The Grifter, 2010-2011 Issue One

Y e a r I I I - I s s u e I

GTHE rifter

GComment - Debate - PolitiCs - arts - Creative FiCtion - Community - year iii - issue i - theGrifter

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C O N T E N T S

WHAT REVOLUTION ? 2NICK MEDLINE

COMMENT CARTOON 4MICHAEL LEMANSKI

EDUCATION 4MICHAEL LEMANSKI

THE BOOST 9MACKENZIE GILMOREREID KERR-KELLER

IS ALIEN THE STOMPING 10GROUND FORDIRRECTORIAL GENIUS ?ANDREW SAVORY

LUCKY GUY 11SPENCER BARTON

MODERN LOVE 13DANIEL DAVIDSON-KALMAR

EAR WAXED 14JACK GROSS

HOLLY ROLLER 15ANDREW MCCONNELL

ANTI–DRUG 17PATRICK COFFEY

PUZZLES AND CODES 18

E D I T O R I A L B O A R D

C O N T R I B U T O R S

Nick MedlineManaging Editor

Michael LemanskiDesign and Layout Editor

Spencer Barton

Patrick Coffey

Daniel Davidson-

Kalmar

Mackenzie Gilmore

Jack Gross

Reid Kerr-Keller

Michael Lemanski

Andrew McConnell

Nick Medline

Andrew Savory

F A C U L T Y A D V I S O R

Ms. J. Somerville, English Department

A R T I S T I C C R E D I T S

All photographs from the RSGC Gallery.

Covers adapted by Michael Lemanski from

RSGC Gallery photographs.

All illustrations by Michael Lemanski.

The Official RSGC Student Publication

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W H A T R E V O L U T I O N ?

NICK MEDLINE

U n d e r g r o u n d i s c o o l . U n d e r m i n i n g i s n o t .

On March 3rd, I was preparing to leave a first-floor workspace when one of my peers entered. We shared a brief, unimportant discussion, and then I noticed a paper he had laid down on his desk. On it was the word “smok-ing”- this jumped out- and several edits, closely resembling those I normally receive before The Grifter is printed. I expected this to be a fleeting moment of paranoia and continued to pack my textbooks. He turned towards me, though, and asked a question something along the lines of “Are you in-volved with The Grifter anymore?” “Yes,” I replied, “I’ve told Michael to continue making announce-ments and we’ve begged for arti-cles over the past two months, but no one is writing, so I mean, what can you do?” He nodded and I ex-ited the room. Not long after this encounter, perhaps on the subway northbound, it hit me: something strange was in the works. In need

of clarification, I sent the student a message, wondering whether he was making it his own business to collect articles. An hour later, he responded, informing me of an underground effort he planned to resurrect. In the best interests of privacy, I will not reveal any specific content of this message. It did, however, conclude with the following words: “Clandestinely yours, The Chairman*”. He also assured me it was “nothing per-sonal” and that I “must not tell anyone.” (I did pretty well on that front.) This valediction assured me that the rise of Le Bonheur would be nothing less than bizarre.

You will be hard pressed to find someone who dislikes the concept of an underground newspaper. Sneaking behind the administra-tion to write articles that critique school policy is an attractive idea- albeit one that would inevitably result in consequences should the editor be exposed. On February 7th, a grade nine student sent me a piece and asked if his identity could be hidden. It was fluidly written, but there were comments unsuitable for The Grifter. I was compelled to decline his work, as throughout last year, I was con-

tinually made aware that both our staff supervisor and the adminis-tration must approve each article. After digesting The Chairman’s message, I grew skeptical of its prospects for success. It was dis-tressing that The Chairman had made a concerted effort to hide this while Michael and I searched for anything that could be published, but at the time, this was none of my business. Despite my concern, I made the mistake of assuming The Grifter and Le Bonheur would coexist peacefully as separate publications—one sanctioned by the school, the other kept a secret.

The problem is that Le Bonheur is not an underground newspa-per. At some point on the day I stumbled upon The Chairman’s plans, he flipped copies of the edited articles to Mr. Fitzpatrick and Dr. Leatch. The following day, the two met and quickly de-termined that the content was not even remotely inappropriate. Upon realizing Le Bonheur had been sent to the administration, its development quickly became an issue. The process was iden-tical, the articles could all have been included in The Grifter, but The Chairman appeared fixed on

C O M M E N T A R Y

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creating his personal project. As the mystery unravels, it is still un-clear why the creation of Le Bon-heur was necessary. Underground is cool. Undermining is not.

I arranged to meet with The Chairman on March 9th intend-ing to generate discussion, which, judging from the attempt to hide Le Bonheur, was something he had hoped to avoid. The meeting last-ed for over an hour, and it shed light on a few interesting details. I still wonder why the Chairman chose to start his own newspaper rather than aid and improve the struggling Grifter. Michael and I had held two fairly well attend-ed meetings in January and of-fered gift cards to new writers in hopes of kindling enthusiasm, but our deadline passed quietly with merely three submissions. There were five articles in the first edi-tion of Le Bonheur. Had they been submitted to The Grifter, I would have accepted all five without hesitation. Names would have been included in this scenario, but if the content is deemed ap-propriate, what is there to hide?

