Air Travel Manifesto

Let's chat about flying.

Thanks to great pioneers of the skies in the early 20th century (including but not limited to the Wright Bros.), we have the phenomenal ability to fly in near-absolute safety 35,000 feet in the air at speeds of ~500 MPH. We often take it for granted, but the reality that we can travel from coast to coast in six measly hours is quite incredible.

In the mid-twentieth century, passenger flying really started to take off. Pan Am was in its glory days, people dressed to the nines to fly, and mini packs of cigarettes were offered to passengers like peanuts are today. Flying was classy and romantic-- hell, Frank Sinatra even sang about it.

Nowadays, fares are cheap and the unwritten code of behavioral protocol is no more. In the past four months I've been on twelve flights, six of which were 5+ hours. That's a lot of time spent in airports, on various aircraft, and, well, around people I wouldn't otherwise choose to be within forty yards of. It's a peculiar and unique environment. Once that heavy, unforgiving door at the gate ominously slams behind the last passenger, you're stuck with about 100 strangers and their annoying habits in a miniscule 1,120 square feet of cabin space for hours (if you're on a 737, which I usually fly).

Other people are weird- we all know that. It's a universal truth. This subjective altruism can present uncomfortable and frustrating situations, especially during air travel. As a result, in my never-ending quest to point out and solve the world's ills one blog post at a time, I aim to identify and rectify those annoying travel situations.

Most people see problems. I see solutions. Therefore, I have compiled a manifesto of universal air travel etiquette by which everyone should abide.

1. If you know you have a small bladder or IBS, don't sit by the window. Get an aisle seat. No one appreciates having their attention torn from a book or movie because you have to pee or defecate every half hour.

2. Leave the kids at home. If grandma and grandpa really want to see them, they can eat cat food for a few weeks to save up enough money to make the trip to you. But if you absolutely have to bring them, slip 3x the recommended amount of Benadryl into their applesauce before the flight. In my 23 years of life my family never flew anywhere together because my parents knew the unprecedented havoc that would ensue- you're welcome.

3. If you have to get up and stretch your legs in the aisle, make it brief and don't linger. And if you MUST stretch, refrain from thrusting your ass and/or crotch into the faces of those seated in the aisle. I can't tell you the amount of saggy old man scrotum I've almost punched because of this. Respect those boundaries, folks.

4. The row of chairs in front of you is not a leverage tool. If you have to get up and are for some reason too weak to do so with your own God-given muscles, use your OWN chair for a crutch. There are people in front of you, and they do not like to be drawn back then catapulted forward as you make your way to the aisle.

5. As long as we're on the subject, just don't touch the seat in front of you at all. Period. No exceptions. And if you need to use your tray table, pull it down and put it back very gingerly. Chances are the person seated in front of you has nerve endings and an inner ear.

6. Don't put the toilet lid down as you exit the lavatory. There is absolutely no need to do this. The suction system will already ensure that there is no lingering smell from your airport-burrito output. The only thing you are doing in putting the lid down is annoying the person after you who wants to touch the least amount of surface area possible; having to touch something that comes in direct contact with the toilet seat is the worst possible scenario.

7. One minute rule for the bathroom. You're trapped in a plane- the lavatories aren't going anywhere and neither are you. Wait until you're prairie-dogging it so a line doesn't form in the aisle while everyone else is waiting for your hemorrhoid-inducing pushes to expel rock-hard BB pellets. Just leave them in there and let them ripen until they're ready to come out on their own accord. It's a safety issue, really.

8. Stay within the confines of your seat. If you're spilling over into the other seats, lose weight or buy two tickets for yourself. And don't be an armrest hog- compromise. A good rule of thumb for being a pleasant neighbor is to draw imaginary lines from your armrests all the way out to the seats in front of you, and do not cross those lines while seated.

9. Upon arrival, let everyone seated in front of you exit the aircraft first. If you're one of those people who absolutely needs to pop up out of their seat right when that bell dings to smushedly stand in the aisle for 10 minutes before the door opens, it doesn't mean you have the divine right to straight-arm everyone in front of you to get off the plane first. Respect the logical system. The 3 minute difference is not going to kill you.

