“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.

Oh, Summer … so long have I longed for your kind and merciful embrace. For two semesters, I have quested through the academic labyrinth. I have endured perpetual confusion and ceaseless frustration, hoping to find you around every corner, only to find another serpentine passageway in my path. Now that I have traveled so far through this dim dungeon, the glimmer of your reward shines clearer even in my tired eyes, but one more challenge lies between you and me. The Minotaur of finals week stands ominously before me, offering one last, fateful change to strike me down. Yet as worn as I am, I am prepared to stand tall and slay it with the last of my energy, if only so I may crawl from beneath its corpse and find myself at your feet, bloody and bruised, yet ready for you to lift my spirits.

I have oft wondered why you choose to elude me so, Summer. There have been so many times when I thought I could feel your presence, when the sky and air seemed to taste of you, when your golden beams were happy to soothe my aching flesh. Then a week, a day, would pass before you fled from me once more, and the chill of a Bostonian (excuse me, Cantabrigian) winter would blow through my veins again. Why did you tantalize me so cruelly, Summer? Why are you so mercurial? Why would you warm me with your sunny glow, then allow your sister seasons to stab me with frosty blades and drench me in will-breaking rain? If you wanted to dry out my skin, you did a fantastic job of it. If you were trying to tell me that I should shower more often, I do apologize for stretching my laundry more than was polite, but you could have simply scorched me to sweating so that I would have no choice but to shower. Oh, wait — you did.

In spite of my complaints, sweet Summer, you know I love you so. In the years of our youth, we spent endless days on frivolous pastimes; climbing trees, riding bicycles, being thoroughly spanked at Little League baseball. Alas, as adolescence took me over, we took shelter in the air conditioning of my study, basking in the laziness afforded by a long and lustrous vacation. But, no longer. Now, in our near-adulthood (Holy Hannah, I am five months away from being twenty), with you comes the promise of more labor, a greater labor, a higher labor, one Hercules himself would have skirted away from. I speak of the opportunity for self-improvement, although the cleaning of my room could probably apply as well. A job, an internship, a chance to travel. Such is the way of romance, one of incredible possibilities and unpredictable surprises. I welcome your embrace, Summer, if only with some apprehension. Do with my heart what you will. Just try not to get too touchy-feely, okay? Your sister Autumn was there when I was born, and I’d hate for her to get jealous.

Throughout the semester I’ve addressed a number of topics such as poverty, sustainability, culture, trade, politics, and activism. However, I’ve overlooked specific examples that require last minute mentioning.

First are the retaken factories of Buenos Aires, where workers began operating factories that were closed by their owners after the economic crisis. The workers’ slogan was “Resistir, ocupar, producir” (Resist, occupy, produce), and their democratic self-governance proved successful. I visited Cooperativa Chilavert Artes Gráficas, a small but famous retaken printing factory. Coupled with the example of the popular assemblies organized by residents of low-income Buenos Aires neighborhoods, these retaken factories beg the consideration of decentralization as governance 2.0, particularly when higher governments fail their citizens.

Contrast Buenos Aires with Beijing, where the centralized government’s heavy hand plays a very visible role in society. My host mother, who recently moved into her high-rise apartment after being evacuated from her traditional hutong, bore the brunt of Chairman Mao Zedong’s Cultural Revolution in the 1960s. Because she lost her educational opportunities, she was employed as a television factory worker. When I was in Shanghai, I befriended a Tongji University student, Betty, and asked her what she thought about Mao. She replied that all she learned about the Cultural Revolution was that it was Mao’s “mistake”. Then she pointed to a giant statue of Mao located at the campus’ entrance and said, “Everybody says he was a great man.” Even from our lecturers and guest speakers, it was difficult to find an opinion dissenting from the government.

These two examples address a broader theme underlying the topics I’ve written about. The idea of citizenship dawns upon me: what it is, to where it is bounded (e.g. neighborhood, city, state, or nation), which responsibilities it entails (e.g. voting), and who is included or excluded (by force or by choice). Shouldn’t how and with whom we live affect how we live as individuals?