For those who may have been absent, on March 11th, Le Bon-heur was released. I enjoyed the innocuous satire (a nice change

of pace) and felt relieved to learn that I am not the only person who has dreamt of Arshia Hayat-Davoudi. As he distributed cop-ies of Le Bonheur, The Chairman remarked, “I can print what I want!” No one said otherwise. Le Bonheur does not break any rules, but that does not make it all right.

The odds of preserving anonym-ity at RSGC, for any project, are slim (our motto is “Known and Loved,” after all). This becomes especially difficult when writers barge into your classroom shout-ing, “Yo, I’ll get you the thing later” and you respond with a supportive thumb up. Anonymity, ironically, is entirely self-serving. The whole scenario brought to mind one of my favourite epi-sodes of Curb Your Enthusiasm, a television series that revolves around Larry David, the deluded, obscene, but ultimately insightful creator of Seinfeld. After donat-ing money to the NRDC, Larry is having a wing named after him. He attends the ceremony, and notices that the other wing had been donated by “Anonymous.” His wife Cheryl whispers in his ear, “I know who it is. It’s Ted (Danson). Ted is anonymous.” Larry quickly discovers that ev-eryone at the event is aware of

Ted’s “anonymous” contribu-tion, and Senator Barbara Boxer praises Ted for his selflessness while ignoring the disgruntled Larry. “You’re either anonymous or you’re not!” cries Larry, and he makes a valid point. Le Bonheur now has its own e-mail account, a website may be launched, and it persists with faux anonym-ity. When does the game end?

The intentions of Le Bonheur may have been harmless. All I know is that on March 3rd, while The Grifter struggled to make any headway, I realized that The Chairman had taken on the re-sponsibility of editing a school-sanctioned publication. It felt like an exercise in humiliation. The impotence of failing to produce The Grifter was nothing in com-parison with the seeming betrayal that culminated in Le Bonheur. Our school newspaper was at-tempting to collect articles, and instead of joining a collaborative effort, The Chairman found it an ideal opportunity to launch an individual project. Some things are better left above ground.

From Spencer Barton’s haunt-ing portrait of a homeless man living on city streets, to Andrew Savory’s discovery of a link be-

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tween prominent film directors, to Patrick Coffey’s provocative slam poetry, this edition of The Grifter balances creativity and investiga-

tion. I look forward to receiving submissions for future issues, and hope we can generate enough momentum to greatly quicken the

frequency of printing. We should be proud to put our names on our articles; we have nothing to hide.

“ 7. Thou shall steal ”

“ Don’t listen to counter-revolutionary media; they are the hallucinogen consum-

ing tool of Al Qaeda! ”

C O M M E N T C A R T O O N S

MICHAEL LEMANSKI

E D U C A T I O N

MICHAEL LEMANSKI

“ T h e m i n d i s n o t a v e s s e l t o b e f i l l e d , b u t a f i r e t o b e k i n d l e d . ”

Such a view of education, as ex-pressed by the Greek philosopher

Plutarch, reminds us of its time-less virtue and infinite value. For all its diverse forms and natural complexities, education can be thought of in terms of a single word—potential. It is therefore

unsurprising that this process has become the cornerstone of our contemporary society. In Canada we pride ourselves in having one of the best education systems in the world as measured by numer-

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This speech was given by Michael at the National Public Speaking Championships held at St. John’s Ravenscourt School this past February.



ous studies, surveys and rank-ings. Parents eagerly send their children to school; students’ pas-sions and interests develop as class curricula become more focused; everyone is able to pursue their dream with a multitude of uni-versity choices. Is this not a model system? Is this not what we strive for in making education a univer-sal global phenomenon? Most, if not all would answer with an em-phatic “Yes!” to both questions.

It may therefore come as a shock, ladies and gentlemen, to know that we have it all terribly wrong! If measured by the aforemen-tioned assumptions, our system is indeed exemplary—there is no doubt. The issue is not however the implementation of what we believe; the contemporary educa-tional philosophy is riddled with fallacies, half-truths and misguid-ed goals. Academics and philoso-phers including Mortimer Alder and Robert Hutchinson have cautioned us about its dangers, but their warning were not heed-ed. Now, our failings are most evident in our university system, which is supposed to represent the highest level of thought, un-derstanding and enquiry. Put sim-ply, post-secondary education in Canada suffers from a dilution of

standards, a dilution of achieve-ments, a dilution of purpose.

Attaining a university degree is widely seen as a means to an end. This approach appears to “make sense” considering that gradu-ates earn about twice as much as their high school only educated counterparts. Consider, however, the implications of such a system. Growing societal atychiphobia pressures students, to choose uni-versity stream programs or cours-es, therefore increasing the rate of university attendance among Canadian youth. When one con-siders more advanced degrees, however, there is no correspond-ing trend. It is now common for a student to just go to any university, earn a basic degree and disappear into the workforce. As our post-secondary institutions become filled with such students and begin to cater to this growing tendency, they treat the mind as a vessel to be filled. They extinguish the flame of discovery and treat students to a watered down portion of higher education’s nectar. The result is, as noted by an OECD study on the matter, fewer Canadian grad-uate students in the fields of sci-ence and engineering and Cana-da having one of the lowest rates of PhD completion in the world.

