Live Journal vs. Blog

I've been trying to understand the difference between Live Journals and Blogs. These are two different Internet tools where people can express themselves and be published. But what makes one more appealing than the other?

Here's a fun link: Live Journal Drama. They don't have these for blogs, do they?

Squirrel fishing. I still can't decide if it was a valid experiment.

My Damned Writing Process
a vicious cycle that is stuck at step three

I tried my hand at creative writing again. I've only written a two page prologue so far. I've emailed it to my sister, who recommended that I should rework it because she got confused. Ah... the writing process...

Should I define what English teachers call "the writing process"? It's a step-by-step scaffolding method in which we teach to students to try to understand their own writing style and process. It goes something like this:

A) Pre-writing: students jot down ideas. They can outline them with the traditional Roman numerals, they make bubble clusters, they can draw diagrams, etc... It's like making a layout of all their ideas. If they have a ton of ideas, this is where they can see what is relevant, what should they focus on, and where their ideas are going.
B) Rough draft: students write a rough draft. This is where they are to actually write in words, in a structured format, no bubble clusters or diagrams. This is where they develop their ideas into a focused paper.
C) Editing/Revision: students share their work to edit. This can be with the teacher, who reads the rough draft and puts comments on it; or it can be a peer-edit with their own friends or classmates who also put comments on it. Then the student can revise their work.
D) Publishing: this is the final draft where the student turns in their work. Publishing doesn't necessarily mean that it gets published; it just means that it's a final draft. In some cases, like creative writing, publishing can mean "does it appear publishable?" With Internet activities, could the piece that the student wrote be put on a website? If it was a writing project, is the paper in a publishable format, such as in a writing portfolio; does it have a writing cover?

Before I even taught, this was already my writing process back in sixth grade when I first started writing silly stories. When I saw this method in a teaching course from college, it was like putting a name to a face. I already knew it, I just needed to put it in words. I still have short stories and ideas from eighth grade that are either at step one or at step three. These stories haunt me because I never finished them.

With my current story, I'm stuck at level three. I'm either a perfectionist, or I'm just never satisified at what I write. I've gone through a dozen revisions with this story already. The prologue alone has gone through several drafts and revisions. Then there's the other questions that come into play: first person narrative or third? Third person limited narrative or omniscient? Female narrator or male narrator? Was this character useless? Should I change that character's name? Was this scene needed at all? Did the mood and tone come out right?

I'm looking at my prologue, and I like it. Sure, there are a few loopholes that my sister noticed and got a bit confused. If I revise this prologue, I hope I can stick with this draft that it can move on to step four, at least. Back to the drawing--er, writing board.

Once in a while, I'm tempted to publish something of a creative endeavor on this site. But I'm paranoid that someone will read it and then steal my ideas...

I'm going to write... the old fashioned way... with pen and paper.

Marilyn Monroe Rediscovered

This is a cool story. I wish I could view that short piece of film.

I did 11 miles of bike-riding yesterday. My legs feel like heavy cramped iron. Next weekend, with a new riding buddy, we're pushing for 15 miles around a lake. I feel it's going to be torture, but I'm going to do it anyway.

Yes, it's fun.

If California's school district superintendents were to hire a professional fundraiser, who would it be? Certainly not Governor Gray Davis. I wonder if Californians would support massive fundraising beyond bake sales and car wahes for their schools?

In my quest to find something to do on a weekend, as I am no longer a full time teacher, I invited a friend to attend a recital with me on Sunday night. It's been a long time since I stayed up on a Sunday night without feeling guilty, and it's been a long time since my friend's been to a concert. So, who did we see? My one and only favorite satirical goth band: Rasputina.

I've always wondered how Melora Creager can play a cello and sing at the same time with a tight corset wrapped around her stomach. I was amazed by her versatility and talent--that woman has got some mad skills with a cello. She plays that instrument like Joe Satriani plays his guitar. I wish I could play like her. The bow literally bounced off the strings of the cello yet there is a full complete sound and timbre that doesn't scratch like screechy violins. It resonates like a natural echo in a grand auditorium.