At first glance I thought I had nothing to do with the cities I visited. But, studying abroad helped me understand myself as a citizen living within a global system.

Perhaps this column’s title, “Big, Big World,” is not appropriate. The onset of globalization has arguably made the world smaller. Multinational firms outsource to India, and workdays become 24 hours long because technology bridges time zones. The Internet allows me to keep current with international news and catastrophes. With trade and worldwide environmental problems, national boundaries become more and more invisible. How I live in the United States has global ramifications.

If we live in a small world with big problems, then how do we respond, if at all? We need to ask if we consider ourselves global citizens. If we are, then what are our responsibilities? Do we see everybody else living on this little planet as a fellow citizen as well? For example, our small contributions to global warming by driving unnecessarily will aggregate and affect vulnerable slum dwellers in India. The corn that we essentially put into our gas tanks could feed the mouths of people experiencing food crises in Egypt, Haiti, Thailand, and other countries. What we consume may deplete natural resources that are essential for some of our fellow citizens’ survival.

As we learn to live together, an understanding of global citizenship, charity and compassion, although important, needn’t be the only motivations that drive us to aid one another. Sheer respect and responsibility as co-citizens sharing this world are enough. Each of us can independently contribute toward big solutions. This lifestyle change requires a mindset shift concerning others and ourselves.

I leave you with what I’ve learned studying abroad. May it help you think about your own experiences.

1. Write and keep everything in a personal journal — My most treasured possessions from the trip are two extra large Moleskine cashier’s notebooks filled with near-daily entries that capture my memories, thoughts, feelings, conversations, sights, diet, and experiences. For me, to write is to think, to process, and to untangle. Not writing is actively avoiding the convoluted mess that is in my head. Writing in a journal isn’t as much about the end product as it is about the process.

2. Converse with those who share the experience or similar interests — My classmates were some of the most passionate people I have ever met, and talking with them definitely expanded my thinking.

3. Explore — The more you observe and experience, the better your chances of finding something that triggers new ideas and thoughts. Since I had free weekends, I spent a lot of time wandering around. Get out of the books and try learning from experiences.

4. Meet new people — I spent a lot of time with natives whom I met through a series of interesting circumstances. Their authentic perspectives taught me about real life in their respective countries.

5. Reserve down time — Time alone to reflect, read, and sleep is necessary. Taking a break from the busyness to reflect on what’s happening helped me learn tremendously.

6. Continue the experience — I picked up many relevant books when I returned home. I’ve found that what I’ve done after the trip has been more important than what I did before or during the trip. Learning lasts a lifetime.

7. Share — One reason I decided to write this column was to learn from it. Sharing in written form has forced me to formulate thoughts and to take stances. If I didn’t do it, I fear that the trip would only be remembered as that awesome term spent traveling.

This is the end of Big, Big World, which ended up being kind of small after all. Thanks for reading. I hope you learned something. I sure did.

It occurred to me after the fifth straight day of clouds and cold rain last week that the magic in my life has disappeared. Maybe it’s because it’s finals time and I’m stressed, or because there’s always more work to be done, or even simply because it’s raining. I have a sense, though, that it’s more than just the rain and the homework and the exams. I think the magic is just gone.

My grandfather, Aloysius Kelly, grew up poor in Brooklyn. He shared a bed with his three brothers and spent most of his days sitting around or creating mischief, because there wasn’t much to do and no money to do things with. He used to tell me that every time he got a nickel (which wasn’t very often during the Great Depression), he went to the movies. It was always a great day when he saw a picture, because it was guaranteed to be something he had never seen before and it let him escape for a while.

There was no television in his 1930s Brooklyn, and the characters in the movies he saw were fascinating to him because they were so unlike the people he knew. They were novel, interesting, and eloquent characters who led romantic lives. The men angered the women, and the women slapped them, because they could do that in the movies. He told me that he loved the romantic pictures, because he secretly wanted a woman to slap him too.

