Editors Note: This column is part two of a four part series about rounding the proverbial bases.

If getting to first base can land you in MIT Medical – then going further can sometimes only get worse. Second base is typically defined by fondling and groping — what this really means is frantically ripping off each other’s clothes and exploring each other’s human anatomy first hand (quite literally). It’s a prelude to fucking, and unless you’re roommate is coming back soon, you’re probably going to take off your clothes. So, transitioning from the vanilla making out to throwing clothes into the abyss of a messy room can sometimes get awkward.

The awkwardness starts at the beginning — unclasping the bra. Even experienced guys sometimes struggle with this. It’s incredibly embarrassing when someone turns on a light just to figure out the clasps. Usually, a simple inward push should work — especially if the girl is less busty. If she’s bustier, there are more hooks — so, work each hook one at time if it seems too complicated to do it in one swoop. If she’s wearing a sports bra, that should be easy — just slip it over her head. Come on, guys, its simple classical mechanics. Girls, if it’s taking too long, just help the guy out, unhook the bra yourself; I mean, come on, you do it every night.

After the bra comes off, here’s where a lot of guys mess up. There’s a difference between fondling and squeezing. Applying too much pressure doesn’t feel good — I’d even liken it to getting your “family jewels” squeezed. So, follow the golden rule here, don’t grab or squeeze. Also, girls, guys don’t care much for anything done to their chest.

Now we’re getting to the bottom of this — the “private” parts. First of all, for both genders, keep your nails well-groomed: no one wants to get scratched. Well-moisturized hands are also a luxury. Make sure the girl is well-lubed — otherwise, it just hurts. Start off slowly, don’t just jab a fist in there — that’s just proof porn lies. Also, that can be dangerous. Gynecological emergencies are unnecessarily embarrassing— getting injured while hooking up, while possibly funny, is not fun to explain to your parents if they’re footing the medical bill. Guys run the risk of less injury here — I’ve never heard of a handjob hospitalization. All guys masturbate — most give themselves a handjob on a regular basis. Because they masturbate, they know what they like. I encourage good communication here — each person’s anatomy is slightly different, and if something feels good, why not tell them? The angle is important for both guys and girls, and you should let your partner know when theta is just right. (I’m worried that line is way too nerdy and proof of MIT’s effect on me.)

The prelude to sex doesn’t need to be awkward — it can actually be the best part. So, note where you threw your clothes, and just enjoy yourself.

5 — Iggy and the Stooges — “Lust for Life”

You probably know this as the song from those Royal Caribbean ads. But its about smack. And its not one of those deals where after the song becomes big, people on the internet talk about how it COULD be about smack — I’m looking at you “Hotel California.” The man sings “Yeah, I’ve had it in the ear before.” Just makes you wanna go cruisin’, doesn’t it?

4 — Spiritualized — “Lay Back in the Sun”

Maybe the most triumphant song about heroin ever written, J. Spaceman coos about the “fire” and “fever” inside him and seems downright giddy as he sings “gonna’ have me some good times girl / good dope, good fun.” When they came through Boston this summer, they played this song with backup vocals from a small gospel choir. It was AWESOME.

3 — Sonic Youth — “Junkie’s Promise”

Your music-nerd friend always talks about how awesome Sonic Youth is for a reason. This is a solid song from SY during their prime. And, uh, its about a junkie. In other news, they’re done with Geffen and signing to an indie for their next album.

2 — Elliott Smith — “Needle in the Hay”

Best known from the suicide scene in “The Royal Tenenbaums,” this is a seriously haunting song about the life of a junkie. Strangely enough, it loses none of its gravitas when Kermit the Frog parody Sad Kermit covers it. Plus, in the parody music video, Kermit gives Rowlf head. Seriously. YouTube it.

1 — Velvet Underground — “Heroin”

Coming out of late 60s NYC, the VU attempted to bring dark subject matter prevalent in literature to the musical medium, which was comprised mostly of schlock. “Heroin” plays testament to their success, one of the innumerable ways they influenced all rock music to come. Even if THEY don’t know it, your favorite band owes its sound, in part, to the VU.

Disclaimer: Songs by grunge artists were disqualified for inclusion, not only because they overused the topic, but because now that Dugan graduated, no one can prevent me from refusing to acknowledge its existence as a musical genre. Songs by punk/thrash/hardXcore artists similarly excluded, because everyone already knows G.G. Allin was one scary mofo.

WMBR is the campus radio station— any student can join, be it to do a show or just check out our ridiculously large music library. E-mail gm@wmbr.org if you’re interested. And if that’s not your thing, you can listen to us at 88.1 FM or streaming at wmbr.org.

As I was driving up to Boston from my home in New York for the last time this past Saturday, I remembered my orientation at MIT. For a second I panicked, because it seemed like I had grown up in the span of a second. I now live in an apartment on Beacon Street with a set of pots and pans, a full-sized bed, and a utilities bill — the stuff of old age, or at least the mid-twenties. What if I woke up tomorrow and I was forty years old?

