Yesterday on the Other Side of the World

Music Composition Course

2008-09-12T18:19:00.001+08:00

College students are concerned about many things, one of which is the grade point average (GPA). It is both universal and personal at the same time. Everybody has one, but many people try to keep it private. In that way, it is like your underwear. However, your GPA doesn’t change everyday. In that way, it is unlike your underwear. As an average, it changes only slowly, with your latest course grades comprising a smaller and smaller fraction of the whole, as the years go by.

Some courses are popular because their average grade is A. Thus, taking such courses can raise one’s GPA. (unless you’re that guy of whom “an A drops his GPA!”. In Princeton, you can do better than an A – an A+ counts for 4.3 points, whereas an A counts for 4 points. Thus, with enough A+s, one’s GPA could be pulled up over 4, and an A would indeed drop one’s GPA.)

So how could students be adventurous and take courses far from their comfort zones, without fear of the effect this would have on their GPAs? The pass/fail system provides a way. If you “take a course pass/fail”, any passing grade is recorded as “P” (pass), and any failing grade is recorded as “F”. Courses taken pass/fail do not count towards one’s GPA. Most interestingly, the professor teaching the course does not know which students are taking it pass/fail.

I hardly took advantage of the pass/fail system. One of the few times I did was for a music composition course. This course was the second in a series of two, and I had not taken the first one. I was not planning to work hard in this course. I wanted to properly take advantage of the pass/fail system, so I could have more time for leisure and for my other courses. Besides, I believed that the efforts put in should be commensurate with the potential rewards. Thus, I didn’t study for this course. The professor put a generous selection of listening and reading materials on reserve at the music library. I didn’t listen to any of it. I couldn’t, or I would be wasting the pass/fail privilege!

I attended most of the classes. They weren’t held at an ungodly time of day like 9 am, and besides, I wanted to learn something. Classes had the cosy atmosphere of precepts, with lots of interaction. Our able instructor was a practicing composer from eastern Europe, that I shall call H. I like the way he stressed the fundamentals. H wanted us to have a good understanding of established principles of harmony. Thus, for a good while, we studied Bach chorals, as models of four-part harmony. Lucky me! Bach is one of my favorite composers.

Learning by example has its peculiarities. In many cases, we could observe music composition rules in action. For example, we observed that parallel fifths and parallel eights are rare or never seen in the chorals, and therefore they are bad.

Which came first? The chorals or the rules? Are parallel fifths bad because Bach avoids using them, or does Bach avoid them because they are bad? Once, we spotted a place where Bach had not followed a rule. People took the opportunity to pounce on Bach. Some of us tried to help Bach out, giving excuses for him along the lines of why the rule didn’t apply in this case. However, others refused to bend the rules, always staying ahead with the “but”s.

The TA eventually had to admit, with a sheepish grin, that he had no better explanation than:

“Well, indeed we see that Bach did it, so it must be ok.”

Since it was a music composition class, we had a couple of homework assignments in which we needed to submit our original compositions. I went with what was most familiar to me – a composition in what I thought was the style of Mozart. It was sweet, simple and … well … lightweight (ok, that’s enough of insulting the memory of the great Amadeus – I didn’t really think it was in the style of Mozart; maybe it was more in the classical style, in general). Well, it was only a homework assignment anyway.

Who was to know that H would choose to discuss our homework in class! It was a small class, so we had time to go through all the compositions. When it came around to mine, my ears got hot and my tongue got sticky. I nodded and smiled, and hoped it would be over soon – what if somebody pointed out how pathetic it was? Somebody said: “it’s nice, kind of classical-style – like Mozart”. H didn’t have any criticism of my piece that I could remember, but then it was time for the next guy’s piece. H looked at the first few bars and started frowning, and then suggesting modifications. The student tried to explain how it should go, and boldly ventured “it’s nice”. H barely looked up to acknowledge that remark. He continued frowning. “Yes … it’s nice … but … how about …” and “or how about …”.

Another time, it was H’s turn to be on the examining table (and this he climbed onto voluntarily). He showed us one of his own compositions. I don’t remember H’s comments, except that they were not as flowing and confident as when he commented on other composers’ works. I found that the piece had a pleasing effect from combining two instruments in a certain way. If I could go back to the class today, I would have spoken this complement out loud, however, I kept silent. And my unspoken remark passed into that abstract trash heap of unsaid words. It’s a trash heap both universal and personal at the same time.

There is a Murphy’s law for everything. The Murphy’s law for the pass/fail system is: when you take a course pass/fail, you will get an uncounted A+. This Murphy’s law came and bit me after the composition class was done. Curiously, I felt both happy and sad when I saw the A+ from H. An A+ always got me going, but in this case … I guess H never found out I could not officially receive his generous grade. It was like when H played his composition for us and my complement remained in my head.

on-campus job

2007-06-22T01:12:00.001+08:00

I was once supposed to get into the food services industry. Rebel that I was, I conveniently forgot to attend the meeting that would have launched my food services career. In a sense, I took the road less taken, and it made all the difference.

My studies at Princeton were financially supported not just by my dad but also by a generous need-based financial aid package. The financial aid package was mostly in the form of grants. However, the remainder was supposed to come from my earnings from a part-time on-campus job. As such, a job was earmarked for me with the Department of Food Services. This would have been kicked off at an orientation meeting, an orientation meeting that I somehow forgot to attend.

The Department of Food Services, affectionately known as DFS, is what provides 3 meals a day for hundreds of freshmen & sophomores at Princeton. DFS employs many students who cook, serve food, clean up and so on. I think students who work for them are put on a roster for the various duties. I'd know the details, but then again my career in the food services industry never did take off, did it?

I used to be very respectful of authority, so my non-attendance at that DFS kickoff meeting was a radical move that stirred up large dust clouds of guilt within me. The dust clouds had not yet settled when I heard that CIT was hiring. CIT stands for Computer & Information Technology. Now that was something I felt would be more to my liking.. and which might assuage my guilt. Moreover, I had the notion that being a high powered computer consultant beat beingif a lowly dish washer.

Did I really want a job? Maybe not really. I was afraid that the office of financial aid would somehow track me down and find out that I had not taken up their DFS assignment and ask nasty questions. I would have something to show them as a substitute. I would show them how resourceful I had been. However they never did come by to ask.

I was interviewed by a guy called Irwin. He gave the impression of being more at ease with computers than with people.

Then came the long wait. I had read that it was good to ''show interest" to improve one's chances of getting the desired job. So I went back to the computer center a few days after my interview, to look for Irwin.

