went on. A constant stream of students disappeared into that room, to face the gang of four, and the ordeal was soon referred to, by some, as "The Spanish Inquisition."

After a while it became apparent that the "interviews" within were somewhat out of the ordinary. The questions posed were, on occasion, very personal, even insulting, seeming to have no relevance to the job in hand: i.e re-admission.

One victim was asked, "Do you take drugs?" Later I asked him if there was any reason they should suspect this, and was told, "No. Maybe it's because my hair's a bit long."

Later they asked if he smoked Hash, and when the last time he drank a beer was. They even asked who pays his rent.

"What did you think of all this?" I asked him. Somewhat nervously he looked around.

"I think the questions were kind of silly. I mean, what difference does it make who pays my rent? And any way, if there was something I really wanted to hide, something I didn't want them to know, I just wouldn't have told them about it. The questions they ask don't have all that much to do with my academic performance. They should just mind there own business."

In what way are these things pertinent? Of course almost anything can be justified if justification is needed; the brains capacity to find warrant for almost all immorality is no secret. What then is the next step? Perhaps candidates should inform the committee how often they have sex, since of course this could affect home work. And then perhaps their religion should be examined, for we all know pious people are likely to be more studious.

The best method though of insuring that you are not subject to this type of questioning, is simply to pass your courses. Ha.

Students Entombed in Pyramid

Late last semester a "Pyramid" was brought into the school by someone I can only describe as the "Pharaoh of Folly". Students were invited to join this "business scheme" at a cost of either $500 or $1000, where upon they would reap vast and easy profits. The fact that many indeed joined this foolhardy enterprise offers some indication of the state of mind prevalent in our school, and no doubt the whole country. Such naive trust in a this perpetual financial motion, where everyone wins and nobody loses, was destined to end as it did, with everyone losing.

There were further repercussion felt as a result of this "Pyramid", one being the expulsion from school of the individual responsible for its introduction here; and on that point there can be no quarrel. The demand, by Mr Stewart and approved by the board of governors, that those members of the student council involved should resign, which they did, is an issue whose moral pertinence is perhaps less clear, especially when we consider that almost the entire council was wiped out as a result of this. Do we not all have the right to make fools of ourselves? The financial loss in itself seems an already apt punishment.

And so the effects of this Pyramid of fools are indeed far reaching, and those of us not involved should remember the lesson learned by those less fortunate.

THE MORALS OF EDITING

Does an editor censor, or does a censor edit? Are they both the same, or are they quite different?

In the last issue of BROADSIDE a humorous article was wiped out, removed, made to exist no more, relegated to oblivion, displaced, hypothetically torn to pieces by a consensus of opinion, led by that champion of censorship (masquerading as editor) Bob Donnolly, on the editorial staff. The work in question dealt with the "Death of God" and the imagined depraved practices of Pope John Paul. It was deemed to be overly offensive and unsuitable for your innocent eyes. Many students, it was said, would be greatly upset by this sacrilegious offering, would be deeply hurt, some might even say "ouch." At any rate it was replaced by something less vulgar, and I am left wondering what precisely BROADSIDE is. That "bastion of free speech" I had naively presumed it to be, will surely not be its epilogue; and when it dies, for it is suffering the wrath of a terrible disease at this very moment, perhaps the only words we will have to say in its remembrance, on its behalf, will also be considered "offensive," and only silence will be left to morn its loss.

The important thing to remember is that it was a work of fiction, further more a humorous work. Are there then some things we should not laugh at?

Question: "What's the worse than finding a dead baby in a garbage can?

Answer: " A dead baby found in seven garbage cans." Did you laugh? Well you won't be put on trial if you did. But should the writer be forced to face the judge of pretended morals? Should his words be "edited"? Should his mouth be sewn up? Should his means of communication, one supposedly liberal and open to innovation, decide that none should read his words?

The writer of comic fiction is free to satirise, to ridicule, to exaggerate truth, and the reader is free to laugh or cry, to disapprove, to learn from, or to throw the text in the bin next to the mutilated baby. The very nature of comedy is such that offence will be felt some where by some one. We laugh at the Nufies, the Jews, the Blacks, Cripples and Fools. We laugh at the guy with the big nose, the flat feet, false teeth. Yes we even laugh at the Pope. Bad taste comes not from the words themselves, which are intrinsically harmless, but from how they are read, from the reader. Offence is in the head, not on the paper.

