There are two kinds of university students—one kind lives in filth and squalor and uses the power of negligence to fashion teetering skyscrapers of dirty dishes and terrifying bio-wads of fetid underpants. The other kind is female.
The music you listen to in university—you’ll remember it forever. No matter how old you get, the faintest hint of a song from your school days will take you back to that time, unleashing waves of wistful remembrance. So make sure the music you listen to doesn’t suck. You don’t want to be like the lame sap who was driving with his kids the other day and got tears in my eyes when “Mr. Roboto” came on.
In your classes and dorms, you will be exposed to a fascinating cross-section of Canadian diversity—unless you go to Queen’s, in which case you’ll be exposed to a fascinating cross-section of the children of white dentists. (This isn’t true, but as a Western grad I’m legally obligated to sully the reputation of Queen’s without regard for ethics or accuracy. I’m pretty sure it’s in the BNA Act.)
The late Osama bin Laden? Queen’s grad.
University is a voyage of self-discovery. You are about to learn so much about yourself—things like “I had no idea I could grasp such complex scientific concepts” and “Oh, that’s where I left my pants.”
Technology has altered the post-secondary experience. When I went to school in the late 1980s, we didn’t have “social networking” sites like Twitter. We had to bore people in person. We didn’t have “GPS devices” with which to find our friends. We had “looking over there.” Heck, in my day, the closest thing we had to “user-generated erotic content” was begging your roomie to leave the curtains slightly open. My point is this: I am old.
Slice of bread, peanut butter, slice of processed cheese, layer of BBQ Fritos, second slice of bread. You’re welcome.
Men: during your time at university you will feel pressure, anxiety and, if you play your cards right, boobies. The boobies will make up for the pressure and the anxiety. That’s just biology.
Let me tell you: nothing beats the experience of packing up and leaving your bedroom in your parents’ home forever and then graduating and returning to your bedroom in your parents’ home.
Some of your days at school will be tedious. More will be difficult. Ten years from now, none of this will matter. You’ll think to yourself, “Man, those school days—those were the days!” So remember as you’re having your school days that those days are one day going to be the days that were the days.
In a pinch, this page can be fashioned into a bong.
There will be times when the workload is overwhelming. These can be stressful moments. Perhaps you actually ripped this page from the book and you’re staring at it now—months into the future—and you’re experiencing one of these moments. You’re on the verge of tears. And you’re trying to read this section of life-saving advice—but the page is smudged and torn from when you tried to turn it into a bong. The lesson: you’re an idiot.Take a deep breath, idiot. Close your eyes. And tell yourself: if you stay up all night, if you apply yourself to the task at hand, you will by morning be one small step closer to acquiring the very same diploma that’s currently in the possession of countless people getting thrown out of their jobs. Now get in there and get it done!! (Wait, why are you sobbing?)
Don’t cheat. Just don’t. But when you do cheat, don’t just copy something word for word and try to pass it off as new. That’s something that only a scoundrel or a professor keen to force students to buy a “new” edition of his textbook would do.
Have fun. Do dumb things. By the end of three or four years, you’ll be pleasantly surprised by how many activities can end with someone declaring, “It probably isn’t a serious concussion.”
But be careful! Times have changed since I was in school. In the ’80s and early ’90s, we could get stinking drunk and blindingly stupid in the privacy of our own throw-up. Not anymore. Heed my warning: Had I been born twenty years later, I’d be the unwilling star of a Facebook group called Drunken Spandau Ballet Impersonation Fail.
Avoid early classes, especially the ones that begin at eight o’clock in the morning—or any of the other o’clocks in the morning. I’m not saying I rarely made it to my 8 AM political science lecture, but to this day I believe political science involves the dissection of elected officials.
Live in residence for your first year. Residence life will provide at least half your overall university enjoyment, 75 percent of your hangovers and 100 percent of your bedbug scars. Plus, it makes stalking incredibly convenient.