10. If you're sick, sneeze/cough/hack/wheeze/whoop into the crook of your elbow, nowhere else. We don't need your Asian bird flu or bubonic plague freely cruising around the cabin airspace.

11. If you have friends on the flight with whom you need to gab, do so in an indoor voice. The entire cabin doesn't need to hear about your yeast infection or how many chicks you got busy with in Vegas last weekend or the details of your last colonoscopy.

12. Don't bring your enormous, 49 lb. suitcase on board expecting to carry it on. All you'll achieve by doing this is holding up the boarding process while you idiotically try to shove it in a space in which it clearly won't fit. After your struggle (and inevitable loss) with physics and argument with the flight attendant that you "swear it fit the last time you flew," you'll have to check it anyway. Save us all the time and drama.

There you have it folks, my Air Travel Manifesto. Feel free to contribute if you think I've left anything out.

The Greek cobbler

Put yourself in Christos Soillis’s shoes.

Walking down Massachussetts Avenue in the heart of Harvard Square, one inevitably passes all the commonalities of a commercial center of a town. The aorta of Cambridge pulsates with activity as people check the menus outside of restaurants, duck into boutiques, and pause to watch street artists trying to earn a buck. Then, amidst the modern bustle, you are halted to a jarring stop as you stumble upon Felix Shoe Repair, and you think you’ve just fallen into a wormhole.

Sitting in the window of the tiny shop is cobbler and sole proprietor of Felix Shoe Repair, Christos Soillis. He is mending the seam of a black cherry leather boot with the inattentive meticulousness of someone who is so experienced in his craft the machines seem to be unconscious extensions of his hands. The Singer sewing machine at which he sits is about 80 years old, according to Soillis- five years his elder. Most of the other hardware in the shop- sanders, buffers, vices, other sewing machines- is not far behind in age or use.

From the unorthodox, curved wooden window frames on the shop’s exterior to the man working inside, Felix Shoe Repair is of a bygone era, when Nike was still a Greek god and Puma a jungle cat.

He is wearing leather shoes himself- tasseled loafers that are rhythmically pumping the iron-lattice foot pedal to keep the bobbin at a steady pace. His polish-stained workman’s apron reaches just below his knees, swaying with the motion in his calves that keeps the bobbin employed. Soillis’s sturdy, barely five-foot frame is in a comfortable hunch; his arms steady but fingers nimble. It is a position he has known his whole life.

Looking down, aloofly focused on the boot, the 75 year-old Soillis showcases a shiny bald spot, and a peripheral hairline that grows like an Olympic olive wreath around his head. A pair of brass-rimmed glasses dangles on the edge of his strong Grecian nose, as he effortlessly makes sure every stitch is exact.

I walk in and introduce myself. The first thing he says to me is, “You Armenian? I am Greek! We are friends, look out for each other,” in a thick accent that sounds like he came to America yesterday, and not in 1963. And thus is the bud of a beautiful friendship.

Soillis began working as an apprentice cobbler at age eleven in his hometown of Logganiko, Greece, a small village near Sparta. After several unsuccessful attempts to open his own shoe repair shop in Greece, Soillis heeded the advice of his father, who had been to America.

“Son, I tell you, in the U.S. your foundation is built from here to there,” Soillis says, quoting his father as he points from his feet to a far off undefined point. “In U.S. you start out right for a good future.”

Soillis’s father traveled to America alone to work from 1907 to 1919. He sold fruit from a pushcart, earning pennies a day until he befriended a well-connected Irishman in Boston. The Irishman got him a job as a foreman at General Electric and in 12 years, Soillis Sr. returned to Greece a rich man with over $2,500 in his pocket- the equivalent of about $31,000 today.

“My father put his money in the bank in Greece and boom, the Depression hit. Just like that we were broke again,” Soillis said.

The first thing Soillis remembers noticing when he immigrated to Boston in 1963 was how formally everyone dressed. He says, “I asked Felix’s son, why everyone so dressed up? And he pointed to the gate that goes onto [Harvard’s] campus.

