It’s spread out over a vast area, very bumpy and is mostly a dirty brown/orange color.

As you can tell, I don’t really care for LA.

On the other hand, New York resembles a beautiful machine, with its perfect grids, tall buildings, all silver and shiny, reaching for the sky. The entire island of Manhattan resembles a white diamond on blue velvet – just beautiful.

As I write this, I am overlooking New York City from the 38th floor of my hotel room. The view is amazing, and I challenge anyone who can look out upon the skyline of New York to tell me otherwise.

I’m here for a College Media Advisors journalism conference, and am staying right off Times Square – and let me just say this: the city truly never sleeps. I’ve not found anywhere else in the United States that has gyros stores, hot dog stands and pizza places open until 5 a.m.

Nowhere else have I found Starbucks that close at 2 a.m. There is nowhere else in the world that has the middle of the city lit so bright in the wee hours of the night that you could confuse it for day.

In California, the only food available late night would be fast food, and although Jack in the Box may be a good midnight snack, it just doesn’t quite hit the spot. If you’re a Malaysian in America, you definitely miss mamaks and you understand my pain. So come to New York and we can yum cha anytime of day. Plus, in California, the only things open late are drive-thru and No car = no service.

Speaking of driving, California is driving country, where public transportation is spotty and unreliable because everyone owns a car. No other place in the world needs you to drive so much to get anywhere – but keeps you in traffic for so long.

If you’ve been stuck in rush-hour traffic outside LA, you know what I’m talking about.

Don’t get me wrong, New York traffic is horrible too, but – and here’s the beautiful part – you never need to be in it. Subways are amazing and efficient here, much like Malaysia’s Light Rail Transport system.

As an ex-New Yorker put it to me recently, “You can read a book, do work or nap while in the train in New York. In LA all you can do in traffic is stare straight ahead.”

Now let me get to altitude and attitude. I love heights and I love altitude. New York has both. I never realized how much I missed being in tall buildings, or even under them, until I got here.

Let me illustrate this to you. Lie down on the floor and look straight ahead. See how flat everything is? That’s what Orange County is like. Now stand up straight, do you see how high you are up now compared?

Now multiply that by a thousand, and you get a small idea of how New York is. I just love it.

Photo courtesy MCT

If you look out at all these tall buildings, you see the amount of windows lit up at night. And in each of these windows is somebody’s life. When you look out at the entire city you realize that all around you, condensed into the immediate area, are peoples’ lives and stories; that you are an unseen, intangible part of. It makes me feel comfortable and it makes me feel at home. You can never be truly lonely in this city.

As for attitude, I know a lot of people say New Yorkers are rude, brash and arrogant – and it’s totally true. But I’ll take straightforward, cocky and direct over Californian fakeness any day.

It’s refreshing to see no-nonsense people who walk with purpose, don’t muck around with fake pleasantries and walk the streets like they own it, as opposed to in California where guys dress like beach bums and girls dress like whores. Sorry, but you know it’s true. It’s the middle of winter right now, so yes, it is indeed cold. But I like that – I like not breaking into a sweat the minute I step outside; I like being able to wear jackets, coats and scarves; and I like seeing my breath appear in clouds of fog. I don’t miss the sun and I don’t think it misses me.

So this is my fourth day in New York, and I have four more. I haven’t done all the touristy things yet, like Central Park, the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building, but I think things will only get better with a park, a singular statue and one of the tallest buildings in the world.

On the other hand, what does California have to offer? Disneyland, the Walk of Fame and a sign on a hill made out of big, white letters. Forgive me if I don’t get really excited about Southern California anymore.

I have so much to do in so little time. I have to go explore New York’s public faces and private parts, to quote travel writer Bill Bryson. So if you will excuse me, I need to go see if I can upskirt the Statue of Liberty.

Only in America will you find disclaimers on almost everything you touch or see throughout the day. My coffee tells me it is hot and could burn me, my apple pie cautions that it might spill all over my shirt and my cigarettes claim they are out to kill me.

But the worst part is that these warnings aren’t there for my safety or to help me in anyway, but merely exist to protect the manufacturers of these ‘dangerous’ items.

I get it, America is a fine society – with an emphasis on the world “fine” – where there could be financial penalties and lawsuits regarding everything you do.

Kids have sued McDonald’s for making them fat, and people have sued Starbucks for giving them, gasp, hot coffee.