The impact of such a mindset on our economic and social situation is also dire. As degrees have be-come a prerequisite to a good job, the gap between skilled and afflu-ent and the unskilled and poor has grown. As incomes have gradu-ally moved to polar extremes, our economy has come to increasingly favor ‘educated’ jobseekers. With no middle ground, the disadvan-taged and unemployable are re-ceding further and further into the pit of despair and poverty. This, taken to the extreme over time, fosters resentment and has proved the root cause of dysfunction and unrest. Furthermore, historically, the over-education of the remain-der of the population creates an oversupply of labor, suppresses wages and results in distress-ingly high underemployment.

While the aforesaid repercus-sions of maintaining our current educational philosophy may seem far off and intangible, there is an even more pressing reason to change our ways. Troubles, rooted in the current system, will amplify in the near future. A strong prec-edent can be found in England’s university system. Over the past half-century, the dream of a Brit-ish social democracy has affected

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substantial change in what was once the most revered mechanism for erudition in the world. What has changed? Strict government control over these institutions has reduced them to an exemplar of what is wrong. Under the guise of improving social mobility, the state has turned higher education into an expensive entitlement. Telling of the lack of perspec-tive that young Britons have is the damning headline—“ONLY two thirds of students will be admitted to university!”—a number that should strike us as ab-normally high. The state of education in that country has gotten to such a point that it is near impossible to simply cut ridiculous uni-versity programs, like a ma-jor in waste management with a minor in dance. With the prospect of tuition fee increases on the horizon, the don-nish members of the population riot in the streets, creating chaos from which not even the apolitical royals are safe. The English model has failed to achieve its lofty aims; there has been no melding of so-cial classes. Fewer than ten per-cent of those attending an institu-tion of higher learning come from impoverished backgrounds. At best Labor’s post-war engineers

have only mildly exacerbated the conflict among castes—a far cry from the “Post War Dream” mourned by Roger Waters.

Canada is surely on its way to a cri-sis like Britain’s in the near future. Canadian university campuses are already awash with calls to make “education a right”—thinly veiled code for the English-model relaxing of admission standards and artificial tuition suppression.

In order to save our educational enterprise in Canada we must, to borrow Plutarch’s astute meta-phor, stop pouring water into an already full vessel, dry the im-brued kindling and light the fire of scholarship. We must embrace a new view of higher educa-tion—one that acknowledges the need to sacrifice the pervasive-ness of degrees and to make them more valuable to society. Our current university system is over-

subscribed, overdeveloped and over-consolidated, not to men-tion, misguided in its approach.

Universities, which stand atop the educational pyramid, are, by na-ture research institutions, whose purpose is to advance academic and scientific inquiry. They must return to this vision. In their teach-ing capacity, they must once again strive to inspire their students, and show them how to critically evaluate both theory and prac-

tice. A balanced approach that emphasizes the union between factual knowl-edge and analytical think-ing can yield innovation and discovery. Further-more, it encourages stu-dents to pursue more ad-vanced degree programs, hence producing more

experts in their respective fields.

Universities need to be granted more freedom from political inter-ests and from bureaucracy. Insti-tutional independence fosters the emergence of a unique character of teaching, as well as both inter-collegiate competition and coop-eration. A stricter meritocratic ad-missions process that considers the whole candidate is indispensible to bettering the quality of students.

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In order to complement the re-forms in university education, professional schools that provide a blend of acquired skills and specialized knowledge need to be established. Catering to the middle of the job market, training in fields such as information tech-nology, business administration and applied engineering would enable high school graduates to attend an in-depth four year pro-gram without the expectation that further degrees would be pursued. A more direct approach, like this,

would improve the efficiency and effectiveness of vocational instruc-tion in these areas. Many existing universities can easily be convert-ed into polytechnic institutes and schools of business or technology. Since these schools would not di-vert part of their funding for re-search, more resources would be available to students themselves, providing a large and well-educat-ed workforce that would be the en-gine of future economic growth.

Enduring and ever-increasing

prosperity is not an easy task by any measure. Our best hope is to kindle the fire of our potential. Despite the meretricious argu-ments to the contrary, we must treat education as a scarce com-modity, and distribute it in ac-cordance with its true purpose. In education, social success and the attainment of wealth must, as Mortimer Alder stated, “become subordinate to the inner attain-ments of moral and intellectual virtue”, for the latter will ensure the fulfillment of the former.

