Every now and again, I'm reminded of what a slothful race we really are.

My friend Ted recently informed me that if his current four-years-and-going-strong relationship ever ended and he was in the "relationship market" again, he would employ an Internet dating service. According to Ted, the service handles most of the "dirty work" involved in finding and assessing a suitable dating partner and boasts a pretty impressive success rate. In short--it's quick, efficient and minimizes the possibility of rejection.

Take your pick, ladies: Prozac or Viagra?

The Ottawa Citizen recently published the findings of a study by a team of psychologists at the State University of New York. The study triumphantly declared women directly exposed to semen are significantly less depressed than those who are not.

Call me crazy, but I think the University of Calgary owes something to its students.

It was convocation week 2001 and my turn to toddle around the Jack Simpson in a billowing black robe and mortarboard designed to convey immense dignity, even over my outlandish orange-burgundy-gold geometrically patterned dress.

I convocated with most of the people I'd battled through four years of full-contact academia with--the study pals, the coffee chums, the beer buddies. I was with most of them, but not all.

I've got a new crusade.

It started with a consideration of why people don't want to say they're feminists. I'm staggered by the number of people you talk to who'll stutter and fumble and shuffle their feet as they explain that, yes, they believe in (insert textbook definition of feminist beliefs here) but nooooo, they're not a feminist.

I wish I had an air horn. A big, shiny air horn that had a selection of noises ranging from the traditional "WAAAAAAAH!" to the old-school model-T Ford "ah-OOOOOOOOOOO-ga!"

Put your ear close to the ground and you may hear the sound of student dollars being misspent in the name of student apathy.

Last week, members of the Students' Legislative Council passed a motion--unanimously--to pay each of the newly elected executives up to $500 as "remuneration" for time dedicated to training in their respective positions.

I'm prefacing this week's Headspin with a disclaimer. I don't want to undermine self-defence courses. I believe the philosophy is sound and I admire the positive intentions. With that said, I'm disturbed by the number of women coming out of self-defence courses in greater danger than they went in.

I'm a well-educated, enlightened sort of person, but there are things in my world that I don't quite understand. The space-time continuum is one. Mullets are another. The intricacies of wine tasting and how Dance Dance Revolution ever became an accepted part of arcade culture, to name a couple more. And now I can add Western Alienation to my list.

Last week, I received an e-mail from my good friend Ted in Ontario, who informed me--as casually as if he were discussing a falafel--that over the course of his reading week, he would do the unthinkable and undergo plastic surgery.

The classic Broadway musical Annie Get Your Gun includes a cute but childish exchange between a cowgirl and a cowboy who refuse to acknowledge the skill of the other in the fine art of gunslinging. The title of the piece is "Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better" and perfectly sums up years of sibling and playground rivalries.