Don’t bring huge piles of sand into your dorm room for a beach party. It sounds like a good idea, but the sand is hard to get rid of—especially when you don’t try to get rid of it and you just leave it there.
In my day, we had a contemptuous term for those who finished a four-year degree in only four years: “graduates.” My advice: stay at school as long as you can. Let’s face it: the real world is a bit of a mess right now—what with the economy, and the environment, and the Leafs. We’ll give you a holler when we’ve got it all fixed up.
Tough Question: What’s the best way to bring Barbie into the modern age so she better reflects the society of tomorrow?
Promiscuous Barbie: comes with a home pregnancy kit and a dozen Plan B pills (Deadbeat Ken sold separately)
Arizona Barbie: cries real tears when the Sheriff forecloses on her Dream Mansion
DUI Barbie: features smeared mascara, glazed eyes and extended middle finger for her mug shot
Candy Crush Barbie: throws a tantrum if you take away her smartphone and try to play with her
Botox Barbie: a plastic face so lifelike, it’s almost human
The Future and Why We Should Avoid It
Reason No. 7: Arts and Entertainment
Every spring, the Cannes Film Festival showcases its usual fare of upbeat, crowd-pleasing entertainment. What does the future hold? Which movies will it be showing next spring? It doesn’t take a psychic …
Despair and Isolation. Several orphans struggle to comprehend the human condition in a cruel world where the only constants are heartbreak and suffering. Running time: six hours.
Isolation, Despair and Also Anguish. Several thinner orphans struggle to comprehend the human condition while wheezing in a crueller world where the only constants are heartbreak, suffering and their leprosy (the skin kind and the social kind). Running time: six hours.
Despair, Anguish, Further Anguish and a Shaky Hand-Held Camera. Several orphans struggle to comprehend the human condition, but without going outside, because the film’s budget is only $19. Running time: thirty-three hours (couldn’t afford fancy “editing” machine).
Out of Focus. The title refers to the disenchantment of today’s youth with the crass, materialistic pursuits of their parents. It also references the fact that the film is out of focus. Running time: four days and still going strong …
Hard to Follow. A soft breeze rustles the leaves of a tree. Then there’s a woman on a horse. A child rides his bicycle through a foreboding forest. Wait—what? Is that a hamster running on a wheel now? Come on.
C’est la Vie. François, an impoverished, mute widower, takes care of his deaf daughter, Isabelle. Theirs is a monotonous life. But then one day it turns to tragedy!
Closed-Circuit. This compelling epic consists in its entirety of a single close-up of a human eyeball. The bold work of art suggests a commentary on the dehumanizing role of surveillance in our modern society—or possibly that the cinematographer held the camera backwards the whole time.
The Triumph of Love. Turns out the title is pretty misleading. This “Love” guy is a serial killer who targets orphans whose parents were murdered by other serial killers who themselves were orphans.
Daniel. Daniel had a good life, but then his parents were killed in a tragic Segway accident and now he’s suddenly alone and v
ulnerable. He slips into a life of drink, gambling, crime. Can he make a choice for a better future? Probably not.
Cobwebs upon My Loins. A middle-aged French woman embarks on a journey of sexual awakening but then turns around and goes home to her sexless marriage when she sees how many other middle-aged French women are waiting in line outside the sexual-awakening place.
Change for a Dollar? Sometimes good intentions have horrible consequences. This is probably going to be one of those times.
Farewell My Chinos. A precocious tomboy rebels against society’s dated strictures regarding the public soiling of one’s trousers. Already the European critics are hailing this five-hour film as “just the right amount of tedious.”
The Clarks. A father and son are very different. Then, after about three hours, it turns out that in many ways they are actually quite alike. Weird, right?
The Unclasped. The third instalment in a famed director’s fifth trilogy, dedicated to probing the deeper themes of human subjugation, racial prejudice and female shirtlessness.
Gloaming. The art-house scene is not immune to trends in popular cinema. This epic focuses on three young French vampires who prowl the city by night, stalking innocent victims and subjecting them to their sharp, vicious musings on the modern-day relevance of Sartre.
