As most sentient beings have probably been able to judge from the ubiquitous poppies, Remembrance Day is upon us once again. This day has always struck me as special; the solemnity of elementary school assemblies and the yearly recitations of Wilfred Owen’s wartime poem “Dulce Et Decorum Est,” which never failed to give me the shivers, convinced me that this was a day to be taken seriously. And I continue to believe that wholeheartedly.

This week, Maclean’s released its annual university rankings. Queen’s placed fifth in the medical doctoral category—the same as last year—which, according to the magazine, includes schools that “have a broad range of Ph.D. programs and research, as well as medical schools.” Most surprising and disappointing was the University’s fall from third to seventh-place in overall ranking in the national reputational category, as decided by CEOs, corporate recruiters, and guidance counselors

November is a cunning and cruel month. Riding on the popularity of October’s home-cooked meals, falling leaves, and suggestive costume choices, November quietly creeps in and begins its oppressive 30-day reign over our lives. We are driven to despair by November’s gloom and are left crying out for December to come and rescue us with all its festive joy.

Mr. Justice John Gomery’s first report about the federal sponsorship scandal was released on Tuesday. In his report, Gomery implicates key members of Jean Chrétien’s government, particularly his Chief of Staff Jean Pelletier, former Public Works Minister Alfonso Gagliano and senior bureaucrat Chuck Guité, who ran the sponsorship program until 1999. Prime Minister Paul Martin, however, escapes the report relatively unscathed.

If my propensity to procrastination leads me to academically crash and burn this year, at least I can say I left Queen’s knowing how to dance. When I first set foot on campus soil over two years ago, I couldn’t dance to save my life. It was only natural, then, that attending the first-year orientation dance gripped me with a fear matched only by presenting my parents with a substandard report card in middle school.

Paramount recently removed billboard advertisements promoting 50 Cent’s upcoming film, Get Rich or Die Tryin’, in select Los Angeles neighbourhoods amidst community protests. One advertisement shows the artist posing in a crucifixion-like pose with a gun in one hand and a microphone in the other. Another shows 50 Cent with a gun tucked into his pants, carrying a child. When the billboards appeared in neighbourhoods in South Central Los Angeles, activists faulted the studio for its insensitivity.

I’ve done a lot of dumb things in the name of sport. Two nights ago, I added mild hypothermia to the list.
I ran a hard track workout with the Queen’s ski team and didn’t bother changing into dry clothes for the chilly walk home. I walked in the door, threw off my tights and long underwear and hopped into a hot shower. It must have triggered some weird biochemical response, because as soon as I left the shower, I started shivering so uncontrollably that within minutes I was huddled in bed in a sweatshirt and three blankets.

Rising female tennis player Sania Mirza is the subject of a growing controversy. The 18-year-old, a self-described devout Muslim, has been criticized by some Muslim clerics for her attire on the court. Her polo shirt and tennis skirt are a common and comparatively modest combination in the sport. However, the clerics argue that Mirza is going against the principles of Islam by wearing clothing that fails to cover large areas of her body.

As we drove through the early morning mist, I gazed out past the front seat through golden farm fields and fiery treetops lit up by the sun. I was heading to Toronto on a road trip, and although most of my fellow Queen’s students in the car felt at home when we got there, the passing countryside is more familiar for me. The car ride reminded me of the day my class voted that having multiple new vehicles in the driveway was—shrug—fairly normal, and half of them admitted they cruised around in their own leased little numbers.

The Kingston Police recently sent a letter requesting the University pay $84,000 for the expenses they incurred in order to police the Ghetto during Homecoming. In a second letter, the police suggested that the University have automatic punishment in place for students who violate the Criminal code.
They have also anticipated new strategies for next year, which may include helmets, Tasers and tear gas.

It’s time to come clean about my rehabilitation from an embarrassing addiction to weekly celebrity gossip magazines. I know it will generate a lot of eye rolling and groans, but recent events have caused me to evaluate my problem. I started reading my mother’s copies of Vogue when I was about 14.

The celebrated return of the NHL has been a bittersweet occasion for diehard fans. After an entire season without hockey, spectators are soaking up every minute of play they possibly can. The game, however, has not returned from its hiatus quite the same. The new rules arguably have not resulted in a positive change in the sport.

As of yesterday, at 11:40 a.m., I am officially 21 years old. As I was getting ready for this birthday I realized that it means nothing to me. What does it mean to be 21? I’m now allowed to drink in the U.S., but what else is there when you’re 21? I feel like I’ve passed all the exciting birthdays: 16 when—after years of dreaming—driving is within your reach, 18 when you legally become an adult and 19 when alcohol is something you are allowed to have in public instead of something secret.

Just because it’s called the Ghetto does not mean the housing area around campus has to live up to its name. Students, like other Kingston residents, should be able to expect living conditions that meet municipal standards. At the same time, students are ultimately responsible for making sure their houses are meeting minimum requirements by being proactive in seeking out solutions. Hopefully, SPAT will help students begin to deal with housing problems.