“You play an active part; by taking it all in, this show pushes you to think,” says director Laura Freitag. And indeed it does. While searching for a spot, you find yourself scrutinized by Mick (Joy Ross-Jones), who unabashedly glares the audience into place. Without a word, he leaves, ceding the stage to a washed-up, homeless old man, Davies (Melissa Keogh), who is led to the apartment by Aston (Amanda McQueen), Mick’s older brother. He starts the dialogue rolling, and it’s your job to keep up. 
Pinter is careful to flesh out his characters without explicitly describing them. From Davies’s idiosyncratic, twitchy movements, to the smile that almost – but never quite – escapes Aston’s face, to Mick’s unfaltering stare, we are given snapshots of people, from which we must draw our own conclusions. This is a ton of fun, as the play is surprisingly funny. Not in the way comedies usually are, but rather in an unspoken way, prompting giggling that comes up when it really shouldn’t – like at a funeral or during a church service. In fact, I found myself glancing around between chuckles to see if other people were laughing. They were. 
Behind, or perhaps intertwined with, this humour lurks a mysterious cobweb of facts that we never fully see but of which we become very aware. What really happens in Aston’s apartment? Why did he allow a homeless stranger in? And what exactly hides underneath Mick’s over-the-top pleasantness? Speculation about these answers is fascinating, though purely open to interpretation. For instance, was one brother mistaken for the other in events leading up to the play? That’s for you to decide.

The Caretaker’s set is spacious, leaving much room for the eye to wander – perhaps even to its detriment. Since the actors demand so much attention, they could have explored more opportunities away from centre stage. Despite some delays, the lighting in between scenes was well-designed, giving us a sense of time passing.

Strikingly, the director chose to cast women for the three male roles of Mick, Davies, and Aston. In a somewhat ingenious move, Freitag thus showcases the McGill theatre community’s female actors in engrossing roles, without worrying about character gender. Obviously aware of our politically minded campus, Freitag added an amusing note “for the feminists” who come see the show: “Is gender performed? Are these men? Are these women? Does this really even matter?” 
This decision was a success: these are male characters played exceptionally well by female actors. The current theatre season not yet out of its growing pains, we have seen some sharply acted roles (Jessica Kostuck’s Yitzhak in Hedwig comes to mind), but if McGill Theatre had its Oscar equivalent, we would now have a clear front-runner in Melissa Keogh. Playing a simultaneously zany, scared, and self-bewildering Davies, her performance exceeds all standards. With constant ticks and quirks, the role is physically demanding, but Keogh never backs down. It is the role that makes the play.

The post An ode to black sheep appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Once lead actor Max Zidel, as Hedwig, descended onto the stage, no one in the audience had time to take notes. We were no longer near McGill campus watching a student production, but transported to a grubby venue somewhere, where Hedwig was about to unleash her autobiography.

Written by John Cameron Mitchell, the story blends searing wit, Greek mythology, social philosophies, and age-old passions into a work that balances the all too human and the fantastical. Hedwig herself is but one piece of the puzzle that makes Players’ production great; without three other pieces, it would only be a shadow of its current form.

The first piece is the heart-breakingly real character of Yitzhak, Hedwig’s on-stage partner. The production’s director, Jessica Kostuck, has given Yitzhak more character depth and importance than other versions of the show I’ve seen, a move I applaud. Elizabeth Conway is a first-year student who plays Yizthak like she’s a fourth-year theatre major. Her subtle background work and tingling vocals are reason enough to go see the show. Moreover, she makes her character the perfect sidekick – it’s clear that Conway’s Yitzhak aches for Hedwig’s turmoil. She provides the sincerity that Hedwig can’t, and the audience loves her for it.

The second piece of the puzzle is the vibrant band, which not only brings the house down with a pitch- perfect glam rock performance, but does so while staying in character, communicating as a live band would. They are apt bookends for the show, blurring the line between our world and Hedwig’s.

The third piece is one you may not see at first glance, but it is perhaps the most important. I’m talking about Hedwig’s other half, the being that the play’s whole journey is about. Whether this being is a successful rock star or whether he is in fact Hedwig herself is a question that drives the play, and the audience is left guessing its answer. The last time you see Hedwig is a poignant moment designed especially for you to come to a conclusion.

And I urge you, put yourself in the position to do so. Hedwig boasts an experienced production crew that has taken matches and made fireworks with them. The lavish costume design and set are fun, but the creative team took it up a notch: dispersed throughout the stage are TV screens, which are constantly streaming footage that enhances the action. One almost needs a second viewing simply to take it all in. Go watch, and drag (mind the pun) your friends along. They’ll thank you for it.