“‘Constantine must come through this gate before he becomes king.’

“It sound much better in Greek, but he meant that these are the people who hold the wheel to control the world.”

Entering Felix Shoe Repair is more like stepping into your grandfather’s garage than a modern commercial business. An organized mess, stacks of finished shoes in bags line an entire wall waiting to be picked up. Polishes, buffers, conditioners, different-colored stains, shoehorns, sole replacements, and other shoe care items are modestly on display; unadvertised hidden treasures. Scores of leather sandals and belts, made by Soillis, hang nearest the windows. The smells of the polishes, glues and conditioners are strong but not overwhelming, giving the shop a distinct blue-collar scent. When Soillis is not at work at his machinery, the sounds of AM news radio are loud enough that anyone trying to communicate in the small shop must raise their voice to communicate, especially with the elderly Soillis.

            One sound you will not hear in Felix Shoe Repair is the ring of a telephone.

            “If people want their shoes repaired, they can come in and ask me questions and do business,” Soillis says. His business strategies are as quaint as his craft; no telephone, no website, no Twitter account. Soillis believes in the value of personal, old-world business. To him, Harvard Square is like a village.

Some passersby pop in and greet him by name, others ask about a cold he’s been nursing for a few weeks. Conducting business without personal relationships is not something Soillis wants any part in.

            “Christos Soillis is important to our community because of the spirit of independence and reliability he brings,” Denise Jillson, executive director of the Harvard Square Business Association said in an interview with The 411 Around Boston. “He brings people coffee and baklava, and sometimes baskets of tomatoes and fresh peaches which he grows in his garden.”

            Doing business with Soillis is more like enlisting the help of a trustworthy old friend, one who won’t lessen the blow when giving harsh advice. If you show him a pair of shoes that are past the point of repair, you can expect to receive a stern, accented lecture about why and how you should take better care of future pairs. He will often turn potential customers away if he doesn’t think he can do a good enough job on their shoes. It is clear that Soillis is not just in this business for the money- he has a genuine passion for quality of the shoes that are walked around Harvard Square.

One of my many observations in the shop was an exchange between Soillis and a college-aged woman with a pair of calf-high leather boots.

           

           “Is there any way you could fix the heels on these?” the woman asked, showing Soillis the damage. 

Peering down his nose through his half moon, brass-rimmed spectacles, Soillis answers, “Yes I can, but not cheap. $25 each heel. Go to other shoe repairs, ask price, take time and think about it. Come back if you want.”

Soillis believes that you only need two things to be successful in America: honesty and health.

“Sometimes I think I’m the richest man in the world. I’m well, I have my store, and people do business with me because we have good relationships. I do honest business with them.”

Beginning work at age 11, Soillis’s work ethic and overall view on economics are simple yet profound. “If you’re willing to sweat, you have a dollar- you respect that dollar, and you help other people because you can with that dollar,” Soillis says.

And, having grown up poor, he says he knows the value of that dollar. “I am the cheapest person you know,” says Soillis. “I grew up very, very poor. I come to America with nothing, and I make something. I left Greece with short pants and a thousand patches, now I own this store.” The original Felix opened shop in Harvard Square in 1909, and Soillis bought it from his grandson in 1969.

“Back when I first came here, there were seven shoe repair shops on these blocks,” he said. “This was before rubber shoes. Everyone went to shoe repair shop, people got their shoes polished two, three times a week.”

Soillis estimates that nowadays, about 99 percent of people wear “rubber shoes,” sneakers or cheap boots that have no prospect of repair. Accordingly, business is not as good as it used to be for anyone in the shoe repair trade. Although Keds invented the first mass-produced, rubber-soled sneaker at the turn of the 20^th century, it was not until about thirty years ago that it became the norm in America footwear.

Sneakers were a godsend to shoe manufacturers; not only are they much cheaper to produce than their stitched leather predecessors, they are also impossible to repair- meaning once they show signs of wear, its time to buy a new pair.

