This always happens when I go home...

The blog is returning. Stay tuned...

Squirrel Death Poll

OK, so I was thinking about this.

Let's say you drag a large trash can out to your backyard and fill it halfway with water. You take a foot-long length of wood and you smear large gobs of peanut butter all over it on all sides. You place the trash can under some low-lying limbs, and you toss the wood into the can so it's floating on the surface of the water.

Eventually a squirrel will pick up the scent of the peanut butter, climb a bit up the tree and onto a branch, and see the food source. He'll leap from the tree and straight into the trash can. According to "www.squirrels.org," "swimming is very strenuous for a squirrel, and it's not done unless absolutely necessary." So, presumably, after some time, the squirrel would drown.

The question is:

How many squirrels can we expect to find in the trash can if we come back a week later (assuming an infinite supply of exploratory suckers)? The answer has to be somewhere between one squirrel and a nearly-full trashcan of squirrels. Will the second squirrel see the dead first squirrel and decide not to jump? Will the second squirrel even be able to see the first squirrel, or will the first squirrel be at the bottom of the trash can rather than floating? Fuck it, do dead squirrels float or sink? This is for you to find out and report back to me.

BONUS: Assuming the trash can is approximately three feet in diameter and four feet tall, and roughly the shape of a perfect cylinder, calculate the maximum number of squirrels that can drown. Don't forget, one the squirrels reach a certain height, they will be able to keep above water by standing on the dead squirrels under the water level. I know what you're thinking: what is the volume of a squirrel? How am I supposed to know? Go grab an Encyclopedia Brittanica and a TI-83 and get cracking!

DOUBLE BONUS FOLLOW-UP: What is the most efficient arrangement of squirrel bodies necessary for achieving the maximum number of drowned squirrels? Or, to elucidate: suppose you were sending your Aunt Mildred who smells like dust a large cylinder filled with squirrels. What would be the best way for you to pack them? To earn this double bonus followup, you must create a photorealistic and anatomically correct sketch of your dead squirrels in your proposed arrangement, scan your sketch, and post a link to it in my "Comments" section. Please note that blending or any other form of altering the normal and intact squirrel shape are not eligible options.


***How to submit your answer: Click on the button below that says "(#) comments." Then at the bottom of the page, click "Post A Comment." Then sign your answer in the big box on the right side of the page and follow the instructions there.***

EDIT: OK, so there are some extra assumptions you can make:
-Once a squirrel jumps in, he can't balance on the wood and he will fall into the water.
-The trash can is made of metal and there's no way for a squirrel to climb out once he's fallen in.
-The peanut butter never wears off or gets eaten by bugs, and the block of wood will always float. The board isn't wide or long enough for a squirrel to balance on it.

Retrospective

So, I was talking with Patrice (one of the News editors) about our respective high school blogs, and how painful it is to dig them up. She inspired me to read back through my entire high school blog, which is still floating around cyberspace.

I’ve decided to take the high school blog offline. It’ll save it on my computer, but it will no longer be public. Truly, some of the attitudes I had in high school were just awful, and they come blaring through in that old blog. It’s pretty disgraceful. The worst bits were my twisted views on college admissions. My political beliefs, personal convictions, and my writing style have all changed dramatically since my arrival at Hopkins nearly two years ago. The old blog doesn’t reflect who I am today. This blog does.

However, I think the old blog did have a few high moments, as well as some low moments that are worth keeping online. And so, I present to you:

RETROSPECTIVE: A chronological blogarrific journey through my senior year of high school.

Excerpts are in quotes, full posts are left without quotes.


======================================

September 17, 2002

Welcome to my gnu blog. Yay!

======================================

October 9, 2002

“…let’s just say that it was dark and we were in love and there was nobody around and we had half an hour and yeah.”

======================================

October 15, 2002

Alix and I had a long debate about abortion which devolved into an argument. She's Catholic and is against abortion, and I'm pro-choice. I guess I just felt like she kept bringing so many facts and evidence into the discussion that I finally couldn't help but ask if she could tell me where she was getting all this evidence. She couldn't tell me, and it's not like I thought that she was making anything up, but thanks to TOK (and my skeptical outlook on a lot of things), I felt the need to see the sources. It would be so much better if she and I both could show the other some sort of evidence supporting our respective sides, rather than just flinging "facts" here and there. Without evidence, it becomes her vs me, which becomes personal, which becomes an argument and not a debate. Well, that's what it became. And now she's still mad at me.

I just don't want to ever talk about that subject with her again. It always causes her to be mad. It's like trench warfare...we just fling stuff at each other until we get tired, and then maybe one or the other has gained a mile or two...but the human cost is not worth the territorial gain. Alix, if you're reading this, I just don't want you to be mad at me for my personal beliefs. I love you.