Hedwig and the Angry Inch is at Players’ Theatre (3480 McTavish, 3rd Floor) through October 31.

The post She got glam appeared first on The McGill Daily.

– Frodo Baggins

Terrible, isn’t it? After all the sweat, tears, laughter and beers, to be sitting here, knowing that it’s just about finished. For first-years, what little they remember from Frosh Week has all but disappeared at the end of a year full of “first times.” And for the old timers, it might feel like just another tick in the clock, but whatever it was for you, this academic year is drawing to a close, never to be had again.

I did write a big thank you speech, listing my mom, Alexander Keith, and all seven of my loyal readers. My editor promised he’ll publish it in the back pages somewhere, but I have a sneaky suspicion he’ll just chuck it, or worse, send it to The Tribune. Either way, I still feel inclined to throw out a generic tip of the hat to all those that inspired me: so to the guy who scrawled philosophy on washroom stalls, the jerk who wore a shirt in winter, President Obama, my big-ass beard, Sean Turner, and anybody I forgot – here’s to you!

Now that that’s over, let’s get down to business. As per usual there’s a ton of noteworthy stuff going on in the world – the international economy, Stephen Harper going to the loo while the G20 photo is taken – and as per usual, I won’t write about any of it. There are thousands of columnists out there vying for the best/wittiest/critique-y-est take on things. Adding my sentimental voice to the lot surely won’t make the picture any prettier. No, instead I’ll return to how the sun is setting on this year of study.

Now if you know the whole story, you’ll be aware that Frodo-dear has no idea what he’s talking about when he utters these sombre – albeit touching – words in the shadow of Mount Doom. He was, of course, nowhere near the end of all things. The Shire needed to be saved, Aragorn’s wedding needed attending, and Hobbiton needed a mayor. Yet in the darkest of times, Frodo could not help but resign to the race being over.

But – and here comes this week’s cliché yet brilliant line – the end was only the beginning. And cheesy or not, I won’t hesitate to say it is the same for you. First-, second- or third-year student, this is the end of one section, one chapter. For your sake, I hope it was phenomenal. Enjoy the last few moments, finish strong, and take on the next chapter with a bang.

Now you might be sitting there, realizing you had just read 500 words and you’re not really sure about what, but you feel alright about it…. That’s great, that’s what Life Lines was all about. This is the end of things for this year, and for my part, I was glad to be with you.

Isn’t Johanu sweet? Makes ya feel good, don’t it? Alright, send the chap an email at lifelines@mcgilldaily.com.

The post Life Lines: Steps to the end of the tunnel with little feet appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Here’s the situation: I don’t do weather channels. They’re predictive and stupid and seek to spoil what little mystery is left in our science-based lives. But since moving to Canada, I quickly realized that not knowing the temperature could be the difference between a comfortable day and a day where you have to pull apart frozen eyelashes. Thus I resorted to peeking out of my window every morning to measure the level of material my fellow citizens have applied, and I then follow suite. This helps me learn from society while maintaining life’s mystery because I only find out the day of. And it has served me quite well. Until that day last week. That day some happy-go-lucky, no-respect-for-the-wrath-of-winter jerk screwed with my system.

It started like every other morning. Shaking dreams from my head, I stumbled out of bed, shuffled to the shower, showered, shuffled back, pulled back the curtains and there he was. The only person on the street, walking, not strolling – should’ve been my first clue something was off – leisurely towards campus. Now my rule is that I take the average of what people are wearing and I apply that to myself. For instance, if there’s a mixture of sweaters and winter jackets, I’ll wear an intermediate coat.

Needless to say, with one guy out there the average was pretty obvious. I would’ve waited for a more representative sample but I was late for class and from a distance, this dude seemed like a nice enough chap. The kind of chap who would wake up thinking, “Golly gee, I should not wear a mere shirt on a day of arctic temperatures in case someone of an inferior cold threshold does likewise.” This fellow though, evidently did not wake up thinking that. No, he probably thought, “Some poor bastard’s gonna freeze today.”

That poor bastard was me. I sensed something was dreadfully wrong as the elevator door opened on the bottom floor and hints of an icy breeze licked at me from the building entrance. I knew the day was down the shitter by the time I had taken ten steps outside. Two facts were impressed on my mind: one, I’d have to run to catch up to the shirt-wearing jackass, and two, my nipples were going to be rock-solidly showing through my shirt all day.

Well, I did run, but that only increased the chilly-ness. So basically I am abusing my newspaper publishing privileges to reach this man. Whoever and wherever you are, please sir, be more conscientious of the more weather-sensitive folk out there. And if you have the guts, meet me behind the Leacock building on Tuesday and we’ll settle this man to man over a hardy game of chess.