“Business is not good anymore, but it is enough for me. It is all I know, I love to do it, and I only have myself to support,” Soillis says. He explains that if he still had a family and kids to support, there’s no way he could make it in the cobbling business anymore. His wife Maria passed away in 2010, leaving just Soillis and his shoe repair shop.

“I keep myself busy and spend a lot of time here, talking with customers and the people I know here,” Soillis says.

To his regulars, Soillis is a shoe angel.

Jessica Donner, a lawyer in Boston, says she’s been going to Felix Shoe Repair for years.

“Christos is a miracle worker,” she says. “I’ve brought him the most disastrous, scuffed shoes, or with seams falling apart, and Christos has fixed them. He almost makes your shoes look better than they did when they were new.”

Those who know him love him for his craftsmanship, but some newcomers may find his no-nonsense disposition slightly abrasive. His answers are quick and definite; he needs no time to consider an answer. In his 64 years of shoe repair, he’s heard it all.

For example, while I am interviewing Soillis, a man comes into Felix Shoe Repair, suede hat in hand and asks his how to get a spot out.

His attention on a men’s dress shoe, Soillis never looks up at the man. He continues hammering nails into the heel buffer on the shoe that is elevated upside down on a crude metal rod for resistance.

 “Won’t come out, buy new hat,” Soillis responds without skipping a nonchalant, sure-striking beat with his hammer. Every nail is hammered perfectly in place. Throughout the day, I wonder when was the last time he missed. By my estimation, not since he’s been running Felix Shoe Repair.

No further words are exchanged. The man walks out insulted. 

Later the same day, another customer who seems to have been to Soillis before but is not necessarily on a first name basis, walks in to pick up a finished pair of shoes. He is eating a quick-melting cup of ice cream from the JP Lick’s two doors down. Standing at the counter while Soillis tries to match his ticket to the Mount Everest of shoes awaiting pickup, the man clumsily drips some of his ice cream on the floor. He apologizes and scrambles for something to wipe it up. Soillis is unfazed.

“Don’t worry, I’ll clean it later! This shoe repair shop, not Whole Foods,” he wryly jokes.

After 64 years of dexterous labor in shoe repair, Soillis is starting to feel its effects. He thrusts his hands forward and I notice the almost non-existent finger nails on his sausage-like fingers that, to me, are ten little miracles for having eluded arthritis this long. Then he turns his hands over and directs my attention to the thumb areas on his calloused palms. They are incredibly swollen, as if he shoved two fluffy spanakopitas under his skin.

“Sometimes I can’t sleep my hands hurt so bad,” Soillis says, but he assures me he will keep working until he no longer is physically able.

Times have changed since the 1960s- Harvard now admits women, Massachusetts Avenue is lined with Priuses instead of Fairlanes, Bass Weejuns have made way for Air Force Ones- but through the years, Christos Soillis and Felix Shoe Repair have defied the changes of the times, and remain an integral part of the Harvard Square community.

Trick or treat, smell my feet...

Give me something good to eat. If you don't, I don't care. I'll pull down your underwear.

Those were the good ol' days.

The anxiety of finding the perfect costume. The anticipation of hitting every house in the neighborhood until your pillowcase is bursting at the seams. The subsequent dumping out of said pillowcase on the living room floor, basking in your hard-earned booty like Scrooge McDuck's daily money swims. Mom rationing your spoils like Bumble in Oliver Twist.

Halloween was a special night at the Kevorkian household.

We'll begin at suppertime. Every single year, before Danny and I went trick-or-treating (Jimmy outgrew Halloween before I was old enough to enjoy it), my mom would make a huge pot of vegetable soup and force us to choke down a big bowl of it- "or there would be no trick-or-treating." October 31 of every year, Danny and I would sit at the table and eat our most hated of foods so my mom could have a clear conscience about the impending amount of sugar we were about to ingest. Luckily, she conceded to giving us what we called a "yucky cup," for the negotiated lima beans and onions. Over the years Danny and I got pretty good at slyly hiding major amounts of non-lima bean/onion veggies underneath the allowed-content exterior, unbeknownst to my mom. But the annual soup-eating was still a major, and most dreaded, part of the holiday.

