THE

FLYING WALRUS

COMMITTE
LOVE, CRI D:
ME,(IN)SA
NITY
I D E :
INS FLYING WALRUS COMMITS
MANSLAUGHTERER!
2 GIRLS, 1 GLOVE
CHILDREN WHO MURDER
 EDITORIAL

CONTENTS:
EDITORIAL
FLYING WALRUS COMMITS
MANSLAUGHTERER,
Flying Walrus Commits Manslaughterer – Walter F. Walrus
SURPRISINGLY.
COMMITTED – Walter F. Walrus (founder of THE FLYING WALRUS)
It’s not Book Writing, It’s Baby-Making – Rylee Richards
2 Girls, 1 Glove – Blair Beauchesne
A Mantra of Memories – Ali Abbas It is no secret that most people at York think we are a bunch of shitheads, or merry
The Voice of the Crime of Silence – Ali Abbas pranksters at best. This here is something that you won’t believe, but is 110% true, and
China Patterns, Wedding Dresses, Birthday Cakes – Stephanie Catricala I’ll bet my job on that.
“Opiate Addiction” – Dr. Romeo Spectre
No Ordinary Hero – Stefan Badrov I’m certain you all remember the article we published last issue, “ART DARKSTORM
Sleazy Sex-Fiend Pervert Found Roaming Around on Campus and the Dark Arts of Toronto’s Invisible Theatre,” by Art Darkstorm with photography
–Hank Moody Jr. by Madd Hattere. When I hired that Mr. Darkstorm I had a funny feeling bubble up in
my stomach and pain shot up my chest. I thought I was having acid reflux, but now I
know I should have trusted my gut.
HEALTH
Food, Lust And Utter Insanity – Lauren Angelica Ebanks Here at THE FLYING WALRUS, we have been pretty concerned over the state of our
Children Who Murder – Morrisa Silvert photographer, Madd Hattere (Real name: Theophilus Pfaffo). Truth is, we hadn’t seen
Objectivity, Fetish, and Truth – Gloria Wholesome him in months—hence the tardiness of our issue!—and had no idea how to contact
him. Then we found out that he was found dead on the streets of Kensington Market.
ARTS First our staff thought he was selling something fishy, but it turns out he died the same
The Faded Neighbourhood – Kira Lancaster way he lived: thoroughly trodden by the wheels of capitalism and big industry. He was
Skip – Sanchari Sur run over by a car. He broke his neck and died instantaneously. Or was it instantly? I’m
If All Men Were Punkers – R. Nansen not sure which.
Capturing My Hopeless Heart – Sarah O. Brown
Penance – Rasia Virani Anyway, it turns out that Art Darkstorm (Real name: Nelvin Aaroneous Adamson)
The Dance of the Siberian Stool Pigeons – Barry Germansky delivered the punch which caused his topple and succeeding crunch. Furthermore, that
Shark-Infested Waters – Colin F. Maheu bumbling detective encoded his confession in his article (an otherwise banal review of
Diary of a Repressed Memory – Jonathan Ryan Wamback some cinema show), which was then published right here in the pages of THE FLY-
Some Health – Jill Jambor ING WALRUS.
After the Law – Anna Veprinska
Anyway, the trial went through pretty quickly—sadly we couldn’t get coverage—and
Contact: Mr. Darkstorm/Adamson is incarcerated for the next 7-10 years for manslaughter. Go
Walrus@yorku.ca figure!
325 Stong College
647 637 6211 [Editor-in-Chief ] Luckily for us, Madd Hattere/Theophilus Pfaffo had an enormous back catalogue of
images, several of which were perfect for this issue. I hope you enjoy them, as they are
Staff: the final photographic testament of a man who died the same way he lived: hanging
Joshua Moore – Editor-in-Chief out with violent nincompoops. This issue is dedicated to his memory, and the surviving
N. Alexander Armstrong – Associate Editor members of the Hattere family.
Haley Anderson – Design/Layout
Anna Veprinska – Arts Editor Some of you may be asking if we are looking to hire another photographer since our last
Lauren Ebanks – Health Editor one has burnt out his flashbulb. The answer is “NO.” Our budget won’t allow it, and
Madd Hattere – Photographer besides, we are committed to the written word.
Thank you to Webnews Printing
Your Founder,

THINK YOU COULD DO BETTER THAN THIS? Walter F. Walrus

THE FLYING WALRUS IS NOW HIRING FOR 2010-2011!
Submit your resume and cover letter to Walrus@yorku.ca!

POSITIONS AVAILABLE:
Arts Editor
Health Editor
Photography/Design
Associate Editor
Webmaster

The Flying Walrus rewards its staff with honoraria upon the publication of each of its 4 is-
sues per academic year. It’s a great way to get editing and portfolio experience, and to work
with other writers!
2
COMMITTED
IT’S NOT BOOK WRITING,
IT’S BABY-MAKING
– Rylee Richards
“So....like, are you gonna write books?”
This is the most common response I receive when I tell others that I am in the Profes-
sional Writing Program at York. My answer usually runs along the lines of, “Well, I’m
in the book stream, which focuses on publishing.” This is often received with a blank
look from the questioner and the topic is changed.
I suppose if I had elaborated, said that the publishing world is like the many parts of
a machine that must all work together in order to succeed; or perhaps that we’re like
personal stylists, who take your manuscript and find it the right clothes and accesso-
ries, give it a manicure, pedicure, add a little makeup and then send it off onto the red
carpet – the program may have seemed a little more appealing. The truth is the Book
stream of the program offers a great opportunity for students to become a part of the
process and actually publish a manuscript.
The Professional Writing program at York is designed to give students a better under-
standing of the world of writing and to provide the tools to succeed in such a large
and ambiguous area. The first two years of the program focus more on writing theory,
grammar, and research. In third year, students are asked to choose one of three streams:
Book, Periodical, or Institutional. The Periodical stream focuses on magazines and
newspapers, while the Institutional stream deals with writing for government or corpo-
rate areas. The Book stream focuses on the world of publishing, on novels and books
(yes, there’s a difference) of all genres.
In September, fourth year students in the Book stream were asked to take on a task that
at first seemed impossible: as a class of about twenty students, we were to take a manu-
script and publish it. We needed to edit it, come up with a title, develop a marketing
2 GIRLS, 1 GLOVE
– Blair Beauchesne
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vTJZCzG9ekk
For millennia Roman historian Tacitus’ definition of the comitatus as “the bond
between a warrior and his lord” has stood true, but after an archaeological discovery
a group of social deviants has taken the concept and twisted it to suit their own sick
ends. They call themselves the Co-mitters and have revived the comitatus (that is better
known by the viral video: “2 girls, 1 glove”) in a disgusting way.
The discovery came last month as archaeologists found the burial site of Erik the Red’s
brother, Rover. A pair of gloves recovered at site depicted strings of warriors holding
hands and appeared to be sharing gloves. The head archaeologist on the site Dr. Whit-
ney Jonsens published her analysis of the discovery and updated Tacitus’ nearly two
millennia old definition of the comitatus:
“Tacitus had it half right; over hundreds of years the comitatus did come to mean a
bond between a warrior and his lord, but Tacitus did not discuss the origin of this
bond. Germanic tribal warfare was much less violent than modern historians believe.
The evidence discovered at Rover the Red’s burial site suggests that Germanic tribes
settled disputes with a game of Red Rover instead of bloody massacres. (Incidentally
the game was named after Rover the Red, who was the best player ever recorded never
having been clothes-lined.) The comitatus originated in ancient Scandinavia during a
particularly cold winter. The key to a strong defence was a good grip between players
which could be achieved by direct skin to skin contact, but in freezing weather where
games could last days on end, frostbite was a real concern for warriors. (In one recorded
dispute all 40 warriors from each side lost all their fingers to the cold.) For its time the
plan, design a cover and a website, and do all of
this while working with a very tiny budget. And
P.S., the book should be ready by February 2010.
One could imagine the panic that enveloped our
class.
Despite all of our fears, the little manuscript that
could has blossomed into a work of historical
non-fiction. The class was divided into the various
departments you would find in the average pub-
lishing house: marketing, business, design, editing,
production, etc. with each student taking on two
roles in separate departments. Lead by our instruc-
tor, Geoffrey Huck, Leaping Lion Press (our class)
met weekly to discuss each department’s concerns
and to ensure we were moving forward together;
some meetings included discussions with the au-
thor as well as other “big-wigs” of the publishing
world. Through months of hard work we have taken what began as 187 typed pages
and given it a face, a body, cultivated its individuality and have even set up the neces-
sary support systems and cheerleaders.
Here we are now, with a little less than a month until our baby goes out into the world.
The birth is set to take place in late February through the Kobo Books website (previ-
ously Indigo Shortcovers), where it may be previewed (for free) and purchased as an
e-book. My class and I have worked hard to raise our baby, given it the proper tools to
succeed – now it must stand on its own, with quiet, proud parents pushing it along, of
course.
For more information and a link to The Admiral on Trialby William S. Schaill please visit:
http://www.yorku.ca/llbooks
Or: http://www.kobobooks.com to preview/purchase the e-book
comitatus was a revolutionary tactic, warriors on the same team would link bare hands
and then put their gloves over top. They called this ‘co-mitting’.”
Fast forward nearly two millennia to today; shortly after reading Dr Jonsen’s paper,
the Co-mitters released a video on YouTube called “2 Girls, 1 Glove.” The video went
viral in a matter of days. There is no polite way to describe the depravity of the video’s
content, it shows two women sharing a blue medical glove. Inserting their hands
simultaneously within the latex compartment and wiggling their fingers. The Co-
mitters claim this is a new and safe way for couples to express their feelings in a safe and
socially acceptable way, but microbiologist and infectious disease specialist Dr. Warren
McPheelamann disagrees. Dr McPheelamann has performed a study showing that shar-
ing gloves, mitts, and other hand-covering attire can be hazardous to your health. His
study showed that the warm, moist and dark glove environment is ideal for growing
bacterial and viral cultures. The threat of spreading infection is increased dramatically
because of the multiple users introducing multiple strains of bacteria and virus. Even
more dangerous is what Dr McPheelamann called “bacterial voltronification.” This oc-
curs sometimes when several bacterial colonies come into close proximity and mutate
to combine into a superhero drug-resistant form. Often the only cure for a Voltron-lev-
el bacterial infection is to remove the entire limb, lest the infection spread to more vital
areas. Dr. McPheelamann projects with the rise in infections due to SARS, the bird flu,
and the swine flu in years past, that if couples continue to practice the comitatus the
human race could face extinction during next year’s Fool’s flu epidemic. Dr. McPheela-
mann warns “Remember, when you share mitts, you’re not only shaking hands with
your partner, but with everyone they have ever shook hands with!”
3
COMMITTED

