AHHH! I Lost the (Calculator) Game

Calculators are addicting. Well, not exactly. But one day when I finished a problem early in Chemistry, I began to punch random numbers on my calculator. Now, it so happens that when you start taking the natural logarithm of a number repeatedly, you get smaller and smaller numbers, until it becomes negative. If you push ln again, an E for error appears. To avoid this, I decided that whenever the number was negative, I would square it. I did this for a while, and found myself getting excited every time a big number appeared, and getting angry whenever I accidentally did ln to a negative number, and got an E. This turned into a game. The rules were simple, so you could play it while half-heartedly listening to a teacher lecture, and people would assume that you, being an exceptional student, were doing your own calculations.

Yesterday, Sachi and I were talking about math, and we had our calculators out, when I somehow thought to mention my silly game. "You mash your fingers over the keys," I said, "and the rules are that you push ln repeatedly until you get a negative number, in which case you square it. You get happy when you get a big number, and if you accidentally get an E, that means you lose." Now, I was sure that this would not be of very much interest to anyone, but Sachi took to it immediately. Rebecca, who was also with us, did it too. Now, the three of us were joyfully punching buttons on our calculators, and occasionally someone would shriek or cringe, and yell out, "I lost the game!" Only this game was better than the "I lost the game" game. Soon, we were pondering its mathematical properties. Sachi pointed out that it was completely deterministic--that is, once you put in the number to start with, the rest of the game is pre-determined, except when you lose. Rebecca and Sachi, who have been taking classes at MIT about chaos theory, wondered whether the calculator game was chaotic. We decided that we would research the game, but first, we just wanted to get nice big numbers to pop up. We played the game for a half hour or so, and found that the cosine of pi was an especially good number, until Rebecca had to leave. Sachi told me that she would spend hours playing the game instead of doing her homework. "Tell me your results tomorrow," I said as Sachi went home. Who knew that the game would be such a hit?

-Philip

Yay...? OW!

Sachi is requiring us to write at least once a month (I think so anyways), and I guess I should write this while I still have it fresh in my memory. Anyways, I always end up falling back asleep in the morning, so I have to rush through eating breakfast. Today was the same, but as I came out of the bathroom, I realized that I still had a few minutes left; obviously, this made me feel relieved...
...until I ran straight into the side of the bathroom door. Ow. Hopefully it hasn't left a bruise.

~'Cilla

Doh Re Mi

"Oh, I have one more thing to pass out," our conductor remarks innocuously in the last fifteen minutes of orchestra. He shuffles around a few papers. We were putting together the final program for pops night—a night of fun music and food. So far we had tried out Lion King, Beach Boys, Mission Impossible, Pirates of the Caribbean, and many other popular music pieces. Annie and I look at the sheet of music he hands us now. On the top, in big capital letters it reads: SPIDER PIG. Cue laughter. In the space where it indicates how it should be played—adagio, allegro, etc. once in a while 'majestically' or 'with feeling'—it tells the musician 'as serious as a heart attack'. Below that was listed at least ten composers that collaborated on the piece, and it's easy to see why. With four vocal parts and filling a page of music from what was a thirty second clip of The Simpsons Movie, Spider Pig the orchestral arrangement was fit for an opera or at least seriously scary. The eerie melody is sung by the alto and soprano (optional vocal parts), while tenor harmonizes. Spi-der-pig-uh it reads, reminding the singer of that extra 'uh' to make the music just right. The bass line consists of the syllable 'doh' repeated over and over almost two hundred times with only one variation: the words 'look out' in the fourteenth measure. The last note? A giant DOH! from the bass.

Sachi

Technology is just getting inconveniently small...

So a few weeks ago, I was walking out of a birthday party when I see the mother of one of my friends. I have spoken to her several times, so we're familiar with each other.
Now mind you, it was DARK.
"Hey there!" she says.
I'm the only one there...but she can't be talking to me? But if she is, it'll be horrible if I don't say anything!
"Hi," I say brightly.
"Oh, I was talking to *friends name*," she says.
And on a closer inspection, I see she's talking on a cellphone.
*cringe*
I hate technology.

