I must admit I find it very tempting to dismiss the fears of the germophobes as OCD and fanaticism. They are after all going out of their ways to avoid an enemy that, from my perspective, is mostly harmless. I’ll never forget the first time I was reprimanded for touching a bathroom door handle. As I reached for the door, the man behind me gasped as if I’d kicked a puppy. “Do you have any idea how many people touch that handle every day?” he hissed. Caught off guard I answered back, “Um… all of them?” I watched with a mix of bemusement and bewilderment as he fashioned a makeshift glove out of paper towels and flung the door open, escaping germ free. Now I’ve since learned that this little bathroom-ballet is not an uncommon sight, but I simply don’t understand the point. Are doorknobs not intended to be operated by hand? I’ve been opening bathroom doors my whole life and so far I haven’t dropped dead or burst into flames. Similarly, public phones, restaurants, and computers have never seemed like serious threats to my health. I have a hard time understanding those who are constantly examining their silverware or making repeated trips to the soap dispenser. Hygiene and health consciousness are great, but what is the dreadful consequence we seem to expect if we let down our germ guard? Has anyone ever died from eating a cookie that fell on the kitchen floor? Are constant alcohol hand baths the secret to eternal health? Or has the ideal of cleanliness been taken to an illogical extreme? After all, by definition, a phobia is an irrational or illogical fear. The problem then is not so much an external threat to our immune system as it is a psychological condition in the neat freaks of the world, or as I like to refer to them: “insanitizers” (copyright pending).

Although I’m convinced that as a society we’ve become overly fearful of germs, I do not for a minute deny that there exist bacteria and germs that should be avoided. I’m not advocating eating undercooked pork or blowing your nose on your sleeve. Clearly any responsible adult should take caution to avoid sickness and live hygienically. I do, however suggest that there is wide spectrum of “germs” (with “salmonella” at one extreme and “cooties” on the other) and for our own sanity we need to be able to tell the difference. In fact some doctors even hypothesize we’ve gone too far and have become so hygienic that our immune systems get underdeveloped. We shield ourselves and our kids from encountering everyday germs so our bodies never learn how to fight them. If you ask me, letting kids play in the dirt and spread around a few schoolyard germs is like immunity boot camp-we’ve got to toughen them up for whatever might come around later in life. Otherwise I fear we may be disinfecting ourselves to death-stripping away natural defenses that took ages to develop. It’s a small wonder that young children always loathe being bathed. On an instinctual level, they must realize we’re undoing generations of immunity evolution with every scrub of the loofa. Charles Darwin would be horrified.

Whether or not we agree that the insanitizers of the world are weakening our collective defenses, it seems clear that their efforts are at best an extraordinary waste of time. Heaven knows there are enough things to be afraid of in this day and age without worrying about how sterile our computer keyboards are. And to those who remain unconvinced, I offer myself: my own strapping health as clinical proof that there is nothing to worry about. I give you permission to think of me as a twenty-three year science experiment whose results just came in. I’m alive and well! So put down the ethanol, turn off the air purifiers and for once, don’t worry about where anything has been. Take a deep breath, try a five-second cookie, and don’t be afraid to get your hands dirty-literally. Think of the money you’ll save on Lysol and hand sanitizer and just remember: If those doctors’ theory turns out to be right, I could have just saved your life. You’re welcome.

Psychologists are quick to identify the major stages of grief. They count among these denial, anger, depression and eventually get around to acceptance. But I believe that breakups in particular require an extra step that the mental health profession has ignored. Somewhere between depression and acceptance, we seem to go through a phase of decontamination. That’s right, we feel compelled to cleanse our rooms, and cars, and memories of anything that reminds us of our ex. Take those pictures down, turn off that song, hide those souvenirs. We rearrange our homes with all the precision and censorship of a CIA cover up. We try to rewrite history. But as we look at our blank walls and the small, nostalgic pile in the center of the room, emotions start to get the better of us. Do we shred all those letters? Can we bear to burn those t-shirts, sell those CDs, give away those mementos? No. We can’t quite bring our selves to discard those memories and so…we box them.

