BU Today

Every time I mention Twitter, people roll their eyes and tell me how pointless Twitter is. “There is no reason for it,” they say. “I don’t care what you had for breakfast.”

Sure, Twitter is useless, but so are paperclips, bidets, Hershey’s Kisses, and the water cups in beer pong.  That doesn’t stop people from using or eating them.  So let me spread it to the world right now: I love Twitter.

For those new to the most recent in a line of social networking sites, I’ll give you a quick breakdown.

1. Twitter, like Facebook and MySpace before it, will only remain popular until your parents get one.
2. There are no friends on Twitter. Only followers and followings. Don’t go around talking about your Twitter friends or everyone will know you’re a big phony.
3. When you publish something to Twitter, it is called a “tweet.” This is to make sure that you feel uncomfortable every time you talk about Twitter.
4. Each tweet can be up to 140 characters because after that nobody is listening anymore.
5. Following celebrities isn’t that much fun.  It turns out Ashton Kutcher doesn’t have anything interesting to say in less than 140 characters, either.

Despite its flaws and its uselessness, I have embraced Twitter. I have many important things to say all the time, but usually, people stop listening. When I post them on Twitter, I trap everyone who follows me. Read my thoughts! Now everyone can know that Doritos make me feel sick and that my conditioner bottle is empty, so I’ve been filling it with water to get the last drops out.

When friends question me about it, I am able to shout them down. “I’m a communications student! I need a Twitter!”

I’m not sure what that means, but it usually works.

The biggest challenge for Twitter users is knowing when to stop. All my thoughts have started to form in my head in less than 140 characters. It has gotten to the point where I think I can write a decent dissertation in four to five pages.

So yeah, Twitter is pointless, but it’s also a whole lot of fun. Plus, it’s only a matter of time before my mom gets one.

When he’s not tweeting, Zach Kohn can be reached at zachkohn@bu.edu. Follow @kohnisrad and @butoday on Twitter.

Do you follow @kohnisrad on Twitter? Let us know in the comments.

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“Why do you spin that?”

“What?” I asked.

“Your whistle. Why do you spin it around your finger?”

“Oh. Because if I don’t, I won’t be able to pay attention.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he mumbled, wandering toward the pool.

Here is a challenge: go sit in a chair, and stare into your bathtub. See how long you can do it before your mind starts to wander.

You can see me doing this a few times a week, if you look down at me from those giant glass walls in FitRec.

I’m a lifeguard.

Often I’ll get texts from a friend after I’m done with work. “Why didn’t you wave back at me? I was waving from that glass wall for like 10 minutes.”

I don’t wave back because I’m staring at the pool, doing everything and anything to keep my focus. Sometimes I sing songs, other times I imagine that the swimmers are about to crash into each other — Oh no! Oh my god! They’re going to crash! Oh ok, phew. When the pool is crowded enough, I’ll play Frogger in my mind, jumping from person to person to person, trying to keep my imaginary frog from falling in.

This is my job. I sit in a tall chair for anywhere from 15 minutes to 8 hours, desperately grasping for ways to entertain myself without losing focus. I’ve been sitting in tall chairs all across Massachusetts for five years. The best place I ever worked: a pool in Brighton where my manager let me sleep in the emergency cot when I wasn’t on the guard stand. The worst: a pond in Ashland, where they made me cut down the rope swing, even though all I really wanted was to play on it.

Whenever I tell someone what I do as a part-time job, the reaction is always the same: “Ooohh, you’re so lucky.”

They never understand that sitting on a chair, bored to tears, ruining the day of every child who comes close to you, is not a good job. Sure, I don’t do anything, but then again I also can’t do anything. I’m confined to my tall, uncomfortable prison until the next lifeguard comes to take my post.

I think the thing that bothers me most about my job is that everybody hates the lifeguard. My job is to keep people safe by telling them they can’t do all the fun things they want to do. I don’t want to tell people to stop having chicken fights or to stop doing front flips. I want to join in. One time, as I walked toward my chair at the beach, I heard, “Oh great, here come the f*&^ing water police.”

I JUST WANT TO BE LOVED.

When I was 17, lifeguarding at a summer camp, a girl in the water started screaming, “I CAN’T BREATHE!”

“She has asthma!” her brother gasped. “Help her! PLEASE.”

Channeling my inner David Hasselhoff, I dove into the water and dragged her to shore. As her counselors carried her away, I smiled. At least for one day, I wasn’t hated, and I was only a little bit bored.

Zach Kohn can be found in tall chairs spinning a whistle, but best to contact him at zachkohn@bu.edu.

Do you have a lifeguard love moment? Let us know in the comments.