After dinner, we'd sprint to our respective rooms and don our costumes as fast as possible. Rabbit, witch, ninja, Pee Wee Herman, Uncle Fester, nerd- these were all costumes of our past. However, I spent most years dressed up as a hippie, because I wanted to be one in real life and this was the only day of the year my mom would allow me to dress as such.

Looking like complete doofs, we'd bound out the door, Dad and empty pillow cases in tow. As we literally ran from house to house (so many houses, so little time), Halloween was probably the only day of the year my dad got a substantial cardio workout. My mom would stay home and hand out candy to other kids, only she had a system. Ask me about it in private and I may tell you if I think you can handle it. Mom, you know what I'm talking about *cough* Dum-Dums *cough*.

If it was our lucky night, we'd come across an empty house with a bowl of candy on the porch, including a sign above it that read "Please take one." PPPPFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF. We liked to call this "The Jackpot." Though I could never bring myself to take the entire bowl (I've always had an unforgiving conscience), we'd stand there and negotiate to the single digit for the most we could take while still leaving "enough" for the other kids. We always rationalized there were at most just a few trick-or-treaters left behind us.

The fun really began when we got home. Danny and I would both stake out our isolated, respective areas on the living room floor, God forbid our candies mixed. We'd revel in the sugary treasure, segregating a gross pile for the butterscotches, Almond Joys, and anything black-licorice flavored, which we'd of course play off as kindness in giving them to our parents. Heck, we'd even throw a few Smarties in there for my dad for being such a good sport.

At this point, let me remind you of the Bumble-esque nature of my mom. Every night post-Halloween, every year, she would lock our pillowcases in the closet. We could only have 2 carefully selected candies per night (some nights, the process of choosing took hours). What's worse, we could never find the key to that damn closet. I swear to you she must have worn it around her neck; we searched high and low. As an adult, I realize how great she was for doing that. She probably saved me year after year from diabetic shock. I thank her today for protecting my pancreas with the vigilance only a mom can provide.

But as a kid, after too many Halloweens of painstaking rationing, Danny and I developed ways to cheat the system. For example, one by one we'd inconspicuously kick some of our candy pile under the couch while making our two choices, then wait until my parents fell asleep in front of the TV for reconnoissance. Or my personal favorite- I'd put on sweatpants with elastic around the ankles and shove some treats up my pant legs. It took a lot of dedication and discipline to cultivate the skill of walking slowly and carefully enough to not crinkle the wrappers. That said, in terms of sugar in November, Danny and I never went without.

Yes, it was a special holiday at the Kevorkian residence. Nothing can tarnish my fond childhood memories of Halloweens past, not even the depravity of my current peers in their slutty costumes, needing to get drunk and hook up with this guy.

Happy Halloween, everyone!

Do you want fries with that?

The fact that there are no excise taxes imposed on fast food sales is perhaps the most blatant sign today that special interest lobbyists run D.C.

How many times have you read or heard the phrase "obesity epidemic" when others are referring to Americans' gluttonous appetites and exploding waistlines? Why is spandex making a comeback? How many TV shows have you seen featuring especially corpulent individuals "trying to make a change" by being put on strict diets and working with personal trainers for 9 hours a day? And how many fast food chains do you drive or walk by daily?

These issues are not unrelated. The CDC reports that 33.8% of American adults are obese (obesity is defined as more than 30 on the BMI scale). Since 1980, the prevalence of obesity among children has tripled. I'm not going to beat a dead horse. We have all been acutely informed that Americans' unprecedented, rapid weight gain is hurting not only our health, but also our wallets.

This is not a post scolding the behaviors of individuals and their ingestion habits. God gave you a mind of your own and free will so that you may make such decisions on your own. What I do not understand is why fast food is not being taxed.