I’m not sure who started this trend, but somewhere along the line we seem to have collectively decided that it’s a good idea to preserve all reminders of our pain and suffering in a shoe box on the top shelf of our closet. What great historians we’ve become, archiving our past romantic failures into a depressing little museum. Years from now anthropologists can study with excitement these cryptic time capsules that chronicle the rise and fall of every failed relationship we’ve ever endured. But barring an altruistic concern for future archaeology, what possible rationale could we have for burying our memories in these cardboard coffins? What psychological instinct compels us to retain and reduce every past girl or boyfriend in a sordid collection of letters and keepsakes? For some reason human emotion once again overpowers logic and forbids us from throwing away our last remnants of lost love.

In theory this sounds romantic: perfectly preserving the good times to look back on with bittersweet fondness. But anyone who’s ever dared to “exhume” one of these crypts knows that stories they tell are anything but pleasant. Each melancholy box depicts a different kind of dysfunction and dejection. They always start pleasantly enough: “Here’s a movie stub from our first date. Here’s the picture we took at the beach. Here’s the ‘Our First Christmas’ ornament she bought me.” But slowly and surely we witness the magic beginning to fade: “Here are the receipts for the pizza we ordered every Wednesday instead of going out. Here’s the note reminding me to pick her up at the airport for the third time. Here’s the anniversary card I bought two weeks late and never gave her.” And inevitably we watch it all disintegrate: “Here’s a program from that show where she kept flirting with the usher. Here’s the letter where she told me I was smothering her. Here’s the restraining order she filed after she dumped me and broke my heart.” The truth is that any relationship that was relegated to “box” status is probably best kept sealed up tight. But for some reason we keep on making boxes. In fact, I’ve never known of any major break up of any of my friends or family that didn’t end with empty walls and a full shoebox.

At some point, a pseudo-sociologist like myself has to look at these (hilariously insightful) observations and wonder “how can we learn from this? How can we take our neurotic, emotional, completely irrational habits and make some social progress?” I’m practical enough to realize that no one reading this will likely march to their closets and pull those romantic receptacles off the shelves. And in all likelihood the people we’re dating or dumping today will still end up in an 8″ x 5″ x 15″ exhibit behind the extra towels. So instead I propose an amendment to our actions, a relationship revolution: From this day forward, all new relationships should also come with boxes.

Just like any new purchase we take home, the new girlfriend or boyfriend should come complete with everything we need for successful use in one neat package. Each new date has of box with instructions, frequently asked questions, maybe diagrams as needed. I’ve known a few girls that I really wish had come with trouble shooting tips. Why not turn the box phenomenon into a positive thing? Imagine it. On your first date, you walk up to the door, hand her her flowers and suavely ask “You got your box?” No more wondering how many days to wait before you call…just consult the box. Boyfriend buys you presents you hate?…pull out the box and look under “H” for “hinting tips.” In an age of couples’ therapy and self help, what could be better than a specific, hand delivered how-to guide for a successful relationship?

Now there are, no doubt some purists out there who will sing the praises of the “old fashioned way.” Relationships are hard, they’ll say and you have to figure them out by yourself. Well programming my VCR was hard and if it hadn’t come with directions, we wouldn’t have stayed together all these years. In fact, I’ve had “her” longer than any of my last relationships lasted so perhaps it’s worth giving this new method a chance. After all, if the mausoleum of love in our closet is any indication, some of us could use a new strategy. And as long as we’re quite literally compartmentalizing our emotions, we might as well fill those compartments with helpful dating tools. From an ideological stance, I’d say the box plan is a healthy step towards fully understanding an appreciating our significant others. And from a practical stance, if things don’t work out, we’ll already have a box.

First off, all the girls I’ve talked to get major creativity points for the way they’ve christened their rides. Some women derived a name from their car’s color (such as Bluebell, Goldilocks, or Burgundy). Another clever method was altering the make of the car (thus her Tracer becomes Tracy). Some women even find names obvious in their license plates (such as my own mother who apparently refers to her car as Emma, after the E-M-A found in the middle of her plate number). But cleverness aside, that cars get proper names at all is totally inexplicable to me. Who decided to start doing this? Was there some memo sent out? Did they discuss it at the last meeting? I’m amazed by the seemingly unspoken consensus that the females of our species share. It’s as remarkable to me as geese changing direction simultaneously or bees communicating through movement.