''Have you decided yet?

Not yet.

Awkward silence.

Well... I'm here because... I really want this job ...

(I was out of things to say; I had not prepared for this)

Nod. Irwin, a man of few words too.

Finally, I got the job. I became one of the few, the proud, the computer consultants! When you need to use a CDROM but don't know how to make your computer read it, who do you call? CIT! When you need to login to a unix computer that has the software you need to do your homework, but you've never used unix before, who do you call? CIT! When you're all stressed out and pulling all-nighters to complete a paper before the deadline, and then your stupid computers conks on you, who do you call? CIT!

Of course, we computer consultants were not all equal. When we first began, we each had to complete some self- training modules, after each of which we would be grilled by more experienced fellow consultants who had long since completed the modules themselves. Some of these guys exuded such an aura, a mystique, that when they walked by, they would leave a trail of obscure computer knowledge in their wake, and those of us in training would ooh and aah like little girls at a wedding as the bride walked by. One of these superstars was K. ''You mean K is a student too?" I once asked a fellow consultant. Images came to mind of K sitting in class, asking questions. It was incongruous, mind boggling!

Computer consultants could sign up for shifts in the computer center or in some of the computer clusters sprinkled around campus. Some of us prefered computer center shifts where you'd work with a bunch of other consultants to handle calls and walk-in customers. Anti-social guy that I was, I prefered shifts in the clusters where you could get to be a lone ranger hero when printers ran out of toner or some damsel in distress was having problems opening files, etc.

Picture an operating room table with an unconscious patient lying on it. He's surrounded by folks in surgical scrubs and masks.

Yo, check out this guy's lard tub and how it jiggles.

Stop it! You're killing my appetite.

I was told that such scenes do occur. But its not something that doctors would be proud of. Its not cool to make fun of the customers. Similarly, in computer consulting, one sometimes had to fight hard to keep a straight face when faced with severely "computer challenged" customers. Unlike patients on an operating table, these folks are capable of seeing you roll your eyes up and so on. And they're capable of feeling outraged too.

It helps if you're doing phone consulting, so long as you can control the tone of your voice. The following is a true story. It happened to an unnamed consultant.

The mouse is not working.

What kind of computer is it?

I dunno.

Is it an IBM PC? A Mac?

uh... a Mac..

Are you sure?

Yeah, a mac.

Can you click any of the mouse buttons?

uh, buttons?

Yes. As in left button and right button... On the mouse

There's only one button.

Wait a minute- are you sure it's a mac?

uh...

Look at the front panel of the computer. Is there a picture of a colorful apple there? Or does it say IBM?

The letters I, B and M?

You got it.

Yeah. It says IBM.

Who wants to study liberal arts?

2006-10-19T00:23:00.000+08:00

“So, yeah, in Princeton there’s a great focus on undergraduate education. There’s no business school, no law school …”

I was trying to highlight the distinctive features of Princeton to a Malaysian friend who wanted to know how the university was different.

I was about to go on about how there was also no medical school either – there were no postgraduate career-oriented schools – so it could concentrate on traditional undergraduate areas of study. There were more undergraduates than graduate students, and the graduate student residences were located a tad off from the main campus whereas the undergraduate residences were all centrally located on-campus.

“But then what is Princeton well known for? Engineering?” she said.

“There’s no medical school either. Yes, there is engineering … but the central core is in the liberal arts. Things like philosophy, psychology, …”

I was feeling very proud of myself, how I hadn’t just self-centeredly boasted about the engineering school that had been so good to me in years past and also kindly offered me a visiting position recently, and instead been able to provide a more objectively accurate picture of the university as a whole. Perhaps, had I not been interrupted again, I might have gone on to concede that there were other universities with more stellar reputations in engineering education, and which might be better for hard-core engineering students. Nevertheless, I preferred Princeton’s style of engineering education, with a generous flexibility that allows engineering students to explore electives in the liberal arts and humanities. I might have expounded on the joys of discovering the classics, of seeing where centuries-old political theories still had relevance in the modern world, of …

“How is the student enrollment? Has it been dropping?” she said.

Dropping?! Why? Had I said something to give the impression that the university was full of demoralized students and professors, or that it had neither identity nor vision for moving forward, or was otherwise on the decline?

“Who wants to study liberal arts?” she said, in response to the puzzlement probably written on my face.

Who wants to study liberal arts? Indeed, how are the writings of dead philosophers going to help me make good money in the future?

I suddenly realized what a wide gulf there was between our perceptions of the reasons for going to university, what people are looking for in selecting a university, and what universities need to provide to students in order to be successful. Up to that moment, I did have some vague notions about there being differences in educational philosophies in different countries, but those notions remained disorganized scraps of paper in the office of my mind. There had been no moment of acute insight, when all these scraps had come together harmoniously into a coherent whole. There had been no defining experience when they had coalesced into an existential truth for me.

Furthermore, these notions had more to do with differences in the ways students were (or were not) being led to explore new ways of thinking, helped to release their creative potential, and so on. Now, a more fundamental issue had emerged. It wasn’t just about differences in how universities were achieving their missions, but about what the mission was in the first place. We simply disagreed on what constituted a university. And that was my modest epiphany of the day.

Various memories came to mind, and I began to see with a startling new vividness, how they fit so snugly into my reorganized framework of thinking.

“So, you’re studying medicine – where did you do your pre-med? What? No pre-med? You went straight into medicine after secondary school? But how could you know at such an early age …” The brash, young, immature 18-year-old that she once was – the nerve of that 18-year-old make such a decision and lock her into such a career track so early in life! Not to mention that she’d be missing out on what I considered the “university experience”.

It’s not just in Malaysia that the best students flock to medicine. A friend from Korea recently mentioned that they have such a bandwagon in Korea too – to the acute consternation of professors in the engineering department (who once had the pleasure of teaching the best and brightest, and could count on the assistance of such to keep their research projects moving healthily along). Maybe a US-type system could give professors in engineering and other areas sufficient time to lure some students into their fold, thus resulting in a more balanced distribution of talent.

Many people would disagree. The extra years it takes to become qualified to practice medicine and law in the US system are years when somebody could already begin earning a salary. And to most people, a few years’ salary is nothing to laugh at.