Later that day, my mother and I helped a friend move from Boston back to Burton-Conner and after I came down from delivering the belongings to her suite, I found my mom sitting in our car staring off into space. “I wish I were back at my freshman orientation,” she sighed. Sadly, I wished the same thing. I was seventeen when I came here, ready for classes and parties, and living on my own. I am now almost twenty-one, but I look older (I count ten wrinkles) and without a Red Bull or two a day, I have the energy of a sixty-year-old. While enviously watching the young freshmen eating their mustard-covered hot dogs and chatting excitedly over the dormitories’ poorly-chosen rock music, I regretted the fact that I haven’t really enjoyed the last three years of college.

Pass/no record was the most romantic time of my life. There was something alluring in the idea of being unable to fail. It became a mindset, and I carpe diemed my way through the fall of 2005.

What happened to my days of yore?

My roommate is (if this is possible) as ready to graduate as I am. We are jaded, anxiously waiting for a change, hoping to find our youth again in the aftermath of receiving our MIT diplomas. I mentioned my concerns to my roommate late last night, while we were bundled up on our couch with heirloom tomatoes, organic corn, cave-aged cheddar, and an independent film (we gave up fraternity parties a long time ago for the ease of Netflix and the comfort of a good night’s sleep). “I know what you mean,” she responded, “And I have this theory …”

Her theory went something like this: Freshman year, particularly first semester, most of us do whatever we want — we go to parties, have fun, don’t sleep, and don’t worry about our grades. Then sophomore year we say, “I was such an idiot last year, and I’m going to get my act together and work.” So we work and learn about what it takes to be a straight A student here, which, if I may be frank, is a complete commitment to academics, a fun celibacy, and the ability and desire to renounce spontaneity for the rest of your undergraduate career. Then junior year, we have so much work and hate this place with all of our souls, and wonder about what else there is in life, because if this is it, then God help us. We can’t live like this for the next sixty years. Finally when senior year comes around, we think about things, and make the executive decision that freshman year was way better, and that we were right not caring about our grades and living life to the fullest.

I was awed by this analysis. This was me. The sulking premed. The tired worker bee. The caffeine addict looking for a patch to help kick her bad habit.

And so, to the new freshmen I must say this: Despite what everyone tells you, Bs are fine, even excellent grades. Don’t worry about your GPA or finding a job, or getting accepted to grad school. Even if other MIT students tell you otherwise, an MIT degree does go a long way. Go out, enjoy Boston, discover the good taverns of Cambridge, and on nice afternoons, walk to Toscanini’s and get yourself an ice cream instead of studying. Spend the next four years doing things that you’ll miss being able to do as an adult. Take time off. Travel. Wake up late and spend a Saturday eating takeout Chinese.

Live life like you only have to pass.

Editors Note: This column is part one of a four part series about rounding the proverbial bases.

My long repertoire of flings began in seventh grade with a baseball player. Eventually, he asked me if I would go to first base with him. At that time, I thought he wanted me to take his place out on the playing field. Except, that just didn’t make much sense. So, I turned to internet search engines where I discovered the meaning of the four bases. Interestingly enough, the only agreed definition is first base and home run. The others happen to be as ambiguous as the term “hooking up.” I’m sure that I’m not the only person who had no idea about this baseball reference, so I thought I’d start the school year off on first base and go from there.

It makes sense for first base and home run to be clearly defined, as they symbolize the beginning and the ending of physical activity. Knowing how to kiss is vital — it acts as your SAT score, giving an indication, but not necessarily the full picture, and of your future capabilities. If you’re a bad kisser, it’s not going to prevent you from “getting in,” but it’s certainly not going to help you. So, to be informative of dos and do nots of kissing, I thought about comparing kissing styles to functions.

For instance, I thought about saying that someone who doesn’t know when to get their tongue out of your mouth is similar to a function that goes out to negative infinity. Then I realized that just sounds like MIT, and, well, classes haven’t even started yet.

Instead, I decided to just give you some advice that I’ve learned first hand:

DO remember to part your lips. For my first kiss, I forgot to open my mouth. I had this notion that kissing just came naturally. Well, he suffered an allergic reaction to my lip-gloss. Kissing can be a very dangerous sport, and I should’ve learnd that then.

DO NOT slobber, that just makes everyone think of dogs, and while I love puppy kisses, when a person does that, it’s not really cute. Teeth licking also makes me think of puppies, and I think it’s safe to say most people aren’t turned on by animals.

DO use your tongue to caress theirs, typically in a circular motion. Go with the flow, though avoid making it mechanic.

DO NOT bite. Like I mentioned earlier, I should’ve learned kissing can be dangerous. Last year, I almost went to MIT Medical because my mouth was bleeding so badly. Now, there’s an unnecessary reminder of an unfortunate hookup. Some people enjoy nibbling; however, I don’t suggest that for a hookup. If you’re in a relationship, just ask the person.

DO explore the other person within reason. For guys, it’s nice to feel the small of her back or rub her lower thigh. By touching her back, she can place your hands elsewhere should she want more. Caressing her face is also romantic, except, if it’s a hookup, it might come off as creepy. For girls, direct the guy. If you want him to go further, position his hands. Don’t be afraid, trust me, he’s not going to feel violated.