Sadly, I’m siding with the evil corporations on this one. People, like Jordan Triplett of Knoxville, Tenn., who are dumb enough to attempt to balance a cup of hot coffee on their laps while negotiating a turnpike deserve scalded thighs.

I’ll admit, I’ve done it myself and I’ve understood that my punishment for stupid behavior is burnt loins.

On the other hand, McDonald’s did use the worst defense plea in the child obesity case of 2003; claiming that they “handle nutrition responsibly by putting large nutrition informational posters in their restaurants,” as if that makes their food healthy to consume. No Ronald, it doesn’t.

I just thank God that common sense won this time, where the judge threw out the case, and told the two girls Jazlyn Bradley and Ashley Pelman to invest in some treadmills or buy bigger clothes.

OK, so I made that last part up, but if I were the judge that would have been my verdict.

My issue is with the fact that these disclaimers even exist – putting the label “Smoking Kills” on a pack of cigarettes doesn’t make them safer, and engraving the instructions “Do not point at face and pull trigger” won’t stop a gun from killing someone.

What is the importance of these warnings? If someone owned a gun, I would sincerely hope that they knew what it was for, here’s a tip: It’s not a bloody paperweight.

I’m sure you’ve come across dense legalese or misleading signage on a daily basis.

My favorite is serving size indicators on food. Take a pack of Stouffer’s macaroni and cheese. Flip it over. Done? OK, now look at its nutritional (hah!) facts.

A serving of Stouffer’s contains 340 calories. But that’s OK, right? Because it says right there on the front in big, proud letters: 0 grams trans fat. But wait a minute, in the nutritional (double hah!) information, it says that there are 16 grams of total fat in this meal.

If you look more carefully, in the very, very fine print, you will also find that all that information is for one serving size. This pack of mac ‘n’ cheese contains two serving sizes, but the nutritional information is for one serving. Basically you need to double all the figures you see, giving us a grand total of 680 calories and 32 grams of fat.

Very sneaky Stouffer’s.

So if you don’t eat microwaveable food, then let’s take a look at a staple American college student snack, tortilla chips. I picked up a pack of Tostitos and checked their “nutritional” information.

It’s a pack of chips that is “guaranteed fresh” and is naturally-made with whole grains, so it only contains 140 calories and seven grams of fat. Phew.

But wait a minute, what’s the serving size you say?

That’s the joke. Those figures are for a serving size of about seven chips out of a bag that contains over 500 chips.

I personally don’t know anyone who makes sure the number of chips they eat are in multiples of seven, and I haven’t even started on the cheese and bean dip yet either.

Back home if someone did something stupid like burn their tongue on hot food, or eat fast food every day, no one would care, and no judge would give them time of day. In the great democracy of America however, these cases are not only prominent, but cost millions of dollars in damages and lawyer fees. Not to mention everyone’s wasted time because some twit didn’t know that hot coffee was, well, hot.

I think it’s too late for the United States at this point. It’s seeped into the culture and even everyday conversation. Ever had someone say “No offense, but …” and then say something offensive anyway? Yeah, that’s a “Warning: Disclaimer” right there.

All I want is for all McDonald’s packaging, in the future, to say: “Warning: Will make you fat.”

I love the fact that it is so much cheaper to drink here, as opposed to Malaysia, where there is a 200 percent tax on alcohol.

I love the fact that there are so many great bars, pubs and clubs near my house, so I can walk, cycle or occasionally stumble my way home every night.

I hate the fact that no one drinks by the bottle (1.5 liter) in clubs but by the individual drink; because 20 rounds of Jack Daniels and Coke is one expensive night.

I hate the fact that the drinking age in America is 21 and strictly enforced.

And I hate the fact that almost everyone in America loves to drink beer – and light beer at that.

The drinking, clubbing and partying scenes where I’m from are very different.

Photo by Danielle Flint/Daily Titan Copy Editor

We go to clubs or bars in large groups, chip in and buy a couple bottles of hard liquor to drink on the rocks or with mixers for the duration of the night. None of this going up to the bar nonsense every time you want a drink, ordering it, and then waiting for them to mix every individual drink. Nope, no delayed inebriation for me, thank you very much.

Speaking of bartenders, I hate tipping when I’m drinking in bars. This is because the drunker you get, the more generous you become. Especially at this one bar in downtown Fullerton called the Commonwealth Lounge, where the bar is slightly lower than the main floor and all the bartenders are female, attractive and wearing low-cut tops.