About once a week, I get a text from a friend: “Hey man, read your article in the Freep, really good.”

I don’t write for the Daily Free Press.

As a freshman, I arrived at BU wide-eyed but ready to make a name for myself. I checked in on a Thursday morning and met with my group for the first time.

“This is so exciting,” our peer advisor said. “You’re going to love COM.

“COM?” I asked. “I’m in CGS.”

“No big deal, you must just be with the wrong group,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Zach Kohn.”

“Zachary Kohn?”

“That’s me.”

“Zachary A. Kohn?

“No. Zachary J. Kohn.”

“Uh oh.”

I love my name. I’m also very protective of it. I wasn’t about to let some name-stealer ruin college for me. I ran to the computer to add him on Facebook. He needed to know that BU is my territory, and the time had come for him to back off.

I couldn’t find him on Facebook. What kind of loser doesn’t have a Facebook page, I scoffed (this was 2007, after all)? I went on with my life, comfortable in the knowledge that I was the cooler Zach Kohn.

A week after orientation, I opened Facebook to find a friend request.

“Zack Kohn wants to be your friend.”

Oh hell no.

It’s one thing to steal my name. But this guy not only stole my name, he butchered it. Z-A-C-H is what it is, short for Zachary, not Zackary.

Hate burned to my depths. He would not win.

But we would come to joke, on Facebook, about how the world might end if we ever met. Or maybe we were one person with multiple personality disorder (no chance, all my personalities know how to spell Zach). Or perhaps we had lived identical lives hundreds of miles apart for the previous 18 years.

Freshman year came and went with little confusion. Occasionally I might hear, “Hey, there’s another Zach Kohn in one of my classes,” but otherwise no overlap. I lived in West Campus, he lived in East Campus. I was in CGS. He was in COM. Neither of us was connected enough on campus to interrupt each other’s life.

But sophomore year, everything started to change. I began having to tell my friends that no, I don’t write for the Daily Free Press, and no, I’m not starting a croquet league.

Late into first semester, he wrote on my wall, “People keep telling me that they liked my radio show and they’re congratulating me on getting into some comedy troupe. I think you need to change your name.”

Me? Back. Off.

Last spring, we walked past each other, on Comm. Ave. After what must have been hours of awkward eye contact, he spoke.

“You’re Zach Kohn,” he said.

“You’re Zack Kohn,” I responded.

He looked around. “The world is still here.”

Yes, the world is still here, but the problem isn’t going anywhere. Now we’re both in COM, and my parents are going to cheer for him at graduation, leaving me to walk across the stage to silence.

Wait, on second thought, my name is Zachary Kohn, and his name is Zackary Kohn. I’d go first.

Maybe that’s why I just heard he’s decided to graduate early.

Zach Kohn can be reached at zachkohn@bu.edu.

Do you have a doppleganger on campus? Let us know in the comments.

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One of the first concerts I attended at college was MGMT and it was 2008, way before you heard of them. At the Paradise the summer between freshman and sophomore years, my friend Peisin and I arrived an hour before the show to ensure that we were front and center. The Paradise was nearly empty, a few college-aged fans lining up against the stage. Peisin and I grabbed a spot next to a curious couple. While everyone else in the room was around our age, this couple looked to be in their 50s or 60s, dressed like they were getting dinner with friends, not seeing a rock show.

Peisin — always a curious, friendly girl — struck up a conversation with them. The first thing that struck us: Scottish accents. The second thing that struck us: their level of music snobishness.

“We don’t really like American bands,” she explained. “I keep a list of American bands that we like.”

“Just because you’re saying that with a cute Scottish accent doesn’t mean it’s not stupid,” I responded.

Ok, I didn’t say that, but trust me, I was thinking it.

As the concert started, Peisin and I watched with shock and sadistic delight as the husband elbowed a young girl who had pushed in front of him, and the wife screamed in the face of another girl who had ruined her YouTube video by knocking into her while dancing.
After the show, Peisin and I knew we had found our soul mates. Now at nearly every indie show I attend in the Boston area, they are there, too, front and center, having no fun at all. We have nicknamed them the Pissy Twins. On our weekly radio show, we ask listeners to call in with Pissy Twin sightings. I am forever hunting the dangerous and elusive Pissy Twins.

While there is only one old Scottish couple at concerts, there are stereotypical people at every concert I attend in Boston. The more concerts I attend, the more I start to recognize others in the crowd. A friend and I have created a checklist of people you will see at a concert. This list is about 20 long, but here are a few of my favorites:

THE GIRL HAVING MORE FUN THAN EVERYONE ELSE
She’s toward the front and dancing hard, no matter what song is playing. After every song, she jumps and screams, letting the band know just how much she enjoyed it.