DO NOT randomly grab body parts. There’s nothing that screams desperation more than instantly grabbing genitalia or zippers. (Guys, this means don’t immediately grab her boobs or butt.) Also, the hair is off-limits for many girls, especially if she’s wearing earrings. It sucks when a guy gets his hands caught in your favorite pearls, and they just disappear somewhere beneath a messy futon, never to be found again. Another reason that kissing can be dangerous: you can lose stuff.

DO take a mint, breath strip, or some breath spray before.

DO NOT share already chewed gum. I don’t understand this concept. It’s like feeding someone your chewed food. While some couples enjoy feeding each other, they don’t enjoy feeding each other chewed food.

DO relax yourself. It’s better to laugh at awkward situations than create them.

DO NOT drink too much in an effort to “relax.” First of all, drunken hookups just sound sketchy. Also, you might ruin the person’s favorite drink, forcing them to associate it with all hookups. (*coughs* Captain Morgan) And, just FYI, beer also tastes bad on the breath — since it’s warm and pungent by that time since it’s been lingering in your mouth.

So, keep some ChapStick on hand and start the school year off on first base — just see where you’ll wind up. You might just have to kiss a few frogs before finding your special someone — or so I keep telling myself.

Each year, MIT sends out convenient fliers to incoming freshmen with all the “important” dates listed. However, they leave off the most important date — the day you “break up with your high school relationship.” Maybe it’s because this date varies for each individual. For some freshmen, they covered this months ago. If you haven’t covered it yet, mark your calendar; the days are limited.

Precocious individual that I am, I broke up with my high school relationship months before I entered college. Even though we had been dating on-again-off-again for four years, I realized that unlimited night and weekend minutes along with frequent flier miles were not enough to survive the midnight fights and sketchy webcamming. Maybe it was because I had been in the relationship for so long, but the flaws I “loved” slowly turned obnoxious. By the end of our relationship, he no longer seemed “cultured”; instead, it just seemed like he had an Asian fetish.

During our break-up, I wasn’t even sad; I was more excited about my upcoming relationships. Naive as I was, I somehow thought MIT relationships would be better than high school relationships. Then I realized MIT guys usually have severe Asian fetishes due to the lack of decent-looking people on campus. (No flame wars, please, you know it’s true.) So far I’ve come to decide that MIT relationships are equally messed up. They’re propelled by a series of hook-ups, and then, the “what the hell are we doing?” speech. Also, my high school ex-boyfriend, although not by any means “normal,” is much more “normal” than some of the guys I’ve dated on campus. I’m tired of hearing flings explained in terms of cost-opportunities — I don’t care if you’re an investment banker, I’m not going to make an investment into a fling.

However, regardless of how messed up dating can be in general, it’s vital to leave your safe haven. People usually stay in long-distance relationships for the stability and security — except, all people need physical activity. Chances are your long-distance relationship is going to a school with better-looking people. They’re going to get tired of waiting for you to fly the long distances just for the booty call. Or maybe, you’ll make a befuddled blunder with someone on your floor after a night of too much 151. I highly doubt you’re entirely asexual. It’s hard not to give into lust.

It’s really not fair to stay in a secure relationship just for the sake of security. People change quickly in college, and it’s hard to grow when you’re tied down during the process. If you’re really meant to be, you’ll find yourselves later on in life. Breaking up now will spare you pain later — and, if you’re the victim of a break-up — it’ll all be OK. You never know what the future holds — so long as you don’t call your ex 50 times when they’re in a new relationship (*coughs* my high school ex) — there’s still hope for reconciliation years later.

For the second time in as many weeks, we awoke to the sound of a female voice. Normally one would embrace such a welcome. Not today.

Accompanied by an intermittent BEEP, the pre-recorded woman explained to us “this is an emergency.” Damn right it’s an emergency — I’m being robbed of my sleep. The police and firemen are on their way, yet this is one robbery they cannot stop. I crawled out of bed and into my flip-flops. At the same time I read my clock — 4:40 am. I’d been asleep for two hours.

As most individuals know, one is not to use an elevator during a fire, and hence a fire alarm. I have been granted the privilege of a sixth floor penthouse, which means a long descent to the street below. The walk down six flights is not bad; however, the post-alarm student bottleneck typically jams the elevators. I would count these stairs again, in reverse, on the ascent back up.

As students pour out of the building onto the street, I take the time to look things over. This is an excellent chance to see students caught at their worst. No makeup, cologne, or combed hair here. Not too surprisingly, everyone looks the same as they always do — I guess this is MIT.

The firemen come. The small collections of female students do not take note. Some stragglers make it out of the building late, walking between the trucks. We wait 15 minutes for readmission. The sun has risen generously in this time. Boston, being on the edge of the east coast, probably sees the sun half an hour before my hometown. I guess there are some perks to waking at 4:40 a.m.

