The Davis/Berkeley Shuttle will cost $11 effective Oct. 1. This is the first time the price has been raised since 2009 and it reflects increasing costs to run the shuttle service.

While this $1.35 increase is lamentable, we find it reasonable. We commend those running the Davis/Berkeley Shuttle for their efforts in keeping the costs down. Students have enough fees to contend with as it is and taking the Amtrak still costs twice as much.

This increase in price may deter some students from taking the shuttle. As the number one “cool school,” we urge students to find cost-effective and environmentally friendly transportation to the Bay Area and elsewhere.

The best way is to carpool. UC Davis has an active community on Uloop, an online classifieds website for university students, which includes the carpool section. If you are headed somewhere, it is easy to post on Uloop and give someone a lift. Not only are you doing your part to save the planet, carpoolers will pitch in for gas.

Another option is Zimride, a website dedicated to carpooling which provides bus services between some cities including Sacramento. While carpooling may or may not be cheaper than the Davis/Berkeley Shuttle, it can have more convenient times.

The Davis/Berkeley Shuttle may not work for everyone but it remains a viable alternative to other modes of transportation to and from the Bay Area.

If the shuttle is inconvenient or too expensive, there are many other viable options that are not only greener, but cheaper than driving. You’ll never know when you need that $2 for an emergency CoHo coffee.

I wish I could say I had a great relationship with my roommate freshman year.

I can’t.

Freshman year was like having a baby with Michael Cera: nine awkward months punctuated by miscarriages of social interaction.

Part of it was letting the year get off to a rocky start. The rest was allowing my rocky start to snowball into an avalanche of social ineptitude. Coming into college, I had a romanticized perception of the next four years. I figured I’d be a beast at life, have epic adventures, get laid and become best friends with my new roommate, “Jake.”

In reality, I was a scrub. My adventures were all imaginary. The only place I got my dick wet was in the shower.

Throughout fall quarter, Jake and I barely exchanged a word. During Welcome Week, we made casual conversation and I assumed it’d get easier as the year progressed. But I made the mistake of visiting friends in Berkeley during the weekend when everyone in the building got to know one another. I had a good time in Berkeley, but it wasn’t worth the trip. Amtrak fares drained half of my checking account, I slept on the floor for two nights and I made the conscious decision of hanging onto high school friends at the expense of making new ones in college. That was mistake number one.

Mistake number two was not correcting my first mistake. I didn’t take the initiative to introduce myself to people in my building, and once the school year started, no one had any idea who I was. Life went downhill from there as I became more withdrawn and lost the confidence to talk to people. I ate alone, although I craved conversation.

My darkest hour came on a November morning at the DC, when I saw a couple set down two water glasses on opposite sides of a table. When they left to grab some pastries, I moved the two glasses and took a seat. They came back, and I pretended to be apologetic about my “mistake.” I sat there, engaged them in awkward conversation and ruined their intimate breakfast. That was freshman year: a miasma of the lifeless, the lonely, the boring.

Out of sheer boredom, I designed an experiment to see how long Jake and I could go without having a conversation. The experiment lasted six days, speechless moments upon speechless moments constructing a Fort Knox of golden silence and unadulterated quietude.

Once I finally broke the silence, things improved. I made a few friends, broke some ice and had a few good memories. But it was a dream diminished, and I wondered how great the year could’ve been if I had opened up, instead of retreating into a cocoon of insecurity.

So if you don’t want to be me, don’t take anything for granted. You get a blank slate in college, and no one cares who you were in high school. And even if you fuck up, you can always try to make things right.

I didn’t think I’d ever get along with Jake, but now he’s one of the few people in Davis whom I do not actively root against. That’s not to say you have to become best friends with your roommate. Some people are just fucks.

But if you try to go through college without making new friends, you’re going to have a bad time. We enjoy life through the help and society of others, not by running twisted experiments on roommates or by cock-blocking people from an intimate breakfast. Then again, maybe some of you aren’t wired to be social butterflies. Maybe you’re like my friend “Todd,” and you harbor a dream of going to Mars so you can spend six years away from humanity.

That’s cool.

Maybe it’s your destiny to be an introverted boss. Just make sure you don’t close the door on friendship too early.

BEN CHANG will engage you in awkward conversation at bcchang@ucdavis.edu.

I speak to the dismayed, because I have been dismayed.

Four years ago when I was 17 and the Obama administration took the White House, I cheered my heart out as an admirer from afar. Four years later, as I skip past another article about the Democratic and Republican camps preparing for some other ephemeral debate over which I expect absolutely none of Occupy Wall Street’s demands to be discussed, I am not merely disenchanted, but I am exhausted, disheartened and almost at a point of apathy for what I’ve now long recognized as a system of white Anglo-Saxon heterosexual male Protestant domination maintaining the status quo through yet another sham of an election brought to us by media corporations so profoundly subjugated in this age of the Patriot Act that I’d really rather just change the channel to watch Walter White make meth and stick it to everybody on “Breaking Bad.”