======================================

[This is one of my favorite posts. Joe Levy is a high school friend of my older brother David.]

October 17, 2002

Words cannot describe the magnitude of the historical discovery that I have just made. The permutations for mankind are immense; entire cultures will be destroyed and new ones brought forth from their ashes. I did not discover Abe Lincoln's Last Toothbrush. And no, I did not unearth Elvis Presley's Favorite Pair of Sunglasses. What I found has far greater implications for our past, our present and our future...

Yes, that's right. I found Joe Levy's Tighty Whities.

Mind you, I did not realize when I ventured to the underwear drawer of my brother Noah (age 11) that I was on the verge of an archaeological discovery that would rock the modern view of Utopian-Fruit-of-the-Loomism. I was helping Noah to pack for our sailing trip this weekend, pulling out all the articles that he would need. Down at the bottom of the underwear drawer, shoved into the darkest recesses and forgotten by Time herself, rested the glorious piece of stitched cotton that once bedecked the brilliant bottom of The Man himself.

Captain of the petanque team.

Son of our French teacher.

Flaunter of all moral codes involving facial hair and male ponytails.

Ah yes, and when my gleaming eyes fell upon the inscription upon the elastic band, so lovingly adorned in black permanent ink—“J. Levy”—my heart soared with joy. Never mind the fact that the artifact’s presence in my brother’s drawer could not be explained by the laws of physics. Twin yellow and blue stripes roll on along the waistband, and the faded tag still proclaims: “Size 16. Machine wash warm. Tumble dry medium. Assembled in Honduras.”

======================================

November 13, 2002

“I dreamt.

“I was playing a piano in the middle of some sort of futuristic city square. It was a big grand piano that was just sitting there, so I just sat down and played it while the people walked by. Margo Litvak came up to me and stopped me from playing to say that my mouth looked funny/ugly. This sent me on a quest to find a mirror. Somehow, through a complicated series of events, I wound up attending a dinner party at Mr. Frezzo's abode in the city. It was an Italian-style apartment with some sort of mud-brick walls. I remember helping a small child from a private school push his chair into the table. I also remember going to the bathroom in a locker-room which had the same mud-brick walls. As part of the same dream, I was involved in a party with a bunch of IB people. Alix threw me a muddy football. I ran out into my backyard and threw it back at Yoni, who had just kicked Nick Salvatore in the face with the heel of his shoe. Nick had gone around the side of the house, apparently in a great amount of pain. I couldn't catch the football when it came back. I picked it up and kept throwing it back to Yoni, who was positioned dangerously close to the glass doors on the back of my house.

“My dad woke me up. He said, ‘Come on, Josh! It's 6:30, you've got to get up.’ Seeing the clock and knowing that my bus leaves the library at 6:35, I stumbled over to the closet and mumbled something about missing the bus. My dad laughed at me and said, ‘No, Josh...it's 6:30 in the evening. You've been asleep since you got home from school and went up to your room.’”

======================================

December 29, 2002

“Dad says that my essays suck ass. At least that's what he means.”

======================================

January 21, 2003

Q: What happens when there are four guys and one girl in a chatroom at 10:15 on a Tuesday night?

A: This...

P1Dawg: so what we talking about?
Nick 42160: masturbation, cause josh is here
josh9600: so....vaseline or k-y
josh9600: what's it tonight, boys?
Mcdaddy404: dudes i just watched a 50 minute porn vid from first minute to payload, it was grueling
#########################################
(10:15:45 PM) Ruchita03 has left the room.
#########################################
josh9600: lol
Nick 42160: hahahaha
P1Dawg: hahaha
josh9600: haha
Mcdaddy404: lol
Nick 42160: that was brilliant
P1Dawg: yep
Mcdaddy404: teamwork
josh9600: heh..."payload"
P1Dawg: high five
Mcdaddy404: high five
josh9600: sweet.

======================================

February 13, 2003

After four months of persistent effort against an administration that, it seemed, would not budge...”The Challenger” has been approved for distribution. No teacher or administrator may review it before it is produced, no person may censor it or prevent its distribution to each student. We can print just about anything we want.
Three cheers for the freedom of speech!

[Indeed, the paper was aptly named…it barely got off the ground, then it disintegrated.]

======================================

April 27, 2003

Johns Hopkins '07 ! I'm filling out the deposit form now.

======================================

May 5, 2003

Shit, what am I going to do with my life?

======================================





Well, there you have it...my transition from the idealism of youth through the tough-love reality check of going to college. Hope you enjoyed.

Scoot to the beat

What's up, my homies? Here's a much needed update.

Don't you love how I preface about half my posts with lame introductions like "Man, I haven't posted in a while" or "Here's a much needed update," etc.? Maybe I should stop bitching and just post more. Oh well.