Let us turn for the moment from comedy and look at another form of fiction: Imagine if you will a serious novel in which the portrayal of bestiality, homosexuality, incest and a whole array of other sexual deviances run rampant through its pages. Would this be suitable for students in CEGEP? Surely not you say. Sex with animals? Don't be disgusting. Mother and son copulating? Terrible. The work I refer to is "The Golden Ass" by that well known depraved man of letters Lucius Apuleius; a novel being read in Seminar this semester. That being the case, why then should a short short story, to get back to our original subject, in which the catholic church is ridiculed, the Pope rendered a sex fiend and God pronounced dead cause any problems in an establishment whose very reason for being is the communication of ideas. Fiction is not real, it is all pretend, but we can learn some circumstance of our selves from it. How then can we object to some thing which in reality does not exist?

The main question now is what do we want from BROADSIDE? Do we demand freedom of expression, (absolute in the domain of fiction, resolute in factual articles) or do we dig a deep hole, and certainly Bod Donnolly will be one of the first to arrive , with spade in hand, eager to turn turf, in which to bury our ideals and our belief in free speech. When we become afraid of ideas we slip yet further in that black void of supercilious condemnation and complacency, where we become judge, jury and henchman; though in truth it is not the accused, the writer of "disgusting immorality" who shall feel the noose about his neck, it is all of humanity. When we suppress ideas, for what ever phoney reason, we suppress ourselves and the small minded bigot is champion. The dark ages are not yet gone.

 BROADSIDE, that torch of free expression, is being snuffed out. God is not dead, he is the one blowing hardest, your manacles are of his design, and it appears they will not be relinquished.

CHAOS IN COMPUTER ROOM

At the end of last semester, Room 334 was rapidly becoming the social centre of the school, with people dropping in and out all day long, to chat with friends, or hang around for obscure reasons of their own. This constant stream of people and conversation was most annoying to those intent on work, and many complaints were made. To make matters worse the Student Council, finally realising that the Year Book and Newspaper do need a Macintosh of their own (after wild protests to the contrary), decided that instead of buying a new computer, they would have one removed from room 334 instead.

The situation now is chaotic. With more and more people realising the practicalities of writing papers on computer, and with now only five available for a student body of over 700 hundred, queues have begun to form. Student can be seen hanging around awaiting their turn, chatting as they wait, adding to the madness.

The Council, responsible for the removal of the computer, was informed by Mr. Stewart that nobody uses them any way. Mr. Stewart, who I have yet to see in room 334, some how knows all about the goings on there. Wake up council, check things out before making a decision. And what of the administration? Are they still sleeping in another century? Wakey wakey wakey. The eighties are here. We do not write with chalk on slate any more. And yes, I do know there are two rooms full of I.B.M.'s, but they are simple too "user hostile" for most people to manage. Surely there must be funds some where to buy a few more Mac's.

Anyway, let's get the semester off to a good start: if you are not working in the computer room, now relocated, please stay out. There are plenty of other places in which to socialise. And let's have some kind of response from the administration.

Communicators Column

Recently a meeting of the student council Board of Governors was called. The following motions were made and finally carried.

 

In order to facilitate the workings of Council finances, a permanent book keeper is to be hired, at a cost of $1000 per annum.

Money was provided for the hiring of Fridays bus to Montreal.

Money was provided for St. Valentines Day Prizes.

The decision regarding a students request to fund a "Mac Club" was put off to a later date.

A Parable: The Perpetual Puddle

Once, there was a perpetual puddle in the dark corner of a dark cave; hidden, never to be touched by daylight nor moved by breeze, it was impervious to the laws of evaporation. Within that puddle there was life: protozoa in multitude, the simplest most basic form of existence. And yet, despite this, they held fast to the belief that their knowledge and insight was profound; and in believing a reality was born.

Cosmetic considerations aside, the people of this puddle were of striking similarity, though their social affinity bore an altogether different standing. Everyday activity was confined to the strict rules and conditions of this stratified microcosm, whose claims of collective altruism may indeed have been made with virtuous conviction and honourable intent, though whose practice, with the passage of time, was corrupted by the indomitable effects of power. The goal was a simple one: to educate the populace and see them off to explore knew puddles, larger puddles, and indeed this was, in effect, done. The presence of and increasingly uninvolved hierarchy though, with a growing distaste for progressivism and disdain for new ideas, brought about a stagnation of this puddle heretofore unseen.

There was a little boy, who, wearing Red Wellington boots and carrying a torch, would visit the puddle from time to time, venturing boldly into the shadows of the cave, whistling a trumpet tune and finally shining his light into those murky waters. He would scrutinise. Examine. Every aspect of the puddle place would fall beneath his ardent gaze, and if all was not the way he liked it, the little boy would jump in, both feet first, and make big boot splash on big boot splash.

The stratification of this puddle was no simple matter, was divided by status and subdivided by age, and so it was that the youngest, who were in fact the reason for the puddles very existence, found themselves strangely inhabiting the lowest levels, made to become a living breathing sediment.