So, of course when she asks you if you want it “open or closed” – referring to your tab (not her legs, I later found out) – you tell her “Open all the way baby!” and end up with a $170 bar tab by the end of the night.

Partying is the same – we mostly drink bottles of hard liquor at parties, so no keggers or beer pong back home. The upside is that you get drunker quicker, have better tasting drinks and, I personally believe, have a better time. Here, it’s just beer, beer, beer and more beer. Not just beer, but light beer – which I can’t stand.

Drinking light beer is the equivalent of having sex with two condoms. You eventually get there, but it takes longer, you get sick and tired of it and it just doesn’t feel quite right. What’s the point in that?

I grew up drinking the good European lagers: Heineken, Carlsberg, Skol and my favorite, Stella Artois, with none of this Bud Lite nonsense. I’m not saying America doesn’t serve good beers. You guys have amazing beers, like Blue Moon, Hefenweizen, Shiner Bock and Corona. But most American drinkers stick to their light beers.

It’s fine if this is a taste thing – to each his own I say. But whenever I meet the frat boy who tells me “I can drink a 30-pack a night bro,” I just want to shake my head and reply, “Bring me some Heineken and then we’ll see.”

Sorry, I don’t mean to be bitter, but I just hate drinking beer that taste watered-down straight from the can. It makes me sad.

Clubbing culture in America is something else, too. Here, the main goal of a night out clubbing is to get laid. Drinking is merely a means to achieve that end. Call it a side effect, if you will. I’ve been in California clubs enough to make an observation – Americans (mostly Caucasian Americans) have only two dance moves: the hump and the grind.

When dancing in clubs, girls employ the grind (bending over forward and gyrating their behinds) to ensnare a member of the opposite sex, then guys reciprocate with the hump (thrusting their hips forwards towards said behind) and there you go, simulated sex on the dance floor. Admittedly, it may be nice to experience yourself, but for those spectating, there’s nothing worse than watching two drunk people dry hump their way to an awkward morning.

But when all this is said and done, my love for drinking in America is cemented by one thing – dollar beer nights at college bars.

A perfect example of this would be Brian’s Beer & Billiards in Fullerton. It’s the typical college bar, packed with rowdy students, billiards, shuffleboard, big screen TVs and, of course, $1 beers all night long.

I just thank God they have Amber Bock on tap, so I’m not stuck drinking Budweiser’s beer-flavored water all night.

Daily Titan Multimedia Editor

Don’t you hate going back to school after winter break? I sure do.

The problem with winter break is that a month is not long enough for you to get bored and want to go back to school.

In summer, the first month is action packed with days at the beach, party-filled nights and figuring out how to get laid.

The second month usually consists of lazing around in bed all day, figuring out how you can play video games while lying down, or getting food delivered directly to your bedroom door.

By the third month you’re aching for something real to do. You don’t mind so much getting back to school, reacquainting yourself with friends, and figuring who you can sleep with next.

In winter, however, you have to cram all that into one measly month.

Oh, the weather outside is frightful (sorry, Christmas just came and went), with a full week of rain and tornado warnings. Now isn’t that just perfect weather to get out of bed early and start the week fresh for school? Hell no.

This brings me to the real point of this article – how much California sucks when it rains.

California is the land of sun, sea and sand. The land of beaches and babes. Constant rain was not in the brochure.

A little drizzle is fine. To some extent I actually miss the rain and welcome the occasional shower. But this is more like a prolonged bath, and my shoes have not been dry in over a week.

If I wanted monsoon level rains, I would have stayed in Malaysia.

Now you may be wondering why I seem to be overreacting to a little rain. I’m fine with rain, or even snow. Hell, in places like Seattle or Wisconsin, it snows and rains all the time.

So why bitch, right? See, the difference is that in a place that regularly has crappy weather, you’re ready for it.

If you’re expecting rain, you have your poncho, raincoat, or umbrella ready by your door. If you’re expecting a snowstorm, you either dress appropriately or just stay at home. But how many of you Californians have an umbrella handy?

In California, no one expects the rain, and are therefore woefully unprepared for it.

Think about it. Most major malls in Southern California or LA, like The Irvine Spectrum or The Grove, are open air. So when it rains, no going to malls.

