Through the small window the sun light impressed a soft square spot on the sturdy wooden floor, exposing a dusty tube of air, almost unmoving, disturbed only when the waitress walks through it. At an early hour the breakfast cafe was already gathering a waiting crowd on the sidewalk. The serried pavement was stomped by youthful energy that is characteristic of Hollywood. One can even tell that some were club goers waiting to grab a bite before going to bed. The cloud-flecked sky of the past days was replaced by a big expanse of bright blue. Shorts and tank tops were the uniformity of the waiting young men and women. Summer has invariably arrived.

On the white-clothed table our vegetable omelette was delicious and coffee strong. N, in a red and white stripe polo shirt, with her collar turn up, was busy sipping and eating and carrying on the lively monologue with her animated physiognomy. She was so drawn into the conversation that the normally perspicacious N did not even notice my perfunctory nodding. Looking about the cafe, the arrival of summer-like weather has given Los Angelenos more reasons to lift their heads and smile at the gorgeous weather. Just then a plane cuts across the clear blue, soiling the sky with a trail of white and grey. In the midst of the morning languor her eloquence was muffled by a sudden clatter of plates and dishes hitting the floor, the sunlit square smeared with foods and sauces. The restaurant was hinged by a momentary suspense, unsure and fascinated by the spectacle -- an accidental work of art -- the waitress eyed her patrons with an entreating look before bending down to clean, and by consent everyone returned to their previously interposed conversations. The day went on just like any other, and I am drowning in monotony.

Tags: Monotony, N, Los Angeles

62%

The director at the School of Library and Information Science at San Jose State University sent out a fee increase notice on May 16, 2006 to students of the program. The fee increase for the special session in which I am enrolled, from $215 per unit to $349, a substantial 62% increase, is by no means an easy pill to swallow. While the director, Dr. Ken Haycock, did his best in explaining the reasoning behind the increase, pointing out that despite the increase the MLIS program at SJSU remains one of the most affordable in the U.S., I was rather piqued by his response to the deluge of student protests (mainly through email and electronic postings instead of mass demonstration and burning cars like those in France). His somewhat condescending tone did not do a good job in soothing student sentiment:

"The special session fee increase is not a “CSU fee” insofar as special session is to be an entirely self-supporting program; the faculty and staff extend themselves to provide the program; we are under no requirement to do so; we could simply cancel it and continue with the regular program of 600 students."

To even suggest closing the special session program in Southern California sounds as if we are an expendable lot of herds that should be thankful of the charity bestowed upon us by SJSU.

"Special session students have complained to me about inferior status, access to courses, quality of instruction, IT infrastructure; we can address these issues only through increased funds."

Improvement is the theme often cited to justify any means of fee increase. While I give credit to Dr. Haycock for addressing these apparent issues, I doubt the increased funds will propel any meaningful change to the current program; any additional funds will only be used in maintaining the status quo. It is just like gasoline, either at $2.50 or $3.37 the same mpg applies.

The trend of rising tuition costs across the U.S. makes it simply inevitable for SJSU to catch on. What caught us off guard, I believe, is the sheer magnitude of 62% increase. Imagine the happiness of getting a 62% salary raise at work, how will that change one's life? The same can be said for us students, already struggling with tuition and book and living costs in the state of California, 62% fee increase without any warning is not something we can stomach quietly.

Tags: SJSU SLIS, MLIS, Dr. Ken Haycock, Library education,

The fabled Los Angeles subway system, the Metro Red Line, betokened an impalpable excitement as I stood and stared incredulously at the entrance of Pershing Square station. The entrance is a long blackened staircase that descended into an airy wide corridor of steel and marble. Three ticket machines are moulded into the entrance wall, selling one-way ticket for $1.25. I had not a single change but a $20 bill. I inserted the feather weight paper money into the machine and got change all in the ever-unpopular Sacagawea gold dollar coins. (Try carrying around $18 worth of coins...) As I walked toward another set of staircase to embark on this sentimental journey, I was confounded to the fact that there were no system in place to check for tickets: riders were scurrying in and out of the station without anyone checking. My superfluous paper ticket remain unchecked throughout. Maybe Los Angelenos get to ride for free on Saturdays.

The platform on which I waited for the next train seemed a strong contrast to those in the Asian cities -- utterly lacking in commercialization, which might be a good thing in almost everything else, but in this case, no. The walls on both sides of the platform were black and bare as the innars of the tunnels, presenting no advertising opportunity for companies to showcase their latest products in colorful, well-lit graphic. Not that I cared much about the ads whenever I rode the Taipei MRT, but it does enliven the station and help pay the cleaning bill.