My first impulse was to chalk this phenomenon up to misdirected maternal instinct and therefore outside my ability to comprehend. After all, women have a biological imperative to nurture and protect. In the absence of actual offspring, maybe a four-door sedan is the next best thing. Perhaps a diaper free object of affection with air-conditioning and good gas mileage is worthy of a little love. However, the new car/newborn analogy starts to fall apart when you consider any woman who drives recklessly, thus jettisoning her ” baby” through oncoming traffic. And if motherly love were the motivation for this trend, running out of gas or not getting regular oil changes could border on child abuse. Despite old axioms, the simplest solution in this case doesn’t seem to be the right one. I suppose it should come as no surprise that the female gender would be the exception to this rule.

The more I discuss this phenomenon with the women in my life, the more I’m convinced that there must be some collective experience that motivates them to label their Lexus, nickname their Nissan, title their Toyota or otherwise alliteratively baptize their cars. After all, little girls are treated differently from boys from the minute they’re swathed in pink. As males we’re given cars and trucks to play with. We crash and race and crash and maneuver and crash these inanimate objects without real emotional attachment. But girls are given toys that communicate. Dolls, Barbies, and even stuffed animals are characters when girls play. They talk and cooperate and…drink tea? as part of the fantasy family. I know what you’re thinking: boys play with ” characters” too. But He-man’s dialogue to the Ninja Turtles is usually limited to battle cries and disputes over who ” got” who. So after we’ve socialized an entire sex to ascribe emotions and names to their possessions, maybe the automobile is the adult version of the paper doll.

Now it sounds Freudian and analytical and romantic to explain away this feminine quirk using childhood psychology. But at the end of the day I’m not convinced there isn’t something far more sinister at work here. As I wrestle with the seeming logical void that is car-naming, I’m suddenly struck by a conspiracy theory. Cynicism and testosterone rush to my brain and I find myself wondering if perhaps the women of the world secretly delight at our frustration. I can’t help wonder if after centuries of oppression and subservience, the female gender decided to tip the power scales by totally confusing their male counterparts. It’s working. I can’t even count the times I’ve scratched my head or sighed with exasperation or just lamented ” women make no sense!” Perhaps there’s a collective understanding that as soon as men start to figure things out, the system gets changed. It’s a power struggle of the most Machiavellian kind. Today they moniker their cars, but tomorrow they might shave their eyebrows, or cry but say they’re happy, or be attracted to bald men. As long as men spend all our time trying to figure out what just happened, we’re powerless. It’s all an ovarian plot to prove that now and forever, men don’t know anything about women. Well women of the world, excuse the pun, but you’ve driven your point home. I understand nothing about women. Go ahead refer to you vehicles as Tina or Deena or Mina or whatever. I surrender. But know this: as long as I’m forced to play by your rules, I’m naming my car Superman.

Take for example “Jack and the Beanstalk.” How we cheered when Jack felled the beanstalk and made a better life for his impoverished family. But permit me to recap the tale with a new perspective. Jack lives in a single parent home where he’s unsupervised enough to go scurrying up whatever might spring up in the backyard whenever he feels like it. When he finds a new house, he breaks in and steals money, livestock, and instruments. To make matters worse, when the homeowner decides he doesn’t like this delinquent looting his home every day, the brave little Jack murders him. When looked at this way, the moral of the story would appear to be: When someone you’ve repeatedly burglarized objects to being robbed, it is permissible to kill them. Sweet dreams kids.

But all children’s stories can’t be so sordid, right? Surely those sweet princesses in their magical kingdoms are worthy of our children’s admiration. Remember Cinderella? Snow White? Both sat at home washing the floors wishing a man would come along and give them a better life. Then one did. Bravo girls! You’ve inspired another generation of young girls to feel inadequate without a mate. And they’re not pillars of virtue to begin with. Cinderella lies to get a boy to like her, Snow White talks to strangers, and don’t even get me started about Rapunzel sneaking boys in her bedroom window. It doesn’t help that none of them has a decent mother figure around either. Traditionally, fairytale mothers must die and be replaced by evil stepmothers. What a wonderful way to teach young people to dislike their parents’ new spouses. Cinderella’s example gives them perhaps the best advice: Your step-mom doesn’t love you so sneak out and go to a party. And you don’t even have to make it back by curfew!