Cigarettes are taxed to the point of plunder ($1.01 per pack federally, + state tax). Alcohol is also taxed up the yang ($2.17 per 750ml bottle of 80 proof alcohol federally, + state tax). The arguments for such taxation? Cigarettes and alcohol are bad for your health, are habit-forming, and cater to social undesirables. "Sin" taxes are imposed on such goods to discourage their being purchased, and thus used. Famous legislators throughout history (congressmen, presidents) have been heralded as super heroes for standing up to Big Tobacco and the Liquor Industry, for putting their foot down in the name of a healthier America. The Fortress of Solitude must have canceled its subscription to the Daily Planet. The Bat Cave must no longer receive the Gotham Gazette. They clearly haven't heard, because there's not a superhero in sight willing to touch fast food legislature.

To me, the properties of fast food sound pretty darn similar to those of cigarettes and alcohol. Bad for your health? Check. Habit-forming? Check. Leads to socially frowned-upon state? Check.

Then why, o why, can I walk into a KFC and order a Double-Down (absolutely nauseating) for $5? And riddle me this: why, if I am anywhere on contiguous American soil, is there never a McDonald's more than 107 miles from me? And how come the fast food industry generated a staggering $155 billion in revenue in 2008?

It seems to me that we can at least solve one of two of our nation's many problems by taxing the shit out of fast food: 1. People will eat less of it, leading to a healthier population or 2. Billions will be generated in tax revenue, an easy way to lessen the federal deficit. Seems like a no-brainer, right?

Unfortunately, fast food lobbyists too seem to have the government by the balls like their other big corporate counterparts. But I remain optimistic for a change. The day a Big Mac costs more than an avocado at the market will be a jewel in the crown of American tax reform.

P.S. If you are a bit unsure of how lobbying works, I highly recommend watching either Thank You For Smoking or Casino Jack.

Get those nail breakers!

Before I begin, 10 points if you know where the title of this post comes from.

As of November 2010, the time-stamped end of my soccer years, I had consistently been on some soccer team for 17 of my then-22 year old life. During those 17 years, I have played under the guidance of AT LEAST 25 coaches that I can think of off-hand. Never once did the thought cross my mind that one day I'd be one.

This autumn finds me the head coach of the varsity soccer team at Boston University Academy (BUA). Before you start "ooh-ing" and "aah-ing" at how prestigious that sounds, let me paint you a picture. BUA is a small, private high school affiliated with Boston University. It is overflowing with New England's future geniuses- kids who are usually just a little off. 150-ish students make up the entire school, all of whom are taking harder courses than I do as a grad student. Of these 150 pupils, anyone who has the slightest interest in soccer can be on the varsity soccer team. Boys. Girls. Freshmen. Kids who can barely pass a ball. Kids who have never touched a ball. Ever. There are no tryouts. There are no cuts.

Since August 26, 2011, an impossible task has been placed upon my shoulders. I have been hired to somehow mold this ragtag motley crew into a functional squad of lean, mean, ass-kicking machines.

One problem: I'm not a miracle worker.

Something worth mentioning, and sadly the probable least of my problems, is that most of these kids lack proper soccer gear. Some have cleats, but no shin guards. Some wear shin guards but don't have long socks (hello, AYSO U-7). Shurik (most of my kids have ethnic names), a freshman, shows up to practice every single day in his trusty Tevas. If you're familiar with Tevas, or click on the link provided, you'll see that not only do they provide zero support or traction, they aren't even complete shoes. I beg him every day to buy some cleats, or at least a pair of sneakers. But everyday he comes in those damn sandals, kicking the ball with his toe, which happens to be protected by that trademark Teva rubber. Maybe that's why he prefers them.

In addition, I have a theory that has throughout my lifetime generally proven true: The more the book smarts, the less the street smarts. A few days ago, a new kid named Ilya came to practice and asked if he could be on the team. According to BUA policy, everybody gets to play. It doesn't matter that we are halfway through the season. Anyway, he shows up 15 minutes into practice and all the kids are paired up, passing. I tell Ilya, and I quote, to "go hop in with the end group and pass 3-way with them." He looks me in the eye with a telling look of determination, like he really wants impress me and be an integral member of this team. At that point, I lose him. Little Ilya proceeds to put his feet together, crouches down, and starts literally bunny hopping in the direction of the group I told him to join. He was dead serious- I had to explain to him that it was a figure of speech. Every time I'm around my team, it's like being in an Amelia Bedelia book.