So I'm finally getting better after a long bout of sickness. I missed a week of school with a pretty bad cough. Yes, it's lame to miss a week of school with a cough. But this was a gut-twisting, back-muscle-pulling, uncontrollably loud cough. With a lot of phlegm. And you wanted to know all of that.

Actually, it's funny: Shivank had exactly the same cough. We called it "The Plague." And observant friends made a lot of make-out jokes. COINCIDENCE, people.

In bathroom news, this morning I woke up and headed for the bathroom for the morning rituals, only to find the front of the apartment submerged in half an inch of water. Some evil force had compelled the toilet to run all night and turn our otherwise dry and boring foyer into a magical water wonderland (lucky for us, the water was clean). I called maintenance and within five minutes a custodial employee was at the door with a wetvac. In rapid-fire Chinglish she tried to explain what I should do. She left us with one of those cool floor blowers that you see in Maryland House restrooms. We've been running it for hours, to little avail. We also laid down dozens of newspaper sheets to soak up the liquid. It's been one of those shitty little adventures where instead of going up the mountain to find the mystical sceptre that gives you powers of invisibility and mind control, you mop up toilet water with a stolen stack of Wall Street Journals.

So...moving on. We had our AllNighters concert a couple weekends ago. That was a good time; the afterparty at Nathan's was bangin. Then last weekend we went to Roanoke for a big a cappella carnival. All the groups were really good...we were especially blown away by the all-female groups. Ow ow. Unfortunately, there was no afterparty. These folks gotta realize, we don't drive five hours just to sing. We gotta get our CRUNK on. Jeez.

Update on my extracurricular craziness...

I GOT KICKED OUT OF BLUE KEY. What the hell. I'd like to think I give the best damned tours this side of Bloomberg Hall, and those people can't handle it when I miss three tours (excused) because I have an upper respiratory tract infection. "Three missed tours, out of Blue Key, that's the rule," they say. LAME. I'll be back. Mark me words. Yeah, hopefully they'll let me back in next semester. I mean, if somebody's sick it's not their fault!

In better news, I'm gonna be Business Manager for AllNightaz next year. It was basically handed down, and nobody else was running, so we aren't exactly talking about the challenge of the century here. I'm pumped. I'll be in charge of booking road shows, finding paid gigs, and having the new Promotional Manager (Octopussy) be my eternal bitch. But the most important part of the job is flirting with the business managers of the all-female groups we visit. Such is the difficult life of being an AllNighter, forever in search of female pants access...

In even better news, I'm gonna be Opinions Editor of the News-Letter next year. Today we had FIVE (5) hours of elections in the Glass Pav. It was a bitch and a half, but I'm glad I got to know more of the editors (new and old). I was up against three other kiddies and apparently it was a very tight race. One thing that was somewhat odd about running for Opinions was that all my opponents are Opinions writers who I'll be working with next year. Fortunately, I got to know them all a bit better and I realized just how sharp these kids are. I was particularly impressed with Patrick Kennedy (didn't run for Opinions, but writes a column for the section). This kid is smart and a half. He has TWO Opinions columns, writes for News, does reviews of movies and music for Arts...the list goes on. He ran for Arts Co-Editor, and his ideas for the section are awesome. Super-articulate. I'm pumped to have such a powerhouse in my arsenal of writers.

Haha, listen to the language I'm using. I am already drunk on News-Letter power. Not really :) But I'm definitely excited.

Alright, that'll do it for now. Today you learned about my phlegm, my overflowing toilet, and other exciting and interesting facts. You'll never get back the last five minutes of your life.

Werd.

Blah blah blah. That's how I've felt for the past week. Tuesday of last week started nicely with a cold sweat, followed by vomiting. That continued through Wednesday, then Thursday was just drowsiness and a visit to Health and Wellness. Friday through Sunday were fine, but Monday brought a cough and, strangely enough, eye pain. It still hurts for me to move my eyes. It feels as though I've pulled the muscles that control eye movement. Not a good thing. Unfortunately I missed two midterms, but luckily both professors are being understanding and have scheduled make-up exams for next week.

And you care this much----> .

:) But I forgive you.

In other news, I got a "totally sweet" call today from the Council on Foreign Relations. They told me to come up to Manhattan next week for a personal interview for a summer internship in their Publications dept.

Unfortunately, the internship doesn't pay. They just offer a "modest stipend" upon completion. That's a big problem, because living in New York for ten weeks cost me $2600 on rent alone last summer.

So I'm mulling over the cost-benefit analysis here. Does (work experience at CFR) + (value of having "CFR" on my resume) + (gratification of helping CFR) + (meeting important CFR people) outweigh (being broke)?