And then there are the eye-for-an-eye stories: those glowing little endorsements of capital punishment that we send Junior off to dreamland with. The Big Bad Wolf killed Granny, he must die. The witch locked up Hansel and Gretel, burn her. A troll won’t let you cross the bridge, throw him off it. And nothing’s cheerier than three vigilante pigs boiling a home intruder alive. But how do these glaring violations of our collective morality go unnoticed? Why is the trespassing little Peter Rabbit the hero of the tale? I suppose you could make a case that these stories teach children to overcome adversity. But I suspect there may be better ways to deal with someone eating your porridge besides eating them. I think perhaps we need to take a fresh looks at those not-so-sweet stories on the night stand and reconsider whether some of these themes are as appropriate now as when they were written. Maybe we could screen our bedtime stories a bit more closely and try to tone down the misogyny, murder, and mayhem. And in the mean time, perhaps we should consider shelving Mother Goose in the adult section.

Examples of this new internet culture seem to pop up everywhere. Students text message their problems to their friends, girlfriends IM all night to their boyfriends, and new acquaintances may even exchange screen names before phone numbers. We’ve become used to this medium. We expect it. College students will type away to a classmate down the hall rather than visit face to face. But what is so appealing about this pseudo-conversation that makes it preferable to actual speech? I submit that responding in brief, well thought out snippets of conversation feels safer than risking a full fledged dialogue. There’s no emotional investment on the Internet, no fear of rejection. No one feels too ugly or fat or awkward to talk to anybody else. No one is too shy to get the first word out or can’t think of something to say. Most importantly, nobody blurts out anything or embarrasses themselves. We create a community of confidence where everything we say can be considered, rewritten, edited, and improved before we hit “send.”

This type of cyber-small talk essentially makes Casanovas of even the most socially inept computer user. The key is that these so called “instant messages” are really anything but instant. The medium forgives and even expects long pauses and gaps in communication. No one knows if you’re racking your brain for a witty response, or just getting up to use the bathroom. In short, internet communication allows us time to construct the perfect repartee. It’s easy to be funny when you have time to revise the perfect joke. It’s easy to seem smart when you can look up words, browse current events, and preview cultural venues with the click of a mouse. Have nothing in common? You’ve got the World Wide Web. Most importantly, it’s easy to be daring when you have complete anonymity. Why not take a chance, be forward, be risqué? At the very worst you close one window and open another; pun intended. All of our insecurities fade away as we project ourselves into cyberspace as whatever and whoever we want to be.

Is it any surprise then that we find so many wonderful, charming, intelligent people online? They have the same luxury of creating funny, sexy, confident alter egos as you do. So if the fake-you doesn’t like the fake-them, one or both of you can just “edit your profile.”

Given all the potential for positive interaction online, what could the downside possibly be? After all, isn’t it better that we can all boldly converse with confidence, leave our inhibitions at the sign-on screen and just enjoy the best that can come from our minds? Shouldn’t we embrace a forum to look past physicality long enough to get to know someone on an emotional level? In theory it sounds utopian: a technological solution to insecurity and superficiality. However in reality, I fear we pay a price for our idealized community. Perhaps this inflated sense of confidence and perfection, which is the very root of the chat-room’s appeal, keeps us from ever really knowing anyone. If everything is filtered and careful and presentational, do we ever get to know the real person at the keyboard? Humans learn so much from participating in direct discourse, but instant messages deny us all of the subtle nonverbal cues. We don’t see the unconscious body language or get to read someone’s eyes. We can’t see what makes them blush, or cry, or even smile. The entire spectrum of human emotion is watered down and confined to a handful of punctuation faces and arbitrary acronyms. Think about it. How often have you typed the infamous “lol?” How many times did you actually laugh out loud? Those three letters make up perhaps the most recognizable addition to our modern vocabulary and yet they are ultimately meaningless. We’ve somehow tried to encompass every degree of amusement– from rolling our eyes to holding our sides– into three insincere letters. There in lies the problem. Most of us are guarded enough in real life without having to further hide behind glib cyber-clichés. Instant messages promise intimate interaction but in reality, conversation without self-revelation can never deliver that.