Is a university education meant to prepare one for a particular career? Or is it meant to guide one to an intangible expansion of mind? (and as O.W. Holmes Jr. said, a mind once stretched by a new idea never regains its original dimension)

Alternative ideas are not in short supply. Millions have read of the “rich dad, poor dad” concept and come to believe that the traditional university system (even, and especially, including top universities) locks its best and brightest graduates into a difficult and unfulfilling life. Why? Because it trains its students only to be good employees, whereas the key to success is in entrepreneurship, making your money “work for you” rather than the other way around, and so on. Of course, all this is based a whole other system of beliefs that we don’t have time to get into here.

How, then, should a young person decide on the best course of action? Perhaps a university education may help in making a wise decision. It may at least buy the student some time. Then again, whether you get that time depends on the university you attend.

A Thanksgiving's Tale

2006-02-26T19:06:00.000+08:00

During the days of grad school in the land of Stanford, there was a time when I made my dwellings with 3 other men (known as the apartment-mates) in an on-campus abode. The dwelling was in the Rains apartment complex. Rains, in those days, was the holy grail of Stanford University graduate student housing; every graduate student wanted to live there. It was not as ancient as Escondido Village and had a brighter ambiance, with its stylish design and fresh painted white walls and ceilings. Walking around Rains, my feet would acquire an extra spring, a sort of lightness. Maybe it was just in my head, or maybe there was really a slight flexibility due to anti-earthquake design features; in any case, I enjoyed living there.

What are four men living in beautiful Rains to do about food? The year before, my first year in the land of Stanford, I had ventured to be an "eating associate" at a special undergraduate abode called "East House"; East was a Chinese-themed dormitory with Chinese food for dinner everyday. The food at East was alright, but it wasn't cheap being an eating associate. Meanwhile, the four of us in Rains, after some discussions, decided it might be worth trying to take care of ourselves. We took turns shopping and cooking, and divided the costs four ways. Eventually, the arrangement broke down, due to unhappiness over the eating habits of others, the cooking styles of others and so on. There were rumors in the air that "the deLicious Word drinks milk like water", plus murmuring over the wisdom of some people's food shopping choices ("why should we have to share the costs for this fellow's purchases of his favorite snacks?").

However, in the early days of the cooperative eating arrangement, before we went our separate ways (foodwise), there was one meal that we would be long in forgetting. It happened the first Thanksgiving Day. Unlike the millions of others in the Land of America who would be making pilgrimages to the abodes of their kin in order to partake of the traditional meal together, we in Rains did not go anywhere that Thanksgiving. Kenny volunteered to prepare the traditional meal, the Thanksgiving Dinner, that in the absence of our kin, we might at least partake of a special meal with one another. In addition to the mandatory turkey, there were also to be found on the dinner table the almost mandatory corn, stuffing and so on, plus less mandatory items like green peas. After having waited from morning till mid-afternoon for this special meal, and having skipped lunch, I found the food to be wonderful. The fellow could cook, too, which didn't hurt, and he had put a stick of butter into every side dish, which certainly didn't hurt either.

The pen is famously known to be mightier than the sword. Slightly less well-known is the might of a stick of butter. After the meal, we felt the power of a stick of butter. More precisely, we felt the combined might of a stick of butter in every dish. It compelled me to lie down in bed and laze away the rest of the day. It was helped by the fact that it was a day when resistance was weakest, since Thanksgiving Day and the day after Thanksgiving are traditionally holidays, and are always on Thursday and Friday, leading to a nice long weekend. So there we all lay, each in our own beds, defeated and contented.

That day, however, out of the depths of lethargy and slumber arose a new hero. Jerry was already known far and wide for his work ethic; it was said that his normal position was in front of his desk. Still, this same Jerry now accomplished a feat that would be talked about for ages to come.

It is the lot of aspirant to the title of Ph.D. candidate that the aspirant must find a professor who would be willing to take him on as one of his or her apprentices. Upon successful completion of this quest, the aspirant enters into membership of that professor's "research group", and the professor becomes his or her master, adviser and guide. In order to successfully woo his desired professor, an aspirant might embark on heroic quests to win the admiration of the master. So it was that Jerry arose and went forth on such a quest. That Thanksgiving Day, Jerry labored past midnight; he continued the following day and completed an epic 26-page research paper. The results of his labor were presented the following week to the professor in question. It was a staggering feat of will-power, self-control and determination that would long be talked about even though Jerry eventually entered into membership in another professor's research group. The rest of us were in awe and felt honored to be witnesses to such heroism.

Such were the tales that were told. Men and women of valor, striving against impossible odds to achieve honor and glory. Some whispered of a Ph.D. candidate who had been in the land of Stanford for 18 years... and counting! If the storyteller was pressed for details, he might, given the right mood and occasion, reveal the rumor that this student had once actually gone for a Ph.D. thesis defense. This was said to have been 9 or 10 years ago. Unfortunately, it had been revealed that someone else had already done the same work, and so this student had had to start all over again. And there were other such tales.

In addition to the challenge of gaining membership in a research group, the aspiring Ph.D. candidate was also required to pass a test. The official name of the dreaded test was the "Ph.D. qualifying exam", but among aspirants it was known as the "quals". But enough for now - the quals will be the subject of other tales.

BREAK: Alfred White Northhead actually said that?!

2006-02-16T00:49:00.000+08:00

Today's "quote of the day", apparently by Alfred White Northhead:

"There are no whole truths; all truths are half- truths. It is trying to treat them as whole truths that plays the devil."

Unbelievable! If this statement is really true, i.e., it is a whole truth, then it follows (if it is indeed a whole truth) that this statement is NOT a whole truth. In other words, the logical implications of it being really true are that it is NOT really true. Thus, this kind of self-referentially inconsistent statement cannot be true. It can only be false.

My previous impressions of Northhead were that he was a smart logician, co-author (with the more famous Bertrand Russell) of Principia Mathematica. Amazing how he could have said this, presumably in all seriousness.

ps. Unlike some more powerful blogging platforms, blogspot doesn't allow "categories", so until I transition to a better blogging platform, I may put the word "BREAK" in the title of certain posts to indicate I'm taking a time-out from the normal entries in this blog and doing something different.

drip drip

2006-01-26T01:48:00.000+08:00

In college, there were nights when I’d work till 3 or 4 in the morning, then climb into bed dreading the ring of the alarm clock at 8:45 for my 9 am class. Those must not have been the only kinds of nights, since there was at least one night during my sophomore year that was different. I had climbed into the upper bunk of the bunk bed (I got the upper bunk both years that I had roommates; they would always arrive on campus before I did). I must have been in bed earlier than usual that night, because my roommate Jay was in the lower bunk, and we were chatting.