Aloysius met my grandmother, Mary Merten, after what could most accurately be described as a love at first sight that took a long time to manifest itself. They took the same subway train home to Brooklyn most nights and gave each other “the eye” for a couple of weeks or months (they never told me how long it was — there seemed to be less of a time scale back then). Mary agonized about how to start a conversation, and discussed the cute sailor with her friend. “Drop an envelope addressed to you,” the friend said. “Then he’ll know where you live and he can go ask you on a date.”

My grandmother never had to drop the envelope, because one night soon after, Aloysius got off at her stop and introduced himself. Then he walked the mile-and-a-half back to his house. They started dating, but my grandfather’s family disapproved because Mary wasn’t Irish and wasn’t from their neighborhood. Eventually, things were settled and Aloysius proposed.

The engagement was uncharacteristically long for the post-war 1940s. My grandmother is stubborn to the core and argues until the cows come home, no matter the subject. She gave the ring back so many times that they spent seven years cycling between being engaged, not engaged, and reengaged — rare for a World War II sailor who fought at Iwo Jima and a New York gal. “I thought your parents were never going to walk down the aisle,” Mary’s best friend later told my mother.

When my mom first told me this last summer, I was mesmerized. I thought about my own love story, which was born on the roof of the Stata Center last May, the night before my 7.02 final, and how it would never be even half as magical, by virtue of the fact that I go to MIT, and life is never magical for me here, because we have permacloud from November until May, and there is rarely free time.

And now I find myself almost a year later, wanting something exciting to happen because I have spent the last eight months walking back and forth through the infinite several times a day, looking out at a gray Boston skyline and wishing I could go to brunch instead of chemistry lab.

To everyone about to spend the next few rainy weeks wanting to do anything but studying: think about my grandparents — about how a dashing young man shared a bed with three brothers, went to war, made it all the way back from Iwo Jima to New York, found a woman whom his parents didn’t want him to marry, then eventually convinced them to let him marry her.

May you find some magic during finals.

It’s around this time of year that American Idol starts to really bug me. Now it’s not ‘cause of the contestants, Simon, or Paula’s every slipping grip on reality, it’s mainly Seacrest. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t have anything against Ryan Seacrest. I think he’s an affable guy and an all-right TV host. It’s simply the idea of Seacrest that bothers me.

See, no one believes me when I say this, but Ryan Seacrest may be one of the most successful individuals of our generation. Seriously. The guy rakes in more than 14 million dollars a year, has an eight figure television deal, is the heir apparent to Dick Clark, and has a media empire worth millions upon millions. You don’t even know it, but Seacrest is everywhere. He has a stranglehold on popular radio, owns a collection of LA hotspots, produces tons of television specials, and even has his own fashion label. That’s right. Ryan Seacrest will even make you a dress shirt.

Why is this troubling to me? Well, success is one thing for exceptionally talented individuals, but it’s an aberration when it comes to someone like Seacrest. Does Seacrest strike you as someone who’s extremely intelligent, talented, attractive, athletic, tall, well read, cultured, etc … ? No, no, no, no, no, and more noes.

In fact, a cursory examination of the accompanying figure confirms that Ryan Seacrest may have one of the highest success/talent ratios ever measured.

I’ve been scratching my head over this for many years now, and only recently have I been able to elaborate my Theory of Seacrest in words.

To wit, the Theory of Seacrest states that first, no man in all of recorded history has achieved more with less talent than Ryan Seacrest, and second, Seacrest’s success is a direct result of his alarming lack of talent.

Seacrest is an anomaly in that his success depends on him being quite possibly the least threatening individual of all time. The following thought experiment proves this notion beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Ask yourself this: If you put 10 random people in a room with Seacrest and then asked yourself the question, “whom would I pick as my adversary in a _________ competition?”