[i]A note to all you winter T-shirt wearers out there: Johanu’s name is pronounced with a soft J. Don’t get that wrong or he’ll get real riled up. Set a date at lifelines@mcgilldaily.com.[/i]

The post Life Lines: A gentle gent’s appeal to the world’s weather jocks appeared first on The McGill Daily.

I could’ve picked campus activities, politics, or fashion as themes in which to specialize. But no, I picked life. And the funny thing about life is that it is annoyingly alive. It refuses to be defined in exact terms, twisting and changing while remaining constant.

My fellow writers can sometimes take a “watcher’s role.” Mr. Ricky Kreitner, of Piñata fame, often views and critiques a situation from the outside, offering considerable insight and a wit to rival mine. For me, though, viewing the situation of life from the outside proves to be a whole other story. Because you see, unless I’m into some real powerful mysticism, if I leave “the situation” I probably can’t come back to write about it. Thus I’m stuck in the same position you are, going through the same hi’s and bye’s, farts and giggles, fears and tears…except I have the gall to publish what I think about it all.

Thankfully though, I think my audience is sharp enough to know that I don’t have all the answers. In fact, I probably have more questions about the answers that aren’t questioned. While you ponder that, here’s what my hour of wading through wisdom from the past got me.

It’s okay.

That’s right; that’s all I got. William Osler said some good stuff; Ambrose Bierce made some smart comments; and Mandela has words to live by. But right now, as we sit on the edge of this academic precipice before falling into summer, I think most of us just need an emphatic, “It’s okay.” And I really think it is.

Yes, the ozone layer is being chipped at; yes, economic injustice seems too immense a problem to fix properly, and yes, there are many other things plaguing our world. But the fact is, you care about it. I’ve participated in, and heard of, discussions flying in and out of class at McGill that sincerely seek to answer these problems. Newspapers, clubs, groups, and individuals have a pervasive care for our earth and what happens in it. Without getting all Oprah on you, I want to say that this is wonderful and we should keep it up. But don’t forget that the reason we care so much is that we either feel or know or decide that this life is both special and worth living. Yet wouldn’t it be a terrible irony if we fought for freedom and happiness our whole lives long but never experienced any?

Go out there. Enjoy the sunshine. Kick ass at your final exams. And if it seems like things are getting just a little too tough, believe me: It’s okay.

What can you even say? Email Johanu at lifelines@mcgilldaily.com, and feel good while doing it.

The post Life Lines: Sunshine on an unanswered mind appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Stereotypes mostly just form a perception in our minds of an individual before we even talk to that person. They may be fine as baseline assessments or material at comedy clubs, but as far as knowing an individual: sit down and chat.

But I write for a newspaper. And ultimately it’s nice if people read it. And since it’s not the news section (those guys are such nerds), I can write till the middle of my column, then spin it all around you, screw with my thesis, sprinkle some fairy dust and BAM: here’s a very readable, if somewhat hypocritical piece of literature for you.

Here’s the rub. All those things I said about stereotypes I stand with, but sometimes there are things which are mostly, if not strictly, true. In the following mini-essay I will be influenced by stereotypes directly affecting me – about the journalistic world and those news section geeks – which makes it kind of okay.

There’s something you quickly notice when comparing American news media and Canadian news media. Spend 30 seconds on CNN or Fox News and you’ll feel like the world is imploding upon itself while Angelina Jolie is having a baby as another baseball player uses enhancement pills at the same time Joe the Plumber has won the biggest lottery yet. Spend an hour on CBC and you will know that it might snow tomorrow.

This kind of matter-of-fact and sincere media is a pinnacle of Canadian journalism. Whether the news bringers serve downtown populations or university students, we in Canada need to retain this element of “everything is alright. We will approach all necessary topics in due time, let us not fret, and start with the weather.” It is what makes us different. It is the dividing line between Hollywood and Tim Hortons. One screams sensational; the other asks if you want a donut.

Why am I worried, you ask? Has anything changed in the last couple years? YES! Yes, dammit, it has. Want proof? Here it is: on March 5 I did a comparison of two similar news outlets, one led by Canadians, the other by Americans. Namely, Yahoo! Canada and Yahoo! USA. These are some of the headlines on the Canadian site:

“Store Shooting: Murder-suicide at Wal-Mart!”

“‘Crazy Diet’: Milla Jovovich loses 70 pounds!”

“Deadly rider: cobra found in couple’s car!”

“Close call: huge asteroid almost hits earth!”

These are legit, by the way; do a search and you’ll find them. On the other side of the spectrum, spitting in the face of my treasured stereotype is the American site:

“Acer Laptops: cheap but not fully-loaded.”

“American Idol: next 3 chosen.”

“Sports: Cowboys drop Owens.”