Hello, everyone, and thank you for coming to the MVP Award Ceremony for last weekend’s Lake House Getaway 2008. The weekend was a total success and I’m glad everyone could make it. I think we all deserve a pat on the back for navigating those hazy waters of lounging and relaxation without a hitch. It could have been worse. There was a lot of passive aggressive tension brewing and I’m just glad we didn’t have it out on the patio by the grill. Kudos to my main men — you know who you are — for deflating the situation with well-timed belches and hilarious quoting of lines from Judd Apatow movies.

As I reflect on the awesomeness of last weekend, I can’t help but think how indebted we are to Sarah for letting us crash at her lake house and providing all of the comforts for 72 hours of good times. You rock, Sarah. Those organic eggs you got from your friend’s farm rocked too.

Before we hand out this weekend’s MVP award, I’d like to stress just how much of this weekend’s success was a team effort. That’s right, WE managed to enjoy that nice breezes and scenic views, and WE managed to turn tubing on the lake into the sweetest ride of 2008. We couldn’t have done it without our collective commitment to our mantra of “DOING IT LIVE” so give yourselves all a round of applause.

Now, without further ado. The award for Most Valuable Player at the 2008 Lake House Getaway goes to … The Poland Springs Water Jug. Come up and receive your reward! That’s right. You delivered by far the most clutch performance. With your 2.5 gallon carrying capacity and easy to use spout, you first provided us with much needed water in our hour of need.

While beer was plentiful, water was not. Curse you, beer, for actually causing dehydration even though you are made of liquid goodness. The sun was blazing; our throats were dry. We couldn’t go to the taps in the house, for they drew water directly from the lake and we had all seen that episode of “House” about how amoebas can eat your brain stem. But we were thirsty; we needed water.

Just when we were about to give in to the amoeba soup, Sarah brought you down from the B&B up the road. You saved us then. More importantly, you saved our brain stems from a slow and agonizing demise.

Then when you were empty, you became the answer to our prayers. With you, we could carry 2.5 gallons of beer down to the dock with relative ease. I can’t even begin to describe how grateful we are for your service. The way you held beer for us, with the spout on the bottom, meant that we could have foam free beer in a matter of seconds. You were like a keg for our keg, except you did things no keg could.

Your ergonomic handle meant repeated trips from the dock to the house for refills were a cinch. Your durable construction allowed us to take you onto the boat and hide you under the seat. When we were tubing from the motorboat and hopping over wakes at 30 miles per hour, you held fast. When the splashes from our solo cup drenched the bow of the boat, you spilled not a drop. You gave us influence and spirit in our motor boating endeavors, and when at last you were empty, we knew then it was time to return to the dock to regroup and refill.

Poland Springs Water Jug, you have no idea how amazing you are. Don’t let anyone ever bring you down. I know some people might say the keg is flashier or the bottle opener more versatile, but it’s all half truths and lies. You, and only you, made the weekend what it was. You carried us in our partying hour of need, and for that we thank you, Poland Springs Water Jug.

Long after this weekend, your memory will live on in our hearts and livers. Long after you have been melted into plastic goo, we will cherish the good times we had together. We will listen to Credence Clearwater Revival and think of you, oh Poland Springs Water Jug. We will always remember how you gave yourselves to us and brightened up our weekend.

It was sad when we had to place you in the recycling bin, but there’s hope in our hearts. Chances are you will be recycled into another Poland Springs Water Jug. And then, we must hope, hope with every fiber of our being, that your plastic fibers will be reunited with us at Lake House Getaway 2009.

Until then, Poland Springs Water Jug, take this MVP award as a token of our thanks. We salute you.

That wraps up this year’s award. I want to thank each and every one of you for taking the time from your busy schedules to come this weekend. I know it was hard to stash away our Blackberries and enjoy the sunshine, but thanks to you, Poland Springs Water Jug, we did it. We did it.

When was the last time you felt like a stranger in a strange land? And an unwanted stranger at that?

I am living with some French roommates for the summer in an apartment in Beijing (I’m here through MISTI-China). To every American who buys into anti-French propaganda: get over yourselves. The French have done some things correctly. They have a right to look at us like we’re crazy because, frankly, we are. Compared to them, we seem to have done everything wrong. We are fatter, more stressed, unhappier, less environmentally friendly, and generally poorer cooks than the French.

In honor of these great people and their putting up with me, “The American,” I have decided to share with you some lessons that Americans can learn. If you are extremely conservative, both politically and socially, don’t hate what I’m about to tell you. Keep an open mind. Dance. Eat a baguette, and enjoy the lessons of the French.

1) Lose weight by eating more. The French look forward to their meals in the same way MIT students anticipate their three day weekends. Every time I arrived at work with my French roommate, I found myself wondering by 10 a.m. what we would be eating that day. At 2 p.m., I began pondering what my roommates would concoct for dinner, because it was so mouth-wateringly delicious (they made dishes like Ratatouille, eggplant lasagna, baked chicken with caramelized onions). I started eating twice the amount I would ever eat for dinner at home. We always ate freshly cooked food, even if it was fattier than anything I would have eaten in the U.S. (They scowled when they found out I had been storing Instant Mac and Cheese in the cabinet.)

And yet, I have lost something like four pounds in a month because the French only use fresh foods and eat mostly fruit for dessert. If Americans got off the couch and started cooking some vegetables instead of eating KFC or McDonald’s, they might look more slim and beautiful too.