THE PERSON SINGING, EVEN THOUGH HE DOESN’T KNOW THE WORDS
Always standing next to me, this guy sings his way through song after song, mumbling until the chorus, then mumbling the chorus.

THE PERSON WHO WANTS TO HAVE A CONVERSATION WITH THE BAND
During the between-song banter, he will yell to the band, asking questions appropriate during dinner with friends.

THE PERSON WHO DOESN’T UNDERSTAND THE CONCEPT OF A SET LIST
This summer I saw We Are Scientists perform at the Middle East Downstairs. The guy standing next to me continuously yelled, “THE SCENE IS ALIVE, PLAY THE SCENE IS ALIVE.” This person comes to every show, hoping to hear one song, yelling until it is played.

THE PERSON SINGING LOUDER THAN THE LEAD SINGER
I get it. You know the words. So does the lead singer.

So next time you go to a concert and find a drunk guy trying to make a mosh pit while everyone is standing still, don’t get mad. Just check him off your list. And tell the Pissy Twins I say hey.

Zach Kohn can be reached at zachkohn@bu.edu.

Have you seen the Pissy Twins? Let us know in the comments.

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The worst news story I’ve ever read: “Homeless book peddler confronts tangled epilogue in Harvard Square”.

Am I being overly dramatic? Yeah, whatever.

Those of you who have journeyed to the far side of the river, to those shops and restaurants surrounding that storied university over there, have probably seen him stationed on the sidewalk along Mass. Ave., his quaint wooden shelf bursting with used books.

This is the shop of Ken O’Brien, who, according to the Boston Globe, “is the first and only homeless man to belong to the Harvard Square Business Association.” Next to the stand sits O’Brien and his girlfriend, along with their pets, a dirty yet hopelessly cute cat and dog pair.

I’ve been to this stand to collect worn books that O’Brien offers for a few dollars. Always willing to help choose, the man clearly loves the work he has chosen for himself.

Last March, I thought O’Brien was done. Sitting in my bedroom on Bay State Road, I was avoiding homework by perusing the Web site for the Boston Globe. Hidden among stories of Red Sox spring training scores and something dumb some politician said was the sad story of Ken O’Brien’s bookstand. After years of fighting with Cambridge for the right to sell used books on the street, he had finally decided to wave the white flag. Years of paperwork, red tape, and even a few arrests had worn him out; the man would no longer harm the world with his inexpensive books and pleasant conversation.

O’Brien had done his best to keep his stand intact and help maintain the local spirit of Harvard Square, which every year loses mom-and-pop shops to global corporations. He kept clawing at the system to let him sell his books. But according to the city of Cambridge, that wasn’t possible. Far as I knew, O’Brien, his girlfriend, his pets, and his books were long gone.

Then last week I went to Harvard Square for the first time in months. On the walk down Mass. Ave., the extraordinary stared at me. Sitting in front of the Leavitt and Peirce tobacco shop, a block from Harvard Square’s ground zero, was a quaint wooden box, bursting with books. On top of it was a sign.

“The city says I need a permit to sell books. Used Books for Sale.”

Zach Kohn can be reached at zachkohn@bu.edu.

How do you feel about O'Brien's book selling ways? Let us know in the comments.

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As I drift into consciousness, I look out my window to see the sun kissing the Charles River and a breeze tickling trees starting to slip into their colorful autumn dress. It’s a beautiful Sunday morning, at least until I glance at my clock.

1:38.

Ughhhh.

I stumble into the kitchen searching for a glass of water, and maybe a toothbrush. I try to nibble on a piece of toast, but my stomach, still angry from my escapades the night before, screams, DO NOT TOUCH. I curl into a ball on the couch and turn on a football game.

After hours of television, video games, pizza, and Sporcle, I venture out of my apartment after the sun has set to Camp Co. for a Snapple, and to make sure fresh air still exists.

Every Sunday, I allow myself to wallow on my couch, mourning the loss of brain cells. I listen to friends recount their Sundays full of art fairs and apple-picking, while I remember the lukewarm pizza and SpongeBob Squarepants marathons.

I grew up in New England, and most weekends in the fall, my parents would take me and my siblings on “adventures.” Although these adventures usually amounted to little more than a walk through the woods of some random state park, they allowed my family to take advantage of those last few beautiful days of the year.
Now I sit in my apartment Sunday after Sunday, watching the beautiful days from afar. I know I’m being ridiculous. I know that there are only a few more weeks before I’m forced to trudge through snowbanks and black ice, watching the sun rise at 11:30 a.m. and set at noon.

Tourists flock to this region every year to leaf peep. And Boston embraces it with walking tours and open-air markets everywhere.