A MANTRA OF MEMORIES:
TAMIL CONGREGATION REMEMBERS LOST LIVES, LOST “MAAVERARS”
– Ali Abbas

At the stroke of the 1950s, as Sri Lanka dawned from the debris of colonial rule, the
schism between its majority Sinhalese and minority Tamil communities widened.
Goaded by a violent political parlance, echoing Northern Ireland’s tensions, the tender
teardrop island fell deep into the malaise of civil war.
And it has fallen even deeper, a netherworld void of peace.
Arumugam, an affable, pallid-faced York University student, escaped to Canada with
his family 10 years ago. “ I remember,” the tip of his tongue hovers, “Appa (father)
survived a deadly mob to bring us here.” At 22, Arumugam, a veteran of Tamil displace-
ment, appears languorous; though a buff, bulky, Canadian Football League prototype,
he is vulnerable to his memories. Like a lone child in pitch darkness.
But as members of Toronto’s Tamil diaspora surge through the rigid doors of York Uni-
versity’s Founders Assembly Hall, Arumugam is not alone; memories of life and death
flood the hall, a major campus gathering room, to its capacity.
“About 300 Tamils have congregated here for an annual remembrance ceremony,” says
Vithu Ramachandran, president of the York University Tamil Students Association
(YUTSA). “Maveerar Naal (The Day of Great Heroes) is the Tamil November 11.”
Maveerar Naal is the Remembrance Day, held on November 27, for the Tamil maav-
erars (war dead). Although the day ceremonially mourns the first casualty in the
cadre of the disbanded Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam (LTTE), it is blanched with
epitaphs for the innocent civilians slaughtered in the sporadic violence: 100, 000 ac-
cording to various sources. And these ceremonies do not, or so Vithu reassures, speak
in a jingoist voice, “ We want both sides to put their weapons down.”
I am careful not to be sucked into the maw of the anti-Sinhalese rhetoric. Although
violence is not being extolled, I am concerned with the undertone.
“ I lived in a Sinhalese neighbourhood, going to school and playing hide and seek
with Sinhalese kids,” remembers Arumugam, “…it is not the people, but the Sinhalese
military and government that we have a problem with.”
Breaking out of his demure, Arumugam tells me about his life in Sri Lanka.
Growing up in the Sri Lankan capital Colombo, the heart of the Sinhalese, his family
shared cordial relations with the community. Tamils and Sinhalese lived as neighbours,
“We lived prosperous lives, were economically stable and had access to education and
healthcare.” However, state policies, such as the declaration of Sinhala as the official
language and Buddhism as the official religion, ignited violent antagonistic responses
from the Hindu Tamils. “There was a fear that the Tamil identity was being targeted.”
But since the violence was centered along the coastlines, particularly the northern re-
gions, Colombo, except for the occasional miscreant, basked in a peaceful atmosphere.
That changed after 1993.
In 1993, LTTE was accused of assassinating Ranasinghe Premadasa, the pro-Sinhalese
president of Sri Lanka. By then, LTTE also had the blood of Indian Prime Minister
Rajiv Gandhi on its hands. “The military came down hard on Tamils and I remember
being woken up, at age 10, and questioned by armed men.” In an effort to quell LTTE
insurgency, the government launched a brazen campaign against Tamils, “ If you were
Tamil, you were suspect…there were days that our Sinhalese neighbours protected us
from their own military.”

In lieu of the current tumult, one that clogged the Gardiner Expressway on May 10,
this year’s commemorations will witness a seismic shift. Local Tamil groups will take
turns, over a dedicated week, to host memorializations for the fallen de facto state
Tamil Eelam (Tamil homeland). This year’s Maveerar Naal, punctuated with eulogies,
will resonate with calls for an international recognitition of Tamil Eelam’s autonomy.
YUTSA makes this raison d’être tonight: November 23, 7 pm. Weak photons
of fluorescent lighting advance the red and yellow organdy scarfs that drape the walls
of the hall. The walls pulsate with meaning. “Red represents our aspirations for an
independent homeland, yellow our endless struggle,” says Vithu, preened in a black
opal suit and rose red tie, his lanky frame choreographing arrangements with surgical
precision. Without any kowtowing, YUTSA executives obey Vithu’s leadership and
acuteness for detail, increasing the expectations from him, “We have started late but
the hall is the way we want it to be.”
Living under the sword, Arumugam’s father resolved to bring his family to a safer life in
Canada. He nearly lost his own. An armed mob attacked a Tamil convoy that was being
ferried to obtain necessary travel documents, “Appa, somehow, escaped.”
Arumugam’s heavy eyes rarely make contact with mine. He dutifully returns to prepare
for his role tonight; he will light a torch of hope, a roaring flame for change. Amidst a
background image of the teardrop island, with the Tamil areas marked in blood red,
the ceremonies begin, a mantra of memories begin.
Tears drop. Drop by drop, an ocean of drops. Lost. But not forgotten.
Contacts
Arumugam : 647 401 8316 | Vithu Ramachandran : 416 414 6478 | Sugandha Nagpal : 647 504 6897

The hall breathes in Toronto but the air is from Tamil Eelam. A gust of incense greets
the attendees. After registration, a phalanx of volunteers escorts the surging numbers
through the twisting lanes of history. Within five turns are stops at booths distribut-
ing acrid accounts of moments in the conflict. Pamphlets, screaming with horrendous
statistics of rape and genocide, are silently handed out.
History comes alive in the death of humanity. Tonight is about remembering history
and not repeating it.

After proceeding through its designated routes, the tour, which rapidly morphs into a
procession, culminates before an exploded printed image of false dawns. An eruditional
calendar reddens the broken promises of various ceasefire initiatives. The Sri Lankan
government is blatantly blamed for various failures. Its atrocities are accounted for,
blood for blood, pint for pint.