“Web Hit: the sleepwalking dog.”

C’mon, Canada! Let’s change this right now. There’s nothing wrong with exciting media, but let’s tell people about the world using well-rounded perspectives, not just eye-grabbing headlines. And this goes for The Daily as well. You are the ones we’re serving: if it gets too sensational out here, call us out.

Johanu will be back with another round of hard-hitting investigative journalism next Monday. Send your thoughts to lifelines@mcgilldaily.com.

The post Life Lines: Beware of the Canadian journalistic apocalypse appeared first on The McGill Daily.

– Leo Tolstoy

That was me, sitting shivering in a Manitoba ice rink, gawking at people yelling furiously at the little skating figures and the piece of rubber they were hammering back and forth. I had returned home for reading week, leaving the academic oasis of McGill for a party in the prairies (which consists of seeing who can pee furthest off the town barn).

I had barely finished hugging Mom hello before they dragged me to the arena; my brother had a game. In Manitoba, somebody always has a game. Sure, hockey is a big thing all over Canada, but in B.C. you can also go skiing, go fishing in Nova Scotia, or go drinking in Quebec, and on it goes. In ‘Toba, if there’s no game on, there’s nothing on. Winnipeggers can seethe all they want, but they know that their Friday night is down the drain if there’s no game. Just be thankful you’re not in Saskatchewan, where it’s just mile upon mile of grass.

Anyway, when I arrive at the local skating rink, the atmosphere is deceptively mellow. Farmers in their flannels are sipping coffee and discussing the imminent return of Winnipeg’s ex-NHL team, the Jets, just as they have for several years. Mothers are scuttling after young ones, adjusting their toques and gloves. This is all about to change. Through the glass, the first players get on the ice, and older brother pride fills my chest as I see my little bro puck-handling smoothly around other guys. The moment doesn’t last; I’m swept away by a wave of people moving into the icy rink. My reserved just-got-back-from-university-I’m-well-Mrs. Jenkins-how-are-you facade disappears within seconds while I dodge flying coffee and yelling kids as everybody tries to fit through one door at the same time – the game is about to start.

I’ve often heard newcomers to Canada say, “I don’t mind hockey, I just don’t like the fans.” Athough they’re not quite like soccer fans (you’d be hard pressed to find a post-hockey game headline reading “Dozens Die After Foam Finger Massacre”), hockey lovers can get quite passionate, be it a professional or kids’ game. Thus the previously chilled-out farmers are on their feet in seconds, bellowing their approval of one kid’s pass one moment, and screaming unprintable things about the referee’s mother the next.

With my social psychology classes in mind, I wonder what prompts otherwise decent human beings to get so emotionally excited when their children hit a puck. That’s when I see him. My little bro. Number 19 waving on his back as he speeds out of the box. An opposing team member has broken away and is racing toward our goalie, black disc perfectly controlled by his stick; he is almost certain to get a shot off. Number 19 though, swoops out of nowhere, steals the puck from behind, skates around his own net, and heads into enemy territory. Puck-handling rapidly he looks for the pass, dodges one guy and finds it. He sends the disc sailing across the glassy ice, into the stick of a waiting buddy.

I’m on my feet. The entire arena is being made aware of what a brilliant piece of artful hockey just occurred in front of their eyes. I holler loud enough so my bro can know I saw and liked what he did, I also shriek at the bloody ref who almost got in his way. As I exercise my vocal chords, slapping a fellow supporter on the back, I notice a quiet gent walking into the rink. He sits down and stares up at all of us cheering, brows furrowed.

All this excitement and he’s just quiet, taking it all in? Must be mad, I thought.

Johanu’s column will appear next Monday, and every Monday after that. Send your prairie love to lifelines@mcgilldaily.com.

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For most of us, it takes years to figure out how exactly to live our lives. Some ponder the written words of those who came before, some observe the ways of people next to them and follow suit, others climb high mountains and find meaning in places with no words or people. Now you could do any of these things, but for those whose university lives are too cluttered for diving into Socrates, or who find the few steps up Mount Royal just not that fulfilling, I suggest the Lyle Lovett song quoted above.

Let’s start with the “if.” So many of our ambitions, dreams, and hopes depend on a whole array of “ifs.” This isn’t a bad thing – throwing “if” in front of a sentence does not mean chances are it won’t happen; it merely means it’s not set in stone. And seriously, how much fun would the whole thing be if it were set in stone? “If” doesn’t take away from life, it adds to it: I don’t need to have a boat to think “if I had a boat,” and that very thought sparks its possibility.