So far I've only illustrated the dynamic of our intra-squad interaction... but what about when we play other teams?

We've only had 2 games so far, the first of which was a scrimmage. This 6 minute video link will do a better job describing the experience than my words can. (If you can't read the context clues from this post so far, I am cast as Steve Guttenberg). I'm 100% serious when I say that the ONLY differences between the game in the video and my actual game are: 1. We only lost 0-6, and 2. we didn't have a goat on the sideline. One of my players caught a ball with her hands to avoid heading it. Another doesn't understand the concept of off-sides. At all. But that ended up actually benefitting us... the other team was called off-side on a breakaway because apparently I was the only person who saw poor Ishan standing 30 yards behind the rest of his backline. I later found out the team we played isn't in our league, or even our division. That was a huge relief. At the end of the day, I was actually pleased we only lost by 6 goals- it could have easily been 0-22. But we still got spanked.

Our first league game, the first that counted on my record as a head coach, was a little different. We won 5-3! OK, so the school we played was The Learning Center School for the Deaf. Let's not split hairs here, it's still a win. I'm proud of my little dingdongs for getting a W, even if it was at the mercy of a handicapped team.

Perhaps I'm a little too harsh on my kids. Soccer, and sports in general, are a new concept for most of them. Half of my players miss practices every week because of Robotics Club meetings and viola lessons, for pete's sake. I just want the beautiful game that's taught me so much about life to leave even if just the slightest impression on my ragamuffins. And with an undefeated record so far this season (hey, 1-0 is still considered undefeated), how can I really complain? I'm probably learning more from these kids than they are from me. With a little gumption, some elbow grease, and a prayer, maybe by the end of the season I can get Shurik, Ilya, Ishan, and the rest of my ethnically-named squirts to play some decent soccer.

After all, Rome wasn't built in a day.

1861, 1941, 2001

Following excerpts are taken from George Packer's "Inertia, Not Progress Defines the Decade After 9/11." The New Yorker. 12 Sept. 2011.

"Of the three attacks that have provoked the United States into a major war—in 1861, 1941, and 2001—only one came as a complete surprise. Fort Sumter had been under siege for months when, just before daybreak on April 12, 1861, Confederate batteries around Charleston Harbor, after giving an hour’s notice, opened fire on the Federal position. The Japanese attack at Pearl Harbor, on December 7, 1941, was a violent shock, but only in the nature and extent of the destruction: by then, most Americans had come to believe that the country would be dragged into the global war with Fascism one way or another, though their eyes were fixed on Europe, not the Pacific.

"The attacks of 9/11 were the biggest surprise in American history, and for the past ten years we haven’t stopped being surprised. The war on terror has had no discernible trajectory, and, unlike other military conflicts, it’s almost impossible to define victory.

"Adam Goodheart’s new book, '1861: The Civil War Awakening,' shows that the start of the conflict was accompanied, in what was left of the Union, by a revolutionary surge of energy among young people, who saw the dramatic events of that year in terms of the ideals of 1776: 'the overdue effort to sort out the double legacy of America’s founders: the uneasy marriage of the Declaration’s inspired ideals with the Constitution’s ingenious expedients.'
Pearl Harbor was similarly clarifying. It put an instant end to the isolationism that had kept American foreign policy in a chokehold for two decades. In the White House on the night of December 7th, Franklin Roosevelt’s Navy Secretary, Frank Knox, whispered to Secretary of Labor Frances Perkins, 'I think the boss must have a great load off his mind. . . . At least we know what to do now.' The Second World War brought a truce in the American class war that had raged throughout the thirties, and it unified a bitterly divided country.

"This isn’t to deny that there were fierce arguments, at the time and ever since, about the causes and goals of both the Civil War and the Second World War. But 1861 and 1941 each created a common national narrative (which happened to be the victors’ narrative): both wars were about the country’s survival and the expansion of the freedoms on which it was founded. Nothing like this consensus has formed around September 11th.