4
COMMITTED
THE VOICE OF THE CRIME OF SILENCE
– Ali Abbas
Silence is a voice. I hear what you do not hear and you hear what I do not hear. There
is no silence outside a voice and there is no life outside silence. That one voice you do
hear and I do not hear is that one aspect of each other that we do not need to know.
Hence, heed it, revere and respect it. Your life is at the mercy of voices, particularly the
silent voice, as I horrifically heard, felt, smelt and saw.
I knew this voice since birth and it used to silently speak to me at various moments of
consciousness. It was, and still is, a voice which demanded commands but never really
fazed me. I actually enjoyed it. I answered its call almost naturally and though it was
only audible to me, it spoke to and of a side of me that only I needed to know. When
I was young and innocent, I used to publicly broadcast the message of the voice, but
as I matured, my public evolved into a personal and my relationship with this voice
was performed in private. Whenever I would hear the voice speak, I would retreat to a
space of convenience and fulfill its demands immediately. The voice respected me and
I respected the voice. However, I never quite realized the value of our silent, private
relationship until one night when the private mutated back into the public. The silence
was broken and there was no innocence to hide behind. It was a moment of horror and
I was trying desperately to keep my relationship a secret.
So what happened?
It came as a shock. I was not expecting it, especially not at a moment when I was in a
room with nearly the entire world I knew. The silent voice screamed as far as its silence
allowed. No one heard it but I heard only it. I had done something to cause such vio-
lence and I uneasily excused myself to respond. I found a space through the crowd and
CHINA PATTERNS, WEDDING DRESSES, BIRTHDAY CAKES
– Stephanie Catricala
“Oh isn’t it just gorgeous” says one while sipping her white wine and fawning over the
teeny tiny stone.
“You know white is too traditional, you should try something else” says another,
squeezing into the mix.
I sit quietly in the back of the room, having already done the congratulations and
obligatory fawns. It seems I’ve arrived at that time which all the dieting for the past
22 years was anticipating: the wedding portion of our lives. It will now be an endless
parade of wedding invitation and with each invitation another dress I have to attempt
to fit into. I’ve been to many weddings in my lifetime; I am the big fat Italian wedding
attendee but the people getting married were part of a different generation, not mine.
It seems weddings have become personal.
Isn’t it still a little early? I haven’t even graduated and they’re planning a September
wedding. It’s not just the weddings, it’s the amount of my friends who are in relation-
ships with intent to marry. I can appreciate the appeal of weddings; all the eyes are
on you, presents, a beautiful dress, the wedding showers, the bachelorette party, the
honeymoon, the expensive cake, the open bar, the big ass party, the drunk relatives,
the endless courses of food, the cake… But what about the stuff after the wedding? The
actual stuff, the marriage?
A boy has to move in with you. Let me just say that again slowly for you: A boy (mem-
ber of the opposite sex with all his farting, sweaty clothes and bad habits) has to move
in with you. Don’t get me wrong, I grew up with three brothers. I even leave the toilet
seat up sometimes in my one bedroom apartment, just so it seems more like home. I
may have XBOX games strewn across the living room table, computer accessories and
upgrades making up most of my credit card bills but the minute I turned 18 I still got
the hell out of Dodge and got my own place. I’ve worked hard to achieve the look of
immediately answered the way I had to. I felt a relief and though the scream echoed
a silent reminder, I thought that I had done my due. I sang words of satisfaction. I
enjoyed the moment and spent seconds to bid the moment adieu. And then, I let out a
silent scream of my own, “WHY WONT IT FUCKING FLUSH!”
There you have it. I took the dump of my life and it fucking stared at me refusing to go.
The sting of the stink at my sight! Add the silence to that and it was just me and some-
thing that came out of me. The horror of what my body could do was now the potential
object of the public gaze. Heck, I became the object of my own gaze and language had
no words to explain what I was seeing. John Berger had certainly not thought about
this way of seeing. I could not believe that the bowl which readily accepted my feed
had suddenly refused to swallow what it screamed for. The silent voice of the potty
had cheated on me. I begged and prayed for it to go away until I realized that I was the
creator of this shit. My destiny was in my dump and I could not get my head out of my
ass. And even worse, an audience had gathered outside. I prepared to unveil my master-
piece. This subject was about to be objectified through a piece of shit. This was my shit
and I had to deal with it. The horror. I had to scoop my poop.
What happened after that is irrelevant but it is my hope though that the history of hor-
ror will now tell of many similar stories. And there is an important lesson in this scoop.
I think it got me to understand why we all need a space to call and claim as private.
We all need to do our shit and we can do it without having each other’s shit to deal
with. It would just make things even shittier.
my apartment. After four years of accumulation, now someone else is going to have
opinions on things? Worst of all probably play my XBOX and Wii. Hell no.
My mom always says the best part about marriage is relying on someone else, co-de-
pendence. This is from my mother who raised me to believe that I am equal to my male
counterparts. I am smart, financial responsible and independent. Now I am supposed
to share all that I have accomplished, worked hard for, for what? Sex? It’s not a good
reason but it’s a reason. Ah, but a product of that sex…
Babies! Are you insane? I am 22 years old. I have spent my high-school and University
years dedicated to NOT gaining weight, to getting to that peak physical form that
my mom always told me I would achieve after I lost the baby fat. Now they want me
to gain 40-50lbs (babies in my family are big) and push out a bowling ball through
a place that may never go back to what it currently looks like. I have heard countless
horror stories; tearing, stretching, ripping, and permanent damage. Does this sound
ideal to anyone? And than once we’ve pushed them through this tiny little space, we
have to raise them. I just spent $55,000 on my education that I may never need to use
again because I am raising my children. I will be paying off debt until my children go to
University.
I laugh to myself as I continue to watch the parade of envious females in front or me.
This is where committed relationships go, at least some do. I just want to scream at her,
with her contented little smile and her eyes full of love and say, “You’re 22, you’re not
ready for this, you’ve got drinking to do, mistakes to make, people to fuck” but then he
comes in the side door. He’s not supposed to be there but he wanted to tell her some-
thing and her face lights up as she crosses the room.
“Aw fuck,” I whisper to myself “I want this too.”
5
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6
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alcohol hangover. Acute heroin withdrawal is akin to enduring these things for roughly 72 consecutive sleepless hours, and then the suffering subsides slowly over a month’s time.
However, the withdrawal syndrome brings out unique and personal forms of suffering in every individual, so there is no way to completely understand what withdrawal might put
you through unless you experience it for yourself

CELEBRITY ENDORSEMENT:
Below are actual testimonials from just a few of the many celebrity
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Jerry Garcia: “Without heroin my heart might have lasted longer!”

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Janis Joplin:“It’s likely I died of an overdose!”
Jim Morrison: “It’s likely I died of an overdose!”
John Belushi: “I died of a speedball (opiate+cocaine) overdose!”
Chris Farley: “I died of a speedball (opiate+cocaine) overdose!”
Danny Whitten (Neil Young’s former guitarist and subject of
‘The Needle and the Damage Done’): “I died of an overdose!”
Lester Bangs: “I died of an overdose!”
Jonathan Melvoin (formerly of Smashing Pumpkins): “I died of an overdose!”
Hillel Slovak (formerly of Red Hot Chili Peppers): “I died of an overdose!”
Sid Vicious: “I died of an overdose!”
Hank Williams: “I died of an overdose!”
Dee Dee Ramone: “I died of an overdose!”
(individual results may vary, but in the long-term, they probably won’t)

So Act Now!
Opiates are available wherever illegal hard-drugs are sold!
Ask your local pusher-man or crooked doctor for details!
CASH ONLY but you’ll soon find that any method of obtaining cash becomes acceptable!
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(THIS HAS BEEN A PAID ADVERTISEMENT SPONSORED BY OPIATE ADDICTION, A BRANCH OF DRUG
ABUSE INC. THE OPINIONS EXPRESSED IN THE PRECEDING ADVERTISEMENT DO NOT NECESSARILY
REFLECT IN ANY WAY THOSE OF ANYONE AFFILIATED WITH THE FLYING WALRUS OR ITS PARENT OR
SUBSIDIARY COMPANIES)