You may be asking if this is all fairy dust and leprechauns, or thoughts that don’t materialize – but you’re wrong. This is where the second verse of the song comes in…

“The mystery masked man was smart; he got himself a Tonto, ‘cause Tonto did the dirty work for free. But Tonto, he was smarter, and one day said, ‘kemo sabe, kiss my ass. I bought a boat – I’m going out to sea.’”

And out to sea he went. That’s right: we can often make our “ifs” happen by just getting up and doing so. Sure, we have to stay marginally realistic: if your “ifs” include dating Hillary Clinton and achieving world domination you would a) have a redundant list and b) never be allowed on my boat.

Hopefully, though, most of our “ifs” involve success, love, happiness, fun, freedom, and many other things that I think would be perfectly fulfilled if I could ride a pony on a boat in the ocean. With, of course – and here’s the enduring human characteristic – other people. Many of the aforementioned things would be empty were they not shared. And this is where the final words of the song comes in….

“And we could all together go out on the ocean…me, upon my pony, on my boat.”

Imagine that. You and the people you love. Riding and sailing away into the sunset. A dreamy picture, an idealistic picture, a picture that’s merely an “if” needed to be acted upon.

I realize this column might have upset many determinist philosophers, realist political scientists, mainstream pessimists, not to mention animal rights activists. But I stand by this creed: this life’s an ocean; get a boat or a pony or a whatever and make sure you ride it. Otherwise, you’ll be one of those on the sidelines shaking your head, wondering what the “ifs” are all about.

I think what Johanu’s trying to say is: don’t spend another minute wasting your life, send him an email at lifelines@mcgilldaily.com, and stay tuned for Botha’s next column in a couple weeks. It’ll thwart your academic grounding.

The post Sailing through life on a country song’s ifs appeared first on The McGill Daily.

(Before I start I’d just like to mention that my column name “Life Lines” is a spelling mistake by my cheesy editors; it is in fact “Life Lies”, which it does…so you should lie right back.)

So Christian Bale – better known as the guy that plays Bruce Wayne in the recent Batman movies – is having some issues. He entered the silver screen scene as an unassuming 13-year-old that was handpicked by Steven Spielberg to star in the great director’s Empire of the Sun. This was the tricycle he got on to eventually ride a Harley. (Note one: motorcycle metaphors increase column badass-ness by ten per cent.) This Harley came in the form of deep, dark roles that showed his prodigious talent and led to a cult following that rivals Sean Turner’s.

End of the story? Hell, no. (Note two: adding various profanities before either “yes” or “no” greatly decreases the meter on the sappy-rainbows-and-butterflies-writer scale.) Looking at the graph that displays Christian Bale’s relative calmness as a function of his movie career, you see two jerking lines that signal to lurking episodes. First, Bale is charged for attacking his sister and mother in London, but is later cleared as they don’t press the matter. Second, Bale goes what can be badassedly called “apeshit” on the set of the upcoming Terminator: Salvation when the cinematographer steps into his line of sight during a scene.

Where am I going with this you ask? Just wait, all this history is quite necessary for the unveiling of my most badass characteristic. Recently, Christian Bale has been under medical inspection, and it has been suspected that he suffers from a severe case of double personality disorder. That his masterful acting skills are a consequence of that. Now before you know my secret, you need to look at Bale’s repertoire. This dude didn’t star in The Notebook. No, his film titles include The Secret Agent, Reign of Fire, A Murder of Quality and perhaps most badass of all: American Pyscho. Realize how straight-up un-cheesy this man is.

Now I guess you’ve already figured it out – why I’m telling you all this. And yes, it is my pleasure to acknowledge: I am Christian Bale’s other half. I’m the other part of his identity. Sure, you could say that double personality disorder does not actually mean two people but that’s how badass we are. And.

You see that? See what happens when I try to go out of my comfort zone? When I try new things? Not only do I lose my touch (the touch that makes my readers all warm inside) but I pick random topics, dish out on useless trivia, and make weird (not bad) ass comparisons.

Let me just save what there’s left to save: Bale has also starred in movies titled A Portrait of a Lady, All the Little Animals and Anastasia: The Mystery of Anna. And like Bale in these films, we should try to see the quieter, “sentimentaler” side of life.

Despite his issues, Bale is a phenomenal artist who is trying in his own to understand the inexplicable intricacy, that like dew on a spider’s web, glistens through our lives. How’s that for back to normal?

I’ll be having tea and reading Reader’s Digest inspirational stories if anybody wants to join me.

See you next time,

Love,

Hugs,

butterfly kisses

~ Johanu

Johanu’s column will be back next Monday. Send <3s to lifelines@mcgilldaily.com.