Undoubtedly, working for CFR would be awesome, since they publish Foreign Affairs and are the general pimps of the IR world. But we'll have to see.

I mailed in my Monterey Institute app earlier today. Working there would be beautiful. California for the summer...ah...

And of course, the AllNighters concert fast approaches. We're hosting the Villanova Haveners, an all-girls' group...plus Shodekeh, a professional beatboxer. Will be an awesome time.

Alright, I'm out. Peace in the Middle East.

-Scoots

Spring Break

...finally.

I'm relaxing at home for the week. I was considering going to London for the break, but it would've been too expensive (plus I'm going to England to visit David at the end of the school year). Neil and Nik are over there now, hopefully having a great time. As for me, I'm taking this time to catch up on all my class readings (particularly, Global Security and India/Pakistan Conflict). The week we return to class will hold two exams for me...and will also be Hell Week for AllNighters (rehearsal every day from 6-12 pm). In other words, if I don't enter next week at least a mile ahead of my studying, I'll be a dead man.

Speaking of the AllNighters, lately I've been pretty intensely involved with extracurrics:

Thankfully, Clark's been awesome about letting me start taking some of the business-management reins for the AllNighters. I've been scheduling many of this semester's gigs, keeping up the website, and making big plans for next year. This has made Scooter happy and busy.

At the same time, I've really stepped it up with the News-Letter. I've decided to run for Opinions Editor, having weighed the many pros (cash, money, hoes, deciding what opinions get read by 5,000-odd people at Hopkins) and the cons (having no life). Considering what a great experience David had at the Daily Princetonian, I think I'd really enjoy the job. I've been stopping in the Gatehouse (the awesome minature castle, built in the 1800s, that houses the newspaper offices) each Wednesday night when the paper is being put to press. Francesca, the current editor (who is, as Napoleon would say, "totally sweet!"), has been showing me the ropes. It all seems manageable.

New on the horizon: Blue Key. I've joined the tour society...training completed last week. Now I know a lot of useless information about JHU, if you ever need any. For instance, did you know that in 1928 and 1932 (when lacrosse was an Olympic sport), the US decided not to field a team from across the country...instead they just sent the JHU men's lacrosse team? As a result, the university now owns two gold medals. Also...Johns Hopkins was a Quaker. When the Society of Friends called on all Quakers to free their slaves, Johns was forced to give up his education and help out in the fields. He eventually found a new job in his uncle's general store. While he was there, he met and fell in love with his uncle's daughter, Elizabeth. Johns proposed, and Elizabeth accepted, but the Quaker faith prohibited cousins from marrying. The lovers swore to one another that they would never marry anyone if they could not marry each other...and they each obeyed that oath until their dying days! Having no heirs, Hopkins donated the vast majority of his wealth to founding the Hospital and University. His $7 million bequest was the largest in US history. Gooooo incest!

I also just applied to be an admissions representative...basically, an interviewer for admissions. We'll see how that goes. It'd be a lot of fun. Interviews for that position are coming up next week.

Finally, I'm applying for mad internships for the summer. Today I faxed in my papers for the Council on Foreign Relations (the big kahuna) as well as the Department of Defense (Industrial Policy). We'll see how it goes. My dream job is with the Monterey Institute in California...solid research position for non-proliferation studies, no busywork, and it's paid. And did I mention that it's in California? Word. That one's not due til March 31st so I'm gonna hone it like a mofo.

Alright, time for bed. I'm out this bizzle.

-Scoots

.....oy

Letter to D.F.

We are chopping down the swingset.
Bare chains hanging from the warped beams
Whipped lazily as the axe first struck the base.
It was a warm, spring afternoon,
When my muddy sneakers squelched across the lawn
I wrapped my little hands around these chains
And, pedaling backwards, launched into flight,
Legs pumping under and out, under and out.
My back whispered into the leaves at apogee;
My browned toes sent swishes of leaves flying forward
As I tucked my legs under
And, coming forward, my legs swinging out,
I strained and leaned back to try to kick
That one overhanging branch that stretched overhead.
You know the one.
That limb came down in last winter’s storm.
And then I tried my special dismount,
The one I showed you that one time
Where I slide out of the seat as I swing out
And I slap my butt with both hands in mid-air
And land with my feet together, arms thrust skyward
An Olympic Y of perfection
(“He sticks the landing!”)
One warm spring afternoon I tried it again
But I landed at a funny angle this time, maybe.
Or were my knees locked?
It felt like being electrocuted.
The axe thuds heavily.
Earlier we split each rung, all sixty-three of them
(I kept count) with the sledgehammer.
We’ll use them for firewood, Dad says.
The last supporting strut is crackling open.
Mom comes out to snap one last picture
Before we push the whole thing over.
We count to three, and push against the wobbling ruin.
I strain and my work boots slide backwards in the mud.
It resists, pushing back, shouting No!
Wait, wait, she says. The camera’s not turning on.
The battery is out.
We stand and watch her disappear.
The play set skews ridiculously, suspended at an impossible angle.
Smile for the camera, no, no, wait everybody look sad,
That’s good. C’mon, everybody look sad.
Take two, and the whole thing just flattens.