7
 COMMITTED

NO ORDINARY HERO
– Stefan Badrov
Every country places importance on national figures that are perceived to have been
crucial in the establishment or development of a country. Kings, queens, presidents,
prime ministers, and warriors of battle typically make up these iconic symbols. Oc-
casionally, there is the rare time a seemingly normal citizen rises to amongst the people
to become a national hero. The man I’m going to speak about in this article is one of
these people who went beyond and sacrificed everything for his people. In a tale that
includes assassination attempts and enforced poverty, we will attempt to characterize
the insane love that led to a life sentence for a political hijacking of a TWA jet.
Our story begins in the small town of Gorica Bosnia Herzegovina, where Zvonko Busic
was born. He was born into a Croatian family. It was around this time that the second
version of Yugoslavia was being restored under the oppressive regime of Josip Broz
Tito. The communist Yugoslav government set about removing anything specifically
related to Croatian culture. This meant things like sports clubs, flags, historical figures,
songs, and religion. Zvonko’s family acted like many Croats who attempted to keep
their Croatian heritage alive despite the ruling government’s best efforts. Underground
activities and Croatian revolutions were constantly brewing and Zvonko involved him-
self. Participating in these groups was very dangerous as the government used every-
thing in power to catch Croatian nationalists. The potential punishment for partaking
in nationalist activities included death.
Zvonko moved to Austria at the age of 20. He took a liking to an American student in
Vienna named Julienne. Zvonko captivated her by telling stories about the oppression
Croatian people were experiencing. He told her about the murders of Catholic Priests
and his father’s friends being hung from their front porches. These were shocking to
Julienne as such incidence were never reported on news stations. They became very
serious and Julienne wanted to visit the Croatian land her husband described with so
much love. Zvonko himself was wanted by Yugoslav authorities because of his political
lobbying for an independent Croatia. Zvonko asked Julienne to perform a big favour
for him during her trip. She was instructed to drop leaflets from the top of a terrace
during the Yugoslav independence celebration. The leaflets talked of a Croatian revolu-
tion. Authorities captured her and held her for a month until her trial began. She was
found innocent on the count that the leaflets were written in Croatian and she did not
speak the language or understand the political ramifications of what was written.
After the leaflet incident Zvonko and Julienne met resumed their relationship in
Austria. Zvonko was then forced out of Austria when the Yugoslav government led the
Austrians to believe he was attempting to start a Croatian war on Yugoslavia within
Austrian borders. Zvonko and Julienne move to Berlin and through contacts from
other Croatian activists Zvonko learns that the Yugoslav government has put a contract
on his head. The Yugoslav government would often use secret police to inform, perform
surveillance, infiltrate and assassinate Croatian activists around the world.
gle fake bombs on the plane. They will then drop leaflets written by Zvonko’s brother
Bruno titled “Call to Dignity and Freedom” over London and Paris, and demand that
the biggest American newspapers print the leaflets. Once the demands are met, instruc-
tions would be provided on how to defuse the bomb. Rather than being killed by the
Yugoslav secret police he thought it better to sacrifice a life in prison to bring world
attention to the plight of his people. Julienne is sick about the idea and he tells her not
to participate if she did not feel like it. She decides to go along with the plan.
On September 10, 1976, Zvonko, Julienne and three other Croatian activists hijacked
a plane from New York bound for Chicago. The plane made a few stops to refuel and
release passengers before landing at the eventual final destination of Paris. The demands
were met as the New York Times, Washington Post, Chicago Tribune, Los Angeles
Times and International Herald Tribune printed the leaflets. When they land in Paris,
hundreds of armed military personnel are waiting and destroy the planes tires. The
French also refuse to meet the food and drink demands of the hijackers. Zvonko sent
Julienne out to see if the leaflets have been printed in the major papers. Upon receiving
the confirmation that they indeed have been printed, Zvonko and his fellow patriots
surrender.
A big problem arose for Zvonko as news came in that the real bomb they left in the
subway station locker had exploded. The explosion killed a police officer and injured
three others. Zvonko had provided the police with specific instructions on how to dis-
mantle the bomb, but they ignored his instructions. The bride of the police officer that
died sued for negligence and won the case. She went on to say that she did not blame
Zvonko and his team for the death of her husband. Within 24 hours Croatians around
the world had raised over five million dollars for their legal defense.
Zvonko was charge and convicted for air piracy causing death. At trial the judge made
a point to mention that he did not consider Zvonko a terrorist or criminal and recom-
mended that he be granted parole after the minimum ten years. The Yugoslav applied
strong pressure on the United States government to ensure they punished the hijackers
to the harshest degree. The three other hijackers served 12 years in prison and Julienne
was released after serving 13 years in 1989. Zvonko received several rejections of parole
until he was finally released on July 24 2008, after serving 32 years in prison. He was
escorted by US marshals to Croatia where he was greeted as a national hero by a large
crowd at the airport. Croatia gained independence 1991 while Zvonko was serving his
sentence. A couple days after returning to Croatia he went home to his town of Gorica
where he was greeted by a welcome party. From ordinary citizen, to activist, to patriot,
to wanted criminal, to hijacker and icon, Zvonko Busic is no ordinary hero.

This news makes Zvonko and Julienne’s life very stressful the slightest of noise sends
terror through their bodies. One night while walking home they sense someone fol-
lowing them and a gun shot is fired. They hit the floor and turn around to only make
out a dark figure running off into the night. They decide Berlin is too dangerous and
move to Frankfurt in 1971. Julienne becomes homesick and they decide to move to the
United States. They move to New York after spending time with family in Oregon and
Cleveland.

Julienne wants to visit the Zvonko’s hometown and they save up money for the trip.
They arrive in Cologne, Germany where Julienne meets Zvonko’s older brother Bruno
for the first time. Bruno is Zvonko’s hero and is the leading voice for Croatian indepen-
dence. The brothers are both wanted by Yugoslav authorities so Julienne makes the trip
alone. She arrives in his hometown of Gorica and feels the mutual love immediately.
She said it was the time of her life and her love for her husband grew further.

Upon their return to New York the threats on Zvonko’s life increase. Zvonko decides
it’s time to act decides to go forward with a plan he and other Croatian activists have
come up with. The plan is to hijack an airplane. The plan is to plant a bomb and smug-

8
COMMITTED

SLEAZY SEX-FIEND PERVERT

FOUND ROAMING AROUND ON CAMPUS
– Hank Moody Jr.
University proves to be the pivotal peak for many youths’ initial sexual explorations. People are coming forth with a slew of
These high amounts of impressionable and horny youths has found its climax, to the useful information to scare out the pervert.
accounts of many on the Keele Campus at York University and regulars patrons attend- Another credible source claimed to see the
ing the weekly festivities of the campus’ club-themed Underground, in the discovery of pervert at the York parking lot driving an
a rude, crude and unapologetic pervert hanging around campus. expensive car. On the passenger side, the
on-looker claimed to mention, “I think I
Although the identity of the pervert has yet to surface the social circles of many within saw him driving a really fancy expensive
the campus, local authorities and York University officials are quick to apprehend and car. In the passenger seat, it looked like one
make public the identity of the pervert. It is unanswered whether the pervert attends of those cheap hookers with torn leggings
the university or is merely a regular attendant, but people are on the look-out. It was and really badly applied make-up. I am not
reported by a regular attendee of the Underground club at York that the pervert has surprised if it was him. Usually people like
been seen on many occasions. The individual was quick to add, “I think the pervert is that need to pay for sex if they are going
a virgin. He is someone who has no sense of the word ‘pick-up artist’ and more than around grabbing innocent people in their
likely relies on his groping and unexpected wandering hands to give him any kind of private areas.”
sexual pleasure.”
Local police will quickly become involved
To add on to the suspicion and worry of many, another student has claimed to see the in the investigation. If the pervert is not
pervert aside from the club-scene at the university. Kinesiology major and 4th year apprehended within weeks end, it seems
student George Makrides added to the Walrus reporter that, “I think I saw the pervert to the worries of the educational facility
one day late one night in the library. I could swear he was on his computer in a corner that they will ask for the aid of outside
on the second floor of Scott library masturbating to videos of Jenna Jameson.” assistance. If anyone has any information
Alert for the creep-o is at a maximum level. People everywhere are keeping their eyes regarding the York pervert, please contact
and ears open for the sexually overcharged scumbag. Another student, Aaron Simas, the Flying Walrus at (647)294-5583; the
a 4th year Acting Major claimed that the pervert does not discriminate. The student authorities will be quickly notified.
was quick to advise the Walrus that, “I was walking down York lanes, when I felt
someone squeeze my ass, hard! I looked back expecting to catch my girlfriend in one
of her practical jokes, but saw someone quickly dashing the lane. Thinking back now, it
looked like the pervert!” Tensions are rising as to whether the sexual preferences of the
offender.

HEALTH

FOOD, LUST AND UTTER INSANITY:

WHY PEOPLE GO TO GREAT LENGTHS FOR SMELLY TUBERS.
– Lauren Angelica Ebanks
Have you ever eaten a truffle? I’m not talking about the cocoa dusted chocolate bon-bon’s that Truffled French Fries with Sea Salt:
you get in a Christmas stocking. You know those treats your mum hides at the back of the fridge (adapted from a recipe on epicurious.com)
to be consumed during her “me time.” I’m talking about the foul-smelling fungal tuber used
to flavour foods. That not-mushroom that inspires otherwise sane rich people to pay tens of Ingredients:
thousands of dollars for mere pounds of the stuff. In fact, the highest price ever paid for a truffle 3 large russet potatoes, peeled and cut into uniform strips
was $333,000 USD. The truffle in question weighed a mere 3.3 pounds. Insanity! large bowl of ice water
2 ½ cups sunflower oil (or any cooking oil, I prefer sunflower) for frying
If you haven’t ever eaten truffle here are five reasons why you should. sea salt
1) The smell is an aphrodisiac: Valentine’s day just passed. 1 tbsp truffle oil
2) Horny pigs: Truffles grow on the roots of oak trees underground, so humans must 1 tsp. dried basil
employ pigs to hunt them down. To a female pig, a truffle smells like a male in heat just
ready for romping. Imagine the disappointment when all she gets is some lousy tuber. Method:
3) Using them in cooking makes you seem sophisticated: Add the word truffle(d) Peel and chop your potatoes into strips. Put strips in bowl of ice water to chill for half-
to any dish and it sounds that much more gourmet. e.g. “Spaghetti with mushrooms an-hour. This allows the excess starch to separate from your potatoes and ensures crispy
and parmesan” vs. “Truffled spaghetti with mushrooms and parmesan” fries. Pat potatoes dry. Line two baking sheets with paper towels. Heat oil in deep-bot-
4) They add an instant complexity to the simplest dish tomed pan until it starts to slightly bubble. Working in small batches, add potatoes to
5) They taste amazing with potatoes. the hot oil and cook until tender (3-4 minutes). Transfer fries onto paper-towel-lined
pans to drain the excess oil. Sprinkle the fries with sea-salt and basil and toss with the
Point 5 brings me to our recipe: French fries with sea-salt and white truffle oil. A small truffle-oil. Devour.
bottle of white truffle oil will cost you about $13 for 5oz, but it’s worth it, the stuff lasts
forever and a teaspoon goes a long way.
9
 HEALTH
CHILDREN WHO MURDER
– Morrisa Silvert
Everyone knows there are dangerous people out there. We know this because the me-
dia has inundated us with stories and images of women stalked and stabbed, children
abducted then strangled, and random victims of seemingly arbitrary shootings. We are
often shocked and moved for a moment, then as the realization that there is nothing
that we can do to protective ourselves comes over us, we try to push it out of our minds,
but we’re haunted by one last compulsive thought. What would we do if we were at-
tacked? Well, I am here to feed you some more terror: beware of children.
Strange things began to happen in South Boston in 1871. Several boys reported being
lured to an isolated area and attacked by a slightly older boy. There was no suspect until
fourteen year old Jesse Pomeroy was arrested and dubbed “The Boston Boy Fiend.”
He was charged for the sexual torture of seven younger boys and sent to a boys’ reform
school. Curiously he was released early, spending only two years there, and was sent
back to live with his mother and older brother. Shortly after he returned home, ten-
year -old Katie Curran and four-year-old Horace Mullen went missing. The abductor?
Jesse Pomeroy. Pomeroy took Horace to a swamp and slashed him all over his body, to
the point of near decapitation. The police suspected him and when they showed him
Horace’s body and asked if he had done it, he replied with an eerie “I suppose I did.”
Soon after, Horace’s and Katie’s bodies were found; Katie’s buried in an ash heap in his
Mother’s basement. He confessed to the both. He was sentenced to hang, but public
outcry lessened his sentence to four decades of solitary confinement.
Now don’t think you’re safe from children just because this happened more than a
century ago. There are numerous accounts of murderous children dating all the way up
to 2007, when a thirteen-year-old Alberta girl was convicted of murdering her parents
and brother. The details of her story are not as interesting as others, so let’s move on
to the fascinating Mary Flora Bell of England, my personal favourite story. Mary and
her friend Norma Bell (strange, but no relation) were tried in court in 1968 for the
murders of two toddlers, Martin Brown and Brian Howe. Norma was exonerated, but
Mary was charged and spent twelve years in prison. Here is how it went down:
The day Mary turned eleven, Brown’s body was found. Police interviewed hundreds of
children in the area. Then someone broke into a nursery and left notes, claiming it had
been done by two people named “Fanny and Faggot” (yes, I know…). Police didn’t look
into it as they thought it was a prank. Shortly after, Mary went to Martin’s home and
asked to see him in his coffin.
Two months later Howe went missing. While walking past his house, Mary and Norma
saw Howe’s older sister Pat frantically looking for him. The girls offered to help, and led
Pat all over town, and finally over to the railroad tracks where Mary pointed to some
concrete boulders and suggested that maybe he was playing between them. Norma
quickly said that he probably wasn’t, while Mary insisted he might be. Scared, Pat went
home without checking, and later that night the police went to the area and found the
little boy’s body: he had been strangled and cut, probably with a razor blade and the
broken scissors that lay nearby. He was littered with bits of glass and his crotch was par-
tially skinned. A peculiar looking “M” had been carved into his stomach. Upon closer
inspection, it seemed as if the letter was first an “N” and that someone else had added
a line to make it an “M”. After discovering Howe’s body, police brought Mary and
Norma in, as during the previous questioning both had seemed strange (Norma had
smiled when the Martin murder was mentioned and Mary had laughed and rubbed her
hands together). Mary made up a story but Norma described watching Mary kill the
two boys.
Not scared yet? Well, this should do it: In 2007, eight-year-old Amarjeet Sada of India
killed three babies. This came to light when a six-month-old girl was found crushed
and buried somewhere near his neighborhood. Amarjeet told his neighbors that he had
strangled her and led them to the spot where police had found the baby’s body. After he
was arrested, it somehow came out that his parents had been covering up for him, and
that he had also strangled two family members who were under a year old.
There are countless more stories of children murdering other children, and even adults.
I hope these accounts have scared you straight. Children may look sweet and cute and
innocent, but on the inside, they are biding their time, waiting for that perfect moment
when you turn your back.
10
OBJECTIVITY, FETISH AND TRUTH:
APPROACHING THE IDEAL OF COMMUNAL
QUALIA IN THE CREAMPIE GANGBANG
– Gloria Wholesome
Gang bangs (to be distinguished from group sex) centre around an object of sexual
attention and release, a team effort, so to speak, of sexual desire and mutual intent.
Whereas group sex simply suggests the loose concept of typical orgy behaviour (prox-
imity of distinguished but simultaneous action), gang bangs offer the contrasting facet
of a movement toward a shared qualia; where several men, women, or transsexuals
sexually experience a single man, woman or transsexual. Though, of course, the individ-
ual experiences vary in sensation and expression due to the chemistry of autonomous
gendered bodies, the idea of sharing a single experience in the form of a single sexual
partner brings the group together in the spirit of a communal gift; the object on which
the group acts is the single giver of pleasure. The muse of this affair, usually a woman,
bestows this pleasure in increments, sometimes taking only a single partner at once,
but usually taking on two or three at any given moment. The group is stimulated to the
point of release, all of which usually occurs on the body of the love object. However,
this explosion of mutual contentment can take on even more intimate group bonding
dimensions, depending on the site of bodily concentration.
The creampie gang bang, as a niche of the gang bang, blends the creampie fetish (the
basic fetish for ejaculating into a woman’s vagina) and the gang bang to create an
interestingly complex act of existentially conscious sexual activity. The creampie gang
bang features a cast or team of men who, in a well organized manner, penetrate a single
female partner - who is often kept in a single spatial area - and ejaculate into her vagina.
The result is a large mixture of the group’s semen in the single vagina, creating a mark of
the communal experience in order to commemorate the act of sexual sharing. Though
most female creampie gang bang enthusiasts doubtlessly use hormonal contraception to
protect themselves from the enormous risk of pregnancy that such a fetish provides, it
is interesting to speculate why the concept of shared qualia in the creation of a human
soup is so deliciously enticing.
Lifetime creampie gang bang enthusiast Kimberley Stutton, a German-born Canadian
who experienced her first cream-pie gangbang at the age of seventeen, and who has,
since then, married and raised two children (Amy Stutton 14 and Braun Stutton 21),
all while keeping her love of the fetish in full expression. On the world tour for her new
book The Secret Life of the Stuttons (Fandangle Press 2009), Kim spoke with the Fly-
ing Walrus’ own sex critic about creampies and commitment:
Kim Stutton: After my first creamy, I just couldn’t have regular sex. The idea of only
having one guy’s semen in me just didn’t appeal to me at all. It seemed so... insufficient.
Gloria Wholesome: Was it a problem for boyfriends of yours as a teenager?
KS: Oh yeah. Most guys thought I was a huge slut and got really jealous. It was really
only in my twenties when I began to meet more mature men who were interested in
gang bangs, and respected the women that like to get ganged.
GW: Was it a problem when you decided to get married and have children? How did
your spouse react?
KS: Oh no, when I met Kevin I knew he was the man for him. He’s really the only
person in the world whose love for creamies rivals mine! [Laughter]
GW: So the mutual love for the fetish brought you two together?
KS: Definitely. It’s just the nature of the fetish - you just want to share and see what
happens!
For more information about creampie gangbangs, see Gorgan Holdman’s latest book The
Creampie and the Qualia Problem (Train Rape Press, 2006).
ARTS

THE FADED SKIP

NEIGHBOURHOOD – Sanchari Sur
the erratic heartbeat
led me to believe
– Kira Lancaster i was going to pass out

The strangers in this town put a strain on me; but it was just skipping
growing bolder every day. They corner me 123
in grocery store aisles, the library,
skip skip
walking my spaniel after lunch.
ski....p
Looking straight into my eyes, they ask like a skipping rope
these brazen questions and their wrinkled faces
always drop so quietly when I offer no answer. up and down we used to go
chanting and laughing and chanting again
I forget why we came here. just a game
I guess it will be safe for the baby.
we used to play
The skin on my neck is electric when they ask
about the baby, often cross wiring the names of my wife and child. annoying the neighbors with the noise
How they got the names into their creaky fingers
haunts me. and now i am demure
all grown up
I shrug them off with polite escapes and excuses. silent and serious
I’ll ask Kelly if she’s spotted the neighbours a "lady"
snooping at windows or scratching at the mailbox-
if I can remember once I’m home. hands folded eyes down
legs crossed, please
My feet scrape the sidewalk don't want them to say, "look at the shameless
-the sound always changes when it’s colder- thing"
and then it happens. and see how my heart
Flashes of those alien faces, like a grainy super eight film, skips
flicker into a place in my mind that won’t sit still
I can’t focus on them. Faces as they assess my worth
behind barbeques and steering wheels, behind hands like meat on display at no frills
passing me bottles of beer and instant cameras. Behind greedy little eyes scanning my face
something in my mind that just won’t show itself. make me feel naked
as always
My stomach flips over inside and the dog strains at the leash,
whining. The flashes fade. can you cook? they ask
What have they done to me? can u put on a sari? they wonder

I wipe the dog’s feet at the front door. too dark, i hear the mother cough discreetly.
When I open it to let him in, I hear Emily’s cry
skip skip
from the kitchen. When I get to the table,
she’s fussing in her high chair and I rest my hand on 1234
Kelly’s shoulder. She’s wearing the cable knit sweater I got her for Christmas.
Picking at a pill on it, I notice that the colour faded so quickly. i hold my breath
Her head turns to look at me, and all of my body’s blood and let go
drops to my feet. only when they finish their tea

skip
What are you doing here? Where is my wife?!
Why can’t you people leave us be! it will be a 'no' again.