Big deal, so what? Lots of roommates talk to each other in college dorms all over the world. Indeed, the details of that particular conversation – perhaps it was about life, the future, girlfriends – have been lost forever. But into the pit of mundaneness came something that would transform the night forever (or for a very long time at least).

Many dorm rooms at Princeton are in buildings constructed 1 or 2 centuries ago. Such was this one, in Holder Hall. We were on the 4^th floor of a 5-floor ancient building, and had a living room and tiny bedroom. The bedroom felt even smaller because part of its ceiling that was slanted, perhaps because it was under the lower portion of the roof of the building. The presence of a large skylight in the slanted part of the ceiling helped bring cheer to an otherwise windowless room. The slanted ceiling was over the part of the room next to the door, so it could be seen immediately upon entrance. The bunk bed was tucked away towards the inside of the room, next to the walk-in closet. Jay’s desk was out in the living room, whereas mine was in the bedroom under the skylight.

So, on that night, we were each in our respective bunks, and it was dark except for some weak beams of light that were ending their long journey from the moon on my desk under the skylight.

Drip drip
A trickle
we
g
r
a
d
u
a
l
l
y
noticed
some liquid was coming into the room in small drops. Were it not for the sound of the collision of each drop with my desk by the wall, we may not have noticed. I wasn’t particularly bothered. So small did the trickle seem. But Jay got up and checked it out. On came the flashlight. “Hey, it’s coming from the skylight.” Moan, groan, now what?

The lights came on. I sat up. We enlisted the aid of our senses of sight and smell. The liquid was pale and slightly yellowish, especially when seen collected in the slowly growing puddle on my desk. Jay detected its smell too. “Someone’s going to the bathroom upstairs, and its coming in through the open window!” (there was no bathroom upstairs – the only bathrooms were in the basement way below)

My mind was still working in slow motion, but already, Jay was leaving our room and charging up the stairs to determine the culprit. Well, we knew the 4 guys living in the 5^th floor room (it was a “quad”, whereas our room was a “double”) above, but it still didn’t hurt that Jay was a football player. I wonder what I might have done or not done, had I had a single room, but my roommate was headed upstairs, and so I followed. There was a loud knocking on their door, some yelling when they opened it, and finally, a storming of the bedroom of Tad, one of the 4 occupants of the room.

Tad, understandably, was not happy to be have been roused from bed. Maybe he had pulled a couple of all-nighters in a row and was very tired (not an uncommon situation in college). Maybe after months of having to walk down 5 flights of stairs, and then one more, to get to the basement to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, he’d gotten tired of doing so. Maybe he hadn’t been able to sink back easily into deep sleep after previous bathroom runs, especially after the stimulating climb up the stairs. In any case, he had decided that night that opening his window and using the roof beneath as his urinal would be much more convenient making the bathroom run.

Now, he was being roused by an angry football player seeking justice. Even the angry football player’s roommate, normally mild-mannered and unassuming, was in Tad’s room confronting him. Crap, why did this have to happen? The angry football player demanded that he go down and clean up the mess he had made.

Still rubbing his eyes, Tad grabbed a big white towel and walked down to our room with us. Jay pointed. Tad wiped. Jay pointed some more. Tad wiped some more. “And there too”, and so on. Maybe it would have been easier to just go down to the bathroom in the basement like everyone else. After a while it was all done. Jay might have asked me if there was anything else I’d like Tad to do, I don’t remember. Anyway, I didn’t make any demands, and Tad took his towel and left.

The next day, it was back to business as usual, using the desk – I don’t recall scrubbing the desk with soap and water or disinfectant or anything like that. After all, when one moves into a dorm room, one never knows how the previous occupants have treated the furniture (the same applies for hotel rooms). If one were to get paranoid about all the dead skin cells, bed mites and other stuff left in the mattresses by previous occupants, one would not be able to get a good night’s rest. For the record, I enjoyed some of the best sleep ever on the mattresses in the dorm rooms in Princeton – they were thick, and they had just the right amount of bounce for me.

Anyway, nothing like that ever happened again. Luckily for me, none of my books or papers was damaged or otherwise contaminated. I only threw out some dental floss that had happened to be in the path of the urine shower.

the World Cup cometh, part 2

2005-10-17T01:09:00.000+08:00

One of the dream match ups of the 1994 World Cup was the US vs. Brazil, a 2^nd round match up in Stanford stadium that took place on the Americans' Independence Day. Independence Day – the 4^th of July – holds a special place in the American psyche. Nobody, not even Brazil, is going to come waltzing in on the 4^th of July and beat the Americans at home. Nobody, not without a big fight. This would be one game in which the Brazilian supporters wouldn’t dominate the other team's supporters. Would the samba stylists from Brazil prevail, or would the home team rise to the occasion on their special day?

I had recently purchased a “World Cup” T-shirt on sale at Costco. It said “Brazil” in big bold letters. Perhaps because I felt it might be appropriately related to the game we were about to watch, or perhaps because it was a new T-shirt and I just felt like wearing it, I wore it to the game. On the way to the stadium, we passed by some typical American guys who were also on their way there. One of them took a look at my T-shirt incredulously. He did a double-take, then exclaimed “Brazil?!” I just grinned and didn’t say anything – not because he appeared or sounded like a deranged fan looking for a tiff with Brazil supporters; not because I just wanted to let my T-shirt do the talking for me; not because I was thinking, “give it up, loser” and didn’t wish to say anything rude – but … (sigh) … because I was surprised and didn’t know how to respond.

I came to realize that the game would be more than just a bunch of superstar players entertaining the crowd. In that moment, that guy saw “Brazil”, and I saw that it would be really about promoting and exchanging ideas. It may have been portrayed as a clash of the titans, a struggle between nations, a gigantic tussle for bragging rights, and so on, but deep down it was about a debate between two sides, each bringing their ideas to the table. On the one hand, there were the notion that Brazil was a supremely established soccer power, that its players had the better, more crowd-pleasing skills, and that they deserved to go through to the next round. On the other hand, there was the more audacious notion that the US was finally going to break through into the top, that conditions were perfect for the home team to make its move on its Independence Day, and that David would slay Goliath. The match itself would be a debate of these ideas. How fitting in a way that it would be taking place in a university.