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I T ’ S A

G E O R G I A N

L I F E



T H E B O O S T

MACKENZIE GILMORE & REID KERR-KELLER

“A t e a c h e r c a n b o o s t , y o u r m o m c a n b o o s t , a n d w o r s t o f a l l , y o u c a n b o o s t . ”

There are many captivating issues that plague the world today: glob-al warming, a global financial cri-sis, the Iraq war, obesity, and pov-erty. The one issue that affects us all without most even realizing it is boosting. A boost is a statement or gesture intended to make peo-ple think more highly of you. A teacher can boost, your mom can boost, and worst of all, you can boost. There is no telling the time or place a boost can strike. It can be anywhere from the safety of your own home to your preferred Pizza Pizza location, or even in the comfort of your own bath-room. We live in constant peril of the most unfriendly of statements: the boost. The current hotbed for boosting is on social network-ing sites such as Twitter, MySpace, and Facebook. These social net-working sites serve as an ideal spot for online confidence and boost-ing to spread like a virus. A per-fect example of a Facebook boost: “Mackenzie Gilmore is soooo

sore from fight training today.” Mack may not have intended to do so, but he is perpetuating the abomination that is a boost. This post seems rather harmless, but when broken down, the boost is exposed. The first thing someone must do, when analyzing a boost, is ask themselves the questions of boost regulating: 1. What point is he trying to get across? In this specific instance, it seems as though Mackenzie Gilmore is trying to get the point across that he is a trained fighter and that he works out. Sweet Mack, that is minorly cool. But was there any reason for saying this? 2. Why did he post it? In this example, it seems as though he is trying to impress people with his fight training. He possibly wants all guys to understand that he does fight training and has the ability to fight. 3. Is there any possible explanation that would necessi-tate such a flagrantly boost-errific post? No, Mack, there is not. In conclusion, this specific example is perfect, as it shows the core of what a boost is: an excuse for someone to brag about how cool his or her life is. Furthermore, boosting is not an invention of the 21st century; it has been around since man first told of his adven-tures from last weekend. However,

a new century brings with it new avenues of boosting. Even now, your loved ones could be on Face-book, subjecting their poor minds to four hundred pictures of “How cool my vacation Was” by Reid “Cool Daddy” Kerr-Keller. Such worrisome dangers are the reason that now is the time we must stand vigilant. Boosting is not cool, nei-ther are your status updates. It is important that individuals remind those they care for not to boost and to call them out when they do. This is the only way that mankind can survive a time that may well come to be known as the Boost-Pocalypse. Future generations will look back at 2011 as the year of the Resistance against all forms of needless boosting. Change is possible; change is key. Now is our moment: it is time to stand up to the horror that is boosting, and to say, “No Reid “Cool Dad-dy” Kerr-Keller, I will not look at your vacation pictures. You are a boost.” There is no reason for our children and grandchildren to live under rocks and in crevasses, hid-ing from cruel and evil boost over-loads. Boosting can be stopped. Every boost must be followed by a call-out. For example, Sam Caldarone says, “Shucks, I only got 95% on the last functions unit test.” Response from his peers:

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“Bro, quit boosting.” Let the history books and the bards tell of our triumph, and let freedom from boosts reign across the land: from pole to pole, sea to sea, from Facebook Wall to Facebook Wall.

I S A L I E N T H ES T O M P I N G G R O U N D F O R D I R E C T O R I A L B R I L L I A N C E ?

ANDREW SAVORY

“ T h e m o v i e w a s m o n u -m e n t a l f o r s e t t i n g t h e m o o d o f a n x i e t y a n d s t r e t c h i n g a u d i e n c e e x -p e c t a t i o n s f o r w h a t w o u l d a r r i v e n e x t . ”

The Alien film series began as a small pipedream for the Uni-versity of Southern California graduate and screenwriter, Dan O’Bannon. Thirty-one years later, Alien serves as the core for what we base our assumptions of extra-terrestrial life. Well, dragon-like creatures whose drool can burn through walls and floors may be a stretch, but Alien seems to be the foundation for some of the finest directors of our time.

The debut of the Alien series came under the directorial supervision of Ridley Scott, a man credited with numerous successes in the last twenty years ranging from Thelma and Louise all the way to Gladiator and American Gangster. But where did all this come from? It was no fluke. Scott’s career took off with Alien because it taught him how to combine suspense with a thrilling science fiction premise. The movie was monumental for setting the mood of anxiety and stretching audience expectations for what would arrive next, and paved the way for future films that would harness the uncertainty of what comes next with extensive es-tablishing and point of view shots. Its sequel, Aliens, was released seven years later; only this time, a young James Cameron held the reins to the franchise. Cam-eron took a different approach to the concept of Alien. Instead of creating a spectacle of atmo-spheric strain, he proposed a more viscerally appealing punch that was significantly more nu-anced than your average action film. Cameron may have broken onto the scene with his 1984 box office hit The Terminator, but Aliens is where he earned his stripes and cemented his reputation as a legitimate director. With Aliens,

Cameron learned that although you may have an extraordinary precedent to revolve your film around, you should never stray too far from the original concept.

To make the jump from a com-mercial and music video director to film is no small feat, but David Fincher was burdened with the difficult task of directing Alien 3. The movie was a critical failure, and Fincher eventually left shoot-ing prior to completion due to disagreements with producers. This did, however, help Fincher understand that if he wasn’t given enough freedom when directing a movie, he wasn’t willing to make it in the first place. This lesson would prove crucial as Fincher would go on to direct hits such as Se7en, Fight Club, Zodiac, The Cu-rious Case of Benjamin Button, and most recently, The Social Network.