2) Do not stress out. Under any circumstances. Ever. When I told my roommates about a typical day and week at MIT, they looked at me with such looks of pity that you would have thought someone ran over my beagle puppy twice and then fed it to a coyote for fun. The French do not stress. Work is not worth worrying about, because it’s only one tiny aspect of their lives. They come home to family and friends, cook their meals, relax, and then start thinking about the work they have to do. Or they don’t think about it until they go back to work the next day. Worry is not a worthwhile effort for them; it’s almost as if they see it as a threat to their freedom. There are more important things in life, like dancing.

3) Weekends are for dancing your heart out. I have accompanied my roommates to a French restaurant and a salsa club almost every weekend since I have been in Beijing. To return to the eating for a second: we sat at the restaurant, drank Pastis, ate bread and butter, and main courses of red meat and mustard tarts followed by chocolate mousse for four hours. But I still didn’t gain any weight, because afterwards, we burned everything we just ate by dancing. The restaurant moved its tables and chairs to the side, and the patrons danced for at least two hours after the meal.

Two weeks ago we entered the restaurant and my roommates said hello to a friend wearing a neck brace. After we sat down I asked them what happened. “Car accident?” “No, too much dancing,” they answered. Here’s a secret for all of those Americans who think they can’t dance if they’re not behind closed doors: the French aren’t always great dancers either. But they don’t care, because it’s fun and that is all that matters.

4) You have to support your fellow countrymen. (Don’t read this section if you’re a Republican.) One of my roommates told me her family was in the lowest income bracket and thus they were not taxed. Her father and mother were both bus drivers at one time, and yet they still have a house and two cars and enough money that they can pay for fresh food for their children and vacations once in a while. She said she knew that the only reason she was able to live the way she did was because other people were paying for it, but that was the way it had to be. Everyone has an obligation to everyone else, and everyone has a right to a comfortable life, no matter their job. Some Americans may be disgusted by this, but if you think about the fact that France’s rate of incarceration is about seven times lower than that of the U.S. (normalized for population, so you can’t use the argument that they have less people), it seems like providing the people with what they need and making sure they aren’t up to their eyeballs in debt has paid off. Maybe French society isn’t perfect, but it’s a lot more perfect than America.

5) Contrary to the Republican belief, promoting safe sex actually lowers teen pregnancy rates. On average, French women lose their virginity later than American women. They have a deep sense of self-respect, and they usually wait until they have a serious boyfriend to plunge into anything. But more importantly, everyone uses birth control because it is cheap, easily obtainable, and encouraged by parents.

In addition to contraceptives, most parents allow and even encourage their high school age children’s boyfriends and girlfriends to spend the night at their house. When I first heard this, my jaw dropped. “You mean your mother let you sleep at your boyfriend’s house? In his bed? In high school?” “Of course,” my roommate answered, “She knew we were dating and we were in love. She knew we were safe that way.” The boyfriend or girlfriend helps the parents cook dinner, and when everyone wakes up, the whole family (plus significant other) eats breakfast. Everyone sits together, and the parents are supportive and accepting of the relationship. The result? Lower teen pregnancy rates, increased family time, and no reason for parents to worry that their children are being pressured into anything.

So why exactly do we hate the French?

Dear Facebook,

We have a problem. I just realized that our relationship status is “It’s Complicated.” And for some reason, I can’t seem to break up with you. It’s not that we’re in an open relationship either. MySpace and I already broke up. He’s creepier than you.

Unfortunately, you’re almost as much of a pedophile. You seduced me when I was only a prefrosh. You lured me in with false help — or should I say, false hope — when it came to MIT men. I truly thought that the random friend requests — and pokes — showed the kindness of MIT guys. This naive thinking led me to believe that MIT was swarming with eligible bachelors. If you’re laughing already, I realize that I deserve it.

Now I’ve realized the dire conditions of finding Mr. Right on campus. The guy who seemed really cute at the time just used a Chinese Glamour Shot. Guys should never mislead a girl with makeup, that’s just wrong on so many levels. The guy who seemed well read probably used Sparknotes. It’s a general indication that if you’re “madly” in love with an author, you should be able to discuss works that aren’t canon. Finally — and possibly the worst revelation — the guy who seemed really romantic, the total package, ended up being just a creep. “I’m in an open relationship — it’s not cheating if you use a condom,” his words verbatim. I think I’ve said enough there.

Even after a few disappointments, I still believed it was just bad luck. Definitely, not you, Facebook. Then, our relationship just kept getting worse. Somewhere in the middle of first term, I actually had an epiphany. It dawned on me that guys used my Facebook page to find out my general interests to feign compatibility. Why it took so long for me to realize this clearly shows why I am not a rocket scientist.

To make matters worse, I found out about Facebook poking around the same time. I never realized that there were further implications to it until a random graduate student poked me. Of course, I poked him back without thinking twice about it. Usually, guys would just friend me after completing the deed — except, this guy was audacious. Then again, he was a Harvard graduate student. He sent me the message, “Hey, so, when do you want to fuck?” Lesson learned there: Don’t poke random strangers back, especially if their profile says they have an Asian fetish.