"After the attacks, Americans asked, 'Why do they hate us?' This turned out to be the wrong line of inquiry. The most pressing questions were about us, not them: our leaders, our institutions, our ability to act as a cohesive nation and make rational decisions, our power to take action abroad in a way that would not be a self-defeating waste. Starting with the intelligence failures that did not foresee the attacks, every major American institution flunked the test of the September 11th decade. The media got the W.M.D.s wrong. The military failed to plan for chaos in postwar Iraq. Congress neglected its oversight duties. The political system produced no statesmen. C.E.O.s and financiers couldn’t see past short-term profits. The Bush Administration had one major success: it succeeded in staving off another terrorist attack in America. It botched almost everything else."



Note: This post should in no way be interpreted as a denouncement of our military troops fighting in the Middle East and elsewhere. I support the U.S. military and am thankful everyday for the soldiers who fight for our country. It is the decisions made at the top with which I do not always agree.


To read more about our fractured post-9/11 America, check out the entire article: http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2011/09/12/110912fa_fact_packer#ixzz1Xx68Rr6Y

Pipe down!

Time for another crotchety grumbling.

September 9, 2011: The first Friday night of the academic school year at Boston University. The first night of freedom for hundreds, nay thousands of horny eighteen year-olds thirsting for alcohol. The first night for these youngsters away from their parents, without the dreaded prospect of class the next day. The loudest night of the year.


If you have in any capacity been following my blog for the past (almost) year, you've probably picked up on the fact that one of the few things I cannot and do not tolerate is the increasingly inconsiderate nature of people. On average, the level of consideration for others decreases exponentially for each new generation. This means that my generation, Generation Y, is somewhat more considerate than the newest generation, Generation Z (aka the "Internet Generation"). Subsequently, the Greatest Generation (see former post, The frightening future), the last living generation of the present day, has by far the most consideration for others. Though I have no quantifiable data to back this theorem, you know it's an undeniable fact- especially if you are a member of one of the older generations.

Last night, after I scrubbed the day off, brushed my teeth, and crawled into my long-johns, I nestled under my sheets excited for the restful sleep that awaited. Yes, it was 10:30pm on a Friday. Yes, I am a healthy, exuberant 23 year-old. Go ahead and judge me for my state of affairs last night. Even though I was under the weather, I probably would have been doing the same thing regardless, as my party years have petered out. I'll take a nice bottle of cabernet over a 40oz. of Mickey's in a heartbeat.

Right as my head hit the pillow, the underage collegiate atmosphere came to life almost en queue. Multiple ambulances screamed down the street, armed with stomach pumps to rescue morons who thought it would be a great idea to play Power Hour with their three best frenemies Jack, Jim, and Jose (Daniels, Beam, and Cuervo). Shit-faced barely-legals stumbled down the sidewalks in their vagina-bearing short skirts and 6-inch heels, shrieking unintelligible Facebook acronyms ("O-M-GGGG!!!). And of course, some DJ-Pauly D-wannabe neighbor, whom I was unable to locate geographically, turned his subwoofers to their highest setting and played the most God-awful, loud, fist-pumping techno "music" for 3 straight hours. I could never understand the point of music that loud (how can you possibly communicate with others?), or techno in general, but I digress. Does this fool not realize there are scores of other residents around him, some of whom have life goals that don't include looking like a leather sack, finding someone different to "smoosh" every night, and taking body shots off Snooki?

While you may argue that it is my fault that I chose to live near students, it is something a destitute grad student in the city of Boston cannot elude. ~55 colleges exist within a 5 mile radius, leaving quiet, affordable living options scarce. And I don't think I'm being completely unreasonable here- fine, be as loud as you want until 11pm, then simply turn your volume (vocal, sound system, and otherwise) DOWN. Or leave and go to an actual bar or club. I have no problem with that.

Tonight is Saturday, and I do not expect the noise pollution to be any better than last night. However, I have to wake up at 8am tomorrow to travel to UMASS-Amherst to broadcast a game, and will not hesitate to own the role of that bitchy, party-pooping neighbor who calls the cops and shuts your party down. So please have some consideration, and keep your music and voices to a reasonable decibel and bass level. Thank you.