Jean-Pierre Jeunet was entrusted with the difficult task of directing the finale to a series that had al-ready been plunged into submis-sion by a three-quel that failed to gain considerable attention. Jeu-net was unable to revive or any feeling of Alien fever with its for-mer fan base. He had a disgrun-tled lead in Sigourney Weaver who wanted out, a misplaced Winona

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Ryder and a makeshift script so bad not even the aliens them-selves wanted to eat it. Jeunet wouldn’t make another movie for another four years until he took a chance with Amélie; the story of a blissful young woman who seeks to aid others and along the way discovers love. The result? Five Oscar nominations, various international awards and criti-cal acclaim for Jeunet who had proven himself worthy after fail-ing to make his mark with Alien Resurrection.

L U C K Y G U Y

SPENCER BARTON

“ U n d e r n e a t h h i s c o a t , h e h a s t i e d s e v e r a l s c r a p s o f n e w s p a p e r a n d p l a s t i c b a g s a r o u n d h i s a r m s a n d n e c k f o r w a r m t h . ”

Forest Hill is one of the three wealthiest neighbourhoods in To-ronto. Its expansive, posh houses are situated around “The Village”, a collection of high-end shops and offices. This is where Guy lives. You can usually spot him at the bank or the coffee shops or out-side the dentist’s office. He only sleeps in the banks because they’re warm, the coffee shops close by

nine, and the dentist has a security guard. Guy is now sixty-two and has been living on the streets for thirty-one years. When I started talking to him, he painted a pic-ture of the city I’ve grown up in: a picture of dirt and harsh times.

I have been seeing Guy in the Vil-lage since I was a child but didn’t know his name until interviewing him for the first time. He is short, blind in one eye (which occurred within the past year), has yellow-grey, thinning hair, and wears the same coat, pants, shoes and shirt year-round. Underneath his coat, he has tied several scraps of news-paper and plastic bags around his arms and neck for warmth. His toes are visible and black. His back is hunched, and he smells of urine. I interviewed him twice in the TD Bank at the corner of Spadina Road and Thelma Av-enue. He was reluctant to par-ticipate in the interview and asked me to exclude any names, dates, or places for fear of being tracked.

The April 2009 “Shelter, Sup-port & Housing Administration Report” states that an estimated 5,086 homeless people were pres-ent in the city of Toronto. That includes the street, but not those in a shelter or communal hous-

ing office. As of November 2009, there were fifty-seven city-funded shelter facilities, and nine city-operated shelter facilities. On any given night during those years there were 3,800 beds available for the homeless. I asked Guy why he didn’t make use of any of the shel-ters. He is among the 6% of home-less people who don’t use them.

“I went to one of them only twice, many years ago. The first night was fine. The second night a man went to the bathroom on the bed I was staying in and stole my jack-et. I never went back. To this day it’s buddies like him that steer me clear of those places.” I asked him if he had told the housing manag-ers about that incident. “Oh yeah, oh yeah. Sure. They said they saw him come in with that coat and made me clean the sheets. That was my coat!” As he spoke with me, a woman who had just with-drawn money handed him a ten-dollar bill. “Get yourself some-thing to eat. God Bless.” “Oh. Oh! Thank you very much. I will.”

According to a Government of Canada Report by Tim Riordan, approximately 66% of homeless people have a lifetime diagnosis of mental illness. This is two to three times higher than the rest

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of the population. Guy was diag-nosed with psychosis when he was younger and has never received proper treatment or medication. At several points he began speak-ing about birds, listing his favor-ite kinds (Goldfinches, Cardinals, and Parakeets) and what to feed each of them to keep them happy (bread chunks, sunflower seeds, and sliced lemon respectively). I told him about a nest of Goldfinch-es that used to be in my backyard and he grinned. “Is that right?” His eye wandered. “Singers, they are. I listen to them all day.”

An April 2010 City of Toronto report was titled “New Research: street homelessness in Toronto cut in half ”. An excerpt: “The Street Needs Assessment is a snap shot of Toronto’s homeless popula-tion. It was conducted at a direct cost of about $119,000, funded by the federal government’s Home-lessness Partnership Initiative. As is the case with almost all home-less surveys, it is not designed to include the “hidden” homeless (those living in over-crowded con-ditions or “couch surfing”).” Guy is among the “hidden” homeless so is not included in that survey. The second time I went looking for Guy was sundown the next

evening. He was on his way into the Royal Bank. I was finishing a cigarette as I began talking to him and he wouldn’t look me in the eyes. His eye would just follow the cigarette and his head turned as I dropped it. He said he was coming from downtown. I had brought a point-and-shoot camera to see if Guy would let me take his picture. He didn’t. He explained Canadi-an photography laws. “You could get in big trouble you know. Oh

yes, sir. You must always, always, always ask permission. There’s big issues with just snapping shots in the street. Someone gets in your way and sees their face on the computer they can sue big time off of you.” He asked why I had my camera. I lied and told him I had just wanted some pictures of the neighbourhood. “You haven’t been taking any pictures of me,

have you?” He laughed, showing all of his teeth. I hadn’t. He was different during that interview. He seemed more nervous and he swayed from side to side. “What paper do you work for again?” I explained again that I was writ-ing for a class. He calmed down.

Guy was now standing in the cor-ner of the RBC nearest the door. I asked him if he knew what our new mayor said about people in his situation. “No.” I quoted Rob Ford: “This is a bylaw opening the door to make every ward have a shelter. That’s the black and white of the issue here. Okay? I’m sorry to say, this is an insult to my con-stituents to even think about hav-ing a war- uh a homeless shelter in their ward. And you want me to have a public meeting to dis-cuss this? Why don’t we have a public lynching?” Guy laughs and grins again. “He’s our mayor?”