I've been a fan of Rasputina since their debut in 1996, but I have never seen them in concert. My first impression of Melora: she's really tiny. All the pictures in the albums make her look tall. In reality, she's a petite thing, but that's the lovable irony that is her--she's cute in her small petite way, yet she's got bite in her whole attitude when she plays. Zoe, the relatively new cellist, was tall and graceful. During the recital, she whispered to Melora that she had to go to the bathroom, and Melora made the general announcement to the audience that they had to take a pee-pee break. That was funny.

I wish I had known that cameras were allowed on the premises. I would have taken pictures to last me a lifetime. But really, there are no words to describe the bewildering awe I felt while watching Melora and Zoe play heavy rock music on classical instruments.

I subbed again today. Given it was a Friday afternoon, the kids were very squirrely. They pushed my buttons but I was lenient... until one of the students drew phallic pictures on the white board. I drew the line and started writing up referrals to the assistant principals and started holding students after class. Their regular teacher called me after school was over, and we laughed and discussed the penalties for these students. When I handed the referrals to the AP's secretary, she nonchalantly shook her head as she read the names off. They were familiar to her, and she knew that I wasn't over-reacting by handing out referrals to these students.

During the day, I bumped into more of my former students, and they complained about the grades I had given them for the last semester. When one of the teachers who inherited my kids approached me about parents calling her regarding first semester grades, it raised some flags in my head. I think I may have bubbled the incorrect grades for one class of students. I'll have to go back in on Monday to see the roster of grades for my former classes.

Ugh... I have to look over grades and make parent phone calls again. >_<

*august23 pounds her head on the keyboard*

I bought Lasgo's new album. I don't know why I did. For the past two months, I've passed by their CD at the listening stations numerous times at three different stores. Each time I've always stopped to listen to it. It always appealed to me in that mind-candy way. Now that I bought it, it's not all that great. I'm not really a fan of repetitive techno-dance music, but I thought I was expanding my musical tastes. At least it was on sale.

I should just stick to what I know.

Subbing

Since I won’t be doing anything for the next month before I leave for Japan, I decided to help out my fellow English teachers and offered my services as a substitute teacher. Today was my first “sub job.” It’s a whole new experience. I actually have to sign-in and pick up stuff from the front office.

You know that feeling when you’ve been given a pass to access entrances freely without question, like having an ID with an access code that can get you through the back door? Let’s just say that having to sign-in at the front desk was like having those privileges taken away. I don’t have a parking permit, so I can’t park in the staff parking anymore; I don’t have my own keys to a classroom, and my computer account expired last week. Out of habit, I went to the teacher’s lounge and almost picked up my mail from my mailbox. But it’s not my mailbox anymore… it’s someone else’s box… although my name is still on it. Oh, the memories…

I’m a substitute now. *sigh* This bites. I feel like I'm totally out of the loop.

As I walked through the halls, many of the teachers were surprised to see me, and they were glad that I was subbing for a while. I bumped into a few of MY students, who all objected to their new teachers. My supposed white supremacist spotted me in the parking lot, and he said to me, “Hi, Ms. G. You’re supposed to be our teacher.” (Yeah, he said it just like that.)

“Hi, K------. How’s the new teacher?” I asked with a suppressed laugh.

“She’s mean.”

“She started this week, right? It’s only the second day you've had her.”

He shook his head. “She's mean. She's young like you, but she's mean. We all want you back.”

When I smiled at this, he said, “Have a good one. I’ll see you around.”

Oh, be still my aortic valve! They miss me. Throughout the day, I've encountered more of my students who all insisted that I come back because I was still their teacher. Oh, how sweet… But remember: I am only the lesser of two evils.

*august23 radiates with egotistical glow* Until I hear that my kids have warmed up to their new teachers, I shall bask in all the flattery they give me.