Finally, the worst part of our relationship: you force me to acknowledge real life relationships. Everyone has an obsession with the idea of “Facebook Official”. When I “married” my best friend as a joke, people in my hometown thought that I was actually married. Someone even called my parents. After explaining to my parents that I did not run off to Vegas, I realized just how seriously people take these titles. According to me, I’ve only had three boyfriends — one, influential. According to Facebook, that’s like a Hemmingway understatement. My love life used to change so frequently that I wanted the permanent option, “Temporarily in a Fling”. Except, no guy wants to acknowledge he’s temporary — sometimes even hacking my account just to change my Relationship Status. (Reason why I don’t date Course VIers. That and the well-known fact many don’t shower.)

However, our relationship has some good. You’re a double edge sword. There’s a benefit to networking — beyond the work connections. A close friend of mine got a friend request after a party with a message, “Yes, we used a condom last night.” If it weren’t for Facebook, she never would’ve found out. However, if they had been friends already, this embarrassing scenario would’ve been avoided. Then again, at least, they used a condom. I wonder what he would’ve said otherwise? Perhaps, “I gave you herpes last night.”

Nice way to start a friendship.

So, Facebook, it’s not you — it’s me. Actually, never mind, it really is you. You’re just kind of creepy, yet I can’t seem to break up with you.

Yours truly, until I can finally dump you,

Christine

“Wow. It’s pretty chilly out here today.”

That was how I tried to cover up the fact that I was visibly trembling at the prospect of getting into a tiny Cessna 172 for the first time to go on a trip with the MIT Flying Club. Logically, I knew I would be pretty safe. I know that the odds of an accident in a small plane are no worse than those when riding a motorcycle. But that didn’t keep me from blanching when my pilot, Andreas Mershin, a postdoctoral fellow in the Biological Engineering Department, laughed as he showed me how flimsy the hatch on the plane was and explained that the rest of the plane was just as light. He thought it was a marvel of engineering. All I could think was that I was going to have a panic attack as soon as I sat down in the airplane.

Instead, once I got in the plane, I began channeling Buddha and calmed myself down. It would’ve been hard to find a more Zen passenger than myself. Unfortunately, on that first trip, the weather prevented us from flying to Martha’s Vineyard so we just flew around the area. Fortunately for me, that meant I got to try my hand at flying. As I was in charge, I maintained an incredibly tight grip and my knuckles were bloodless the entire time. But I was exhilarated during the entire flight.

The next time I went on a trip with the MIT Flying Club, Tech staff photographer Ricardo Ramirez accompanied Andreas and I to Provincetown, Mass., for lunch. We were meeting up with other members of the club who were flying from other airports in the Boston metropolitan area.

We arrived on a chilly May day at Provincetown and hired a local woman to drive us to the town in her van. She charged exorbitant prices but made up for it with her sense of humor. Two men who were standing on the side of the road flagged us down. They didn’t speak English. She told them that she would come back for them but that they had better not catch a ride with anyone else. Because of the gas, she told us. Then she asked us if we were anybody. This odd question was followed with an explanation of how she once drove Aerosmith (meaning Steven Tyler, I believe) and Liv Tyler and she had no idea who it was, but she knew they were somebody because they kept snickering. So now she always asks. Andreas regretted not telling her that we were somebody.

Provincetown is a small town, but there were lots of shops and restaurants to peruse. Our little self-guided tour was accompanied by the deep tenor voice of a transvestite singing in the center of town. The whole town was painted with light, summery colors. Café Heaven where we ate had bright modern pastel paintings of women lounging about in the nude. After lunch, we went into a shop that appeared small from the outside but was very deep and was filled with summer clothes, nautical bric-a-brac, and some things that you would only expect to find in a military surplus store.

There was also a fantastic bin of old hats that we could not stop digging through. We took turns sporting old British constables hats, safari hats, army helmets, and countless others. I also found a set of pajamas that had been squeezed into a tiny plastic wrapper in the shape of the pajamas themselves, which you are apparently supposed to “grow” in warm water. I must admit I was tempted to buy it.

I had a lot of fun listening to the MIT Flying Club at lunch. They couldn’t stop talking about flying. They were all so excited about it, sharing stories about flights and trips that they had taken, and crazy stories about people they had heard about. Stories heard third or fourth hand spread even further. Eventually we all trickled back to the airport to take off for home. The same van driver as before charged us even more to be driven back to the airport. We had to wait for one of the passengers because Provincetown is known for its Portuguese population and renowned Portuguese cuisine, and he had to have pudding from one of the stands. He said it was all right, but not great.

As we flew back to the airport, I took over for Andreas for a little while. Even though this was my second time flying, I was no less tense. And I couldn’t stop turning the plane left. Every two minutes Andreas would say “Emily, go right.” I guess I just didn’t want to go back home yet.

In a past column, I may have mentioned that I used an iron while building a desk and bookshelf. Although I’ve closed the book on the iron, there is more to say about the desk.