I asked Guy when he had been diagnosed with psychosis and if he had ever been medicated for it. “I don’t want to say. I don’t like pills. I had a friend who had a house and would paint and gar-den all the time. Real workman type. Got sick and started taking pills and he got fat and slowed down and guys started coming to

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his house all the time asking him odd questions about it. So that’s when I had to leave. I had had enough of those guys. Beautiful house ‘til they started showing up.” He asked to see some of the pictures I had taken. Some were of birds in Costa Rica. His face lit up when he saw them. “Oh my! Look at the colours on that

one! And you saw these guys? Oh my.” I told him I had to go take some more pictures and that I would see him later. “Okay, there. Oh no! I’m awful with names...” “Spenc-” “Spencer! Right, right, right. Ok well. Thank you, Spencer.” “Thank you, Guy.”

Before I knew Guy, I would refer

to him as Lucky. He looked ex-actly like the character in “Wait-ing for Godot,” bags and hair and all. I walked by the RBC five minutes later and he was stand-ing, asleep. Beyond sitting and talking to him, giving him sub-way fare or some food, I didn’t know what I could do for him. But at least I knew his name.

C R E A T I V E F I C T I O N

M O D E R N L O V E

DANIEL DAVIDSON-KALMAR

“ S h e h a d b e e n c a l l e d i n t o s t u f f h i s d o g , w h i c h h a d d i e d a m o n t h e a r -l i e r. ”

We met on the road. She was an on call taxidermist; I was a boun-ty hunter. She had gotten herself into a sticky situation; my target had jumped bail and holed up in a motel on highway 744. She had been called in to stuff his dog, which had died a month earlier.

We met on the road. He was a bounty hunter; I was an on call taxidermist. I was on a job, sew-

ing and stuffing as usual, when the door fell out from the wall. It had been kicked, with consider-able force, by a bearded man of considerable stature. “Jeremiah! You in here?” the man yelled. I as-sumed he was talking to my client.

I looked around the room but my target was out. There was a woman in the back room. She was stitching up some kind of animal. I was immediately drawn to her. I walked forward.

The man approached me. My god, he was ugly, I was immedi-ately repulsed. “Hey, pretty lady,” he said. No one had ever called me pretty before, perhaps he was more charming than I thought.

“Have you seen a five foot six man with a large tattoo on his cheek?” I asked. “Yes,” she re-plied, “I was just stuffing his dog. He’s out”. “Well then, let’s go find him,” I said, “together.”

He reached out his giant hand and I gave him mine. He led me out to his car, and we drove away after Jeremiah. I did not yet know what he did for a living; I was rather reckless now that I think about it.

When I said we met on the road, I meant it. I introduced myself. “I’m Chester,” I said. “I’m Le-rleen,” she replied. “After we find Jeremiah, would you let me take you out for dinner?”

“So,” I said. “Stuffing animals,

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eh?” “Yes,” she replied. There was an awkward silence. Perhaps I had chosen the wrong place for the date. I knew she liked animals, so I took her to the outdoor café at the zoo. My mind had wandered off; a seagull was eating my hamburger.

He was so well-bearded. I wasn’t sure that I could handle this. I was better at stuffing the dead than talking to the living. We got up to look at the animals. He reminded me of the walrus…

We got up to look at the ani-mals. She reminded me of the flamingo: elegant, beautiful. “What if we joined them?” I said. “What?” she yelled, “Are you out of your mind?” I just wanted to make things exciting.

I began to doubt this man’s intel-ligence… I grew tired of the zoo, and we began to leave. I offered him a deal if he wanted to see me again. “Shave the beard,” I said.

It was minutes before the date. I had to shave, but how would I do it? I had never removed my whiskers before. I was nervous, and put it off as long as possible. I picked up a pair of scissors. The hair wouldn’t cut. The scissors be-came tangled; I needed to think

of something else. A regular shav-er got stuck as well. I went into the kitchen and picked up a knife. The door rang. “Come in!” I yelled. “Almost finished!” I began to cut away at the hair, the knife slipped; I could feel the blade on my tongue. “Gahhhhh!” I yelled. She ran into the room. “Oh my god, hold on, I can fix this!” She pulled some stitches out of her bag. “I’ve never done this on something alive before. Hold still”. My god, I thought, we were perfect together.

E A R W A X E D

JACK GROSS

“ I d o n’ t k n o w, m a y b e t o o m u c h A d v i l o r s o m e -t h i n g. ”

I am asleep.

I am in Riverdale Park, across from my old house with the red door. It is fall. The leaves are brown and red and yellow. They have been raked into piles. I am with some-one, a girl. She is small. I still have hair that is long and curly and blonde. My hair will turn brown when I am five. The girl and I run in circles and fall into the piles of leaves. The leaves fly around us. We laugh and scream with each

other. She knows my name. I think hers is Megan. I am happy. We throw the leaves and hold hands and spin around and around.