Some friends and I, getting into the spirit of the idea promotion and exchange thing, volunteered to give out tracts at some of the World Cup games. The tracts were from a Christian non-profit organization, Sports Christian Outreach, that used sports as a means to spread Christianity. The tracts focused on the story of Jorginho, a Christian defender on the Brazilian team, how he became a Christian and so on (to get people to think "hey, is this cool or what? I want it too..."). We positioned ourselves outside the stadium and handed out tracts to folks going to the game. Most people accepted the tracts. I’m not sure how many read them, though. At least a few folks read the glossy full-color cover, though. They noticed it had a picture of Jorginho in action on it. They came back and, like children pleading for ice cream, asked “Romario? Do you have some on Romario?” The image of star striker Romario on the tract would undoubtedly have been a better crowd puller. But, alas, we had no such other tract. I supposed that Romario was not a believer, or if he was, he maybe thought he was getting more than enough publicity already through his appearances on the soccer field.

Back to the game. Some people had brought a huge Stars and Stripes into the stadium. When unrolled, its shadow covered something like 300 people, behind one of the goal posts. Kel and I were close enough to it that we were almost in its shadow. Being almost but not quite under the shadow of the giant Stars and Stripes was wonderfully symbolic of us students from Asia who were comfortable but never completely at home in the country – a mixing of cultures and exchange of ideas – so I once thought. Now when I think back to it, a flag is a flag is a flag; it was just a big flag. The flag did help us, however, to locate ourselves on TV when we watched the TV coverage of the game later. We had become a part of the global TV coverage of the world cup. I’m proud of that contribution I made to global entertainment!

There was one ugly moment. And it happened so fast that I missed it. Without the benefit of slow-motion replays from multiple video recorders, I think most of those around me missed it too. We didn’t miss the sight of Tab Ramos writhing on the ground, and a Brazilian player standing by him, looking confused. There were scattered murmurs from around the stadium. Other players were going over, and some pushing and shoving was beginning. The referee ran over and took charge, bringing out the dreaded red card. He held it in Leonardo’s face, and Brazil was reduced to ten men. This was right before half-time.

Surprisingly, the 2^nd half begun with Brazil as the aggressor. The yellow shirts made numerous forays deep into US territory. When the US managed to get the ball back, they had trouble even getting it out of their own half. If one Brazilian missed a tackle, another would time the next challenge perfectly, and would gracefully sweep the ball away, just before the US player had time to recover from the missed tackle.

Brazil won the game and went through to the next round, but the after-game talk was all about Leonardo’s elbow's bad date with Ramos’ face. It was like an excellent debate had just taken place, but people were all talking about how one of the debaters had shockingly and unsportingly insulted the mother of one of the other team’s debaters. Who says it’s a perfect world?

Voice from the past: the season of study begins (cont'd)

2005-08-07T01:14:00.000+08:00

The next day begins early. As normal, after a trip through time zones, I follow a sleep early, awake early pattern. I actually have breakfast! I do some unpacking, then start work. First a call to Franklin's secretary, then email to Franklin, both about the Hitachi fellowship. Turns out Franklin's not going to be back till Friday. Notification following his return. No, I cannot contact Hitachi directly - they don't know about their own fellowship. Only Franklin does. No, she doesn't know what percentage of applicants will receive the award. I later get a reply to my email. But not from Franklin. Apparently, his email has been forwarded to the secretary, and she impatiently reminds me to be patient. Friday's the day.

Jordan Hall is closed for lunch, so I eat at Tresidder. See Yen there. We both have Mexican food. After lunch, I procrastinate and check email. There, I realize that I had not brought my work for Gray (EE 372) along. So I go back to the room to get it. I do not find it there - unfortunately, it is in one of the boxes under Jean's control. Perhaps she is on holiday in LA and won't be back for a while. Meanwhile, I want to get a copy of my transcript. I remember that the pertinent computer system is available at strange hours. 12-2 it is unavailable, then 2-4 it is ok, then 4-6 it is not, and so on, I recall. So I have to wait. I decide to call May. Someone answers the phone. Wrong voice. Wrong number. Old number. I forgot to get her new number while back home.

Finally, it is 2pm. I go back to the computer room. I login. I was wrong - 12-2 it is available, then 2-4 it is not, then 4-6 it is... stupid computer. I decide to forgo the transcript for a while and go to Durand. Before approaching Clover or Fox, I make copies of the Princeton transcript. Then I see through the glass that there is someone else in Clover's office. So I walk up 2 floors to look for Fox. I find his office, but the door is closed. I do not knock. After some pacing and thinking, I go down again to Clover... I knock. There is a new guy in there. Clover smiles and tells me to return in 5 minutes. I relax a little. 10 minutes later, it is about 3:20pm and I see Clover.

I paraphrase : "Your work was good. The presentation went well, but I had high expectations, so I would give it (the presentation) a B." "I am going on sabbatical... I haven't had this many students in a long time... etc. etc. I cannot offer you a RA'ship at this time. possibly if the other proposal kicks in and overlaps starting winter quarter, I might have money for you in the Winter quarter. But that will be just to help you and to repay for prior services... what you want is long-term, leading to a PhD... I am not prepared to offer that at this time... (so many students around, etc.)." Do I leave? No. I start discussing some ideas of possible work that might be done. He gets the message and answers the unspoken question. "If you come up with any breakthroughs, we can find a way for you to come crashing back in ... I can stretch a little" (breakthrough, crashing, stretch, were all his words ... not my paraphrase). He invites me to continue to attend his group meetings if I want.

I leave with a smile on my face and a burden off my shoulders. Weeks of uncertainty are know over, and I am basking in the glow of the resolution of one of many uncertainties, a big one at that. After weeks of guessing games, subtleties and insinuations, it is quite a relief. I wait till 4 to print the transcript, then return to make copies and see Fox. This time, I knock. A low voice bellows, "Yes...". Fox IS in. I am somewhat surprised that he is talking to another student. Words gets around fast ("new prof in town, new money!"). I pace around more till the guy leaves and then I return.

The discussion with Fox is unlike the Clover one. I am simultaneously talking and making accessments. I take in the sights and sounds. I watch the man talk, I watch him move, I listen to the words. Unlike Clover, I don't know this guy at all. Well, barely.

"Have you decided on your research yet?"

".... blah blah blah (topics of interest)... computer simulations and theory"

I latch onto his mention of TDMA/CDMA as a topic of interest and start discussing... I also show I have read his papers... mentioning how low-power constraints limit the amount of signal processing possible, thus handicapping advocates for CDMA in low-power ubiquitous tranceivers of the kind Fox likes. That is straight out of one of his papers and he recognizes it. Does he like it? He wears a poker-face.