Los Angelenos are so in love with their cars and SUVs that the Red Line in thirteen years remains the only underground route in L.A. It goes from Union Station to North Hollywood -- a route that any one not living downtown would be insulated from. Looking about the platform, I noticed that no more than ten passengers were waiting. A few minutes later, a familiar sound gradually traveled through the tunnel and pressed upon my ears as that of the arriving train. Aboard the silvery train a strong sense of nostalgia swelled my city-hungry heart.

I took an almost unhealthy interest in every passing stations. Most were nondescript and dark; and some were rather filthy where plastic bags scatter about like the streets above some sections of Los Angeles. Exceptions were found in the Hollywood station (I can't recall which one) and the Union Station, with the former suffused with a colorful display of mosaic tiles and the latter an extension of grandeur of the Union Station. I sat placidly in the seat by the window, in between stations the occiput of the passenger in front or the small graffiti scratched on the back of passenger seats would direct my gaze for a short while. The swaying of the train and the familiar sound of doors closing and opening almost put me to sleep. But on second thought, this is Los Angeles.

Tags: Los Angeles, Metro Red Line, Subway, Mass Transit, Union Station

When darkness has fallen the 405 North continues its crawly motion into the foggy night. What was expected of a pleasant evening drive into Sherman Oaks turns out to be a many puckered brows. Luckily, the previous night I had had the foresight of downloading numerous podcast into the iPod to anticipate any prolonged idling on the freeway. A pair of high school friends of mine, who happens to study in Los Angeles as well, had invited me to their newly furnished apartment in the San Fernando Valley, a geographic area of Los Angeles that I rather not tread, for its endless succession attempts and that other L.A. newspaper, LA Daily News.

When I finally arrived and found a parking space, I am welcomed as always by my dear friends, who are a couple. Their freshly-painted apartment on the busy Wilshire thoroughfare exuded a sense of serenity that I found in them as well. Plastered on the walls are their yellowing photographs from childhood faraway places, from which I gathered the same warm smile that they still exhibit today.

After the brief tour of the apartment, a circle has gathered in the living room. Great, I thought, already we are skipping the alcohol and proprieties to play spin the bottle! Someone is kissing someone!

As I strategically picked my spot in the circle, at the same time eyeing for attractive faces, a anglicized voice sounded the salvo of the night: "Tonight we gather here for a genuine business opportunity."

"Huh?"

This genuine business opportunity gathering was no kissing matter; it was a multi-level marketing scheme presentation. A dump smile remained on my face for a few stuporous seconds, and immediately I thought of the precious $3.34-a-gallon gas that I spent on getting there. The presentation, coupled by forced Q&A session and psychological questioning and praise, lasted an hour and a half.

I walked out of the apartment, feeling duped and a sense of vacuity, and checked my money to make sure I did not pay $370 to get rich.

Tags: Multi-level marketing, San Fernando Valley, Sherman Oaks, Los Angeles

The narrow one-way street stood the residence of my childhood, a small ground floor unit that belongs to a grayish concrete building that stretches six stories high. The building itself is of common pedigree in the streets of Taipei, but the ground unit is especially pronounced by its facade -- a red wooden door that is twenty years behind the rest of the neighborhood, with its frail-looking, bright red paint been chipped away as time progress, leaving behind a look of withered spinster. Upon entering through the wooden door is a small garden, no bigger than perhaps a walk-in closet in many homes in the US. To call it garden is misleading, for the only foliage visible to the eyes are the uncultivated weed and dandelion that persevered in wherever crevices in the stone ground are found. But since the tiny square is well exposed to all earthy elements, I am inclined to calling it garden. I recall there once existed a small koi pond, in which during the sultry summer days I would dip my tiny feet in the cool water. There are, however, no evidence of any pond, and now everything is flatten and ugly and exposed.

I will like to take a few steps back and describe the street scene. I often think the street as a quiet fissure in the midst of noise and hustle and bustle of central Taipei. It takes two minutes of walk to reach from my house to the nearest MRT station. But I have never thought the place as noisy; in fact, it was almost too quite for my then restless young mind. On both side of the block are concrete buildings that are typical of ugly modern Taiwan architecture, the outer walls darkened by air pollution and steel bars in symbiotic relationship with glass windows. I didn't know what shielded the block from the busy movement of Taipei, but time there didn't seem to be in conjunction with the time outside. Tall apartment units stood row in row on both sides of the street. As a result I never knew what other people were talking about when they referred to a big expanse of blue sky; my notion of sky was always the long stretch of open air that hung above the block.

Tags: Childhood, Taipei, Taiwan, Home,