There is a figure. It is big, an Adult. It calls for me. I am afraid. It is angry. It is disap-pointed. The Adult has no gen-der and no distinct voice, but I have known them. They speak to me sternly. They grab my hand and walk. Tears well up in my eyes. I want to speak but can’t.

I wake up.

My chest rises and falls. I am scared, embarrassed, hot, sweat-ing. I get out of the bed. My feet touch the floor and they are loud. The hardwood creaks right in-side my head. Everything is too loud. I’m confused. I start to cry. I walk out the door. I realize I am in my grandparents’ house, Wardlow, Alberta. The carpet in the hall scratches my feet. I feel sensitive to everything. I drag my hand along the wall as I walk. The paint lumps hit my palm. I try to calm my breathing. The thoughts in my head are slow and thunder-ing. The voice of the Adult reso-nates in my head. I can’t make out its words. My voice keeps saying, “We were just having fun,

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we were just having fun.” I walk down the hallway that has dark yellow walls. The house moans. There are pictures of my mother and father and uncle and aunt. I can hear my grandpa snor-ing from his bedroom. It fills my head; it’s louder than my feet now. I walk past the boiler room and my heart is still thumping in my head. I am in the lean-to. I look out the screen door, down the hill. I can see Dixie and Mr. Dunn standing and sleeping. I feel jeal-ous of them. The prairie wind cools my face. It is inviting me outside, but I am little, just seven, and I turn back to the bedroom.

I wake up.

My chest rises and falls. I am pan-icked, embarrassed, sweating. I am older, ten or eleven. This has happened before. It is afternoon. I am in my house on Roxborough. I had come home from school ear-lier. I am wearing Hot Chilli paja-mas and a bathrobe. I get out of my bed. My feet touch the floor and kick my eardrums. The hard-wood creaks inside me; every-thing is loud again. I feel rushed. My movements feel hyperactive. Everything is urgent. Only my thoughts are slow. I can hear my mum all around me. She is down-

stairs with Zinka, her friend who is a hairdresser and photogra-pher. I yell to my mum, “Mum? Everything is so loud! Mum?”

“What, Jacko?” She says to me. “He has a fever...” She says to Zinka. “Everything is so loud. I can, like, hear everything so loud.” I am panicked. “ W h a t ? ”“Everything is, like, so loud. I can hear my feet.”

I lean over the railing near my bedroom. She comes to the bot-tom of the stairs. I can feel my heart beating into the banister. “What’s wrong, honey?” She says. “Everything is really loud. I had this dream where I was, like, in

the park at the old house and I woke up and now everything is loud and I feel so weird.” My voice feels soft and weak.

“Okay, just go back to bed. You’re feverish.” I turn around. She walks back to the dining room and says to

Zinka in a low voice, “I don’t know, maybe too much Advil or something.” I hear Zinka snort.

I walk down the hallway to the bathroom. I press the light switch and it clicks in my ear. The fan whirrs loudly. I look in the mir-ror and mouth words at my re-flection. I go and use the toilet. The flush is like a waterfall. I go back to the mirror and rub my hands into my face, watching the flesh move around. I turn off the light and the fan. I walk back to my bedroom and lay on my back watching my chest. It rises less and less. I take a drink of water out of the cup at my side and feel it slide down my throat and cool my stomach. I lay back and stare at the ridge created by the wall border and wish I were deaf.

H O L Y R O L L E R

ANDREW MCCONNELL

“ I w a s w a l k i n ’ d o w n t h e r o a d , w i t h a s u i t c a s e i n m y h a n d a n d n o t a l o t o n m y m i n d . ”

Sometimes the only one left to tell the story is the buckwheat. Some-times the story slips through the

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cracks, and the only one there to catch it is the land. But some-times, people remember. They may not think about what hap-pened for years and years and sud-denly one day, it all comes back. And sometimes it never does.

* * * * *

I was walkin’ down the road, with a suitcase in my hand and not a lot on my mind. I was bein’ sent to live for the summer with my Uncle Willis. I knew it wasn’t because my sister didn’t want me, but the Sunset Motor Camp wasn’t so busy in the summer; all the residents went on trips. Plus, with Father gone and Mother al-ways workin’, I was just one more thing to worry about. I wasn’t worried about my uncle, from what I’d gathered he wasn’t the worst man, and I was no judge.

I reached into my pocket and drew out the instructions my sister had written for me. I looked around. Not a lot. Orillia wasn’t the big-gest place to begin with, and once you started walkin’ you could be at it a long time before you found what you were lookin’ for. I was told to turn at the fence post of the big red house. By the time I got there, baking in the summer

heat was a house that was half red and half white. I was lucky I wasn’t a half hour later. Some-times I think there is a god, but most of the time I think he’s full of it. What I didn’t know is that Uncle Willis felt the other way.

I made my way down that dusty road not expecting the best, and not expecting the worst. I don’t think anyone could expect what I found. The house was small and comfortable, with a little barn off to the side. The paint was chipped and white; the shingles had seen their day. There was a little porch off the side. I walked around, hearing a commotion. Sure enough there was my Uncle Willis, rolling on the porch like a fish out of water. Rolling right there beside him was his brother Charlie. They had the same thick jaw and no neck. But I guess that made them better rollers.

