M6
MISPRINT
FORUM
MISPRINT,
Thursday,
March 27, 1997
by Steve Banks and Brian Katbfleisch
28. Age of electric 30. Not here 31. Dollar amount of my tax refund this year 32. The one that got away 33. Euchre partner 37. Location of the beef 38. Look elsewhere 39. Up in arms 40. Sure thing 42. Test of will 45. Hard of hearing 48. Elbow pasta? 50. The sound of one hand
Across:
1. 4. 6. 8* 11. 17. 18. 20. 2 1. 22. 23. 25. 26. 27. 29. 30. 32. 33. 34.
35. 36. 41. 43. 44.
Test tube Happening Iced
tea
Secret Lies In The Clues? Semi-hard Alligator How many roads must a man walk down? Increments Detriment Deviance from the norm Eager beaver
clapping
Non-aggression pact Cheek to cheek Obedient Newly discovered element Tuck and roll Element of surprise Sorry for the wait? The second coming? Towards the back Hoffa resting place Eel food Freebase substrate
62. 64. 67. 71. 73, 74. 75.
Elevator destination Ordinance Pickwick Papers author Lefty? Evil doers Todd Bridges’ crime Offering of peace?
3. Toil 4. Hero of story and song
60. Instant gratification 63. Never again
6. 7. 9. 10.
65, 66. 68. 69.
Island denizen Man on first Party favours? Royal assent
76. Cancer cure
11. Inner sanctum
47. 49. 50. 51. 53. 56. 57.
77. Odour of preference
12. Non-aligned 13. Think again
6 1. Pocketcontents
78. Movie starring Marlon Brando and Macaulay Cull& 79. Easter egg hunt? Down:
1. Time to part ways? 2. Obvious statement
Hidden contest Elegance of movement Magnanimous Erector set use Where’s Waldo?
5. Elder statesman
46. It’s to die for Reason hemp is illegal Soup spice Trying too hard Filling is hard to swallow? In case of emergency Value for your dollar? Elvis’ whereabouts
52. 54. 55. 58. 59.
14. Ordinary people? 15. Fortunate one? 16. Fornication 19. Icelandic export 24. Cruise itinerary? 25. Embark on a quest
Proven to be true Rhymes with orange Inside job? Zen
70. Elk hunter 72. Scienceconcerning tables and chairs. If you have any cornbents Steveat thisaddress:
pkase
conkict
sbanks8togos~at~.Irwater\oo.ca or harrdss any I hpriht Staff members,
Breaking
the r&s
becatie
vJe can,
Brian and Steve
Lunch with Wong is just plain wrong by Hunter S. Thompson Imprint staff FTqhe
moment she walks into the restaurant and flashes her smarmy smile, I know this one is going to be painful. I order another Wild Turkey. Today, I’m having lunch with ‘writer Jan Wong. She is best known for her book hd Chinu Blues, a chronicle of her experiences while livingasay0ungwomaninChina. It is a tale of disillusionment. Perhaps she expected to fmd comrades spontaneousiy embracing each other and thanking Mao for arbitrary arrests, imprisonment and torture. After the book’s release the Canadian media piugged into her warmth and fLzziness. Jan now writes a weekly column in the arts section of the Globe and Mail where she has
1
lunch
at poshToronto
restaurants
with celebrities. It is the kind of column one reads when they want to be annoyed. Invariably, she comments on the person’s appearance (their hair and clothes mostly if she is interviewing a woman),
asks a few very obvious questions and produces a dumbed-down, insight-free look at some tangential aspect of the person’s life. I guess that’s what the Globe editors think their Arts section readers aspire to: esoteric conversations between well-dressed careerists in restaurants where a salad costs $30. Maybe they do, poor bastards. I start with the obvious. I ask her why she thought Red China would be so great. Was it the arbitrary arrests, the total absence ofbasic human rights or the manifest disdain for the rule of law?
“Well
communism
just
sounds like such a nice idea. Everybody sharing and not being so greedy all the time.” I choke on my vichyssoise. “Plus, I am of Chinese heritage.” She comments on my haircut. I order another Wild Turkey. As she continues to talk, my attention strays to my Hell’s Angels days and I picture Jannie dropping acid with bikers. I smile, she is encouraged, so she continues. ‘They just weren’t very nice to people, . l n
The subject then turns to some of her newspaper writing. The whisky finally kicks in and I tear into my steak. “Didn’t you write that softy piece about the ex McGill Tribune staffers who were all devout Marxist student journalists before they joined the media and business establishment?” She sidesteps that one (perhaps 1 should have gotten something else out of the article) and starts talking about her current gig with the Globe and Mail. were they just pretending to be socialists the whole time or did they actually turn their backs on all of their beliefs because they got good job offers?” “You know, I have two kids...“’ It seems a fascinating job for her. Personally, rather than taking these people out to Centro, I would get some whisky, a mason jar of coke, a thermos of liquid LSD, a ’50s era Cadillac and just drive. I keep thinking that what she does is indicative of an old, Iethargic journalism industry and the
rows of hacks who are as much a part of the political machine asthe sleazebag politicians with whom they have their sickening symbiotic relationship. Jan is just the Globe’s way of pretending that the reality they construct doesn’t come straight from press releases and Parliament Hlill propaganda. She’s the throwaway human interest story at the end of the six o’clock news about the old lady who still gets around despite having all plastic joints. Took we’re not just repeating the usual pack of lies from the politicos. Look, here’s Jan, with her qtiky,non-con&ontational+~rficial, middle of the road, feel-good questions, having lunch with a homeless woman at a very expensiverestaurant. We understand what matters to readers.’ It would be insulting were it not so sad. “. . . and then, when I was interviewing David Suzuki, he ate fish eyeball!” Great, Jan. At one point, I light my pipe and as the smoke wafts across the tastefully-lit dining room, the Eurotrash maitre’d approaches
witha grin. He tells me1 have to put my pipe. I curse him and the town in which such a facist bylaw could exist. When he tries to take my pipe away, I catch him in the Adam’s apple with a right cross, sending him into a waiter who then soaks the patrons behind him with Chardonnay. He pops up, hissing and muttering, forked tongue flicking at the air. His face peels back to reveal a lizard-skinned demon who shrieks and startstoward me. I almost shout when I look across the table to see Jan, going on about how she is a mother and a career woman. The maitre’d is just going to take his chances with the smoking bylaw. After dessert, I order more whisky. Jan has had enough water, and possibly enough of me. She’s still wearing that painM polite smile, and claims to have enjoyed our discussion. Just wait until she gets outside andwhatIputinherdrink&insto take effect and she seesthe demon. out
s.
isa