The poem is addressed to a kid I grew up with in Potomac. When we hit middle school, he sorta turned on me and we were never friends again. I remember clearly that it was March 1996 when it ended, because it coincided with my appendectomy. The operation had nothing to do with our split, but I'll always associate the two because they aligned so perfectly. When I returned to school after my two days' absence, he was no longer talking to me. Reason unknown. We spent many years playing together in my backyard, and when I think of the end of my childhood (or at least, the end of the first stage of my childhood), the day we took down the jungle gym comes to mind as a definitive break point. My family didn't destroy the swing set until a couple years ago, but when writing about that day, I thought it appropriate to address the poem/letter to D., as though he should know. For a time my backyard and that jungle gym was partly his, after all.

It was a sublimely masculine moment...striking down the emblem of boyhood, chopping and gathering wood for a fire, crackling the wood apart, destroying structure, delighting in its destruction.

It amazes me how particular objects are more meaningful than the sum of the meanings of the experiences we had with those objects. Of course, I fondly remember the hours I spent swinging and climbing on that jungle gym. But the impact of tearing it down was greater than the force of those memories taken together. Demolition not only negated the possibility that I might once more look out at the backyard and reminisce, or even take a few swings again; demolition demarcated the end of a stage of my life where those particular experiences were possible and appropriate. Taking down the swing set wasn't the cause of this change...it was an indicator of this change. After all, that's the reason we tore it apart in the first place: we were no longer going to use it.

Question for you: have you ever had a similar experience in which the destruction or removal of a particular object affected you greatly?

Random stuff

...last entry got deleted...oh well...I'm still learning the ins and outs of Blogger.

Right now I'm procrastinating overnight (as I'm wont to do) on some French work due at 11 am. I often stay up late into the night waiting to do the work, and then I finally decide to go to sleep at around 4 am, setting my alarm to leave me enough time to wake up and do it.

This is going to stop, soon.

I'm planning to get my sleep schedule back in line by going to the gym in the morning. How badass would that be? Wake up real early, pump iron for an hour, shower, dress, hit class. Sounds a lot more appealing than what I'm doing now.

For Tuesday, I'll be writing an editorial about the DailyJolt and their new anti-idiocy forum policy. Check it out in Thursday's News-Letter.

Also, I'm going to start getting some poetry up here. Get the juices flowing, etc.

Valentine's Day was interesting. Went to the Ambassador with Sarah. Mad good Indian food. It was good to get out on a date. Nothing serious is happening for now in the femme dept, but we'll see what happens. I can't really get too frank, as (thanks to the facebook) everybody and their mother has access to this site.

But one thing I've observed, that annoys me, is how attractive a girl gets when you know your friend's going for her. I don't know what it is. Dammit. But yeah. Oh well. Bros before hoes, always.

Also, I've gotta start dating again. I've been sitting on my ass on this. No good. Was thinking about Alix a bit, how great she was . . . how long's it been, 18 months since we broke up? It doesn't feel like that long ago. But maybe that's because I always make a move on her when I go home, heh. Bad Scooter.

I'd be more coherent and insightful if it weren't 4:30 in the morning.

So time to pass the f out.

But first...going to post a poem...which, if I haven't passed out on my keyboard, you'll find above.

Update....

...coming soon.

The short version:
-Singing
-Fellow student murdered
-Room=mess
-Class starts Monday
-etc etc etc

Intersession

Sunday through Tuesday equalled three days of unabashed debauchery.

Fucking...sweet...

Build a Lethal Vegetable Gun in Your Very Own Backyard!

Ever since the first caveman pushed a boulder off a cliff and watched with delight as it crashed hundreds of feet below, Man (gender-specific) has found pleasure in throwing, breaking, exploding, and otherwise destroying stuff.

Christmas vacation can be boring. Luckily, my comrade David "Puffy" Benjamin is in town. Puffy is the resident physics guru--much like Stephen Hawking, except calculatingly evil. Several of our Thanksgiving/Winter/Spring breaks have been spent constructing various weapons out of items commonly found in your local hardware store.

I can't recall what first possessed us to build a gun that would launch an uncooked potato at lethal speed. It probably had to do with the fact that we're dudes.

Anyway, last year, we made one. It was a combustion-based design made of PVC piping. Essentially, the front of the cannon was a three-foot barrel made of 2-inch pipe. Behind the barrel, a wider piece of PVC piping composed the combustion chamber. The end of the cannon was an end-cap that could be screwed on or off the combustion chamber. We installed a barbeque sparker in the end-cap.