The elders, serious, comfortable in there positions of power, saw themselves as something above and beyond the youth of the puddle, though their delusions of grandeur were tormented by the existence of the little boy, whose power was ultimate.

With the passage of time the elders became further isolated, an elite group dwelling at the surface of the puddle, their behaviour growing more and more distasteful. In there dealings with the youth their tone was sanctimonious, petulant, and it all seemed so normal . Their rule despotic, and it all seemed so normal.

 The quality of the water in this puddle was less than civilisation deemed suitable, for you see a terrible transformation was all but complete. The progression from respect for the individual, for consideration of the protozoic aspect of the protozoa, to that of a tyrannical state, of totalitarian contempt for "person," is not one announced by loud calls of intent, nor is it not achieved by violent overthrow of a benign ruling class. It is a subtle advancement of the dark forces which are intrinsic to the nature of all protozoa. Its beginnings though are more mundane and less dramatic. The first sign of this drift towards autocracy in the puddle was the absence of a word. The speaker was a high ranking Elder. The word was, "Please."

He spoke with a shy youth, who barely noticed the word was not there. It all seemed so normal.

 

WHEN I AM

When I was eighteen

I was twelve.

When I was nine

I was ten 

When I was now

I am then.

 

FAVOURITISM- FACT OR FICTION?

Do teachers play favourite? Do they have one set of rules for the students they like and another for the ones they don't? Of course they do, and now the whole terrible truth comes out. Read on and be horrified by this tail of blatant favouritism, of foul deed and dastardly doing. Read on, but be warned, what follows is suitable only for the most ardent of cynics, and we accept no responsibility for the shattering of illusion.

Bob Donnolly strikes again in the scandal of scandals. Who is this masked man? From where does he come? What size boots does he wear? Big ones, I can tell you that much. He uses them for kicking the  . . .. out of those poor pathetic students who are conscientious enough to hand in there papers on time.

 Bob, the epitome of laziness, is often seen "teaching" in the horizontal position, but refuses to admit he's laying down on the job. Bob, the one keen to admit that perfection is his one and only fault; that fair play is only for Hockey fans who chit chat with him during class about how wonderful the Nordiques (that gang of brainless hoodlums pretending to be sportsmen) are, whilst the more studious of us beg for work. Beg I say.

"Give us a test," we cry.

"Just a minute, I'm telling J.P about this great goal last night. Great it was. Hit one of the Canadiens smack in the face, bounced off the referee’s nose and went straight into the goal."

"Fantastic goal," J.P enthused.

"Yeah, a real scorcher," agreed Bob- agreeing, as you may have noticed, and as is per normal, with him self. He is good at that.

"Yeah, I was listening to the game on the radio." (J.P does not have a T.V). "You could hear the sound of the puck breaking that guys teeth. It was amazing."

"May I interrupt?" I interrupted.

"Who said that?" Bob looked around.

"Keith did. You know, him in the corner. The quiet one."

"Oh, yeah. What do you want you barbaric British person you?"

"Aren't we supposed to have a test today?"

"Mmmmmm, that does sound familiar, yes. It seems to have a certain ring of truth to it.

"Any way, J.P, as I was saying, the game last night was pretty damn good. I took a case of 48 with me and the whole thing just zipped by. The best part though was during the . . . . . ."

"Er, the test?" I said timidly.

"Test? What test? Oh, that reminds me: you know how I said there would be a 10% penalty per day for over due papers last time?"

"Hello," Susan began, "I remember that."

"Yes, well I decided not to bother."

"Do you mean," I demanded clarification, "the paper I gave in on time and J.P gave in 7 days late. Do you mean that one?"

"Yes, that's the one. Any way there won't be any points taken away, after all."

"I wonder why?" I thought to myself.

Nordiques 4. Canadiens 3.

Bob Donnelly Confronts Failure—And Loses

Bob Donnelly, in his bid for the "teacher of the year" award, received a total of one vote. (And I have heard rumour that his daughter was in school that day). Bob, consequently, insisted on a recount. Those in charge of the election obliged, and the finding was, yes, there had indeed been an error, that they had over counted by one.

Bob was later seen in the "Table", drowning his sorrows in the ample bosom of a well disposed waitress.

The End

Doris has found herself living yet another winter. Outside the world is cleansed by the soft tread of snow which staggers and falls. Naked virgin feet, yet. She pulls on her boots, climbs inside coat, and tumbles down the stairs towards a fairy tale world.

Ice crystal has transformed the squalid street and its deformed buildings into a Christmas card avenue of childhood memories. Doris, repulsed from the house, pauses to watch the flakes fall from the sky like silver coin and silver coin, wishing she could spend even a few of them, and buy a modicum of happiness. Doris, it seems, is finally doomed. She received a letter marked occupant, telling her so.

Up the street she falters, a thin l