Congratulations, the answer is always Seacrest. I don’t care if the competition is fisticuffs, chess, mountain climbing, extemporaneous writing, or flower arranging, I want to go up against Seacrest. He’s like the perennial B-team captain. He’s the pinnacle of mediocrity. Jack of all trades, master of none.

And yet I propose this is precisely why he has attained such great success.

Most exceptional people walk around with targets on their backs. Superlative skill breeds contempt and elicits adversaries. As such, exceptional people must always fight past their detractors in order to succeed.

This is where the power of Seacrest finds its advantage. He has molded himself into the most non-confrontational, non-controversial, and non-threatening individual of all time. He exists as nothing more than a vaguely pleasant impression that’s impossible to pin down and impossible to get worked up about. And accordingly, Seacrest has no target on his back, because why would anybody bother? Thus, he has managed to keep moving onward and upward, slipping through the cracks unnoticed.

There is, however, a countervailing hypothesis stating that no man in all of history is more grossly underestimated than Ryan Seacrest. It’s entirely possible that this could be true. It could be that the Seacrest we know is all a façade, and that the real Seacrest is a formidable genius. After all, Seacrest did eradicate that other guy who used to host American Idol. And by eradicate, I mean that Seacrest has actually managed to erase that guy’s existence from our collective memories. Seriously, I can’t think of a single person who can still remember that guy’s name.

However, this is a reality I refuse to accept. I just can’t wrap my mind around the idea that Seacrest might be an evil genius masquerading as a fool. I can’t even stomach the idea of him being that conniving, ruthless, and intelligent. I can’t give Seacrest that much credit. I just can’t paint a target on his diminutive figure and even exert the effort to want to take him down, because who can honestly get that worked up about Seacrest? Seacrest has everything because he exudes the perception of nothingness. Therein lies his true power.

Seacrest Out.

You’d think it would be redundant to write an article for MIT students about the effects of stress, yet here I am. I suppose I just can’t help inflicting my thoughts on all of you — sorry about that. As it happens, stress is much like physical illness, in that it can manifest itself in physiological symptoms like muscular tics and discomfort, which is why over the next few weeks, you’ll be seeing MIT undergraduates all over campus twitching and jerking like they were inventing a new dance style. In my particular case, my abdominal muscles keep contracting involuntarily, so on the bright side, my core should be a good bit stronger by the time finals are over. As a point of additional irony, other symptoms of stress include memory problems and insomnia, which cause our already stressed bodies to put on quite a dance. The obvious solution to stress is to relax, but when there are only so many hours between now and crunch time, that solution becomes less and less of a viable option.

From time to time, when things really have me down and out and I’m feeling really crappy, I think to myself, “it’s almost over — all I have to do is get through this week, and next week will be better.” Unfortunately, this happens just about every week. If you want to brag about seeing that punch line coming from light-years away, consider first for a moment what that says about your own workload. Yeah, it made me want to cry too, and I haven’t even started my major-related courses yet. I need a hug. Or perhaps an “I Need A Hug” T-shirt. You know, the whole “teach a man to fish” philosophy.

None of this disgruntlement, I imagine, is new to any of you. After all, most of you have been staring down the barrel of the fire hose long enough to know that it’s not an inherently comfortable experience, and besides, we does have a reputation of intensity to uphold. So what’s my point? I’m not entirely sure at this juncture (indecisiveness and an inability to concentrate are also among the symptoms of stress, which seems to indicate I’ve been stressed all my life), but I think it has something to do with my trying to dispense tips for condensing stress relief into a minimalist time frame.

Listening to the right music can often bring stress levels down very effectively. Alas, few have the time to dedicate thirty minutes to an hour to simply sit with soothing chick-flick soundtracks or nature sounds filling the room, much less the attention span to do so without having to check Facebook every ten minutes. Luckily, listening to music can be passive, and therefore may be compounded with any of a variety of more productive activities easily. I should probably offer the caveat, however, that blasting the Top Gun soundtrack can either speed up or slow down one’s psetting, depending on the severity of one’s chronic sing-along syndrome. If, for some reason, your neighbors don’t care for Kenny Loggins, it may also irritate them unnecessarily. The philistines.