After more beating around the bush, I ask if he plans to hire any student this quarter. He replies that he will be hiring one, just one RA. He has barely moved in, after all, etc., etc., and is not officially at Stanford. Not wanting it to end there, I ask "So when will you be here?" , etc. and prolong the session with rapport-seeking comments and questions. I hand him a copy of my transcripts, which he barely glances over. I try to empathize with his problems of all the moving in he has to do. He seems to respond and tells me that he needs to buy a Mac and has to decide before ordering, etc., etc. I make a stupid joke about the place not yet looking like a "professor's office", which should have books and papers lying all over the floor and so on and he says that will happen soon - he defends himself, saying his office at Bellcore did look like a "professor's office". And so on. I leave the office, priding myself on my wit, despite being in the pit of sleepiness from jet lag, although I don't know what approach best suits this guy. Oh well, I have tried some.

Voice from the past: the season of study begins

2005-07-24T01:06:00.000+08:00

There were no blogs in the early days of the web. I’ve dug up an email from those days and will be presenting it, (very) lightly edited and with explanatory notes, broken up over a couple of postings. Editorial comments have been placed in square brackets [they look like this]. In a moment of day-dreaming, I imagined that some people might be bashful or might actually care about what I say in my postings, and so I decided to change the names of most people and do a couple of other secret things to confuse the readers.

This email was written early on in my postgraduate days. The season of rest was over and another season of study had just begun. In more mundane words, I had just returned to California after a nice long summer break. The immediate challenge was to find a professor willing to be my Ph.D. supervisor. Not requiring funding from them (e.g., if you were able to acquire external funding, from Hitachi or elsewhere) usually smoothed things out considerably.

The start of the email is in regular email style (regular for those days) and is a prelude to the actual text (which is a recount of my first couple of days back in California). I had just read a Gore Vidal novel that summer. I decided to sincerely flatter the author by imitating his style when I wrote the recount. My imitation of that style may not fool anybody, but I hope it is as much fun for you reading it as it was for me writing it.

* * *

Dear XYZ,

How are you? I am in the Rains computer room. Actually, in one of the two Rains computer rooms. This one is next to the 2 music practice rooms. As I write this, Kel is in his office working (preparing for his coming mechanical engineering quals [popular abbreviation for Ph.D. qualifying exams] and research proposal presentation ... he has to pass both to be admitted to the PhD program); Kenny might be back in the room after spending some time this morning in a Korean church; Jerry is in his room reading a paper by Fox, the prof who has agreed to let Jerry do independent work with him (because "it doesn't cost me anything")... he can't unpack till his boxes arrive maybe tomorrow. Anyway, I shall now write a little about the activities of the past week --

--------------------------------

The aircraft tilts to the left. We are circling while preparing for landing. I look out of the small window and see the grand layout of the Bay Area. I spot the Bay Bridge and see the city of Berkeley in the distance; here below us, Route 101 winds and turns its way through the busy city, a river of traffic, oblivious to the observers from above. There is the airport down on the left. I try to find Stanford on the right, but realize I am sitting on the wrong side of the plane. I make a mental note to ask for a seat on the right side the next time I fly here. We circle twice. I'm home. Sort of. I feel a little funny, perhaps from the wine ... 12% alcohol by weight. Like the champagne we had the week before in my other home. Real home.

Here I am. I finish the Toblerone before customs just to be safe. I catch a glimpse of H.P. from Singapore, together with his female traveling companion. I actually saw them first in Hong Kong. My thoughts strayed to the woman - Mother? Sister? Not very old. Girlfriend maybe? Only later do I read my email that new grad student H.P. has arrived ... with wife. Ha! It's funny to think that he was just a year ahead of me in Math Olympiad training camp so many years ago. Immigration is a breeze. The officer does not look at my folded I-20. He stamps the documents and says, "Thank you for being organized - it helps." I glide through customs as well. Yen is waiting for me outside.

We arrive on campus. Looks the same as usual. Yen has been yawning the whole trip - he pulled an all-nighter the night before to finish packing and moving. Yes, some things don't change.

The door is opened by Jerry. Kenny is there too! I am the last to arrive in my room on the first day that we are officially allowed to move in [a rare occurrence - usually if you arrive on the first day that you are officially allowed to move in, you will be first in and get your choice of bedroom (Kel had been allowed to move in earlier, since he stayed on campus over the Summer. Jerry came yesterday and Kenny flew in 2 hours ago). We smile and greet one another. The suite is complete.

After lunch, I get my key. I go check email and mail. My Princeton transcript is waiting for me, as are lots of magazines and journals and junk mail and real mail and stuff. No word about the Hitachi fellowship, though. Bummer. So I don't get to take the easy way out. Anyway, I nap for an hour. I still feel strange. I don't know if I am sleepy or hungry... basically the body is a little off-balance and confused. Poor I, wondering what time it is. The dinner we have is good, and we do some late-night shopping. We buy things like cereal and milk and bananas. Kenny has a rented car, so we can do all this. I try to get in touch with Jean, E.K's roommate, to get my boxes from their room. No luck, but we do drive over to T's and retrieve the rest of my assortment (including the long one which was originally the receptacle for Doug's golf clubs). I call home then go to bed.

TO BE CONTINUED

driving to Princeton

2005-07-09T16:00:00.000+08:00

The US can be called the land of the road. Roads and highways crisscross the country. People drive everywhere. One of the prominent icons of American literature is Jack Kerouac’s “On the Road”.

Most of the highways have numbers. Some have names too, but the primary way most highways are referred to is by the number. For instance, Route 101 is the backbone of life in the fast lane in the California Bay Area, cutting through Silicon Valley. Route 66 has been the beloved subject of an old song, and is also known as “the Mother road”. The situation is reversed in other countries like Malaysia, where expressways are typically known by their names, even if they also have numbers.

So I fly into the US to go to Princeton for college – and I go from the airport to the university on Route 1. Yes, Route 1 – not Route 573, not Route 1928, not Route 6873 – but Route 1. The first drive to college, on the road called Route 1. It’s the kind of thing that’s too perfect to be made up.

My dad accompanied me to college. We had flown in from London, where we had spent a few days visiting my uncle and aunt before going over to New York. We landed at JFK airport, one of the 3 international airports in the New York City vicinity. I would later end up almost exclusively using Newark Airport, one of the other 3 airports, but that day we flew in to JFK. Till today, I still don’t know how to drive to and from JFK. Till today, I have also never been to the other airport, LaGuardia. For all I know, I may have been duped and LaGuardia may not even exist.