Roads in Southern California aren’t used to heavy rain, and thus get slick. California drivers aren’t used to driving in the rain, and thus suck.

But don’t just listen to me. Foster Dennis, the President of the California Paving and Grading Co. said, “It never rains here, and people don’t know how to drive in the rain. They think they do but end up by the side of the road flipped over.”

Having driven from LA to Orange County in the “tornado-watch” level rain last week myself, I can tell you – Californians cannot drive in the rain at all.

Your average Californian becomes one of two types of people when driving in the rain:

One, the cautious type who puts on their headlights to the maximum, holds the wheel with both hands in a death grip, looks straight ahead, and brakes at the slightest thing.

Then there’s the one who thinks driving in the rain isn’t anything to be worried about and drives ridiculously fast – as only Californians who regularly drive 15 to 20 miles above the speed limit can.

Don’t believe me? Go drive on the 57 Freeway at exactly the speed limit and see how many people honk at you.

Finally, for those who walk to school on a regular basis, all we can hope for is getting soaked from our tops to our toes.

California rain doesn’t just pour straight down, it’s accompanied by winds the blow the wind sideways, upside umbrellas and inside hoodies.

Cal State Fullerton fills up with water, from the front of Langsdorf Hall to the Quad, and we have to navigate through the two-inch puddles like intrepid explorers crossing the Amazon. Plus, you’re guaranteed to get soaked just going from class to class.

I know I sound bitter, but this just ain’t what I signed up for. If this is going to be how things are like around here this semester – I want a refund.

Daily Titan Multimedia Editor

My sister says I complain too much. Apparently, all she’s taken away from reading this column is how much I don’t like America. This isn’t true – I love America.

What’s not to love about it? There are beautiful women all over the place, garbage disposals in the sinks and George W. Bush will never be president of the United States ever again.

But maybe it’s time to talk about what I love about America. One of the best things about my new life here is Cal State Fullerton. Hold on, before you put your paper down in disgust, hear me out.

Yes, the CSU is in the dumps right now, and we all know the education system here is slowly turning into mush. But there is so much that is good about the system.

Here, we get to pick what classes we want. Each course we take only lasts three to four months and then we never need the information we learned.

In the British system, which is in use in many places around the world, every year consists of two exams – each worth 50 percent of your grade. Mess up once, and you have to retake an entire year.

Oh, and did I mention that exams are all cumulative? Believe me, it sucks trying to remember two year’s worth of classes for one major exam.

In college or university here, your professors are so relaxed, laid back and best of all, genuinely interested in what they have to teach.

Fine, there may be some exceptions to this rule. But I have had professors at CSUF who speak about history as if it were their best friend. You won’t get that anywhere else, where elderly professors just drone on and on, teaching the same class, in the same way they have done it for years.

What also gets me is the dynamics of the student-teacher relationship. Back where I am from, there is a big division between faculty and students. I’m not saying things are estranged between us, just rather … chilly. It’s a respect-your-elders thing, where you don’t cross lines and become overly familiar. Here, my professors buy me a beer.

In America, you get to protest. In fact, that’s almost all students are good for – protesting what they don’t like. I just learned about how in the 1970s CSUF students threw rotten fruit at Ronald Reagan.

That just blows my mind. The last time I tried to organize a protest over some inane rules about girls not being allowed to wear miniskirts or shorts to school (true story), we ended up getting more rules imposed upon us and more rights taken away.

But in America, we can set fire to school buildings, storm through classes and lead protest marches – amazing.

Being a student at CSUF is wonderful. Recently, I’ve taken friends, my girlfriend and my sister on tours of the campus. And in showing it to other people, I began to realize how great it was. Each time I discovered something new.

Did you know there was a giant ice cream behind the Visual Arts Center? Or that a great bald eagle occasionally inhabits the upper roof of College Park? Plus, it’s pretty cool to say to people, “Yeah, my school has a bowling alley, so what?”

We have a pub on campus, a gaming area downstairs, great computer labs and all sorts of activities available to us. I know I have given Associated Students Inc. some flak before, but kudos to them for organizing the Becker Amphitheatre shows on Wednesdays or the Pub Nights on Thursdays. And it’s nice to get free hot dogs once in a while, at least I know where some of my tuition fees are going … Just kidding, guys!