I pick up the baby and hold her to my burning face, jaw clenched. my heart skips
The stranger frowns the way so many of them do, looking at her hands, and then into with relief
my face.
skip skip
Dad? Dad. I’m Emily. i can breathe easy
Emily? UNTIL

the next time...

skip.

11
 ARTS
IF ALL MEN WERE PUNKERS,
WOULD YOU LET ONE FUCK YOUR SISTER?
STRANGE RUMBLINGS IN TORONTO’S PUNK SCENE
– R. Nansen
I am sitting in a burn-out’s basement waiting for the show to start. The show that I am
waiting for has been alternately described as, “the most extreme punk experience [one]
will ever have,” and as, “wretched, abhorrent, degraded filth.” Personally, I am excited to
see how it turns out.
The reason the concert is being held in an obscure basement in Toronto’s west end is
because no official venue will hold such a ruckus. Tonight’s bill is fronted by the slowly-
getting-more-infamous brother-and-sister-lead crust-punk band Patient Earthquake.
The hardest punks from all over the GTA will slowly filter in until the show finally
begins.
Me, being early, got a chance to meet the band, as well as Brannon, the proprietor kind
enough to host this awfully risky show. The band’s front man and guitarist, Louie-Lou-
ie Leviticus, age 26, is fiddling with various knobs on his amps and pedals, aiming for
that maximum crunch. He is wearing nothing but a jock-strap, he is already liquored up
on hot-buttered rum, and his legs are covered with a thick paste composed of almost all
of the bodily fluids I can think of.
“Now listen, spud, you’d better not paint us as traveling freaks in this newspaper article
you’re writing,” he says in a Northern Ontario drawl which seems to treat each syllable
as its own structure, each with separate character and pitch, unconnected to the sen-
tence as a larger whole. “Me and Mary-Louie have been working on our act very hard
and it would a shame if some student journalist mucked all that up.” Mary-Louie is his
sister, also in the room. The two were born in Kapuskasing, Ontario, about as north as
you can go… at least that’s how it seems to us Toronto folk.
Mary-Louie Leviticus, age 17, provides half of the group’s vocals, punk-rock eye candy,
and a whole lot more. She appears to be much older, both in body and spirit, and fits in
perfectly amongst the older punks. Her thin frame and wiry black hair do not betray
the power in this young woman’s voice when she belts out such songs as, “Brother’s
Keeper,” “Magdalene Says,” “The Homily Bed,” and “Big Stiff Brother’s Fishing Pole.”
She sizes me up with stabbing black eyes as I am talking to her brother. “I bet you could
plug me up pretty good,” she says with no preamble to my surprise. “Of course you’re
nothing in comparison to my Louie-Louie.” Then they kiss. Now I know that these two
are definitely brother and sister. Suddenly things are much weirder than I originally
thought.
I ask Louie-Louie why he makes the music he does. “Two things, spud. Danger and
love. Rock music started as the expression of danger, anti-authoritarianism, rebellious-
ness, but quickly became the game of corporations and bad business. We’re returning
rock and roll to its roots. If the police walk into one of our shows, we’re screwed. Hell,
even attending one of our concerts could get you arrested if you join in. But that’s what
it’s all about.”
That seems to cover the danger. But what about the love? He responds: “Why do it if
you’re not passionate, spud? I love what I do and I love my little sister. Let me tell you a
story. Where we’re from, religion was a big deal. I don’t wanna name names, but we’re
from a pretty tight little sect of Christianity. My Daddy was a preacher. When I was
growing up and starting to wonder about the pleasures of the fairer sex, my Daddy told
me, ‘Son, Our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ doesn’t want you messing around with
any girls. In fact, he’d much prefer it were you to get busy with your younger sister,
rather than those other young ladies.’ And this was right around the time my sweet
Mary-Louie was growing her pre-breasts, and well… one thing lead to another.”
The gravity of the situation begins to hit me like a g-force riot in between the lobes of
my brain. I am interviewing Canada’s first Incest Shock-Rock Group.
12
“But then we got out of there, left our Daddy and his savage beliefs, but hell, we still
loved each other, Mary-Louie and me. And that’s when we started listening to The
Misfits, The Fall, The Ramones, and we were turned onto the mighty doctrine of Punk
Rock! And here we are.”
Time passes and the show is about to start. The audience, made up of men and young
boys in leather coats and chains, is getting anxious. To alleviate the pain, family photos
of Louie-Louie and Mary-Louie are passed around to great fan-fare and cat-calls. I am
handed a picture of the two of them in the bathtub, stark naked. The caption on back
reads: “L— and M—, age 14 and 5.” They were surely brother and sister. The band
comes on with a great noise. Louie-Louie is in his infamous jock-strap, Mary-Louie is
in a red-lace bra and booty shorts, with a handsome devil mask to hide her precocious
head. Within six songs all of these aforementioned articles of clothing are removed.
The music of Patient Earthquake relies heavily on the back-up band to keep the punk
pummeling moving forward. The Leviticus siblings spend most of the set fucking, uri-
nating, defecating, performing fellatio on audience members, vomiting on each other,
fiddling with knobs, encouraging cunnilingus, shitting on drums, screaming, cracking
eggs over their own naked bodies, jerking off, eating bacon cooked offstage, cutting
hair and shaving pubes, smoking cigarettes from the filter end, snorting pixies sticks
(literally), quoting Blue Velvet, and other things which would actually push over THE
FLYING WALRUS’s very loose censorship mandate.
I took the show from a very detached perspective. It was interesting, but ultimately the
music was not very good. Everyone who wanted to got laid, although it was in an orgy
with an underage girl and her eccentric brother. She was also covered in eggs. Is this im-
moral? Yes. Does the incest bother me? Not really—they really do love each other and
I think they would be even more fucked if they split up. Is it punk? Yes of course! Is it
good? Not at all. But it is strangely revitalizing the Toronto scene. Patient Earthquake
is currently on its Basement Sisterfucker tour to a series of basements and back sheds in
the GTA. I can’t announce where any of them are here, as they are completely illegal.
Try emailing the Walrus, and maybe we will tell you.
After the show I asked Louie-Louie if there was anything he wouldn’t do on stage.
“Hell no, man!”
“What about doing it with a corpse?” I asked.
“Already done it and loved it.”
“What about having sex with an animal?”
He looked at me, deadpan. “Hold on. That’s too far. Some things a man just isn’t sup-
posed to do.”
CAPTURING MY HOPELESS HEART
– Sarah Ollivier-Brown
The wings of a bird You’ve made me realize
Have captured my heart. How special life can be;
It soars through the air How every little thing
And leaps in my chest. Can become something greater.
Nothing’s ever been as clear
As how I feel about you.
You’ve given me hope
When you gave me your heart.
ARTS