So many thoughts go through my head as I read Mr. Baluchi's story. I laud the man for an honest and humble attempt at world peace, acts like his are futile when you think about the world at this moment: peace will not come in our lifetime. Then again, he could be a border jumper, just like INS suspects. Why else would he want to delay bail, stay in jail, and not want to go back? The most that Mr. Baluchi can get is a nod from the Guinness World Book of Records.

There are artists... then there are weird artists...

Just Me

I went to have lunch with a friend today at the nearest Subway. I love sandwiches--they're healthy and yummy. At this Subway restaurant, I ordered a foot-long Southwest Turkey and Bacon. I’ve had this sandwich before; the crisp bacon is the best as it gently cracks between the brisk lettuce and bell peppers. The employees must have been new... all four of them. My friend and I watched as they read the list of ingredients for each sandwich that they were making. I didn't mind this, but the worker almost forgot the essential ingredient: southwestern sauce, for that mild spicy kick.

"You forgot the sauce... the orange one," I gently reminded her.

She smiled and added the sauce. As I proceeded down to the register, the cashier--an elderly Filipino woman-- charged me nearly $9.00!!!

"You want the meal, and that was extra bacon," she said in her Filipino accent as she rang up the register.

"Extra bacon?" I repeated. "I didn't order extra bacon. Bacon comes with the sandwich."

"Oh..." She looked at the register. "Which one did you get?"

"The Southwest Turkey and Bacon sandwich. Bacon already comes with it."

So, she rings up the register again, but only the sandwich.

“I wanted the meal, too,” I said shyly. My usual Asian submissiveness kicks in, so I wouldn't appear to be rude.

She does the calculation again, and it comes up to $8.32. I pulled out the debit card to pay. She handed two receipts to me, and I tried to figure out which was my copy and which one I had to sign. At this point, the woman starts to talk in Tagalog to another Filipino employee. I don’t understand Tagalog, but I understood what she said as she spoke to her co-worker.

[In Tagalog]
“She complained about the price, but they’re still the same."

"Is she Filipino?" the co-worker asked.

"Yeah, she’s Filipino.”

Obviously, they were talking about me. I signed the receipt and handed it back to her.

“Salamat,” she said, which is Tagalog for “thank you.”

I knew the respectful and proper way to respond to that, but I decided not to say anything. I was a bit pissed off because they were talking about me. The cashier incorrectly assumed that I was fluent in Tagalog, which I’m not. What if I were Guamanian? What if I were Chinese? I think it’s wrong for employees to talk to customers in a different language unless the customer initiates the conversation first. I hate it when Filipinos assume that I’m fluent, and they start talking to me in Tagalog. Then when I tell them I’m not, they look at me as though I should be ashamed of myself. Well, I’m not ashamed of not being able to speak in my native tongue. I grew up in the United States, and my parents knew that I would be primarily educated in English. They knew that I would not be speaking Tagalog for most of my life, so they never fully taught me the language. They do, however, speak another dialect, which they still use around the house, which I do understand. I’m not totally void of my culture. But that’s what most of these elderly Filipino people think. They think it’s shameful if the young Filipino generation don’t know their Filipino roots, or if they don’t know how to speak the native tongue; they go as far as blaming the parents for this cultural gap, claiming that they let the younger generation be “Americanized.”

It’s called biculturalism. I’ve lived with two kinds of cultures in my life. I can’t fully embrace both—but that itself is a culture. It’s also a skill that my generation has mastered in order to survive in two worlds. I am enriched with culture, and it’s nothing to be ashamed about, but I’m not going to live my life trying to prove that to the older generation.

The Great Outdoors

Ah… the great outdoors… Mountain biking across hills, the cool morning breeze in your face, the evaporating mist in the shade as the sun rises higher, the peaceful sounds of a babbling creek… piles of cobblestones to throw me off balance, acute dips in the road that slam against the front wheel, the wet squeaky shoes when I ride through the water, the precarious single trails on the edge of a steep hill, sharp rocks that protrude from a smooth path, scratches from a bike pedal, and of course… the crashes that leave bruises and welts on my legs and thighs. But when I crash, I'll either land on sharp rocks on a hard dirt path, or on wet grass with sharp twigs…

Ah… the great outdoors…

Driving With Idiots

I thought the only idiots that I had to deal with were drivers who left their furniture on the road, but I came across another idiot this evening.