The post Life Lines: Get in touch with your other side appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Now before we even get to the famous author of these words we have to ask ourselves through what perspective did this person write them. Were they using a grand analogy to describe the concentration required to successfully act out the necessary deeds (namely number one and two) in a crowded washroom? Quite possibly. But most of us are capable of doing this, and surely the term “great man” isn’t attributed to us all.

To solve this mystery let us look at the original creator of this quote. Ironically, I’ve lately been reading random tidbits of this American philosopher, essayist, and poet. Ralph Waldo Emerson spoke to large crowds in his day and was considered the intellectual leader of the U.S. at the time. Whether or not he thought his legacy would be continued on bathroom stalls is debatable. But when asked to sum up his years of work, he said that his central doctrine was “the infinitude of the private man.”

Ah-ha! Where are we most concerned about our privacy if not at the urinal (for some of us) or on the pot (for all of us)? Now now, don’t get all riled up. I’m not trying to turn exceptional thought into potty humour. What I’m trying to say is that although A does not look or sound anything like Z, it can help you get there. We may not want or need to use our various toilet experiences as tools to live as great men and women – but it can’t hurt.

We live in a very busy world where the crowd can pull you every which way. A world racked with possible rights and wrongs, and shook with potential good and bad. Trying to draw the lines according to today’s varying societal psyches can hardly lead to a “perfect sweetness.” Maybe we need to transplant our bathroom skills into the rest of our lives. And by bathroom skills I mean the mere ability to want to remain in “the independence of solitude.”

Yes, we need to work together as a society and yes, there is strength in unity, but also yes, we need to allow ourselves to be okay with creating and keeping our own unique selves. Selves that can stand strong alone if need be. When glancing through history, it is often these selves that managed to calm a storm, endorse a freedom, or save a life.

Now it could very well be that your sense of self totally disagrees with all of my philosophical philandering, and that you would like to use this column for your next trip to the washroom. That’s fine, you are obviously already very much in the perfect sweetness of the independence of solitude.

As for me, I’m hunting out toilet stalls to see when the mystery quoter strikes again.

Whether its Shakespeare or Voltaire, I’ll be there.

Johanu’s column appears every Monday. Do you like potty phisolophy? Send some of your shit to lifelines@mcgilldaily.com.

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For instance, a week ago today was January 19. A sombre day because The Daily wasn’t published sure; yet a day that, if turned inside-out, still carries with it the aroma of bloodshed, recognition, discovery and the birth of the detective-fiction genre inventor. Two hundred years ago to the day, Edgar Allen Poe was born. Embrace the relativity of time and you can easily picture the writer of “The Mask of the Red Death” in the very throes of infancy. Staying on theme for a moment, we can go back about half a century to find 68 per cent of American televisions tuned in to I Love Lucy to watch Lucy give birth.

A couple of years before that, in January 1949, 19 per cent of Cuba recognized Israel as a sovereign state. Where exactly this sovereign state’s borders end is still a puzzling matter. The festival that occurred on this same date a mere 12 years ago, when Yasser Arafat finally returned to Hebron to celebrate the handover to the West Bank city to the Palestinian Authority feels very far away.

In other news for January 19, we have snowfall in Miami, Florida (1977), Japanese forces invading Burma (1942), Captain Charles Wilkes circumnavigating Antarctica while claiming a chunk for America (1840), and in 1511 we have Mirandola surrendering to the French (which was probably the last time anybody did that).

Yes, these are events that would be very improbable to connect, but I assure you it is not impossible. If I had enough time and a year’s worth of Dailys to scribble through, I’d even attempt the feat. The point, though, is that January 19 is but one day in 365 days that carries with it a titanic load of stories – stories that affect you and can be affected by you.

And so history stumbles, wanders, rampages (pick your verb) forward. Who knows what will be recorded on today’s epitaph. Whatever it is, know that it is not only the formally- remembered that matters. A politician may die, a star may be born, and yes their echoes in life may be enough to warrant black dots on a page. But do not think less of those things which might be forgotten or might never have been known by the general public. Your roommate’s sick? Take care of her like it’ll be written about in future date recordings. The dog needs a walk? Take him out as if it is labelled “best event of ‘09” in your horoscope.

On the 19 of this first month, whether you were celebrating the Feast of Sultan (Bahai Faith), acknowledging Confederate Heroes Day in Texas (where else?), or contemplating the mysterious and inevitable appearance of the Poe toaster at Edgar’s grave, I hope you lived it like it’ll be written down for generations to come. Because in some strange way, because of the effect your life has on others, it will be.

Johanu’s column appears every Monday. Botha sure does love Poe-isms, so go whip out your quill pins and wax poetic to lifelines@mcgilldaily.com. You know, like The Raven, and shit.