Upon arrival, we were picked up by a driver in a limo. This had been arranged by a company that my dad was going to visit while in the US. Having (by now, not then) observed cars on four continents, I’d have to give the award for biggest cars to the North Americans. A limo is usually just a so-called “full-sized” car, not a compact car or smaller, which would be the norm in Europe and Asia. It’s not a big deal to ride in one. A stretch limo, on the other hand is cause to ooh and aah. You may catch one on the rare special occasion, like at some weddings. Alternatively, if you travel to and from the airport often enough on business travel, you may one day find yourself in a stretch limo on the way to the airport, not because you ordered one and are going to have a lot of explaining to do when you get back, but because they didn’t have any other car in which to pick you up that day. This actually happened to me once and I have the photo of the inside of the stretch limo to prove it.

Nick, the driver, was a big man with a receding hairline. He turned out to be quite talkative. I don’t remember all the things he said. However, I remember that he spoke passionately about the virtues of capitalism. My dad and I (especially my dad – in those days I was not in the habit of speaking much – I was more of an observer than anything else; I’ll write more on Asian culture and so on in a future entry) probed the depth of his thinking – we asked “what if …”, “but how …” and so on. He had an answer for everything. I now suspect he must often have had such conversations and was therefore well rehearsed.

Meanwhile, the drive on Route 1 was slow, almost leisurely. It was the first time I was in the US after having visited as a tourist when I was 11. I was struck by how far apart everything was. One-storey strip malls were strewn about here and there, and they had huge carparks (which I later learnt were called parking lots in the US) in front of them. People were also driving on the wrong side of the road. That didn’t impress me as much in those days before I had learnt how to drive. The turns felt funny, though. Even funnier were the jug-handle turns (a New Jersey specialty!), where people would keep to the right lane to make a left turn, or keep to the left lane to make a right turn.

There came the decisive moment when Nick got to the bottom line. He said it as confidently and optimistically as everything else he spoke that day, infused with conviction. It went something like this: “there will soon come a day when they will recognize the error of their ways; they will turn to capitalism … (long pause) … and we will welcome them!” And we would all live happily together afterwards … end of story (or so, one might add). This was way back in 1988 when the Cold War had not yet ended. The world was just the US and it allies, and the USSR and its allies. Some people thought the Cold War would last forever, or until mutually assured destruction happened. Others, more optimistic, could dream about the day when the communists would come around, and the world would be ushered into a new and glorious age. Little did we know that the Berlin Wall would be coming down in a few short years, that it would crumble before I and my classmates got out of college.

Neither did we foresee Tiananmen, Saddam Hussein in Kuwait, and other crazy events like those. The contemporary historical narrative was on the verge of great changes that would soon see a new world order. On that day, however, it was just the three of us driving along Route 1, and I was concerned not so much with the new world order but with my own new world into which I would be stepping. Unlike many of my classmates, who I presumed had visited the campus one or more times before deciding to attend, I had never stepped foot in Princeton before. I knew nobody in the US, and the nearest relatives that I knew of lived in London, whereas my family was all the way on the other side of the globe. Now, as we were cruising past strip malls and listening to Nick, we were getting ever closer to the end of that journey and the beginning of another journey.

the World Cup cometh

2005-06-25T16:00:00.000+08:00

We live in a curious age. For most of us, the first experience we have of cultural events like concerts, theater, and so on, is a television experience. The same applies for sporting events. An orchestra concluding a mighty symphony, a singer dancing wildly in front of screaming fans, the Olympic games – all these are experienced in a lesser reality (don’t try to make me jealous with tales of your high-tech home theater system – it still isn’t real). We get so used to these events as TV events that we come to expect, for example, that Olympic games are always held at 2 am and filmed in some exotic far-off land. We expect that the choice of sport to watch is always decided by someone else. The real thing might then one day come into your vicinity like Halley’s comet, for a brief moment before it goes off again, not to return in your lifetime.

My first live World Cup was almost one of those experiences. This comes around only once every four years, where the best national soccer/football teams in the world compete to become the world champions. It happened during my postgraduate school days at Stanford. I had watched the occasional game on TV before, and had even been caught up in world cup fever before, or so I had thought. In places like Malaysia or Singapore, world cup fever is about a month or so of watching games on TV at funny hours, then getting together for drinks with friends and reliving together the thrills of great goals or commiserating together on near misses and on the effects of sleep deprivation. Considerable bonding and camaraderie may develop during this time. It’s like the bonding that may occur between a group of wanna-be soldiers on a paintball field – not quite the real thing, but something close enough so that you don’t thirst for the real thing. So anyway, the World Cup was coming to the US and some games would play at my doorstep, in Stanford Stadium, and I was just happy that the matches would be televised live in the daytime.

The World Cup was in 1994. Towards the end of 1993, I became vaguely aware that people were buying tickets for world cup matches. It was only when one of the original ticket buyers couldn’t make it, and needed to sell her tickets, that I even considered buying tickets. Furthermore, those were first round tickets but once I got them, my mind started the crucial psychological shift. Therefore, when another friend posted his announcement of sale of 2nd round tickets, I jumped. He had a pair of tickets for the July 4th match in Stanford stadium.

My first match, though, was Brazil versus Russia on June 20th in the first round. It was a hot and dry day. The area outside of Stanford stadium was a bazaar of sound and colors, rhythm and painted faces. The section of El Camino Real just outside the campus, and the road from there in towards the stadium, had both been blocked off and were filled with streams of people. They were loud and energetic, extremely looking forward to an afternoon of live entertainment. Drums and samba mingled with the crowds. Some people sang. Some people chanted. Some people danced. It was a foreshadowing of the Carnival I might have seen in Rio De Janeiro 5 years later, except that I didn’t because it was the wrong time of the year when I went (but that’s another story). There were lots of beautiful women (and some not so beautiful women too) clad in tight T-shirts, bikini tops and so on.

There is a mystique about the Brazilian team. They are known for playing “the beautiful game” – superb ball handling skills, dribbling and passing, with numerous crowd-pleasing moves and tricks. However, they are sometimes criticized for unnecessarily showy moves and a lack of focus on defense. Brazil is said to be the team that is everybody’s second favorite team – after their own team. Now, if you come from a country whose national team has never before made it into the World Cup (I won’t name names here, but you can rest assured that you’re in good company), then you can comfortably support Brazil without agonizing of the sort “Well, I really should be supporting the other team, but Brazil is more fun to watch”.