Gabrielle. Gabrielle is young and chubby. She has no friends. Nothing ever goes right for her—except for her tap dancing. Gabrielle loves tap dancing. Oh, how she feels free and alive when she’s tap dancing! But then her feet fall off.
Inevitable Woody Allen Movie. The darkest and most dramatic Woody Allen film in years, or so they’re saying now that nobody laughed during the first screening.
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Fifty Shades of Eh
Excerpt from a Novel by Scott Feschuk
The Fifty Shades of Grey book series, about a young woman who signs a contract to enter into a submissive sexual relationship with a manipulative billionaire, has been described as good news for publishing and bad news for words. It has spawned its own line of lingerie, bedding and S&M-themed accessories. The thing is such a gold mine that scoundrels are cranking out quick knock-offs—a reprehensible development, in that it may cut into the sales of my own.
Luckily, my work occupies a specific niche. Welcome to an excerpt from my highly erotic—and profoundly Canadian—soon-to-be-published new novel, Fifty Shades of Eh …
He pulls the leather strap tight against my left wrist. I wince.
“Sorry,” Christian says. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s okay.”
“I’ll loosen it a bit.”
“Don’t trouble yourself.”
“Honestly, it’ll just take a minute.”
“It’s fine, Christian.”
I gaze upon him with my intrepid eyes. My mouth, which is also intrepid, curls into a sly smile. “Did you remember the clamps?” I ask.
“Canadian Tire was closed. But I found a bunch of clothespins in the garage.”
I swoon. My breathing quickens. My heart beats a frantic tattoo as I surrender myself to the anticipation of languid erotic pleasures and several hours of splinter removal. Why, oh why have I fallen for someone so Canadian—so okay looking, so gainfully employed, so … nice?
“I need you to fill out some paperwork before we go any further.” His face impassive, Christian hands me a single shiny sheet. He draws close—so tantalizingly near that I can sense his energy, his essence, his Head & Shoulders—and whispers: “No more than three toppings, or they charge extra.”
He hums a few bars of Nickelback and I’m helpless, trussed up and pressed into his brother’s old futon from university. Christian sighs.
“I’m damaged, Ana. You just don’t get it. I was born to a successful pediatrician …”
“Well, that doesn’t sound so—”
“… in Winnipeg.”
“Oh. Oh, Christian. I’m so sorry.”
“You’re not the one who’s sorry. I’m sorry.”
There is a pause.
“Sorry,” I say.
My intrepid eyes cast around Christian’s Rec Room of Pain and across his many instruments of torture: the ball gag, the whip, the black gadget that with the press of a single button turns on the cruellest device of all: the television. Sportsnet, TSN … Oh, Christian, stop teasing and turn it to CBC for the Leafs game! The chronic incompetence … the annual ritual of false hope … such delicious pain!
My tongue tentatively prods his and they join together in a slow, erotic dance. A tongue dance.
Blissful moments pass. Are they minutes? Hours? A dollop of something cold lands along the intrepid curve of my hip—splash!—and I am alert again. My body is electric, pulse pounding, skin alive with sensation. Desire. This is what desire feels like. “Sorry, spilled my beer.” The sensual gyrations of our relationship, all bump and grind and dancing tongue, continue.
Christian frowns at me.
“Why are you frowning?”
“Sorry,” he says. Now he’s smiling. The Earth shifts on its axis, tectonic plates slide into a new position, volcanoes erupt, trains speed into tunnels and other suggestive images. My inner goddess yearns to be touched by this tragic figure with the jaw of a lumberjack and the clothes also of a lumberjack.
“Do you like my beaver?”
“Sure, but it looks a little small next to the stuffed caribou,” I say.
“Damn rodent put up a hell of a fight. I still say it was worth losing my leg.”
He picks up a riding crop and limps over. I can feel a stirring deep within me, somewhere beneath my snow pants. This feels so different from the last time, so vital, so carnal, so … wait, is that the “Coach’s Corner” theme?