So it saddens me when students come to school, go to class and take off as soon as class is over. I’m not advocating staying on campus all day, but it seems that with an enrollment of 35,000, there sure aren’t that many people on campus during the day. It’s the commuter school thing, I get it. But when we have an OC Weekly-selected “Best Downtown of Orange County” minutes away and some pretty nice hang out spots on and off campus, I don’t see why we can’t do all our hanging out here.

It’s a bit of a shame that although I’m really enthusiastic about what my school here in America has to offer, no one else really is. It’s also a shame that I’m just getting into the swing of things and California cuts the CSU budget by over a billion dollars.

Oh, I guess I just found something new to complain about. Yay.

With Ken Oak on vocals and cello and Ed Gorski on vocals and guitar, the Californian duo sing emotionally-driven songs that talk about heartbreak, relationships, cigarettes and booze. And they do it very well. Their lyrics are simple, yet meaningful and full of emotion, sung in the mournful, slightly country twang Ken Oak does so well. But it’s when Oak and Gorski hit those melodic harmonies together during the choruses where the music comes together perfectly, much like how their Gorski’s guitar and Oak’s cello blend together perfectly in each and every song.

Their latest album, Good Advice, Bad Advice provides a good mix of songs, ranging from the melancholic “When The Evening Comes” to the upbeat “Pretty Far Gone” and “Suffocate Me.” I have to say at this point that Oak and Gorski are even better live than on their CD. Perhaps it’s just the perfect simplicity of just a guitar and cello on the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica. Or maybe it’s the slower tempos and personal touch of their live performances.

They do prove versatile with their songwriting and instruments, switching up from soft, simple melodies on “Little Miss Blue” to a more urgent, edgier sound on “Steady Heart.” I sure haven’t heard a cello being used in that way. A bulk of their songs make me think of a log cabin, a fireplace and some hot chocolate, but perhaps that’s just me. The emotional, personal lyrics make the listener feel comfortable and familiar, like two friends sharing stories of loves lost and won.

One problem I had with Good Advice, Bad Advice is that it was hard to listen to it in one long sitting. Regardless of whether the song was a faster or slower one, the heartbreaking lyrics that speak of pain and loss are heavy to handle all at once. So I took it in bits and pieces. Yet, I still walked away humming the chorus to “Little Miss Blue” on my way to go get some hot chocolate.

Two of the must-listen songs of the album – Little Miss Blue and Steady Heart.

By Isa Ghani

Daily Titan Multimedia Editor

Another alien has come to America – at least for a while. My sister is here to visit me for winter break, and one of the first things she said to me as I picked her up from LAX was: “What’s with the American accent?”

Honestly, I wasn’t sure. Perhaps the locals have indoctrinated me and I can blend in and speak the lingo after being here for nearly a year and a half.

I don’t get asked, “So where exactly are you from?” by nice old ladies in cafés anymore. But I realized that perhaps becoming Americanized isn’t always a good thing.

Take speech for example, I still have the hardest time working my way around all the small, subtle ways American English is different from, well, English. You know, “the Queen’s English.” In my home country, I was taught English from England, so it comes across as odd to some Americans. I love how some still refuse to believe they are speaking it. I have heard people say, “We Americans speak American” more times than I care to count. I disagree – you are speaking English, originating from England. Just accept it.

I get the whole wanting to be a rebel thing. Like how teenagers always want to do the opposite of what their parents did – so I get how you want to drive on the wrong side of the road. It’s infuriating, but I understand it. I get that you wanted things in America to be different than England. If my parents were as Anglican and uptight as the English, I would rebel too. But changing the language? Measurements? Coinage? How you process numbers? Now that’s just annoying.

Fine, so you want to pronounce everything different. “Branch” is pronounced “branch” and “half” is now “half.” Every day I get reminded by passers-by that “can’t” is pronounced “can’t” in America.

What’s that you say? Oh, the differences don’t come out in print when the words are spelled out? Of course they don’t, which is exactly my point. It’s the same damn word; it means the same damn thing, so why does it have to be pronounced so differently?

OK, perhaps it’s just a question of accents or slang, fine. Then what about when I tell people I am going to “go into the toilet;” they assume that I am going to sit down inside the porcelain bowl? And no, I refuse to call it “the can” because I don’t drop deuces in tin cans.

Plus, I don’t want to put “gas” in my car; I want to put petrol, also known as petroleum. And it’s a lift, not an elevator. I’m sorry, but I could go on for hours about this.