Marena

My Physics Class is Not What You Would Call Average

Here are some odd moments from physics class:

A few days ago, my physics teacher was talking about different kinds of light waves. She was being very energetic, so she said, "These ones are really energetic, like Ms. Mayer. These ones are not very energetic, like Mr. Turtle." Someone in the class said, "Actually, I know a turtle who's very fast." None of us really knew what she was talking about. "You know a turtle?" someone asked incredulously. "Are you good friends?"

* * *

In my class there are two people who have really funny sounding laughs: Jerry and Mariella. One time Jerry started laughing, and then Mariella started laughing at his laugh, and Jerry started laughing more at Mariella's laugh, untill the whole class was laughing uncontrollably. A real life example of posative feedback.

* * *

Around the begining of the school year, when our teacher left the room one time, we turned off all the lights and hid under the desks. When Ms. Mayer came in, we yelled "surprise!" and jumped out. The next time she left the room, we did it again. Then, after months of not doing that, one time when she left, we did it again. "It was cute the first time," she said, "But now..."

-Rebecca

Caution: plastic forks break easily

Um...I've been so absent...wow.

Today, I was eating lunch after church like I always do, and I was using a plastic fork like always. But in my hurry to finish, I accidentally bit down on the fork and I broke it. Now, that wasn't the problem because I only broke the tip so I could still finish eating. The problem was I that the tip fell into my mouth. And just my luck, I had food in my mouth. I couldn't fish it out because that would've been gross, and I couldn't just swallow it either. So I sat on my chair making pitiful noises until one of my friends heard me. Fortunately, she directed me to the bathroom and told me to spit it out there. Of course, there were people in the bathroom so I ran into the only empty stall and dislodged my mouth of the plastic fork. Problem averted. Whew.

I've never seen a caution sign on those boxes of plastic forks. But maybe they should make ones. After all, plastic forks can be dangerous too.

~'Cilla (changed so Lan will know who I am)

Goody Two Shoes

"I'm looking for a barefooted person," Annie informs me in a whisper during our break at orchestra, letting me in on the secret. I scan the room with her.

"What for?" I ask, curiously, thinking of the time when someone had mistakenly informed me that the technical definition of an orgy was five people in a room with their shoes off.

Annie lets out a small giggle. "There were two shoes backstage and I couldn't help myself, it was too tempting: I took one and hid it behind some set pieces," she confessed.

I laughed. "Oh! Look! Sarah's only wearing socks." Annie and I looked over at the co-president of the orchestra and first chair cello whose feet were clad only in a pair of red socks. We burst out laughing. Of all people, we had found her shoes back stage. A few people looked at us strangely, which only made us laugh harder.

Spotting two friends in the back of the auditorium, we leave behind Sarah, and her shoe dilemma and sneak like ninjas over to them to listen in on the conversation. Drat it! They saw us, as we crawled through the rows of seats. Off they ran, and so we pursued. One of them had left their shoes behind. Annie grabbed a shoe, running after them, and dropping it on our way in the box of music folders. We ran all over the basement looking for them, but alas they were not to be found.

On our way back to the auditorium we found a one-shoed Sara lurking the halls. I giggled, pointing the sight out to Annie. Annie, also giggling, informed Sarah, "I saw your shoes backstage and I couldn't help but take one and hide it."

Sarah stared at Annie for a second, then smiled. "Where did you hide it?"

Annie went and grabbed the shoe from its hiding place, giving it back to its rightful owner, and we went off giggling. As break neared an end we gave back the shoe of the other girl, too, who was grateful that this time (for we had done this before) we did not leave her to find it on her own.