Suddenly, Christian is on top of me. He forces something into my mouth. It’s firm, so very hard. I curl my tongue around it and instantly recognize its elegant contours.
Timbit. Chocolate-glazed.
“I only had enough cash on me for day-olds. Sorry.”
I surrender myself to the sweet agony, and chew.
THE END?
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You won’t believe what I did the other day. In our hurried age of bite-sized internet content and nibble-sized social media musings, my attention span and I sat down to read an actual book—one of those things with pages and words and everything. With a thought to future generations who won’t know what those are, here’s a record of how it went:
7:08 pm A quiet house, a couple of free hours: I pick up a thick hardcover, keen to experience the satisfaction of cracking its spine. (Before doing this, I always check to make sure I’m not reading an ebook. I’m not going to make that mistake a third time.) True, since 2009 I haven’t skimmed anything longer in a single sitting than a compelling box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, but tonight I’m confident: I am totally going to read you, book.
7:11 My goal is to make a solid dent in Thinking, Fast and Slow by the Nobel Prize-winner Daniel Kahneman—a book that everyone was talking about some time ago, which is when I bought it. Every day since then it’s stared up at me from the coffee table with the same accusatory glare I get after asking to taste-test a sixth flavour at Baskin Robbins.
7:13 Excited, I read the first paragraph.
7:14 Still pretty excited but also a little worried because already there’s math, I read the second paragraph. And you know what? I can actually hear myself getting smarter. No, wait, that’s the sound of an email in my inbox. Better check that out.
7:18 I close my laptop and try to remember what the first paragraph said.
7:19 Excited(ish), I reread the first paragraph of the book.
7:24 I keep losing my train of thought. To be honest, it’s overstating it to call it a train. Thanks to the fleeting thrill of text messages and Twitter, these days my tr
ain of thought is, at best, a railroad handcar of thought operated by two hobos. Dagnabbit, there are some highfalutin theses ahead—pump harder, Tin Can Rufus and Big Earl!
7:31 I come across a word I don’t know—pupillometry. So I look it up on my iPhone and immediately get back to reading the book right after making my next move in thirteen different games of Words with Friends. That’s right, unsuspecting opponent: ZA is too an acceptable word.
7:44 My mind wanders from a passage about cognitive illusions. I flip to the back cover blurbs. It seems this Daniel Kahneman author guy is regarded as “the most important psychologist alive today.” I spend some time wondering how the blurb-giver discerned this, and how far down the list he ranked them. You, sir—you’re the 126th most important psychologist alive. TRY PSYCHOLOGIZING HARDER.
7:47 Another blurb. Richard H. Thaler, professor of economics, says the book I’m holding in my hand—the hand not using its thumb to check baseball scores on an app … and I really should see if Kijiji has … FOCUS, FESCHUK—anyway, he says the book is wise, deep and “readable.” Speak for yourself, Richard H. Thaler.
And really: what’s with the H? Are there really so many professors of economics named Richard Thaler that you must further identify yourself with an initial—or is this merely a vainglorious affectation aimed at exaggerating your intellectual heft? “Ooooo, look at me: I’m Richard H. Thaler and this is my paisley ascot!”
7:49 I am sincerely sorry to have taken out my frustrations on you, Richard H. Thaler’s middle initial.
7:56 Chapter 2 would be going great if not for the fact that the author just referred to something he’d explained in Chapter 1 and my brain was all, like, “Whachoo tawkin’ ’bout, Willis?” (When under stress, my brain communicates exclusively using 1980s catchphrases. In high school, I nervously tried asking girls to the prom and wound up with a dozen jars of Grey Poupon.)
8:12 I suddenly recall the scene in Broadcast News where Albert Brooks’s character demonstrates his smarts with a song about how he can sing and read simultaneously. I attempt to do the same and wind up spraining my face. Turns out I can’t sing and read. Or even just read anymore. But there is one thing I know I can still do.
The Future and Why We Should Avoid It Page 15