At this point, any devout keyboard conversationalist will no doubt interject that they in fact are able to rise above these limitations—that they have managed to open up and truly get to know their internet “buddies” on a deep, personal level. And it’s true that many internet users have sincerely sought to form relationships beyond the boundaries of the emoticon. However I’m not suggesting that the defect in the instant message stems only from the unwillingness of the speaker. Rather, the imperfections of the medium itself limit conversations, even among close friends. No matter how candid we hope to be, our ability to express ourselves is inevitably limited, even down to how many letters we may type. Our most heart-wrenching and heart-warming emotions must be confined and censored down to a summary shorter than this paragraph. On top of that, truly sincere dialogue is inescapably crippled by the option to delete and revise our responses. Live discourse, even a telephone call, allows us to gauge if someone is uncomfortable or angry, flustered or giddy, or even lying. But on the computer, every message is calculated and concise. And no matter how closely you may feel you know “SurfGrl826,” you can never surpass or even match the level of intimacy possible with live conversation.

All of this may seem like an overly severe condemnation of the instant message. After all, I’ve stood on my proverbial soap box and pointed my fingers and denounced my demons. But I’m not suggesting we cut the Internet out of our daily lives. I’m not calling for a reversion to the old days or some Kaczynskian techno-revolution. I am however, suggesting that we reexamine our interpersonal relationships and the bad habits that have crept into them. When you want some light banter while sitting in your bathrobe, by all means log on. Type away to whoever may be out there and enjoy it for what it is. But realize that although we enjoy the comforting sound of the IM beep, we can’t entirely replace the chat with the chat-room. It’s a false sense of intimacy, a golden calf. Though our need for interaction is seemingly fulfilled by our lol’s and brb’s, it’s important to consider that we don’t and can’t really know someone until we turn off the monitor and pick up the phone. Until we’re willing to escape our comfort zone and face the time honored, totally scary, emotionally vulnerable, might-not-work-out type of conversation, I wonder if most of our “buddies” will prove nothing more than shadows on the cave wall. And if our most cherished conversations and fondest memories canal be copied and pasted, I wonder if we can really consider this modern convenience progress.

When most guys come home with a five o’clock shadow, they just look rugged and manly. However on my face, this inevitable afternoon fuzz doesn’t look so much dashing as it does dirty. Those dark hairs that relentlessly pop up sometime between the morning shave and the evening commute make me look like I’ve taken a leave of personal hygiene. I can’t help but be envious of those men who look dapper and suave in the morning and by mid afternoon look like a cross between Paul Newman and Indiana Jones. They don’t know how lucky they are. They’re probably the same jerks who can pull off that “messy hair” look. I can’t do either. Give me messy hair and a face full of stubble and next thing you know I’ve got a social worker trying to take me back to the shelter. The worst part is I have a superhuman ability to grow facial hair. It’s true. I’m cursed with such a werewolf-like prowess for sprouting fur that I’m starting to think my five o’clock shadow is on Eastern Standard Time. Either way, despite my best barbershop effort, I invariably look unshaven and unkempt by early afternoon.

I’m convinced that my proclivity for growing hair has got to be due to genetics. After all, my ancestors lived in Norway and Sweden and Germany. Have you ever seen a Viking with a smooth face? No, they needed their beards to survive the snowy climate. Conversely, my brother is half Puerto-Rican and seems to have been spared the Chia Pet gene. Again I trace it back to evolution and natural selection. After one hot summer in San Juan, I’ll bet all the bearded guys were dead of heat stroke leaving the fair of face to pass on their furless chromosomes. So now I know why my body seems desperate to insulate my face, but how many generations removed from frozen tundras do you have to be before evolution cuts you a break? I’m in California now, Darwin; I think I’ll make it through the winter.

Another group that gets a lucky break is all the blonde men out there. I know guys who can go without shaving for days before anyone notices those fine, inconspicuous hairs camouflaged on their face. The dark haired men of the world don’t have this luxury. There’s no hiding my scruff and so I’m forced into lies and self delusions. Sometimes I pretend that my five o’clock shadow is a personal style choice. I call it hobo-chic. I’ve also tried convincing myself that a stubbly face is nature’s way of showing potential mates how much testosterone is coursing through me. So far I’ve yet to see a date swoon at this obvious sign of manliness. I guess some girls just aren’t ready for that “marooned on a deserted island” look.

To top off my whisker woes, there are a good number of guys out there who actually look more attractive with a little scruff. Bastards. It’s not fair that some men should look dashing while others look deranged. Why do they end the day looking like Brad Pitt’s head-shot while I look more like Nick Nolte’s mug-shot?! I can’t compete with the Marlborough men and the follicle-free. So what’s a guy to do? Unless I find a way to alter my genetic makeup or change society’s standards of male beauty, I think I’d better start making a lot of lunch dates. Either that or I need to get used to rushing home and shaving or becoming the only guy I know who has a five o’clock curfew.