To fire the gun, we stuffed a potato down the barrel until the spud was at the entrance of the combustion chamber. Next, we sprayed AquaNet, a flammable hairspray, into the open combustion chamber. We screwed on the end-cap, thus sealing the cannon. When we clicked the sparker button, the hairspray ignited. The expanded gas forced the potato out of the barrel at approximately 300 feet per second with a heart-shaking report. It looked like a gun. It sounded like a gun. It kicked back like a gun. Hell, it *was* a gun.

When we initially went to Strosnider's Hardware in Potomac to pick up the supplies for that first launcher (with Hank and others), we nervously approached an employee to ask where the PVC piping could be found. He was a hard-bitten man, the kind of guy you expected to see on a combine or in a cigarette billboard rather than in a suburban hardware store. He showed us to the piping aisle. We were silently praying the old man wouldn't realize our intentions and report us to the police, or worse, our parents. While we all stood around trying to look innocent, Puffy examined the piping options, mentally calculating what diameter barrel and combustion chamber would give us the greatest power. Puffy settled on two pipes: a piece of 3-inch Schedule-40 PVC for the chamber and a longer 2-inch diameter segment for the barrel.

"You're gonna want a 4-inch pipe for the combustion chamber if you're building a potato gun," Marlboro Man chimed in. "You'll hardly get any power out of a 3-incher."

As it turned out, the guys who work in hardware stores--being guys--also like to build potato guns. Having found us out, the old man regaled us with tales of firing a potato gun off the bow of his fishing boat in the middle of the Chesapeake, building launchers in his backyard, and other forms of masculine mayhem. He left us with a couple choice words of caution:

"You boys had best be damned careful. You point that thing at somebody, you'll blow a man's liver right out his back."

Wonderful. And as we found out (via the Internet), combustion guns are especially dangerous, as the explosion can cause the PVC piping to burst and kill you and your buddies. Of course, this warning didn't stop us from using the combustion gun on a test range. We just made sure to press the sparker button *really* gingerly and quickly duck away.

Soon we realized it would be safer to switch over to pneumatically-powered spud guns. This variety operates on compressed air (we used a bike pump). You pressurize the compression chamber, which is separated from the barrel by a valve. Once the spud's been stuffed down the barrel and the compression chamber has been pressurized to 100 PSI, you turn the valve handle. This gun is even more powerful than the combustion one, but minus the large muzzle flash. Puffy built a beautiful U-shaped one and we had a jolly time firing them at the test range (an open field in east Potomac). Among other experiments, we tried filling the barrel of the pneumatic gun with water, shooting a glorious 40-foot fountain of H2O. Also, we tested the range of the two guns--I can't remember which was more powerful, but I believe we managed to hurl those potatoes more than 250 yards. As a final test, we fired a potato at a tree trunk at point-blank range. The spud was instantly vaporized as it hit the tree with a loud "CRACK!" After the impact, we sat in bemused silence for about thirty seconds as the remnants of the potato softly fell back to earth with a rainy pitter-patter.

Anyway, today our goal was to create a potato rifle that could accurately hit a target at 50 yards. For this, we wanted a solenoid valve--a pressure-relief valve that can be engaged electronically. This way, we'd avoid shaking the cannon, a common problem with clunky manual valves. Unfortunately, we couldn't find the type of valve we needed at Home Depot, so we surrendered and decided to hold off till next break.

What's the point of launching a potato hundreds of yards, you might ask? Well...we get to satisfy that primordial masculine urge to destroy shit. It's damned fun.

-Scoots

Official First Poll

Today I bought a purple velvet blazer. Why did I do this? The answer is two-fold: I am Jewish, and it was on sale (70% off, oy!). So, with this extremely cheap vetement hanging in my closet now, I am wondering whether I should ever, EVER wear the damned thing.

And so I turn to you, dear reader. Please choose one or any combination of the following:

OPTION #A: Dude, a purple velvet blazer? That's gotta be the most homosexual garment ever created.
OPTION #B: Dude, a purple velvet blazer? That's fucking awesome! When can I borrow it?
OPTION #C: Scooter, only you could pull it off. That's why I love you and am giving you this large sack of money.
OPTION #D: Please, for the love of God, give it to a hobo.

Thus far, the response from the family has been:
Mom: Option #D
All three brothers: Option #A
Dad: Option #C, minus large sack of money

Vote!

Post-Christmas notes from a Jewish boy

Hope everyone had/is having a Merry Christmas!

Personally, I spent the day at home with Noah while the family headed down to VA to meet up with longtime friends. Noah's been pretty sick for the past week so we figured it wouldn't be a great idea to pack him in a car with five other people.