PENANCE
– Rasia Virani
THE DANCE OF
THE SIBERIAN STOOL PIGEONS
– Barry Germansky
My girl is finally getting restless. The sheet’s gotten all twisted between her knees, and
I can feel her body clenching, lifting off the bed, and then slumping back down, over I stand behind the velvet mirror
and over. I’ve been awake for maybe an hour, though it’s usually hard to tell how long Looking past the smoke
But not the mirrors
and even how awake in the kind of dark we get in this new place. It couldn’t be more
perfect for us: hardly any city lights can penetrate through that tiny, locked window
Reluctantly I touch the tranquil waters of distant dreams
- only the weird orange security lights in the complex parking lot manage to sneak in Where benign flashes ensnare my senses
partway, and that’s just in the mornings from 1:00 to 5:00. The rest of the time it feels And all meaning slips away
so private, like an underground cave. Like living in a geode, full of sparkling treasures
just for me. I slit my eyes open, but I don’t change my breathing so she won’t hear me Eager for companionship
watching. I cross over from the busy street
To the empty road on the other side
It was an unnecessary caution, ‘cause her eyes are puckered tight. Still, she’s turning Drowning can be relaxing
her face away from me, so maybe she can see. She rolls her neck, its tendons rising
Great white walls speak volumes
like ocean swells that barely break the surface, and her Belle and Sebastian t-shirt slips
And the piston rods
up, wrinkling around her waist. In the blurry half-light, her full, exposed stomach
(Four held hand in hand)
flushes like exotic jungle fruit, swelling with juices that would fill the eater with magic Never lie
and madness. I swallow hard, perhaps on purpose. My throat clicks and she flinches.
Freezes. Together we wait. Hard to keep a straight face
When everyone is crooked
And then nothing happens. But that’s okay, I’ll give her another minute. To marinate. There is no satisfaction in being the leader
If she doesn’t make a move, I’ll get up like I’m going to use the bathroom, and save her Of the winning team
the choice. My bare cock rasps along the folded cotton, half-mast and gaining steam Losers have their advocates
as I watch her cross her ankles and point her toes. And now I know I won’t be wait- And I have mine, too
ing long because her hands aren’t fisted under the sheets anymore, where they were
Murder is a misdemeanour
and would be when she’s sleeping. Instead I see them rubbing and pressing against her
When the world is weighed in
neck. Her breathing crashes through what feels enough like silence. Her fingers wrap Genocide is the antidepressant of Saturday night fumbling
across her throat, and I wait for her to roll toward me and come get what she needs. I And Sunday morning brunch
know just how to stop her breath. What’s the point of complaining, anyway?

You’re watching me again. Meandering mutilation of the voiceless majority

Sounds like Kissinger reciting War and Peace
You think that I don’t know. You always think you’re just so slick, but it’s just like As he suffocates forced serenity
that little girl says in that shitty ancient horror movie you like so much: I know what And bites the Hunter’s bullet
you think. I know everything you think. I know, and I can’t fucking take it. Can’t
Donating myself to this cold world
take another night of lying beside you in this filthy cloister, can’t take feeling your eyes
Is like dancing with Siberian stool pigeons
rooting inside my skin, your body hair chafing my thighs, the sweaty weight of you all The jolly fat man says there’s not enough to go around
around, even inside my lungs, and why? How did I let this happen? How could I have (OF COURSE THERE IS!)
thought that I was choosing to live, like us making a life would make up for the one Discriminating is more of a weekend thing
you stole from me? Every night I lie here, lying, in a fruitless struggle to surrender my No one likes removing lint
mind to the hydras of my fate, who, despite their ravening taste for carrion, have no lust (THERE’S TOO MUCH OF IT!)
for anything so putrid, nor anything which bears such blame for its bitter existence. Or counting cars with Jersey plates
And since I have nothing else to offer them, I know I’ll drown here beside you some Someone better break the fog
night, overflowing, with bile leaking from my eyes. God, I hate you. I hate you, you And sail past the fence
(But keep the barbs and hold them tight)
bastard, you waste. You made me this way, ripped me open and filled me up with shit,
Everything is a masterpiece if you can afford the words
and because I kept smiling even as it started squirting out through my teeth, now I’m
septic, through and through. No amount of smiling can stop the pain that I’ve felt ever No, no, no
since, the scorching howl that bubbles in the centre of my shame. It scores tendrils up I don’t know any of them well, you know
my stomach and through my legs, sends rhythmic spasms through my body because I But when I get up to walk
cannot let it out. My feet feel bare on the tile floor
Like my life laid out on a black monolith
I feel choked with air. My shame radiates. Itching to pull down my t-shirt, my hands Displeasure is not a friend
creep up to touch my neck, and I wrap them there to hold in my screams. I know I’m But an acquaintance
not going to drown tonight. Soon, I’ll disappear under the sheet and be pushed out of
And as I feel the checkered title on the soles of my feet
my head. My mouth will stream with the ritual confessions, but only while you’re fill-
Pain hits me like lightning
ing it; I can only tell the truth when it’s stifled by your sex.
Its face belongs to Cecil B. DeMille
Climbing the great pillar again