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The above is taken from one of today’s most popular, most approachable, and most widely circulated sources (Wikipedia) and thus should be given its due attention. It goes on to name the number of great figures who have sported this epitome of manhood, notable ones including Aristotle, Leonardo da Vinci, and Brad Pitt.

Although the online encyclopedia fails to mention it, I too have joined the ranks. For the past month or so I have not touched a razor to my face, growing this remarkable thing they call the beard (which, in case you forgot, is said to represent sexual virility). Wikipedia continues and talks about the converse effect, something about how beards can be related to filthiness, crudeness, and an eccentric disposition. But we all know how fickle the Internet can be and since a beard – which I happen to have – typifies sexual virility there is no way it could mean such things.

Tongue-in-the-cheek aside, I have been continually surprised at the different reactions to the new addition to my face. Yes, I now have a fiery red (non-patched) collection of hair that deems my neck invisible. Yes, I have a mustache, which I have to smooth to the side to stop it from filtering any liquids I take in. But it seems that, according to those strangers who don’t know me well, I also have an added feature to my character.

Sure I crack more “I just shaved this morning” jokes than normal, and now and then, I pretend that I’ve converted to one of the many religions that endorse beards but in general I’m still the same person I was a month ago. Yet judging by the different way I’m treated by air hostesses, waiters, casual acquittances, and the like, you would think I had had a total personality makeover. I was asked for three ID’s at the airport as opposed to the usual one. It is harder to make small talk with a waiter after I’ve ordered, and frankly, I am having a lot less eye sex in the hallways.

Now it’s not as if my beard is horribly upsetting. Throw me an email and I’ll prove it. But it’s big and very much there. And it has led to my fascination with how much people, quite possibly subconsciously, treat other people on mere face value. Now I know it has been said a million times. In fact calling it a cliché is in itself a cliché, but nevertheless, let’s try not to judge books by their covers in 2009.

This is not an attempt to get more waitresses to talk to me, I’m actually enjoying observing this change in people’s behaviour and am blessed with wonderful friends who might love me even more with the beard. This is merely a shout out to all of us, including me, to continue to be aware of the human behind the veil. For me, it has been an amusing experience; for others it could very well be frustrating to know that the perception of their true personality is undermined by some physical factor.

In 2009, let’s read our books through before making our minds up about them.

Johanu’s column appears every Monday. Send him your non-patched collection of hairs and shaving jokes to lifelines@mcgilldaily.com.

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A good chunk of political theorists believe that states are purely selfish? No, can’t be. The man who said, “I think, therefore I am” also had an unhealthy fetish for cross-eyed women? Not a chance. But sure enough, these are two of many examples where knowledge flies in your face with uncomfortable reality.

This is why I can’t wait for Christmas break. It’s a solid few weeks to reignite the cozy ignorance in which I can properly enjoy my filled stockings and the sound of Santa fumbling around on the roof. But no matter how hard I’ll try, I doubt whether I will be able to erase the following bit of dental knowledge that has penetrated into my closing-for-the-holidays brain.

There might be precious few things that Canadians, never mind the whole human race, can agree on; but I propose that the irksomeness of dentists is just such a thing. No matter if you’re a caviar-eating cousin of the Queen or a drug smuggler, going to the dentist sucks. It’s right up there with life imprisonment or losing genuinely lucky underwear.

The reason behind this is that going to the dentist gives rise to the distinct possibility that you might leave with less teeth than you had before. Sure it’s mostly just check-ups, a fluoride rinse here, a filling there, but the pulling day is inevitable. Either there’s a wisdom tooth trying to kick out an existing one – when the dentist courteously offers to help – or the teeth are lined up too close together thus room needs to be made. I’m sure there are other reasons; I’m happy with just knowing two.

Here’s the problem. I recently learned in class that there is a chance that pulling a tooth can cause a nerve to actually snap. Meaning, a cord-like structure that used to send information to the brain was ripped to shreds by the guy who gives you little toys as you leave his office. In an attempting to re-grow, the nerve screws up (because it was never meant to be severed) and makes all the wrong connections, creating an overlapping nerve ball. Well it’s been rainbows and lollipops till here but now your tongue loses all sensation and the tooth that has disappeared still registers constant pain in your brain.

I know its a little paranoid, but I have a feeling the professor knew bloody full well that I need to have a wisdom tooth pulled in the next few months. Upon asking him about the chances of this happening, he said “It’s not that often but not that rare.” What the hell kind of answer is that? That’s like leading me to a guillotine that might or might not work.

This is the other side of the paradox; the problem of not knowing enough. But you see, if I didn’t know about the nerve ripping disaster I never would have wanted to know about its chances. Therefore all knowledge is a vicious change.