When I heard a friend of mine was sick, I went to visit him to see how he was doing. He was doing fairly well, but a bit fatigued. He was getting ready to watch a couple of DVDs to pass the time away, so I joined him. Fear dot com was a waste of time. After that horrible movie, we both got hungry. Although I was willing to do a food run for the both of us, I wasn’t familiar with the area he lived in, and I wasn’t going to go out by myself at 9:30PM (three hours earlier, I would have had no problem), so I dragged him along for navigational purposes. He suggested we go to In-n-Out. He warned me that In-n-Out has the longest lines for drive-thru service, but I didn’t mind. I don’t usually go to In-n-Out, so their service and their food would be a first for me. While we waited in line, we discussed the menu and how to pay when we noticed that the car in front of us passed the speaker for ordering.

My friend said, “Don’t pull up too close. If he realizes that he didn’t order, then he might want to pull back.”

“True,” I nodded. I stayed my car well behind the driver of the red Acura to give him room to reverse if he needed.

A couple minutes passed and he continued through with the queue.

“Did he order? I don’t think he ordered,” I said.

My friend only shrugged. If he didn’t worry, I wasn’t going to worry. I pulled up to the speaker and I placed our order for one cheeseburger, a 3x3 animal style, and a medium Dr. Pepper. Our total was given, and we proceeded through the line.

Suddenly, I began to muse about the driver of the Acura. “What if the cashier gives him our food? That, or we’ll end up waiting in line longer because he’ll end up ordering at the window and they have to prepare his food, you know?” Yatta, yatta, yatta.

“No, they would make him pull aside. Besides, they know from your voice that a girl ordered," he pointed out to me. Then he added, "How can he forget to order anyway?”

When the driver of the Acura approached the window, we watched while there was an ordinary transaction of food and money. I watched the driver as he nodded and paid for the items simply and without complaints. It appeared that everything was in order and he drove off. I slowly approached the window, with money in hand. The employee poked his head out the window with a paper bag ready to go, but he had a suspicious look on his face. He hesitantly asked me, “Did you order the double-double with ketchup... and fries…?”

“No?” I replied, like a question. “I had a cheeseburger, a 3x3 animal style, and a medium Dr. Pepper.”

The employee’s jaw dropped and looked out to the street for the driver of the Acura. “I can’t believe that guy. He said that was his order.”

“What?” My jaw dropped. “He said that was his order?”

“Did he order?” the employee asked. “I didn’t think he ordered.”

“No,” I nearly laughed. My friend was laughing, too. “He never made it to the speaker.”

The employee, seeing as we were not upset about it, smiled, quickly apologized, and immediately got started on our order. From the conversation of the window employee with his other co-workers, it seemed that the driver of the Acura confirmed that the cheeseburger, the 3x3 animal style, and the Dr. Pepper was, in fact, his order. He even paid its full total of $6.52.

I turned to my friend. “He said it was his order,” I said. “How can you go up to the window and say it was yours when you never ordered?”

“How can he pass the speaker?” he laughed. “It has a big stop sign on it.”

“I know! It should have a different sign on it, like ‘Step One: Place Order Here.’”

“Stupid.”

So, not only did the cashier give our order to the driver before us, but my friend and I ended up waiting for our order to be prepared. When our food came (pretty quick, too), the employee confirmed our items. I smiled and nodded that it was our order. We paid him and went on our merry way. My friend and I had a good laugh on the way back home. Burgers were good, too.

Dear readers, beware of idiotic drivers who leave furniture on the freeway and stupid lying drivers who don’t know what to do at the drive-thru.

For every little thing that is popular, there is always someone with too much time on his hands.