At first glance, building a desk seems like a straightforward operation. After all, IKEA has already fooled half the college kids in America to assemble their own stuff. But when you really start thinking about it, the natural response when building your own furniture is “Please don’t fall apart,” and perhaps even “I hope I didn’t bite off more than I can chew.”

Now, just like any math, engineering, or physics problem, the first hurdle to jump when building a desk is how many, how much, or how big? Qualitatively, these answers are easy: one, cheap, and colossal. Quantitatively, it is a different story.

I decided to put my small civil engineering background to work and calculated exactly how big I could feasibly make my desk. After a few turns of the crank I had everything I needed: required members, loadings, and deflections. But, the numbers looked fishy. I built the desk and bookshelf, half-copying the dimensions from the IKEA catalogue, and sure enough my numbers were wrong. In fact the loadings weren’t even in the same ballpark.

Apparently I failed the third principle of civil engineering: common sense. I repeated the calculations and sure enough a units conversion screwed me over. Now instead of getting insane answers that suggest my desk is stiffer than an old man on Viagra, I actually had reasonable results. The real difficulty however didn’t lie in the stiffness of the desk, but rather in the bookshelf. There was clearly a frequency response problem. I’m not saying a bad response, like a pole in the right half plane, but bad enough that my siblings were ribbing me over my calculations. Apparently the bookshelf from someone’s high school shop class, which is currently holding the extra toilet paper in our washroom, has its poles in all the right places. My mother came to the rescue, adding her engineering experience as an English major: “Don’t worry, the dynamics will change with a load full of books,” she said.

So here we are in the 21st Century and after my construction experience, I started to realize how much of civil engineering involves convincing the public that everything is all right. Let me elaborate.

Civil engineering was one of my first freshman classes. In fact, during the first 10 minutes of the first lecture we were introduced to the three principles of civil engineering. As mentioned earlier, the third was “common sense” or more precisely: “You must know the answer before you get the answer.”

“You can’t push on a rope” was the second principle and “F = ma” was the first. Yet shortly after introductions we promptly set a = 0. Now every field has its own equations and civ is just F = 0. Seriously! This isn’t even a differential equation anymore. Nevertheless, my brother, a typical civ(il servant), seems perfectly happy, perhaps even proud, with this fortunate state of affairs.

I dare say F = 0 is not for everyone. The following year some adventurous individuals thought it would be fun to set “a” not equal to zero. Their travels directed them up a few rungs on the ivory tower to mechanical engineering (e.g. right under the general assumption that course 6 < 8 < 18, etc. …). But for practicing civs, an accelerating building usually leaves everyone wondering what the “F” happened.

Truth be told, as any civ knows, the problem isn’t just about setting a = 0 or solving F = 0 but convincing the public that a = 0. For example, the general public typically views a building as just that — a static object planted on mother earth. Ask a civ and they’ll tell you a building is really an erect elastic stick. To hammer this point home, even the top of the empire state building, a stiff elastic stick, can sway up to 1.5 inches in a windstorm. Perhaps more dramatically, the golden gate bridge piers bend 1.5 feet from temperature and loading variations. The reason this isn’t too alarming is because we can’t see or feel them. Civs design deflections and accelerations below human observation and sensation. Sure enough, the 22-inch deflections on the golden gate bridge do not saturate the human observation threshold of 1/300th of the 700-foot elevation.

One very elastic structure, which violates the 1/300th rule, is an airplane wing. Next time you’re on an airplane, take note of the large oscillations or deflections and smile that some aerospace engineer has subconsciously convinced you it’s safe. But if you want a tip from your local materials engineer, just make sure you’re not looking through a square window.

Shopaholic that I am, I own five different swimsuits — except, I can’t swim. Well, I can doggy paddle, but flailing pathetically around a pool just isn’t very attractive. I would wear flotation devices, except that’s even less attractive. (But, it’s a fashion statement! Suuure.)

Instead of confronting my fears, I ignored them by hitting snooze on my alarm clock the day of the swim test. I’m a lazy person, so I never thought this act might haunt me. (I really didn’t think MIT would deny me a degree for not knowing how to swim. For not passing physics, yes, but swimming?)

So, when my friends somehow all found incredibly attractive men by the pool — I started thinking of my past flings not met at the pool.

Guy 1: Had a tattoo from a drunken bet he lost that his clothing hid successfully. After his shirt came off, I told him to put it back on. It was Superman, except he wasn’t so super. He then proceeded to tell me of the breakup which lead to it. I can deal with emotional baggage, but when he referred to her as his “kryptonite,” I realized I’d never replace her.

Guy 2: Had a farmer’s tan that his clothing hid successfully. There are varying degrees of a farmer’s tan, and his was like in the third degree. It completely ruined my notion of him being a walking model of perfection. He then remarked he went to tanning beds in a wetsuit. Tanning beds? Wetsuit? Enough said there.

From these experiences, I’ve come to the conclusion that clothes are the most misleading invention.