A cynic has said that soccer is about twenty two grown men chasing a silly ball around a big field. That's blatantly wrong! There're only twenty of them since the goalkeepers don't count. Seriously, though, the players debated powerfully (with their play) against that myth that day. Suddenly, Brazilian striker Romario was charging towards the Russian goal. He had two Russian defenders running at his sides, both trying to stop him. Yet, amazingly, he powered on, with the ball seemingly glued to his feet. Before we knew it, he had gotten off a shot that went by the goal keeper and into a corner. There were many other moments of beauty like this during the game.

After the game was over, the real partying began. Drums, singing, and dancing kept the samba beat going and going, as if it the energizer bunny had gone wild. People were reluctant to disperse and go home. Some friends and I followed the people into a big open tent where the samba lived on. This was totally different from a television experience.

Despite all I have had to say about the pleasures of watching a game live, I will admit that one of the most memorable experiences of the 1994 World Cup was a TV experience. People started noticing that the coverage of the World Cup on regular English TV was but a pale shadow of the coverage on the Spanish network. Watching the regular networks, you would see a player make a move to get out of a corner and hear the commentary explain what just happened (in case you didn’t realize it). The next minute would be filled with apologetic remarks – yes, unfortunately you didn’t see many goals but you did see moves like that, so – (drum roll, added by me) – “that’s why it’s exciting!” They would look at one another and nod slowly, their brows furrowed as if pondering the thought. Then you would surf over to the Spanish channels and it’d be like in the movie Titanic going from the very proper and restrained after-dinner entertainment of the upper crust to the unfettered exuberance of the 3rd class party. You wouldn’t understand a word, except for one – GOOOOAAAAAAAL – and that word would tell you all you needed to know. When a goal was scored, you would not be told how exciting it was. Instead, the next minute would be filled with screaming – GOOOOAAAAAAAL … GOOOOAAALL … GOOOOOOOOAAL

Those were memorable days. Those were days of photo-taking. Normally a cautious photographer, I was not myself those days and I used rolls upon rolls of film to preserve the memories. Now, if only I could remember where those stacks of photos have ended up …

reunions

2005-06-11T16:00:00.000+08:00

In June 200x, I participated in the 10th-year reunion of my Princeton University class. I drove over from Eatontown, New Jersey, where I was living at that time. The drive took about an hour. Some of my classmates flew in from far-off places like California or even other countries. The situation was different fourteen years earlier, when I was among the new students who had traveled the furthest to get to Princeton.

Reunions are an annual affair. They are always held in June soon after graduation ceremonies. The clever timing of reunions makes it convenient for many members of the graduating class to attend. There are, however, also members of many other classes gathered on campus for reunions. Some classes show up in larger numbers than others. Other than the graduating class, those who have graduated 1 year ago, or a multiple of 5 years ago (especially the 5th, 10th and 25th), often show up in force. I imagine its more fun going for reunions in a multiple-of-5 year than in an off-year (I say "imagine", because I can't speak from experience about that). If you've ever driven a Toyota Forerunner or Lincoln Towncar and shared the road with a bunch of compact cars, and somehow felt good about yourself while doing so, you know the feeling of showing up at a big reunion year.

The sun was hot. I don't know why, but I just remember that the heat was intense those couple of days. It was one of my most vivid recollections of the reunions. The various impressions of orange and black also stood out. Orange and black are the colors of Princeton. The Princeton mascot is an animal with orange and black stripes - the tiger. At reunions, each reunion class has its own reunion theme, which includes its own jacket and paraphernalia. Usually, these would come in orange and black, especially orange. My class 10th reunion theme was construction, so we each received and proudly donned a hard hat. Then, our heads protected, we challenged each other to head butting duels - well, not that I actually witnessed any such thing, but with that many of us there, I'm sure someone must have been tempted.

The campus is divided into many sections. Each section is occupied by a group of classes, often one of the big reunion classes together with neighboring classes. Makeshift tents are erected in grassy courtyards surrounded by ancient ivy-covered old buildings that have long served as dormitories for students during their sojourns at Princeton. Under the (usually) orange coverings, class officers and volunteers are busily distributing class jackets and gifts, or dishing out food and drink. It is common to find people sipping beer while listening to live music. There are often tables for people to sit around and chat.

People find long lost classmates and exchange greetings. "Oh my God, you haven't changed!" is a common one. However, the resemblance to the person of 5, 10 or 25 years ago is only superficial. People find all kinds of fascinating ways to change during that time! It can be quite disconcerting. It may appear to you that the face doesn't match the person, somewhat like a personality switch, a la John Travolta and Nicholas Cage in the movie "Faces." It's the most ironic thing about reunions - you plan to get together and have things like they used to be - only to find that there's no going back. In chasing the past, you confirm its disappearance.

What's worse is that you yourself may have changed (and if you haven't, poor you - maybe you need help!). You're still the same old chap? Don't be too sure - you may be horrified to find others treating you differently. Usually this means they don't see you as the cool, sophisticated person you have developed into, but as the silly, immature brat you used to be! You know, the persona you thought was gone and out of your life forever; it comes back to haunt you!

So we have a convergence of people from all over for a brief while in a small place, with a common purpose. It is like the south of England on the eve of D-day, the different Allied armies gathered together preparing to cross the English channel and into battle. One difference is that folks are wielding not weapons but orange hard hats. Or orange and black canes and so on. But we do have our own marching out to battle. It's called the "P-rade". It's a parade of all the classes through the campus. That's the time when it's most cool to be patriotic about the university. I once even saw a live tiger in a cage at the P-rade.

During the P-rade, you wait with your classmates from earlier classes to walk by you. Perhaps you amuse yourself by suddenly pretending to be fascinated by a classmate's tales of prowess in suing nasty corporations, or another's stories of exploring the Amazon. Ten years of complete disregard for someone's life can be easily swept away just like that! Finally, you get to walk with your classmates along the familiar path that you walked years ago just after your graduation. Long hidden emotional memories return, of when you were on the brink of going out to a world ready for you to conquer. It's almost like old times again.

And then in a few days, the tents will be gone, some patches of grass may be flattened, and there may be the odd piece of something discarded here and there. Meanwhile, the grand old buildings will remain, unperturbed by the passing of the years and the passing through of class after class. Imagine if Tolkien had written a trilogy about Princeton. He'd have brought the buildings to life. They would be ivy-cloaked slow-moving creatures that took their time to get anywhere. They would speak in deep and lengthy tones, much like their distant cousins, the ents.

One more thing about orange and black - it's orange and black, not black and orange. Yes, it matters. Go, Tigers!