Flesh cannot be remade

I feel nothing

13
 ARTS
SHARK-INFESTED WATERS
– Colin Maheu
For J.P. Karwacki, the wanderer.
There are no stars tonight
But those of memory.
Yet how much room for memory there is
In the loose girdle of soft rain.
– Hart Crane, cf. “My Grandmother’s Love Letters”
Keith Morgan had a decision to make. As he stood against the stern railing of the Ca-
ribbean Duchess, the biggest cruise ship ever to leave Miami harbour, he weighed his
options: he could jump or go back.
Bethany was laying in their cabin on the Concierge Deck, waiting for him to return
with ice and soda water. She had tried to make love with him it was their wedding
night after all but she had her period — his fingers stung from her blood. Once
they gave up she laid down with a headache and cramps while Keith left for air.
The wedding was earlier that day in company of family and friends about 30 in all—she
was the one who planned it. His mother’s friend Maureen married off her daughter a
year earlier said to them Don’t have a big wedding it’ll suck the life out of you Just
get the essential people together have a small ceremony – Spend the money you’ll save
on a nice vacation. In two weeks the boat would drop the newlyweds in one of the best
resorts in Brazil to spend the rest of the honeymoon.
Maureen, her husband Bob, Keith’s parents, Bethany’s and other well-wishers were
meeting in the casino top level aft of the bridge drinking cocktails and making crude
innuendoes —Where’re the newlyweds? Mixing cocktails of their own I bet Oh
ho! Lame cracks tipsy old men and the women rolling eyes and playing slots.
Keith looked at the water rolling lazily away from the huge craft that cut waves out of
the immovable mass of the sea. He had sensed conspiracy this whole trip a plot by
Bethany – the women – to keep him from escaping. They figured he was trapped on
the boat had to grin and bear it. One way out he had to decide.
His stomach twisted fear shark-infested waters and he didn’t know just what he
was escaping from.
When he told his father he was engaged Dad said Make sure you love her give your-
self a year Ask yourself every morning is this the woman I want to spend my life with?
Listen inside for a resounding yes. Keith wondered if Dad wanted him to
marry Bethany or not. Dad was hard to read. He never was that warm with her and her
family but he was rarely warm with anyone. Mom did all the socializing cementing
friendship between the families. That’s when he really got crowded into this thing—
this narrow hallway with one door at the end. The parents were encouraging enthusias-
tic the mothers picking out colour schemes Bethany beaming, squeezing his arm.
He’d heard of pre-wedding jitters expected them even but they weren’t supposed
to get worse afterward. He felt sick even though the boat didn’t rock, engineered to
combat seasickness not jitters – He was having aftershocks jarring and impossible to
swallow and forget. Who was it that decided this? Who decided that this was the rest
of his life?
Dolphins had followed the ship for a few hours then swam off as if they seemed to lose
interest. It was late dusk and there was nothing to see anymore but the water
that dared him to jump. Dared him, as if it took more courage to sink into the deep
unknown than to go back to Bethany, lying in bloodshed in the darken-
ing cabin. Keith looked out at the vanishing horizon thought about the moment
life suddenly closed the walls on him. When the minister recited the standard script
Keith stood with butterflies and looked at Bethany as she breathed shallowly with
sparkling eyes and didn’t look back at him. His mother cried quietly tears like when
Dad would yell — hard wet eyes. There was a falseness in those tears, in Bethany’s
bated breath. There was a rehearsal the night before why didn’t she cry then? It was
14
a performance billed as the real thing. The emotional smiles and glassy eyes and tilted
heads made him feel like an actor walking in on the wrong cue, breaking the illusion.
But nobody noticed.
The night before everybody toasting champagne in the big dining room in the ho-
tel … What thoughts were hidden behind those smiles? Keith shivered. When cousin
Scott got married he laid a bet with his brother Those two’ll divorce in four years or
less odds 1:2. He remembered – same wedding he took home a bridesmaid woke up
hungover remorseful A disaster on the periphery of matrimony.
There were no stars yet but Keith could wait maybe Bethany would sleep. That would
be easier. He could sit by the bed and watch her move in her sleep peaceful like a
baby and let his mind trace tender thoughts about the rest of his life. Almost in tears,
head against his hands gripping the railing – white knuckles – He knew it wouldn’t
work. He was supposed to be happy, but happy is a moment not a whole life.
If ten years passed he’d never forget his bloody fingers her pained grimace and wip-
ing the blood off. He remembered Dad’s heart attack and Mom sobbing giving
CPR while the ambulance came. And now he was a man – he would have to take care
of Bethany, but Keith knew he could never save a life But he had to look after her now
For better or worse he made a promise to her and God with everybody watching.
He knew that his life was planned out now with a datebook a car a house meetings oil
changes lawnmower 2-3 kids Bethany had already stopped the pill oh Christ help it’s
too soon! Too soon to start as a junior partner in her dad’s law firm take over when
he retires, someday his name on a building. Too soon to drink wine on patios and talk
mileage and politics (or what would he talk about?)
There was an old man standing down the railing looking into the falling night but
Keith didn’t know him – not one of the guests, thank God. There was a new sound in
the air: the sound of quiet. There were no kids running on pool decks below no chat-
ter from loungers. He was losing track of time – and the old man was suddenly
gone. Maybe the old man had never been there in the first place Maybe Keith just
needed something to wait for. Now he had no reason to delay, and he knew he could
do it.
Out across the darkness, under cover of stars there were 300 million people on a vast
expanse all agonizing about tomorrow But they had a tomorrow. They had world
enough and time. Tucked into that continent mass—the tapped and mapped land of
dreams—there was an Oklahoma City suburb that was even bigger. It was big enough
to wander until Death stopped for him. And somewhere in there was a house with half
his stuff already in it. Or there was the salty Gulf of Mexico – soothing foam of the
wake calling him to sleep.
Keith stepped up onto the second bar of the stern railing and felt the last of the warm
sea breeze. He stared into the water and felt no fear no reason not to. He decided.
In the freedom-release-moment of surrender, as he closed his eyes and reached out with
his arms, he saw his whole life at once, stretched out in infinite moments before him.
He saw that the old man watching the dusk draw in was him and this was all a memory
vaguely recollected. Keith saw himself spitting off the stern of the ship into the ocean
with a sigh, and turning to go up to the casino. As he’s arriving his father slaps him on
the back a little loaded on wine eyes wet he was so proud of Keith that day His
mother —Where’s Bethany? (in bed didn’t feel well resting) —Stay for a drink,
Keith, she’s asleep by now Bethany’s dad beaming. He endures the half-drunk advice
handshakes pride and gets away. Finally, Keith saw himself returning late to the cabin
(quietly don’t want to wake her) but she’s stirring slow smile —Where did you
go? —The night is beautiful But it’s her that’s beautiful. and they stay up, adding
whiskey to soda and ice, sighing through the first night of a new eternity.
To reduce wrinkles and lines,
I have eighty per-cent less fat
Than butter.
-B.C.C.
ARTS
DIARY OF A REPRESSED MEMORY
– Jonathan Wamback
“It’s awful,” Jack says, “living in the wake of a memory that doesn’t exist. That childhood
trauma that has had such a profound effect on who I am today. And I hate myself for
that.” The time that has passed has no value to Jack. For, when one lives in a world that
poses constant threat, there is little hope for time or anything else to shine through.
He sits with his face in his palms, his eyes shut. Jack remembers a time when he was
sane. That time in his childhood when he was capable of neither choice nor reason.
It seems, for Jack, that in those times the feelings were more easily expressed. That
love was possible. Love was a force foreign to him, because he was so young, yet it still
existed. Its presence, he could decipher, was trapped but at least not abandoned, as
it is for him now. Jack thinks. He remembers that time, now cold and drawn out in
his memory, thinking how much longer it would last. The memory is unbearable for
Jack. Jack grows cold and drawn out. He used to get very aggravated at the intrusive
thoughts.
Jack has lived in his own mind since it happened. He remembers the fear, the confu-
sion. He remembers it all as if intoxicated by his own dissociation. He remembers
then the time he was trying to help himself, the time that repressed memory surfaced
back into awareness. It was an awful time. I remember. Jack sat there quietly as I tried
to comfort him. He pushed me away, rejecting my sympathy. More than anything,
he wished for people to understand. “Those feelings that you get. Feelings of love,
warmth, security, happiness and sadness are all for me fear. Fear is all I know.” Most of
all, he doesn’t want you to think badly of him because he feels like this.
I suppose I saw it as an opportunity for him. He thought differently. I could tell it
right away. The memory that was repressed for Jack was now in the open and, though
painful, I thought he could deal with it. I guess I never really knew what he was going
through. What he had been through. It’s hard to understand someone else because
when you look at them, all you see is what you think you would do – you would try. I
never knew how much Jack tried. He says too often that the person he has become is
not who he really is. He says that the trauma has taken over his thought process like a
mental form of cancer. He wants so much for a normal life, but is afraid that the better
he feels, the worse people will think of him. He is ashamed of being happy because he
doesn’t know what it’s like. Most of all, he doesn’t want to hurt people.
“It’s not so much the memory,” says Jack, “but the continual reminder of the fact that
you had no control. I guess it bothers me that that memory was trapped for so long,
like the subject of the prison in which I was in, and that I was unable to even start to
heal because I had no idea. I want to live a life like everyone else but feel so unable.”
Jack tells me from time to time, as the memories surface in him, of the situation that
hurt him so much. This flashback is not the only situation. He describes for me the dis-
gust and the fear. And when he can’t decipher the meaning, he gets angry and yells. He
tells me that he would never yell at me but that the anxiety that had developed in him
since that first trauma of his life causes him to be a different person. When he yells, he
yells at no one but himself. It is almost as though Jack had made, somewhere along the
line, a choice for everything to go wrong in the future. If he said that, and I know Jack,
he only said it because he despised himself so much. He tells me how everyone hates
him. And when I look around, all I see is care.
He tries, he really does. That crime committed against him, when he was just a child,
has destroyed who he is today. I couldn’t see it until I met Jack. Now, as if in bitter mel-
ancholy, he is trapped in his own mind. Lazily, with a deep contempt of self, Jack raises
his shoulders a little and gazing up slowly, he sees that I am still there. A tear appears in
his eye as he remembers that I am there and he smiles a pleasant smile. There is hope for
Jack. I can see it. Even if he can’t.
I remember Jack when he was very young. He was beautiful and loving. He was also
scared. I remember he used to hold on to my shoulders, trembling, terrified at the sight
of a world outside that can be so cold. He has learned to abandon trust, to abandon
love, yet he is isolated and craves attention. That trauma that Jack lived through, for so
long, held him back from realizing his potential. It held him back from realizing that
the world can be beautiful and loving at the same time. Jack has grown up a bit since
then and a lot has changed. He is triumphing over the crimes committed against him.
Twenty years have passed since then. The memory remained repressed for most of that
time. Jack starts to see the care, but it’s a slow process. Somewhere deep within him, the
child still exists. That child cries tears of happiness as Jack nurtures him with love, the
love that he needs.
SOME HEALTH
– Jill Jambor
Health:
I had this.
Then I didn’t.
Healthy:
We were this,
though only intermittently.
We ebbed
without ebb’s counterpart.
One wave cracked its shell on standing rocks
Well-being:
Cocoon jackets, cotton gloves,
comfort food.
Loneliness.
Ambition and hope:
expectation.
Healthy:
Not today.
Likely not tomorrow.
Maybe in some time
AFTER THE LAW
– Anna Veprinska
Before the Law stands a doorkeeper on guard. To this doorkeeper there comes a man
from the country who begs admittance to the Law. But the doorkeeper says that he can-
not admit the man at the moment. The man, on reflection, asks if he will be allowed,
then, to enter later. “It is possible,” answers the doorkeeper, “but not at this moment.”
Since the door leading into the Law stands open as usual and the doorkeeper steps to
one side, the man bends down to peer through the entrance. When the doorkeeper sees
that, he laughs and says: “If you are so strongly tempted, try to get in without my per-
mission. But note that I am powerful. And I am only the lowest doorkeeper. From hall
to hall keepers stand at every door, one more powerful than the other. Even the third of
these has an aspect even I cannot bear to look at.”These are difficulties which the man
from the country has not expected to meet. The Law, he thinks, should be accessible
to every man and at all times, but when he looks more closely at the doorkeeper in his
furred robe, with his huge pointed nose and long, thin, Tartar beard, he decides1 that
he has travelled much too far and the Law is much too important for him to not walk
through the door. So he does just this. The doorkeeper does not attempt to obstruct
the man’s way. Upon walking through the door, the man from the country finds himself
in a hallway. At the end of this hallway is another door before which stands a second
doorkeeper. Just as the first doorkeeper foretold, this second doorkeeper is more daunt-
ing, his robe furrier, his nose pointier, his Tartar beard longer and thinner. The man
once more asks for admittance to the Law, but the second doorkeeper only repeats the
words of the first doorkeeper. The man thinks for a moment and again decides that
he has travelled much too far and the Law is much too important for him to not walk
through the door. So he does just this. The second doorkeeper does not attempt to ob-
struct the man’s way. The man from the country finds himself in another hallway with
another door and another doorkeeper. This process repeats over and over again. The
hallways grow longer and the doorkeepers grow more powerful and frightening. Days
turn into years until the man from the country is old and frail. Finally he reaches a door
beside which there stands no doorkeeper. The man pauses in front of the door and, as
usual, asks for admittance. A voice on the other side of the door replies, “Yes, come out.
I have been waiting for you.” Upon hearing this, the man from the country goes mad.
He collapses onto a stool beside the door and waits for darkness to engulf him.
1 At this point, Franz Kafka’s parable “Before the Law” merges with my own reimagining of the events
that follow.
15
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