Brouhaha Rhythm
Depending on who you ask, reactions to the idea of talking during a movie tend to be mixed. Some people feel like it’s perfectly fine, others feel there should be a special level of hell for violators of the “Silence is Golden” theatre policies. Some people don’t mind so long as what’s being said is funny or subtle, and some people prefer watching movies at home for the exact reason that they’re at greater liberty to speak/eat loud snacks/go to the bathroom, among other things. Ask me sometime about my idea of splitting movie theaters into “making out” and “non-making out” sections so that the lip aficionados don’t interfere with the film aficionados, and vice versa.
Trapped in Paradise
“I need to use the phone,” I told the man behind the front desk of the Havana hotel where I was staying. “Sir, it’s $2 a minute to call the U.S.” I had $5, enough for a 2.5 minute call home (or to eat that night). “This is an emergency!” I screamed, “Now let me use the fucking phone!”
Ask SIPB
This week’s column includes the annual cluster combo change, how to print to private printers, and some SIPB services — come to our cluedumps lectures and learn about various computing topics, and listen to free music on-demand through MIT cable.
Brouhaha Rhythm
The recent Stephenie Meyer phenomenon of <i>Twilight</i> has raised some very divisive questions among fantasy fans. All debating over artistic merit aside, up for contention is the matter of exactly how many liberties an author can take with established monster lore. The concept of the vampire has been around for centuries, and the <i>Twilight</i> series seems to incorporate very little of it. Fine, so Edward Cullen drinks blood, is sort of ancient, and has a mild allergy to sunlight, but then again, so does Ozzy Osbourne. Few would mistake Ozzy for a vampire, and much fewer would mistake him for the lead in a romance novel.
From The Desk Of Me
Recruitment was a bore. It was time-consuming, tedious, and repetitive. It required an extreme amount of small talk, Barbie-like smiles, and buckets full of patience. In contrast, Rush was long hours of as much crammed-in fun as possible. Men rushing the Greek system are encouraged to attend late-night parties, enjoy Six Flags and paintballing, and acquire free food at prospective houses, while sorority recruitment allows MIT women to participate solely in daytime formal soirees, while abiding to a long list of rules.
Brouhaha Rhythm
It always struck me as somewhat odd that Quiz Bowl was considered a varsity sport at my high school, as I imagine was the case in many others. The same was true of Debate, Forensics, and a host of other extracurricular activities that don’t have corresponding Olympic events. All arguments about breaking a sweat aside, the intriguing point remains that mainstream sports are not the only avenue by which one can be called an athlete. While I don’t consider myself what one might call “buff” — honestly, “semi–muscular” would be a stretch in its own right — I can at least take some comfort in knowing that not everything I do is so hopelessly lazy that ambient calories are absorbed from the environment. “Like what?”, you say? Well, I’m glad you hypothetically asked.
The Groovy American Dream
It’s that time of year again. No, I’m not referring to orientation, or rush, or the inevitable moment when your precious orientation BFFs get booted down to “awkward nod in Infinite Corridor” status. Rather, I’m referring to the short week in Boston during which the weather actually supports human life. Let’s face it, the Boston Weather Machine is nothing short of diabolical, especially during the extreme seasons. One hot summer day, I went jogging across the bridge, and came back a different ethnicity. Last winter, I went McDonald’s to get an iced coffee; they gave me a regular coffee and told me to stand outside. So naturally, I particularly cherish this <i>temps éphémère</i>, if only as the one time during the year that nature isn’t actively plotting my death.
From The Desk of Me
Orientation has been a blur of activities. To make it worse, with REX and general moving-in chaos, as well as family good-byes and newfound freedom, it often feels that we, the new fragile MITers, are always on the move, trying to stake out a spot on territory already peed on by the aggressive, intimidating upperclassman.
Ask SIPB
Wishing MIT provided more software and services for your personal computer? Need to use software on Athena at home? This issue, we cover many of the software options available from MIT.
Brouhaha Rhythm
Being home all summer has brought about a realization about my time at MIT.
Not All White, Still All Nerdy
MIT never seemed like a feasible option for college for me. The Massachusetts Institute of Technology was something for Nobel Laureates, audio company founders, renowned architects, and Iron Man. Not for me, someone who applied to MIT without any expectation of acceptance whatsoever.
Ask SIPB
This week’s column covers electronic communication at MIT — e-mail, mailing lists, and zephyr.
Ask SIPB
Welcome, especially to freshmen and new grad students! Ask SIPB is a column published semi-regularly by the Student Information Processing Board, the volunteer student group concerned with computing at MIT, to help students like you learn more about the computing resources MIT provides and how to make effective use of them. Look for more columns in the future, and feel free to stop by the SIPB office (W20-557) or e-mail <i>sipb@mit.edu</i> with questions about computing at MIT.
Squid vs. Whale
You did it! You graduated! And now this fall you are going to leave MIT and enter the world as a man. That’s right. Class of 2009, bitches. Think of all that lies ahead of you. A new apartment, rocking the lower middle class with your entry-level salary. On your own now, limitless possibilities, unbounded awesomeness. Moving to the big city, impressing the ladies with your status, you professional auteur. Isn’t this exciting?
Brouhaha Rhythm
Game shows and personal dignity have never had the friendliest of relationships. They’re probably more like mortal enemies, with game shows as the sadistic dystopian empire and dignity as the underdog hero unable to sway the masses to his cause. Or, depending on the show, as the helpless orphan crushed under the boots of the faceless legions as an example to would-be underdog heroes.
Quarkiness
Earlier this summer, in the name of physics research, I was away in the distant lands of Cornell University. It’s a place that harbors more grass, flowers, trees, and cows than MIT can ever hope to accommodate. However, the natural beauty of Cornell’s campus was not enough to mask a certain flaw in its design: There was no Cornellian analogue to our Infinite Corridor. With few indoor routes to take to work, the weather became a lot easier to notice—and experience.
Squid vs. Whale
<i>Herein lies the tale of one fateful night, a subway ride, and the story of how my friend got felt up by a 72-year-old man and was presumed dead, as told from his point of view. Names have been changed to protect the humiliated.</i>
Brouhaha Rhythm
A couple winters back, I bought a jigsaw puzzle from a yard sale. The picture was of one of those hot air balloon gatherings, with lots of bright colors and patterns to match together. When you’re staring at a Virginia winter out your window with hardly any snowfall to motivate going outside, it’s one way to pass the time.
Love, Loss, and Life@MIT
When I came to MIT as a freshman more than four years ago, I was excited for the challenge. One of the first things I heard at MIT was the oft-repeated parable about the bell curve, or, as we engineers might call it, a normal distribution. I forget who told me it first. Perhaps it was my freshman advisor, but it goes something like this: “If you were to put every student on a bell curve, MIT accepts only the highest one percent. You’re used to being in that top one percent, but now that you’re here, that curve starts all over. You won’t always be the best. You won’t always even be average.”
Talk Nerdy to Me
Since the fourth grade, I’ve needed glasses — but I didn’t start wearing them until the fifth grade.