Measurements are also annoying as hell. Why couldn’t you guys stick to the simple way of doing things – where a kilometre* is simply a thousand metres*? But no, you guys had to use miles which are each 1.6 kilometres*. A mile is also 1,760 yards or 5,280 feet. In fact, there is no conversion of distance to miles that is exact and uniform; it is always a weird number.

Couldn’t you guys have found a nice neat way of doing things? No, it had to be complicated and special.

*My computer utilizes Microsoft Word, and its gratuitous spell-check is made in America; therefore, it does not recognize “metre” as a real word. Tell that to the rest of the English speaking world. Also, “utilises” is not spelt with a “z.” Damnit.

Granted, you guys have a neat way with coins. I love having 25 cent denomination coins. But you guys messed up when it got to larger numbers. America couldn’t just, I don’t know, read out exactly what a number is like “one thousand three hundred;” no, Americans had to rephrase it as “thirteen hundred.” Sure, it’s shorter, but now it means I have to add two zeros behind every large number I come across. It isn’t written out as 13 X 100; it is written out as 1,300. See the difference?

Finally, what is difficult for me and probably every other foreigner here are the terms you use like, “Can I see that?” instead of “Hey, can I borrow your lighter, pen, notebook or English-to-American-dictionary?” Maybe you guys are trying to be polite, but the first couple of times this happened I held up the object in question and said, “Sure, take as long a look as you want.” Obviously, this did not go over very well.

Maybe the difficulties we encounter with each other aren’t because America is so different but because America is so similar. The differences between America and other English-speaking countries are not large ones; they aren’t glaring, apparent differences like bowing in Japan or rude waiters in France.

They are small, infinitesimal, so much so they go unnoticed by a lot of people. Except of course, me.

By Isa Ghani

Daily Titan Multimedia Editor

I was on a train when a homeless woman walked on board. She was asking for a couple of dollars for the ride. She looked so sad I would have given her money if I had any.

She was in the middle of what sounded like a sob story, but I don’t speak Spanish so I couldn’t understand her. Everyone in the train car just ignored her. The train left the station, and she was still on, with no ticket.

To me, this scene was strange, and I felt ashamed to be sitting there with my laptop, bottle of Coke and $300 cell phone when this woman just needed a couple of lousy bucks. Sad thing is, I seemed to be the only person on the train who felt this way.

Los Angeles’s homeless population is large. According to the LA Homeless Service Authority, the homeless population of LA on any given day in 2009 is 48,053; that is more than the enrollment of Cal State Fullerton.

But it seems to me like most Americans just walk by homeless people without noticing them.

Don’t believe me? Walk down any major street in LA, be it West Hollywood, Sunset Boulevard or Third Street, and you will come across at least three homeless people. Some carry bags, some trolleys and some just sit with just the clothes on their backs.

Some scare me, like the time on the Santa Monica Pier when I saw a homeless man, complete with cardboard box, cradling something blond in his arms amongst the rags he was wearing.

At first I was startled, thinking, “Good God, this man stole someone’s child!” until I realized it had four legs.

Then I thought, “Oh my God, this man is cradling a dead dog!” until I saw it move. I then let out a huge sigh of relief.

As I walked away, I was shocked that I could even consider it a possibility that a homeless man in Santa Monica, a place frequented by the rich and famous, could possibly be cradling the body of an abducted child.

Yet I seemed to be the only one who gave him a second glance.

There are all sorts of homeless people, or “street people” as I call them, in California. There are the angry types who yell obscenities at passers-by, the crazy types who talk to themselves in alien languages and the pitiful ones who whine for some spare change.

I used to give it to them, until I realized that this only encouraged them. Thus, they would either ask for more or converge on me in greater numbers, not unlike the zombies you see in B-grade horror movies.

Seriously, I actually had a homeless guy bum a cigarette off me, ask for some change and then ask for another cigarette, “for the road.”

But then I feel like a douche for not giving them anything when it looks like they really need it. Take the Carl’s Jr. incident: a disheveled Asian guy walks up to me in a Carl’s Jr. and asks me if I speak Vietnamese.

When I say “no,” he then asks for some change. With another “no,” I send him away, only to realize he is barefoot, muttering to himself in what is presumably Vietnamese, and he looks malnourished.