To put it mildly, the major appliance racket had left me a bit jaded about the morality of salesmanship. My entire paycheck depended on convincing customers to pay a little more for a feature they’d never use. This was how I was trained. Behind the pretty facades of those friendly department stores lies a profit hungry machine that tells you “SELL, SELL, SELL!” We weren’t given product knowledge, or customer profiling skills. Instead we were taught how to sell people products they didn’t need and sometimes didn’t even want. “Oh, this shelf is super-double reinforced, ten times less likely to break than those old models.” Whoever heard of a refrigerator shelf breaking?! It was all smoke and mirrors – a work environment where patrons came second to profits.

With this bitter taste in my mouth, I looked at Washington Mutual’s referral process with an understandable dose of skepticism. I went through my training and shadowed my supervisors convinced that this was another morally bankrupt…well, bank. But despite my cynicism, I was actually impressed by the types of referrals I heard. My coworkers were offering products that benefited the customer. They’d recommend a new account that would earn more interest, or incur fewer fees, or both. This was a totally novel concept for me. My trainers were teaching us how to determine what our customers needed and would benefit from. It all came together in a mini epiphany: More products benefit the bank, and better products benefit the customer, so everybody wins. We stay in business by providing our customers with what they actually need. Could it be that “sales” is not inherently evil? I was amazed.

Flash forward four years and now I’m Operations Supervisor giving that same referral speech to another cynical new teller. I can tell them honestly that in all my Washington Mutual sales training (and I’ve had a lot) I’ve been developing skills to offer my customers what they do need. That’s a great feeling. For someone who’s seen the company from the vantage point of the teller line, new accounts platform, and supervisor’s desk to still be able to believe in the intentions of his company is a rare and valuable thing. When I listen to my tellers (who, by the way are amazing) explaining to customers that a Home Equity Line of Credit would help them finish their renovations or how the Platinum Checking would pay them more interest, I know that we’ve reinvented salesmanship. And when I see my customers given accounts and products that help their savings grow and lives improve, I know why. I’m proud to say that Washington Mutual has the rare distinction of practicing what it preaches. It’s this integrity and customer focus that’s kept me working hard at my job all these years and most likely, it’s what’s kept you working hard at yours.

Thanks to a generous donation of science, engineering, and computer magazines, Polytechnic students can close those textbooks without feeling like they’re wasting valuable learning time. A variety of industry publications including “Popular Science,” “Mac Addict,” and “PC World,” provide the honors undergrads escape from the building pressure of course work while still challenging and stimulating them. In addition, they have a continuing source of real world context to apply their class concepts to. The result of combining a solid honors curriculum with cutting edge industry updates is a well rounded class of engineers with rapidly declining blood pressures.

The returning student body was thrilled this semester to see the engineering student center “reprogrammed” with their best interests so obviously in mind. An assortment of engineering related magazines such as “Wired,” “Forbes,” and “Maximum PC” awaited their eager and exhausted minds. However, the real triumph for Mags4you.com was locating publications directed at specific fields of study such as “Electrical Engineering Time.” Professors and students alike can now delve into real world engineering and briefly forget the daunting world of textbooks and midterms.

The university’s benefactor, Mags4you.com, is a small, minority owned magazine subscription company with a history of assisting education. President Dave Honda returned to his roots last year when the company contributed to his alma mater, California State University, Northridge. In addition, Mags4you.com supports education by working with libraries, assisting with fundraisers, and aiding campus organizations. This most recent donation to Polytechnic University’s honors engineering program was another link in a chain of charitable contributions.

In addition to scholastic organizations, Mags4you.com also services a wide base of customers. Whether an individual magazine subscription or a corporate account, the company consistently supplies readers with a variety of publications to choose from. In fact, it was this very repertoire of magazine titles that allowed the company to so specifically equip Polytechnic University with as many as twenty-six issues of over ten periodicals. Despite its continuing success in private subscriptions, representatives at Mags4you.com say they still look forward to seeking out new opportunities to give back to the educational community. But in the mean time, they’re happy just to keep a class of geniuses-in-training from blowing a fuse.