It’s time for me to embrace it, too. So no more Mr. Lazyguy. I’ve compiled a list of activities to do before the snow. I will be up on Saturday and Sunday before 10 and get out of the apartment armed with coffee, camera — and the satisfaction of knowing that my DVR is set to record all episodes of SpongeBob.

“Wait a minute. I don’t have a bike seat.”

Matt looked at me, then down at my bike, then back at me, then again at my bike.

“Where is your seat?” he asked.

“Someone must have stolen it.”

“Do people do that?”

That was the question on my mind as well.

I had locked my bike outside of CAS for 12 hours on Sunday. I returned with Matt, unlocked it, and began walking it home. About half a mile later, I looked down to discover there was no longer anywhere to sit.

Today, with a new seat on my bike and 50 fewer dollars in my bank account, I have two questions on my mind:

Why did it cost 5 dollars for the “labor” of putting a seat on my bike?

Why would anybody steal a bike seat?

I’ll put the labor question aside for now, and begin with question two.

There are two obvious reasons to steal something: either you want that thing, or you want to sell that thing.

Now I’ve come to find that bike seats are ungodly expensive, so clearly there is money to be made from stealing one. But let me describe my bike seat.

When it was new, the seat was black. It’s still black, but also covered in grey and brown spots. On the left side of the seat, a rip stretches from front to back, revealing gross foam padding on the inside. The pole connecting my seat to my bike has been rusted for so long that the rust is starting to rust. This seat never was top of the line, and it’s eight years old.

If anybody is able to get money for that seat, that person is too good of a salesman to be working in bike seat theft.

And who are the stolen bike seat buyers? I know I’ve never been offered stolen bike parts on the street before.

“Hey man, you want some weed?”

“No thanks.”

“What about some handlebars?”

Does that mean my bike seat was stolen out of need? Did someone steal my bike seat because he had his stolen? Is there a chain of bike seat theft stretching for generations? Is it possible that I just ended that chain by buying a new seat, rather than stealing someone else’s?

OK, so maybe I have more than two questions on my mind. But there is one I know will never be answered:

Five dollars for labor?

Zach Kohn can be reached at zachkohn@bu.edu.

Had anything stolen? Let us know in the comments.

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Comm Ave compassion
By Zach Kohn (COM’11)

Five student bloggers join BU Today this week, each given his or her own day, each hoping to contribute through the semester. This being Wednesday, Zach’s up.

Walking through Allston on a Friday night doesn’t bring many quiet, peaceful moments. So I didn’t flinch last weekend when, on the sidewalk of Commonwealth Avenue, I walked past a bro in a backwards baseball cap, rocking a neck beard and fighting with his girlfriend, who was wearing a little black dress and high heels.

When I arrived at my buddy’s apartment, he announced that someone had to go get Solo cups, so I turned around and continued my adventure through the mean streets of Allston. As I walked toward Tedeschi’s, I noticed my new friends had managed to make it another block, but were still fighting. Still, not that strange — I was in Allston, after all.

It was on my return from Tedeschi’s that the couple entered into my Weird Stuff I’ve Seen In Allston Hall of Fame.

Standing directly in front of the building I was hoping to enter, the couple was no longer fighting. Instead, the guy was hugging his girlfriend and sobbing. “I just don’t want to ruin this. You’re the greatest thing that has ever happened to me.”

Just a few days later, as I walked towards class on Comm Ave, my eyes caught a beautiful sight. The bro (still in a backwards baseball cap, still with his gross neck beard) and the girl (still in high heels, no longer in a little black dress) were walking down the street toward me, hand-in-hand.

This is the way that life on Comm Ave works. Every day I walk past the faceless masses of BU, hoping to spot somebody that I know for a friendly smile or awkward, middle-of-the-sidewalk-in-the-way-of-everyone conversation. But even better sometimes are the people like my new friends, bro and girl.

These are the people I don’t know, and will never know. Yet I become emotionally invested in their lives. At least the parts that are noticeable in the seconds it takes me to walk past them on Comm Ave.

What is it about this street? I’ve spent a good amount of time in South Campus, yet I’ve never become attached to anyone on Beacon Street. I lived in Allston for a summer and noticed nobody special on Brighton Ave. Yet every day on Comm Ave, I see people who don’t know me, but I know them. Yesterday I saw bro and girl in the GSU eating lunch. As I passed, she smiled, and rubbed the gross neck beard hair under his chin. I smiled too. You don’t know me, bro and girl, but I know you, and I’m rooting for you.

Zach Kohn can be reached at zachkohn@bu.edu.

Any weird stuff you've seen on Comm Ave? Let us know in the comments.

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