I have watched with disgust as pepper spray and batons have repeatedly been deployed against activists both on the streets and college campuses of California and the country at large, and I have frustratingly kept up with the acquittals of these cases, the negative precedents set by them, the continuing threat to an affordable education in the refusal to appropriately acknowledge their implications and the myriad of other similar and seemingly infinite injustices in this intertwined assortment of institutions and bodies making up the mad society we’re a part of.

And I could go on; I’m sure we all could. We could spend our whole lives condemning these things and some of us will, but despite that, I’m going to vote anyway, and I urge my fellow cynics to do so as well.

Why, and what for, considering all the evidence that when I get up the next day virtually nothing will have changed?

Why, and what for, considering that the system is still going to rail against me no matter what I check off on some ballot?

The reason is not that serious. It’s not something profound. It’s not even political and in fact it might be just a little absurd.

Every day, at every moment, including this one that I share with you right now, people everywhere are dying. People everywhere are suffering. They are being raped and beaten and abused and thrown away, and if they’re not doing away with each other, they’re doing away with themselves, somehow, if they’re not being destroyed by disease or tragic bad luck.

And it’s not just that the world can be the most horrible place. Every day, at every moment for someone out there, it is.

And we all know this — it’s just that most of the time, we choose to ignore it. What we don’t know is that we won’t be one of the sufferers of these great tragedies. What we do is hope otherwise, and of course, we go to school to get good jobs and hopefully buy some nice homes with big sturdy walls and formidable security systems to ward off nuclear war the day someone finally decides to push the button.

Or at least, that’s what I do. I don’t know what’s ahead, but I hope, and give it a shot that way. The same will be true with my vote.

After what feels like a lifetime of disenfranchisement in experiencing racism, in suffering a rather embarrassing list of personal trials with the state, and in witnessing countless other injustices both up close and from afar, I’m still going to participate in the process because I still don’t know for sure, without an ounce of doubt, that it absolutely won’t do anything.

After all, every morning I don’t know how the day is going to go but I still choose to live it.

That’s a vote.

And when I applied to go to school at UC Davis, I didn’t know that I’d get in, but I did.

That was a vote too.

Considering this, we vote every day, and when Election Day comes and that ballot is in front of me with some nonsense about changing this or that because the time has come, well, I don’t know that my choice will do any of it — in fact, I could go on, we all could — but fuck it I’m going to vote anyway because I can, and I urge all those like me out there who can to do the same.

JIMMY RECINOS knows you have an opinion too. He’d like to hear it at jrecinos@ucdavis.edu.

In the fifth grade I learned that, in 12th century Scotland, men wore condoms made of sheep intestine. While this historical tidbit frightened me, it also instilled an important moral.

Condoms, no matter the texture or scent, are better than an unwanted pregnancy or an STD.

But was anyone, besides me, wondering about the other steps in the evolution of male condoms? How did they transform from a literal sausage sheath into the hygienic rubbers that the Love Lab gives out today?

After a harrowing Google image search, I discovered that fashion-forward Egyptian and Roman men often wore tiny loincloths covering the glans of their penises. But get this — those loincloths weren’t only worn for modesty, they also doubled as linen condoms. Poor Cleopatra, I wonder if she knew that sex with Mark Antony would be quite so… uncomfortable.

After the decline of the Roman Empire, mankind didn’t bother with inventing a replacement male prophylactic until syphilis began to spread. Travel to and from the New World worsened this STD pandemic — travel abroad stories anyone? Toward the latter half of the 16th century, linen sheaths covered with spermicidal chemicals replaced old-school loincloths. The improved cloth prevented both the spread of terrifying STDs and equally frightening unwanted pregnancies.

Animal innards and chemical-soaked linen continually penetrated the market until 1844, when Charles Goodyear and Thomas Hancock invented the rubber condom. I imagine intestines were hastily thrown aside, as peoples rushed to buy the newly vulcanized rubber accoutrements. However, these new and improved condoms tended to stink. The smell of burning rubber, while probably quite sexy to Nascar enthusiasts, isn’t what most would deem aphrodisiac.

Surprisingly, the invention of mass-producible bone blankets didn’t revolutionize dominant views on sexuality. The United States remained prudish for quite some time after the invention, and reserved the right to confiscate any birth control sold through the mail. This ban continued until World War I. Loneliness, an emotion felt by both incoming students and WWI soldiers, often manifests in heightened STD rates.

Because penicillin was not available till WWII, soldiers were repeating the well-established college mantra that starts with “YOLO!” and ends with “WTF was I thinking last night?”

Lovers were stuck using rubber condoms until 1919, when inventor Fredrick Killian found a latex substitute. After the improvement, in smell and durability, condoms evolved rapidly. In 1957, lubricated condoms were invented and soon became the rage. Punch bowls during the swinging ‘60s were soon packed with the colorfully wrapped party hats.