There’s also the idea of seeking out spa and spa-like treatment at home, as opposed to the professional, nigh-unaffordable varieties. The most basic of these is the hot shower, one of the most relaxing times of the day (or fortnight, for some. You know who you are. And if you’re upwind, so do we). If properly enjoyed, which means not bringing your pset with you into the shower, it can be incredibly rejuvenating. Since showering is presumably a part of daily life anyway, chances are that making one’s shower as relaxing as possible should take relatively little out of your day. Asking your friends to give you a massage can sometimes be hit-and-miss, as the untrained or overzealous can end up doing nothing more than chafing your skin and making both of you feel extremely awkward. An important key to massage in particular, at least from an amateur standpoint, is that time spent on it should be dedicated. Even though receiving or giving a massage can use up a lot of time that can be spent studying, the net benefit can be substantial if it staves off the impending nervous breakdown for a day or two. Multitasking, however, can sometimes render a massage ineffectual even in trained hands.

Of course, how you relax best is something for you to figure out yourself, but considering that some of us haven’t properly relaxed since the third grade, I can only hope that a small refresher course was of some use. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go seek out a hot tub. I love writing this column, but I wouldn’t call it a de-stressing activity. I hope nobody’s using the kitchen sink for the next half an hour.

Sam and I were thinking about the new Indiana Jones movie. I don’t know if you’re familiar with the series or not, but it’s quite popular with the youth today. It involves the escapades of a professor of archeology who has a penchant for mischief, Nazis, and biblical artifacts.

To date, Indiana Jones has found the Ark of the Covenant, liberated a sweatshop from the clutches of Kali-Man, and imbibed from the Holy Grail. In the process he has met Hitler, avoided the wrath of God, and killed hundreds of Nazis. Though the stories are tremendously exciting, I have a serious concern with their plausibility. This problem pertains not to the plausibility of his adventures, which don’t trouble me in the least, but to one simple item of Indiana Jones’s background. Namely, who gave Indiana Jones tenure?

Now you might argue that Indiana Jones is only a visiting faculty member or a lecturer, but make no mistake. Indiana Jones is indeed a full professor at the elite Hamilton University. Considering the begrudging esteem he elicits from both his friends and enemies, as well as his academic career which spans decades, there can be no doubt that Indiana Jones is in fact tenured.

The overwhelming question, of course, is how did he achieve his lofty status?

Upon reviewing Prof. Jones’ academic record, I find it extremely hard to believe that the prestigious Hamilton University would give tenure to such an academic lightweight. Because lets face it, even if Indiana Jones has saved the real world from Nazi’s numerous times, his CV is less than compelling in the academic world.

Let’s review. In scanning the canonical requirements for tenure, we see 3 main tenets:

1. Published work

2. Esteem of peers

3. Ability to draw funding

Professor Jones clearly meets none of these requirements.

They say in academia, publish or perish. Well, it seems Prof. Jones has taken this aphorism to heart, but only in regards to the latter part. In the last few decades, he has been poisoned, brainwashed, savagely beaten, and mauled. He’s nearly lost his head, died in an airplane crash, and had his heart ripped out — both literally and metaphorically. That Nazi bitch was totally two-timing him with his dad (and Hitler).

However, during this same period, there is no mention of any publication or academic paper by Prof. Jones. And a cursory LEXIS-NEXIS query returns no results. Additionally, Prof. Jones seems to be permanently on sabbatical. Worse still, the places in which he takes his sabbaticals are not in any way, shape, or form, reputable academic institutions. But rather, they tend towards Nazi book burnings and cult hideouts in the Himalayas. As he prefers to spend his sabbaticals burning books rather than reading them, one can safely assume that his record as an author is lacking.