He then digs around in his pocket, pays for a cheeseburger in pennies and asks for some water. The guy at the counter gave him all of this grudgingly. As he shuffled away with his dirty feet, I cursed myself and my CrissCut Fries.

It makes me wonder, where are these people coming from? Was it some tragedy like an accident or a series of unfortunate events that led them to live out of a stolen shopping cart? Where are their families? Are they there by choice or are they just crazy? I’m tempted to ask sometimes, but I’m too afraid of the answer.

What I do know is that when you have a city like LA, Washington, D.C. or New York, you get the street people. It seems like the bigger the city and the higher its skyscrapers, the larger the slums and the lower the levels people stoop to.

Yes, I’m talking about those poor souls who pick through trash for leftovers and attempt to smoke cigarette butts.

In November, California evicted people from “Tent City,” the biggest homeless encampment to date. Numerous shelters offered housing to these people, but that’s just like taking Claritin for a flu. We’re treating the symptoms, not the disease.

Meanwhile, we have wannabe reality stars crashing White House parties and bank CEOs requesting billions in bailout money. Be ashamed America.

How can we live in such excess and be able to buy family-sized Toblerone chocolates when people are starving? It’s a situation that boggles my mind, and I don’t like it. But I also don’t know what to do about it either.

As I sit in the train I see an uniformed Metrolink security officer with a gun and radio going into the next train car, where the homeless woman went.

I wonder what’s going to happen to her next. Presumably she is going to get kicked out of the train, but we’re miles away from where she got on and miles away from where she wanted to go.

Maybe that’s what being homeless is really about, never really having a place to belong.

By Isa Ghani

Daily Titan Multimedia Editor

Thank you, thank you, thanks to you and terima kasih to you.

See, Thanksgiving’s coming up soon, so it’s only fitting that I give thanks to everyone in order to get into the spirit.

What? That’s not how Thanksgiving works? Oh. Pilgrims you say? I see.

Well, I’m not from around here, so excuse me.

Regardless, the holiday season is upon us. The Christmas decorations are coming up, turkeys are on sale in the grocery stores and every department store has “the perfect gift.”

Here’s a hint for no extra charge – no matter what, never give a guy socks. They are never a good present and I’m sorry, but I will never like socks for Christmas. But putting something in a sock, like money or 24-carat gold nuggets is a different story entirely.

Aside from all the heavy commercialization related to major holidays in America, Thanksgiving and Christmas appear to be the most family-friendly occasions to Americans.

Christmas has become a holiday that is celebrated worldwide (but especially in America) and has little to do with race, age or social status. Yes, it is associated with the birth of Jesus Christ, but you don’t have to be Christian to enjoy the spirit of Christmas. I believe the spirit of giving is what makes the holiday appealing to people from all walks of life.

As for Thanksgiving, it’s a great holiday by my count: no presents to buy, thus, no fret of breaking the bank. And the main celebratory activity is eating large amounts of meat and imbibing wine until nearly comatose. Lovely.

I find that among my American friends, Christmas and Thanksgiving are the holidays that no one would miss. Everyone makes a point to get out of the dorms/apartments/flats to go home and visit family.

All the siblings turn up as well as assorted cousins, uncles, aunts and grandparents. Gifts are exchanged, food is cooked and comments on one’s recent weight gain are given.

As my friends say, the holidays are one of those strange times when you love and hate your family simultaneously.

It’s great being home and having your mom’s cooking again. So what if she isn’t a perfect chef or if half the food on the table is take-out from Ralph’s – it’s about the memories of the childhood years spent around the dinner table.

It’s nice seeing dad again, even though he’s still whining about his back and how the economy is worse than it was in his day. I still enjoy putting up the lights and decorations around the house with him.

It’s great to see the siblings too – we all compare who’s doing better or make fun of the new significant other brought home for the holiday awkwardness.

For me, Christmas in Malaysia was just another holiday. That’s because we just had three major holidays, each with a break of two weeks to a month.

First, we have Hari Raya Aidilfitri, the Muslim holiday of New Year’s, where the tradition is to open your house up to friends and neighbors, provide delicious home-cooked food and have them return the favor by inviting you over.

Next is Chinese New Year. A major point of this holiday is to wear red, eat Mandarin oranges and receive ang pow – little red packets of money from your relatives. No gift giving here, just cold hard cash, exactly how I like it.