Being at home (nearly) alone after time spent in college is a nice experience. At college, I've learned to be self-sufficient, structure my time, etc., but all within the confines of my apartment. Here, the dimensions of my living space have been dramatically expanded, and everything is nicer.

In case I'm not making sense, allow me to illustrate: At school, I read in my bed with my back against a bare wall. Here, I'm reading in front of a large fire, wearing a bathrobe, listening to Joao Gilberto, and sipping bourbon.

In short, life is good.

Fire

If anything brings out the neurosis of group behavior, it's fire alarms.

Last night, I went to see "Ocean's 12" (a somewhat-hard-to-follow heist film) with Ben, Andrew, Sarah, Ruchita, and Alix. About halfway through the movie, the projector suddenly cut off and a pre-recorded voice came over the PA: "A fire has been reported in the building. While we assess the situation, please walk calmly to the nearest exit." This message was accompanied by various whoops, bleeps, and bloops, all quite loud.

Most of the people in the theater stood up and began to move to the marked exits, but many people remained seated. Even those who were moving towards the exits were laughing and walking quite slowly. This particular theater, Regal Cinemas in Rockville, is entirely underground. A big fire on the ground level would render escape impossible. Mmm, crispy.

We emerged from the theater and massed with the rest of the crowd on other side of the street from the theater entrance. Already, a fire truck was outside. We all watched as two firemen calmly walked into the building, with only half their gear. Moments later, they ran back outside, threw on oxygen tanks/masks, and grabbed their fire axes.

Soon, a clump of theatergoers were crowding around the Regal manager, who was handing out refund stubs on the sidewalk. A middle-aged woman was complaining that there had been a fire at the last movie she'd been to. One young man in a t-shirt was angrily shouting at the manager, asking why he couldn't re-enter the building to get his jacket!

By this point, the theater was empty. However, many of the people who had just escaped the theater were entering the restaurant and ice cream shop on the street level of the same building.

That's not to say I didn't participate in the madness. After a few minutes, I was hungry, so I went with Alix into Tara Asia (the aforementioned restaurant...mind you, we got take-out and stood near the exit). While the klaxons continued to blare, people just sat at their dinner tables as though nothing were the matter. Conversation was nearly impossible, and if the insistent screams of the alarm were any indictation, death was imminient.

Admittedly, at Hopkins I don't always observe fire warnings...during a recent false alarm at Homewood, Shivank and I stayed in our rooms until the all-clear was announced. We decided to grab a sandwich at Eddie's and wound up walking downstairs while everyone else filed back to their rooms. I admit, the looks of disdain we got from people walking up the stairs made us feel somewhat badass walking down.

A 1997 survey by the National Fire Protection Association revealed that interviewees drastically overestimated the amount of time between when a smoke alarm goes off and when they can safely be out of the building (in the event of an actual emergency). The average estimate was seven and a half minutes; more than a third of respondants guessed ten minutes or more. In reality, the safety margin is two and a half minutes. And I'm a dork for looking that up.

So why do we ignore fire alarms, or treat them lightly? Well, for one thing, they're false 90% of the time. For another, as the NFPA survey shows, even when we think there's a fire we overestimate our safety margin. And of course, there's the badassity of non-chalance.

.....

But really, the most interesting moment of the Regal incident (which wound up being a small roof fire that was immediately extinguished) was seeing the Tara Asia diners calmly continuing their meals over the wail of the sirens. In that restaurant, people had clearly isolated and selectively ignored their sense of hearing. It reminded me of a restaurant in Paris that I read about, "Dans le Noir" ("In the Dark"):

"Diners sit in a room of inky blackness that the eyes never adjust to. And that's the idea. 'It awakens your other senses,' says the restaurant's owner Edouard de Broglie, who is not blind. 'It alters your perspective, your relations with others. It shows what happens when you can't see.'

"Fingertips seek out familiarity, patting the table for a fork, a plate, a hand to hold. The nose perks up to every passing plate. Under cover of darkness, texture and shape take on new importance. One realizes the role sight plays in the joy of eating."

Remarkable about both situations--Dans le Noir with its complete darkness and Tara Asia with its blaring fire alarm--is how easily we adapt when we've been deprived of one of our senses. In Tara Asia, I saw that diners had changed how they interacted with one another, moving to a gesture-based form of communication. Granted, it seemed crude: at most, pointing toward a particular dish or wine glass and giving a thumbs-up of approval, etc.

Similarly, accounts from the article about Dans le Noir revealed adapted behavior...in this case, the process of getting food from plate to mouth: "Eating is a challenge. A fork scooped across the plate often comes up empty. [They advise] fighting the temptation to eat with your hands -- something a blind person tries to avoid in public. But, lowering the head to the plate seems just fine. Nobody can see."