What I am trying to say is this: go home this Christmas, enjoy the beauty of the season, eat tons, give people hugs, and don’t give a second thought about the exams you just wrote. And if you go to the dentist, tell him that nerve snappage is sue-able.

Send various reasons for pulling teeth to lifelines@mcgilldaily.com. Evidently, Johanu is also a fan of disasters, rainbows, beauty, toys, hell, caviar, and lists.

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But this has got to stop. The crisp air that greets me every morning is a mere warning of the teeth-clappering, tear-inducing cold that is to come. It is very hard to write a piece that everybody can relate to, but the temperatures that will descend – pun intended – upon us in the coming weeks is something that will affect us all. And for this reason, even if it means balancing the paradox by bringing up various abortion legislations at the Christmas table, I will speak out.

My anxiety toward the coming chill is well-founded. Firstly, I was born and spent my childhood in Africa. Thus, my blood starts to form icicles the moment the temperature drops below 15 degrees. Secondly, I spent my teenage years in Manitoba, which, if you don’t know, is where the White Witch of the North goes to cool down. It’s a place where you do not open your mouth for the fear that your saliva will freeze instantly rendering you unable to eat for the day. It’s a place that is already under a metre of snow, unlike breezy Montreal.

Not for long though, chaps. The cold is coming. And for too long have we curled into the fetal position and watched winter control our lives five months of the year. Did you know that nine out of every ten Canadians who felt unpleasantly cold in the last year said they felt it was due to the weather? These statistics speak for themselves: temperatures below zero are damaging our society. For once we need to unite, analyze our foe, and attack head on. I propose a carefully constructed three-step master plan.

1) Awareness is key. We’ll print loads of pamphlets explaining the dangers and unpleasantness of winter and reasons to avoid it, and we’ll get Montreal’s best pamphlet hand-outers to spread the word at the Roddick and Milton gates.

2) We outline our plan, which is centred around the necessity of staying in doors at all times where milk and fresh cookies are served by the McGill administration 24/7.

Any classes that require a student to leave a building and physically enter into what shall from now on be referred to as The Unpleasantness Of Winter add to the general unpleasantness of a student’s well-being that is unnecessary to their education.

If these three simple steps are carried out, I foresee the coziest of winters ahead. A winter where McGill students can finally wake up without pulling 17 layers over their heads. A winter decorated by laughter and hot chocolate. A winter that will stand as the very definition of “pleasant.”

Send your frozen saliva to lifelines@mcgilldaily.com.

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And so, since I find myself in the middle of The Daily below the guy who connects birthday party games with politics, I thought this is as good a place as any to take on my very own enterprise: my addition to the journalist’s mission.

But what to do? I considered measuring people’s reactions by running wildly everywhere I go screaming “THEY’RE COMING!” but that was bound to get spoiled by McGill Security. I also thought about saying “Yes” to everything offered to me but Jim Carrey stole that idea for his upcoming film. Finally, in one miraculous moment of columnistal inspiration, it hit me.

I’ll give up the most subtle, most convenient habit of the majority of university students. The habit that infiltrates discussions ranging from last night’s bar fight to our country’s environmental policy. That is of course the use of the f-word. Brilliant, no? What could be more daunting than removing the very backbone of our urban conversation? And the goal? To use other, varying, eloquent ways of expressing myself in English. Ways that would make Shakespeare – and my mom – smile with bard-like approval.

In this mindset, I woke up on day one, ready to show the world the vastness of language. If anger struck, I would not be effing pissed, but irreversibly irate. If sorrow visited, I would not be effing sad but drearily melancholic. If joy stopped by, I would not be effing happy, but hopelessly ecstatic. All this turned out to be effing difficult.

I quickly realized the f-word is not only an adjective, but a verb, noun, adverb, and pronoun. And it’s zany how often we use it in all these forms. My venture suddenly became very clear to me. It was up to me to save the human race from utter language destruction. Imagine a place where whole sentences are composed of only one word: the inevitable f-word. Where one had to discover meanings by listening to the length and inflections of how this word was used. A profane morse code, if you will.

As time passed, I made note of how my vocal vocabulary increased to better express what I wanted to say. I saw that you can speak the way you write. The English language is indeed a treasure chest full of literary gems. Using only one sparkling jewel to convey our many intricate thoughts seems like silly ignorance of resources.

Don’t get me wrong, the f-bomb is certainly a jewel that is aptly used during tight sports games, and when you drop large objects on your toes. But it certainly isn’t the only one.

No self-respecting columnist would stick his mission for any less time than a month, after which I’ll have a bounty of linguistic experiences that no doubt would fascinate a waiting world. Maybe I’ll write a book about it.

Johanu’s column appears every Monday. Send your fucking ideas to lifelines@mcgilldaily.com.

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