When orchestra finished, Annie and I were on our way out the door. But look! Annie spotted two shoes laying on the ground. Not only that. They were Sarah's shoes. I shook my head, laughing. She hadn't learned. Annie took one, and put it near the other side of the room, but in plain sight. Our conductor spotted us and we laughed, refusing to tell whose shoes they were for fear he would give it away. We left giggling. They'd learn soon enough not to leave their shoes sitting around, for we are the shoe bandits!


Sachi

Socialize!

My math class has to be one of the strangest classes ever.  It's up there with the class in which I blew up a grenade with liquid nitrogen, and the one where we spent what was supposed to be history learning about baseball.  There are about thirty kids and only twenty five desks, and somehow a good third of the desks are squished into the back right corner of the room, which is where I sit.  It also happens to be the highest level of math, which just adds to the oddball quality.  Our teacher, whom I have described before, is a cheery enthusiastic woman, and it's her first year teaching at our school.

The math classroom we are in is inhabited by another math class, one of the lowest if not the lowest level.  In that math class there are only a few kids and a bunch of teachers.  Every week they have a 'social skill of the week' written on the board.  It's like that cheesy soap opera you are addicted to, or maybe fanfiction.  You can't help but look forward to the next one.  This week's: dependability.  The week before that it was 'No excuses', and before that 'Keep your hands to yourself'.  Half the time I'm not sure whether they're not really for our class, knowing some of the people really could use a hint.

Today my math teacher was recounting a story about how she had gone to a party and was telling someone else about the social skills of the week, and they had suggested she do her own.  And then I looked at the board:  right below the social skill of the week was the advanced social task of the week, "write a letter to your grandparents (or someone else that would be really happy to hear from you)".  So to celebrate our shiny advanced social tasks (recently renamed advanced social suggestions) I'll be writing to a few former teachers.  Who wants to join me?

Sachi

Annie Pants-y

Ah, April fools day, always good for a laugh or two. I've probably mentioned a few times on here that I'm a total orch-dork (orchestra dork, for those of you who don't speak my language.) It just so happens this year April fools day fell on a Tuesday, one of the days we have rehearsal. This year we had two great plans made (and by plan, I mean we thought of it an hour before and facebook-ed everyone, what that doesn't count as thinking ahead?). As people trickle in to orchestra, five or ten minutes late as always, we spread the news to those who hadn't read their facebooks.  "Time to start!"  Our conductor rounds up the rest of the latecomers, and then wandering off to who knows where for a few minutes.  We take our seats while he's gone—on the opposite side of the room.  Okay, pretty basic trick, but it was pretty amusing.  Second violins and firsts switched, violas and cellos.  When our  conductor reentered the room he was so disoriented.  As we were  playing cues were flying right and left—to the wrong sides and then back —until he made us switch back.  Oh well.  The fun was not yet over.   

Break comes around.  Annie is eying Stephanie's pants.  They're baggy sweatpants the kind that are perfect for pantsing people.   Despite a few joking tugs at her pants, Steph manages to hold on to her dignity.  After break is where the real fun starts—Annie, Anna and my masterpiece.  Our conductor instructs us to get out the Saint Saëns and start at measure 139.  Is that one before 140?  One first violin asks, though none of us were planning to actually play it.   I try not to giggle in anticipation.  Our conductor does not expect anything, having thought we were done with our April foolsery with our first prank, an hour ago.  He starts conducting and we play the first note—to the can can!  In perfect unison the violins, cellos, violas and winds play the first four measures of the can can as our conductor does a double take.  Not was he was expecting!  He pauses.  "That was...the most coordinated I've ever heard you play."  He says.  We laugh.  Ah.  Orch dorks, the lot of us.  

But the night has yet another unexpected twist.  As orchestra is over a hour or so later, Steph, Annie, Anna and I sit around conversing.  Annie, one last attempt, grabs Steph's pants, tugging them down.  Down went the sweatpants revealing lime green underwear.  We crack up.  Steph hurriedly pulls up her pants, this time tying the strings.  "ANNIE!"  Annie laughs.  "I didn't think it would actually work!"

Sachi