Undoubtedly, this adaptability is the reason our species has survived the ages. Good old evolution. But...as the highest form of life, you'd think we'd have the sense to avoid burning buildings.

Alas.

-Scoots

Yellow Fever

So, here I am again. After an inconspicuous two-year absence from blogging, the Scooter has returned.

Last weekend, the AllNighters took a trip up to Hahvahhd to sing with an all-female group, the Pitches. The logistics of moving 16 ADD-riddled college guys from Baltimore to Boston were daunting, but our highly capable treasurer (Joe Kim) worked everything out without a hitch. The actual concert was disappointingly intimate; only 25 people showed. The other guest group was a professional jazz ensemble from Australia; they blew us out of the water musically but we owned them on badassity.

One thing I noticed about Harvard that I've been missing at Hopkins: the brisk winter air of Harvard Square is infused with intellectual curiosity and engagement. Students, professors, and townspeople walk about in tweed and corduroy, and every snippet of conversation your ear picks up is freighted with insight. You just don’t get that feeling walking around Charles Village. We need a few good independent bookshops and more tweed.

Around four o’clock on the day of the concert, I noticed a flyer advertising a discussion on the “Asian Fetish.” Now, I admit that what caught my eye was a picture of a rather attractive and scantily-clad Asian model in a position of inviting repose. However, I’ve always been one to follow my instincts—and I had a couple hours to kill—so I made my way to the common room in the basement of Adams House. I also put in a call to Alistair (also notoriously appreciative of la femme asiatique), who met me at the forum.

About eight Harvard students (plus Alistair and I) gathered in the dark-paneled room. Although I didn’t know quite what to expect, the discussion soon proved engaging. Essentially, our aim was to determine:
-What is the “Asian fetish?”
-Why does it exist?
-What distinguishes a fetish from mere preference?
-Is the Asian fetish inherently racist?
The Asian fetish, we decided, is the tendency of some white males to be attracted almost entirely to Asian females. With a fetish, as opposed to a preference, this attraction is rooted in the pre-conceived power relationship between the dominant white male and the subservient Asian female. I don’t mean to imply that men with Asian fetishes are racist or sexist; rather, that on some subconscious level, dominance is a factor.

We also tried to figure out why white men in particular are often so attracted to Asian women. I put forth a theory of the “second best,” based on familial and societal expectations. Suppose that a white male is attracted by the exotic, by what is different from his own. Suppose also that he is influenced by preconceived notions (positive and negative) about females from a variety of races. It seems that the stereotypes associated with Asian females (quiet, intellectual, subservient) are also those that are most acceptable to white society. Thus, the white male finds himself tracking toward Asians as the second-most familial and socially acceptable group of romantic partners. In other words, the “Asian fetish” may not be a reflection of the racism or sexism of the male, but rather an outgrowth of societal expectations.

Walking back toward the center of campus from Adams House, Alistair and I remarked how rare such discussions are at Hopkins. Here was a topic—the Asian fetish—that would surely spark the interest of scores of students at our school. But how many would tear themselves away from studying Orgo to show up at such a roundtable?

Later, I shared this thought with a handful AllNighters while we waited for the show to start. Their reaction: “But we’re at a research institution, not a liberal arts school.” But really, does being at a research-oriented school preclude intellectualism? I would imagine that students at a research school would be just as inclined to intellectualism as liberal arts students.

The only example of real intellectual engagement at Hopkins that I can remember has been the Thursday night Writing Seminars readings in dark-paneled (important!) Gilman 323. Outside of these readings of student poetry and fiction, I’ve been hard-pressed to find anything intellectually stimulating on campus. Writing opinions for the News-Letter has been somewhat engaging, but not in an interactive way.

I think this lack of intellectualism has influenced me in a bad way over the last semester. I’ve found myself backsliding into procrastination and Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas. Work seems less and less interesting when it isn’t being supplemented by intellectual interaction outside the classroom. Personally, I’d like to get rid of the television in our Homewood common room altogether, but I don’t think Jaan/Dave/Shivank could see it go so I don’t think that’s a possibility. Certainly, for next year I don’t want a TV or Playstation. More books, more guitar.

Maybe next semester I’ll start a discussion circle. Each week, we could have a new topic. The first one, perhaps: “The Asian Fetish: Fact or Fiction?” Who knows, maybe we could actually fill Gilman 323.

Anyway, I’m off to read by the fire…. “Reefer Madness,” a book about the American black market. I’ll tell you about it later.

As for comments: Please, do comment actively! I presume it'll take a while before many people are reading this page, as I haven't told anyone that it exists. But eventually I'd like to get a nice back-and-forth going.

-Scoots

Hello

Once again...