Condoms achieved further popularity in the 1980s, when they were found to be the most effective barrier against HIV. Even with all that Flock of Seagulls hair, ‘80s lovers knew what George Bush administration didn’t: “Abstinence Only” doesn’t always work.

Today, male condoms come in every shape, size, texture and scent imaginable. Hypoallergenic polyurethane condoms are available, for all the sneezers, itchers and swellers out there. Visual lovers are now able to access colored or glow-in-the-dark options. Touch-sensitive people can grab ribbed or studded while the olfactory obsessed can choose their favorite scent.

Female condoms and dental dams are a more recent invention, made of the same durable latex as a male condom. Today at UC Davis, condom use is encouraged. So don’t be like the 582 Yolo citizens who contracted chlamydia last year — according to the California Department of Health — and beat the odds, Aggies!

As a society we have come a long way, so take advantage of campus resources. Run to the Love Lab, located in the Student Health and Wellness Center, and grab 10 free condoms! You can do this once a day, multiple times a week.

Go ahead and stuff those little brown bags full. Even if you have no intention of ever using the condoms sexually, you can marvel at their rich history or make interesting balloon art.

If you are hosting a children’s party and are interested in hiring a clown/balloon artist, contact KATELYN RINGROSE at knringrose@ucdavis.edu.

As a budding young pup, I would fervently hit the “save” button as I played through a video game. When I was about to open a door, I’d hit “save.” If ominous music were to begin playing in the background: save. Leap over the precipice of a gaping crevice? Pause. Options. Save game.

In a sense, it was borderline OCD behavior. I would leave nothing up to chance. If things didn’t turn out the way I wanted them to, I would simply reload back a few moments and play it out my way.

It was, at times, a maddening process, one that would drive me to have a shock of white hair by the age of six.

I’m sure that some of you out there will look upon the opening lines and smirk to yourself, knowing full well that you’ve been guilty of doing the same — to varying degrees, of course.

Growing up immersed in a microcosm where hitting “pause” followed by “reset” could essentially obliterate any mistakes leaves one with a somewhat skewed and unrealistic vision of the world.

In those days of yore, I felt I could get away with anything. I rode my bike at breakneck speeds — forget the knee pads and elbow guards — for if I were to fall, I knew I could just reset. I’d take an extra milk carton from the cafeteria, and if I was caught? I’ll take a Reset, please.

During that golden age, there was never really a situation where I felt like I had to use the reset button.

Just when I thought I had every square inch of life figured out to a T, a day came that waylaid my impetuous notions.

I was 7 years old and had just joined my school’s Little League team. I would play regularly with the neighborhood kids in my cul-de-sac to squeeze a little practice in before the season started.

On one notably gloomy, overcast day, I was playing with one other boy, proudly swinging away with my little aluminum Louisville slugger. The neighborhood reverberated with metallic “plinks” in the wake of each successful hit.

What happened next is a little hazy in my memory, but logic dictates that the other neighbor boy had appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

Materialized like a surprise boss.

I dimly recall his face meeting my bat full-on as I took a practice swing. There was no metallic plink with this hit.

I bore no animosity to this boy. Not in the slightest. And as I looked at his crumpled form on the ground, I was very much confused as to what would happen next.

My heartbeat quickened, crescendoing into a full-blown roar in my ears. I couldn’t figure out how to reset the game. And at that singular moment, I realized that life didn’t work like that.

Today, his eye is perfectly fine. I had given him a vicious black eye and in return received his parent’s long-lasting loathing. I can’t blame them. He and I continued as friends afterward, as 7-year-olds tend to forgive one another quite easily. In fact, he wrote on my Facebook wall recently for my birthday.

Life goes on.

I would later come upon a slew of moments in my life where I wanted nothing more than to reset things and do them over again. To take back words I may have said or undo an action.

And honestly, who wouldn’t?

Everyone out there has at least one regret in their life. It may not have been monumental, and it may even turn out to be a blessing in disguise, but as human beings, we don’t always mull things over to the fullest extent before carrying our actions out.

As author Haruki Murakami once wrote: “Unfortunately, the clock is ticking, the hours are going by. The past increases, the future recedes. Possibilities decreasing, regrets mounting.”

His statement holds some validity, but regrets don’t necessarily need to pile up like detritus. After all, we know that life doesn’t come with a reset button.

So don’t live your life intending to undo your mistakes, and even if the mistakes are already laid out on the table, don’t worry about them too much. What’s done is done. There is no going back.

As cliché and corny as it may sound, turn your regrets into lessons and give it your absolute best effort to never repeat them again. It may not be the same as a reset button, but it’s the closest thing we’ve got.

ANDREW POH wants to play some baseball, so if you want to hit the batting cages, contact him at apoh@ucdavis.edu.