As for his esteem among peers, in seeing Prof. Jones on campus, it is clear he has the adoration of his pupils. He seems to be quite popular with the fairer sex and coeds often bat their eyelashes at him. However, it is important to note that teaching ability has little bearing on one’s tenure application. In fact, one could contend that his success with the fairer sex has created a fair amount of jealousy among his colleagues, especially the more curmudgeonly senior professors, who, to put it bluntly, have not aged gracefully. The image of Jones sauntering around campus with his dusty fedora, leather whip, musky scent, and masculine stare are definitely upsetting to the more traditional and grounded senior faculty.

Furthermore, Prof. Jones’s acquaintances outside of the campus are also quite scandalous. He has been known to employ child labor and has often associated with religious fanatics. He has cohorts among the less than reputable, including Ottoman traders, ruffians, smugglers, and Nazis — lots and lots of Nazis. He has on numerous occasions entered social settings dressed in Nazi garb. And in fact, his Nazi infatuation has gone so far that even his journal contains an autograph by Adolf Hitler. In general, these sorts of connections do not go over well with progressive faculty.

Lastly, there’s the question of Indiana Jones’s value to the university. With his constant adventuring, one could safely assume that grant writing was not his favorite pastime. This does not mean that Jones was not valuable in other ways. The amount of treasure that Jones has come across is nearly priceless. One could almost command an unstoppable army with the wealth and treasure Jones has seen. If the university were to arrange a small finder’s fee from Jones, one would think that they would surely come out ahead.

However, let us make one thing clear. In giving tenure to Jones, the university gave tenure to a man who knows the location of the Holy Grail. Though academics joke that tenure is forever, in Jones’s case, it may actually be true. Imagine a solid millennium of matching 401k contributions. Professor Jones would be that one old professor who literally will not die fast enough. In fact, he literally won’t die. He’ll just putter around the office acting as if nothing had changed since 1933.

It’s virtually inconceivable to think that a prestigious university such as Hamilton could have awarded this man tenure. There must have been another reason.

Now it’s possible that the Senior Dr. Jones pulled some strings, as nepotism and academia have always gone hand in hand. One could also guess that the Prof. Jones of today vastly differs from the lowly straight-laced Asst. Professor Jones of yore. It’s entirely possible that upon receiving tenure, Prof. Jones threw academic rigor out the window and transformed into the swashbuckling academic that we know today. Unfortunately, a cursory viewing of the Young Indiana Jones completely dispels this notion.

Sadly it’s difficult to find a reasonable means by which Indiana Jones achieved tenure. It may be that his tenure process embroiled the entire university in scandal and only by his good looks and connections did he achieve his current status.

There is however, one last compelling argument that can be made. We must remember that Prof. Jones did find the Ark of the Covenant, which the government wanted to hush up as quickly as possible. As we all know in academia, how do you hush up a rambunctious, young upstart professor with a large mouth?

You give him tenure.

Summer is fast approaching, and with warm weather and no classes comes a new focus on fashion. Indeed, this is the perfect time to experiment with your own fashion sense, and get a better understanding of what trends, fits, and colors suit you. Although we’re excited to get started with this time of year, we wanted to warn you all to avoid some of the pitfalls that can keep you from feeling the full warmth of summer.

1. Be careful with light colors. What looked good on you in black might not look the same in white. Light colors make you look bigger, and can be see through when stretched across the body. So, when choosing white or light colored garments, be sure to choose form-fitting layers underneath that will show your summery self off in the best way possible.

2. Look for sheer fabrics. Sheer is very big this spring and summer. This year, it’s more about covering the skin subtly than blatantly trying to reveal it. Try to invest in tops and dresses that are chiffon and have subtle sheer details (sheer sleeves, transparent fronted dresses, etc.). Guys, this works for you as well. Light fabrics make it possible to be cool while still wearing staples like collared shirts. Just remember, thin fabrics don’t have to be low quality fabrics — to check this, pull on the seams and the fabric to make sure they have some give, and check carefully for imperfections in the store.