I’ve also come to the conclusion that the pool tends to be the most honest place to meet anyone. Everywhere else there’s too much clothing, too much make up, and too much booze. You don’t even need a fake ID to go to the pool. It’s the one place where it’s all out there — the gut and the farmer’s tan. Better yet, if the guy is wearing a Speedo, a preview of his package. In this day and age, it’s rare to have it all out there.

It works both ways though — guys get a preview of girls. Nothing can hide cellulite on the legs, and makeup will wash off after swimming. Trust me when I say there’s nothing more embarrassing then hearing a guy remark after stripping, “Is that the freshman fifteen?” (Thanks, jerk — I didn’t say anything about your gut.) At least if the two of you met at the pool, he can’t say he was surprised, which wasn’t the case with one fling who told his whole fraternity.

In the end, the Institute probably has our best interests in mind by forcing us to learn how to swim. (*coughs* And, forcing me to take physics as a humanities major? I will figure out a point to this.) So, maybe I’ll buy a new swimsuit (shopaholic logic), and then I’ll learn how to swim this time. I might even pick up an honest summer fling along the way, and he won’t have a drunken tattoo.

For anyone who particularly cares (i.e. anyone not from America), UEFA’s Euro 2008 soccer tournament started up this week. This marks the 48th anniversary of European nations utilizing soccer as a proxy for war. Since European nations began having organized soccer tournaments in 1960, nary a war has been fought in Western Europe — a tremendous accomplishment for nations that used to invade each other for a laugh. Yes, the Union of European Football Associations, and not the UN, is to be praised for our long peace in Western Europe.

Now the sharp students in class may wish to point out that spirited international soccer competition has not in fact averted wars as the first World Cup was held in 1930. However, I would like to posit that:

1) Italy won two of the first three World Cups prior to WWII and thus only incensed Mr. Fuhrer Cat to invade Poland in order to one-up Mussolini.

2) The World Cup is not a proxy for the refined and gentlemanly pursuit of European warfare, but rather a frightening and disheartening display of former colonies exacting vicious revenge. For instance, the former colonies of Spain and Portugal have won half of the World Cups, while those two colonial powers are still 0 for 18. You would think that being dominated in soccer is not punishment enough for 400 years of colonial brutality, but then clearly, you’ve never been to Europe. Go backpacking. “Find yourself.” Just not in Prague. (Next time I’ll regale you about that time with Michael, the wolf mask, and the gypsies.)

3) Americans, having done so poorly in international competition have yet to have their war lust quelled, as evidenced by the numerous wars we get ourselves into. The fact that third world countries can routinely beat us in soccer only fuels our desire to invade them.

Having heard these arguments, the insufferable know-it-all will point out that the national teams fighting it out in Euro 2008 are full of international players poached from former colonies. How can this be a proxy for war?

Well Mr. Know-it-all, European nations have been using mercenaries in war since the beginning of time. The French employed thousands of Genoese mercenaries in the Hundred Years’ War. At least they did, up until the point when they massacred them during the Battle of Crécy. Those French really try their hardest to lose wars, don’t they?

If you still don’t believe that soccer is a proxy for war, here are a few more points to convince you otherwise. First, go see the movie Victory. The film, which pits Allied POWs up against the Germans in a soccer match, is pretty much a metaphor for the great Allied struggle. So much so that during halftime the players would rather finish the game than escape from the POW camp. Now that’s dedication. Yes, nothing’s more satisfying than watching Michael Caine’s ragtag team of Allied POWs beat the snot out of the Germans against all odds.

Second, and this should convince most of you, soccer was invented by the medieval English. The sport is absolutely antithetical to peace, as it was created when the medieval English managed to combine their favorite pursuits: wagering, pugilism, warfare, and pints of bitter with an inflated pig bladder. Soccer is so much like war that (and this is actually true) Edward III banned it in 1349 so that the English could concentrate on the Hundred Years’ War. During the two hundred or so years that soccer was banned in medieval England, the English picked fights with the Welsh, Irish, Scots, Cornish, French, Castilians, and themselves. It was literally as if out of boredom, those medieval hooligans decided to have a go at anyone within reach of a pint glass.

Luckily, soccer was legalized, and Europe has come a long way forward considering how 30 English and French knights once met on a pitch and fought to the death for the sake of national pride. (Yes, that actually happened too.) Now we just fight to kick a ball into a pen.

One must thank Ebenezer Cobb Morley for all this. He codified modern soccer in 1863 and founded the Football Association. Today, there are more players in the English Football League System than there are soldiers in the British Army. Wars are confined to the pitch and the soldiers are a bunch of overpaid speedy blokes with fancy footwork. Aside from England’s horrifying long ball tactics, brutality is kept to a minimum.

But don’t let that fool you. Soccer is just like war. In the heat of the match, with national pride on the line and the crowds blaring and waving flags, it’s easy to forget that this is only a game. Zidane forgot. And then he head-butted the crap out of Materazzi. If this was 400 years ago and the two of them met like that on a battlefield, and Materazzi talked trash about Zidane’s mom, Zidane would do the same. And then he’d stab him or something.

Yep. Soccer is just like war. Only, by the grace of modern progress, we’ve replaced Edward the Black Prince with a metrosexual Beckham and Peter Crouch doing the robot.