The door creaked open, the men rolled in silence, eyes pressed shut, both looked like they were gonna say something. Neither of them took notice of me. Out of the house came my Aunt Olive; her face looked like the bottom of a spittoon. I tried not to look at her. She had a chipped white mug in her hand. Her eyes met mine,

then she looked at Willis rolling on the ground and said nothing. Willis lurched up. He looked at me, then at my aunt, then at my aunt’s mug. Then he looked angry.

“That, that tea again?”“And what if it is?”“Woman, I swear, you’re askin’ for it. I do my best to appease our Lord, and you go an’ spit in ‘is face with your devil herbs and your low cut dresses.” I could hardly see her collarbone.

She may have had attitude, but Olive knew when to give up. Finally someone realized I was there. It was Charlie.

“You must be Tom.”“That’s me.”Willis said “Put your things inside, then there’s a horse that needs brushing in the barn. ‘Is name’s Billy.”I was still wonderin’ about the rolling. So I didn’t move.“What are ya doin’, stan-din’ around? Get moving.”“I don’t mean any trouble,” the words were hard to find, Wil-lis had gone cockeyed. “But why were you rollin’ on the ground?”

They both started to laugh. They stopped at the same time.

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“Boy, I’m surprised your mother didn’t tell you. Out here, we’re Holy Rollers.”

This still meant absolutely noth-ing to me. So I asked again. They looked at me like I was stupid.

“Have you ever got that feelin’, where it’s just like the Lord has come into you?”I didn’t feel like lying, but I did anyway.“I know it well.”“Well we roll to let the Lord know that we know he’s there.”

It was going to be a long summer.

* * * * *

It was about mid-July. I was work-ing like a dog, and Willis kept on rolling like a hog. One day, Ol-ive, who rarely spoke, told me to go to the store and get her some things. She gave me a list: sugar, salt, tea. Willis was not going to like it, but like my brother Tupper said, “The business of askin’ questions is no business of yours.”

So there I was, three hours later, ridin’ Billy through the trees tak-ing a “shortcut”. Problem was, I was lost, and it was gettin’ dark. Olive had said there was a path,

but to me all the trees seemed to make anything but a path. Ev-erything looked the same, so I started to get worried. My heart was pounding and ribs were hum-ming. It felt like the light kept getting farther and farther away.

I hopped off Billy, and started leading him by the hand. He didn’t want to be led, so I sat on a stump and took out my har-monica. I was a man of constant sorrow. It just got darker and darker. Soon even the trees start-ed to sweat. I don’t know if it was the noise from my harmonica, or the sound of my bones jitter-ing, but sooner or later I saw a light in the night. Billy neighed. Willis and Charlie came out of the bush, Charlie was holding the lamp and Willis was holding a Bi-ble. Neither said anything. They pulled me to my feet and we made for home. We got out onto the road and I saw a house. It was about seven eighths white, the last bit red. Someone was a lazy painter.Willis finally said something, “What’d Olive send you to get anyhow?”“Salt, sugar,” I stammered over the last word, “tea.”“I’ll kill that woman.”He cuffed me on the ear with the Bible in his hand.

A N T I - D R U G

PATRICK COFFEY

My favorite color,My eyes,Sometimes Christmas color,Burn,Smoke, Puff,Sesh,Blaze,Bun, Have fun,I love that dank,Damn that stanks,Dope fiend, Used to be keen,Mmm that green

More creative, yeah okayCooler, whatever you sayA lifestyle…Get along with your parents, with your peers?A good love life…Better at sports?Better in school?Workouts more efficientUse of mind more sufficientOh I’m sureSure life is greatIndependentI say dependentIrrelevantYou’ll hear them sayQuite the contraryVery involved

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1 7 24 7 1

7 6 39 6

5 8 38

1 9 45 2

1 2 7

On the mindYou say you’re more kind…

Not yourselfPassin’ life by It fliesGood thing you say…What does your future hold?Will your kids be proud?Superiors?Boss?Coach?Chilled out, I assumeAre you sure it doesn’t consume?You don’t stress anymore…Why do you shut the door?Not anxious anymoreIs your chest sore?When you’re not highHow’s life?What do you think about?Getting high?Your relative is sick, assignment overdueYou don’t have a clue.Parents aren’t happy with youConscienceNon-senseDon’t believe itNo guiltYou’re not builtWhat benefit does your life have over others?Ridiculous, stupid stoners, if your life is going well, why change it, alter it, risk worse habits, worse medical health or well-being?

P U Z Z L E S A N D C O D E S

Be the first to solve the following codes or puzzles to collect prizes—$15, $30, $75 gift cards respectively. Send complete solutions to Michael Lemanski.

C O D E D M E S S A G E S

Easy1 1101 11000 10000 1100 1 11000 10011 1001 1110 10100 1000 101 10000 1 10010 1011Hard8 13 1 12 1 d 18 c 18 c 9 9 8 d 18 13 16

P U Z Z L E S

Days can be represented numbers. A sunny Friday that is not in April is a 3. A day that is not a Monday or Tuesday but is rainy is a 4. What is a rainy weekday that is not a Thursday or Sunday but is in October?

S U D O K U

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G

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The Grifter, 2010-2011 Issue One