3. Find swimwear that suits your body. What looks good on you is what makes you feel comfortable. Girls, don’t be afraid of one pieces or tankini’s as long as they are figure flattering. Two pieces are not always the best choice, since even the cutest bikini can’t outshine a bad fit or an exposed flaw. Guys, find the right length for your leg. Tall guys should look for longer leg lengths, to balance out their proportions, while shorter guys can accentuate legs with shorter lengths.

4. Show only your best skin. Take care of your skin. Make sure you use sunscreen when you are outside for extended amounts of time, since no one likes peeling and burnt skin. Accentuate areas that you’re confident about. Be particularly careful with un-toned shoulders and arms. Just because you can’t see them in the mirror doesn’t mean other people can’t. When in doubt, go for cap sleeved shirts with other, interesting details. Choose the right length for shorts for your leg, and be careful with tight Bermudas or other in-between lengths, since they can often reveal the worst of your legs.

5. Accessories are key. This season is all about bold, bright colors to contrast your neutrals. From hot pink pumps to patterned outfits, it’s all about the colors you choose to wear. Do make sure you have at least one neutral purse. Guys, remember that summer is the best time to experiment with beachy jewelry and sunglasses, so go ahead and try on accessories you hadn’t considered. You might be surprised.

6. Focus on health and posture. When you’re showing skin, your health matters. Try easy workouts. Walk or bike every where. Swimming is a great full body toning exercise. Just going to the beach is exercise if you walk in the sand. Since the weather will be nice, it is best to walk to places as well. Also, summer is a good time to learn to keep your shoulders back, since they show through light fabrics. But most importantly, wear sunscreen. If you want a tan, use a lotion like Jergen’s Natural Glow. However, if you choose to use self tanner, make sure it is applied correctly and evenly. If you find yourself with a smear of color that you hadn’t intended on, use lemon juice to smooth out the color.

7. Embrace colors and layer. Experiment with both colors and lack thereof. It is best to mix colors with neutrals. Don’t wear heavy colors like royal purple, hunter green, or navy blue and instead choose hot pink, orange, or yellow. Pair them up with white, khaki, or cream bottoms.

8. Remember summer won’t last forever. Invest money only in pieces that cover many seasons. Guys, look for light sweaters, polos, and T-shirts that wouldn’t look out of place in the fall. Girls, try Polos, cardigans, versatile skirts and dresses, and neutral accessories. Get the bright, flowy miniskirt at a cheaper store. Also, remember that just because it’s summer doesn’t mean it’ll always be warm. Nights and rainy days can get cold, so remember to look for versatile sweaters and hoodies to complement your tanktops and shorts.

With these tips in mind, you can’t go wrong this summer. So, take this opportunity to focus a little bit more on yourself, feel great, and make those life changes that MIT never allowed you to make. And remember, sometimes all you need is just some time spent getting back in touch with yourself, and what better way to do that than through fashion. As this semester comes to a close, this will be our last column at Figuring Out Fashion, but we have loved sharing our thoughts and plans with you this term. We hope that you’ll take some of our advice to heart and that you remember to value your own health and happiness during this summer and beyond. Good luck.

1. “In Time of Need,” Terence Blanchard

2. “Tsunami Song,” Kenny Garrett

3. “Litany Against Fear,” Christian Scott

4. “Frenchman Street Strut,” Devin Phillips

5. “Without a Song,” Sonny Rollins

Jazz artists can draw inspiration even from the most devastating events. Most recently, the effects of Hurricane Katrina on NOLA, the cradle of jazz, lead to an outpouring of artistic emotion. Here are five of the most powerful cuts motivated by the major disasters of this decade by both some well-established players and some rising young ones. Music heals.

There’s lots of great jazz, some of it even motivated by happy things, happening at WMBR 88.1 FM. Listen to Running Returning Sunday at 10 p.m., Research & Development Monday at 2 p.m., The Jazz Train Tuesday at 4 p.m. and Coffeetime on Fridays at 2 p.m.. You can also stream shows from up to two weeks in the past at WMBR.org.