Lastly, we have Christmas. In my house, my parents made it a point to make Christmas special for us children. Every year, my dad would take us to a park and help us pick out a big, dead branch. My little sister and brother would spend hours picking out the perfect branch.

We’d then spend the next couple of days decorating that branch with ornaments, tinsel and cotton wool to make it look like a a tree during a winter snow. Dress it up with lights, plop a star on top and you have yourself a great homemade Christmas tree without paying the ridiculous prices they charge at some of the Christmas tree lots they have in the U.S.

As expected, the presents would appear under the decaying plant Christmas morning – but we always knew they were from mom and dad, no lies about Santa here.

I have a large family back home, and I miss every single one of them.

So whilst you guys can love or hate going back for the holidays, getting reacquainted with your mom’s home-cooked turkey or your dad’s arthritis, remember this: at least you get to go home for the holidays.

There are plenty of us aliens out there who are thousands of miles away from home, and when the holidays come around, those miles sure do seem a lot farther.

So enjoy your holidays and your families while you have them. Or better yet, invite your local “Alien in America” over for some turkey. I’m sure they’d like some.

Happy Holidays, everyone.

By Heather Rest
For the Daily Titan

The rhythmic melodies and playful baselines of Saint Motel echoed through Becker Amphitheatre Wednesday as part of ASI Productions free concert series.

Fresh off a black and white themed performance at The Roxy, Nov. 7, the band made their finale tour stop at Cal State Fullerton to promote their debut EP ForPlay.

As students gathered, taking a break from the hectic day, the sunshine and rock ‘n’ roll was just what some spectators needed.

“This is my kind of music. I like that it is not manufactured like most pop music these days,” said Alyssa Furin, radio-TV-film major.

The album, released in September, includes six songs, each accompanied by a full length music video. Four out of the six films were directed and produced by the band themselves. The other two, including, “To My Enemies” and “Dear Dictator” were directed by a talented Chapman film student, Carlos Lopez Estrada.

The “big” sound produced by Saint Motel carried through the Quad all the way to far parking lots. The tunes ranged from dark, lonesome sounds of “Eat Your Heart Out” to more playful yet heartfelt toe tapping ones, such as “Butch.” Base guitarist Dak laid it on thick throughout the performance. The halting drums, thumping base and smashing guitar demand attention while A/J Jackson’s melodic voice adds a surprising twist.

Jackson and lead guitarist Aaron Sharp met while attending Chapman film school. Both of their passions for film have highly influenced their music and their drive to create an exciting visual experience in their performances and videos. “We try to make an epic experience in a small concert venue. Most of the nights have an idea behind them: Valentines Day, zombie prom; we constantly try to push further and further,” Jackson said.

Some highlights of their tour include the College Music Journal in New York. The five day music and film festival features 1,200 up-and-coming artists and will be held at New York University as well as more than 75 of the city’s greatest night clubs. It will also include the previously mentioned Roxy performance and one of Jackson’s favorites, an underground all underwear party. The band expresses serious gratitude for the recent catapult of success.

“It’s been a really great five/six months. We’ve been working really hard; we’ve gotten a lot of good press which always adds heat to the fire,” said drummer Greg Erwin.

Erwin graduated from CSUF in 2007 with a degree in communications entertainment. He seems humbled to be back on campus doing what he loves. His obvious passion for his band and their music radiates as he talks about their sound and what he thinks is one of their strongest songs.

“‘Eat Your Heart Out’ stands out a lot; I feel like sonically it’s really big,” Erwin said.

Saint Motel draws inspiration from some of their favorite bands, an eclectic mash up of Petula Clark, The Who and Black Sabbath, to name a few.

“We like stuff that makes you grind your teeth, stuff that makes you smile; those are the emotions we gravitate to,” Jackson said.

A GMC, Vandura Explorer, the bands beloved van, carried them across the United States in their first tour that began in October. Coming to an end, Saint Motel hopes to have a few surprise appearances and more importantly can’t wait to get back in the studio and make the music they believe in.

“We want to be a band that is relevant 25 years from now. We don’t want to be part of a fad,” Jackson said.

Sharp comes from a family of classically trained guitarists; both his father and grandfather were musicians. Sharp was a flamenco guitarist for years before he got into rock ‘n’ roll.

“Its all about the energy of rock ‘n’ roll. The abrasiveness, the extreme emotion of self expression,” Sharp said.