Fruitcake Ramble I

A Most Uncommon Degree of...Obsessive Pen Hoarding Disorder

The Pen Pilferer of Robb Drive comes clean...Ok, I admit it, I have a slight* obsession with pens. And pencils. And paper. And notebooks.

Yeah. Living in Office Depot would be a dream come true-- aisles and aisles of sharpies!

But am I entirely alone in this? In the quest for the perfect pen (right now, sharpie pens are holding first place, but the BIC jetstreams are pretty OK, although the sharpie has a little bit more of a traditional ink look. Don't get the sharpie erasable pencils, however, since it's not very smooth and hard to write with. The only problem with the sharpie pens is that they tend to wear down after a while and then writing with them becomes a pain, although in the beginning, they tend to bleed sometimes. Color sharpies are ok-- but I digress. Big time.)? Am I the only girl who'd rather go to a stationary store (or Barnes & Nobles) than Outlets at Legends (an outlet mall twenty minutes away. Actually, now that I think about it, it's a pretty close call. I guess it depends on how much paper the stationary store would have.) ? If you aren't clapping along with me right now, you're probably thinking I have a slight**mental problem, but we promise, we don't, precious.

There's just something so cool about paper, the ability to manipulate it*** (through Kiri-E, Kirigami, Origami, decoupage, paper mache, origamic architecture, etc.), the ability to transform it, not to mention --drawing on the idea of subcreation- it's a whole new, blank world with unlimited possibilities. Paper is awesome. Stationary is even awesomer. There's really nothing like getting a letter, especially if the person can write in straight lines (unlike me) and it comes on a nice piece of paper. Notebooks are even better, they're paper, but they're paper with cool covers that come in different colors, patterns, shapes, textures, binding, etc. (I have a little stash of notebooks in my closet that are barely used, but the problem is Mom won't buy me a new one until I finish them...argh, this is so painful...why can't they just remain pure, unadulterated, blank notebooks?) But pens are the ultimate creative tool. The old adage, the pen is mightier than the sword remains true, especially since you wouldn't get two steps out of your house with the later without either the cops or the nuthouse (or both) being called, while the former can be jabbed in any unsuspecting creepy-stalker-kidnapper guy's nose, eye, ear, mouth, or wherever. Plus, you can use it to write in your journal.

That's why the perfect pen is essential to everyone's existence, it's a vital acessory to everyday tasks, as well as transforming the most mundane into the extraordinary. Take the hot pink fountain pen a friend gave me, for instance.Chem notes suddenly became much more eyecatching.

Plus, no boy would dare to come within two feet of the pink scribbles.

Oooh, I should really get a pink sharpie and draw little lines everywhere I go. "That's your side, now stay there. Stay!"

But a pen should not only be comfortable to hold, it should also glide easily. It shouldn't die out quickly, or be tempremental and only work when it's 86 degrees farenheit, 96% recycled paper, and when you're paitiently coaxing it in Hindu, it should also come in large amounts so they're everywhere when you need them, as well as easy to use at any angle. Pens should also influence the way you write. Hot pink means girly, thin, black sharpie pens mean buisiness (or elegies, obituaries, irs forms, and algebra notes****), red means important (or F's, or death, or algebra 2), and sparkly pink and purple grape smelling glitter ink means you need to see a psychiatrist. But no worries, most of America's teen population need to, too.

Just kidding, guys. Kidding.

This is Quiet Girl, hoping I'm not the one who needs to see a psychiatrist.

-Shhh.... you never saw me, I wasn't here...

*ly disturbing

**NOT. Mental aberration. No wonder that girl was so weird!

***No, not manipulate as in "control or influence (a person or situation) cleverly, unfairly, or unscrupulously"-- I repeat, I do NOT have a mental problem...that's been discovered yet...But as in the imense posibilities paper holds, it really is a fascinating medium for artistic expression.

****Yes, algebra is up there with obituaries. No further comment.

Whaa? Is

Facebook Sucks: A study in fitting in

My life reads like some alien girl's attempt to fit in to normal human society. What is this weird thing you call Twitter? And like I've blogged before, what's the big deal with skinny jeans? Throughout the eternal pull to feel normal and to act thusly, there's always that nagging feeling at the back of my mind, that little voice that asks me, 'does this actually make any sense'? And the crux in my ongoing argument that something must be wrong with my head, is that yes, I agree with the voice, most of the time it doesn't, and I just can't make myself understand.

I signed up two days ago for a Facebook account*. Facebook has really been a source of mystery to me, it's this thing that some people use more than, and even in lieu of an email, it's something that almost everyone is always talking about, and, as always, it was something that your average teen had. So after getting the long-coveted Facebook account, I thought it would expand my world into new horizons. A whole new mode of communication! Could you imagine the possibilities? This was something I needed, desperately.

Shh, if you listen closely, you can hear advertisers laughing.

It's funny, but the more I looked at Facebook, the more I became confused. It was basically like texting, except anyone could read it, like blogging, except you only used about two sentences, essentially, like the rest of the things I already had, except worse. It did have the advantage of me being able to post random things,

It is possible to get addicted to water.

(anyways) without typing up a few paragraphs, but then again, it would be hard to post "Facebook sucks" on Facebook without backing up my claim with two or three paragraphs. And even then, I would get stoned.

Plus, you'd never know this, but I work hard to come up with random things. They deserve a blog post of their own.

I got a Facebook to communicate with my friends, but as I looked around, I wondered how it was possible to have 415 'friends' that constantly contact you with other random nonsense, and still remain friends. ). Then I realized that Facebook, in addition to helping me connect with people I really wanted to connect with, it also helped me connect with people I really wanted to avoid connecting with.

The disadvantages way outweighed the advantages of quick communication, and honestly, I didn't want to become that approachable. It's part of being epic, you see, being hard to communicate with (note: you should still be able to carry on a coherent conversation, if you want to, though.) -- just kidding. Yet I'm still hanging on to my Facebook (this is the third day), out of some mistaken loyalty to the human race, perhaps. There's a kind of sadness, when you're weird, and when you're weird and hungry/tired, it often translates into misguided attempts to fit in (haha). More than once I've wished to be normal (but not too normal), and perhaps that's why I still haven't deleted the Facebook account.

Ah well, let's face it, I just don't understand Facebook. I don't understand why people want to be friends with people they hardly know, or, in the case of people they do know, why they'd want to publicize their conversations for everyone to read. And of course, there's sadness that I don't understand, but if it doesn't make sense to me, rationally, I don't see any way to somehow irrationalize my thinking process and keep the Facebook.

Forgive me, I've rambled, but here's to my short Facebook career, and an apology to all my friends who didn't get to connect with me on it.

*pregnant silence*

Gee whiz, how hard is it to delete this thing?

This is Quiet girl, going online, to find instructions, to figure out how to delete the bleeping account.

-Shhh.....this is harder than it looks.

* With permission from mom, my dear brother. Just saying.

Fruitcake Rave IV

Demonic Toaster: 1

Pitiful Human Female: 0

After a week without having toast, I had had enough. My family's breakfast often consists of the western option: oatmeal, or the eastern option: juk, rice, kimchi (my brother once made the notorious raddish kimchi sandwich. Uhg. I still have nightmares), and whatever leftovers we may have in the fridge. I really don't understand kimchi in the morning

, but it must be one of those asian things that skipped me, because for as long as I can remember, my brother and mother have always been at one end of the table, chugging down their kimchi and juk, while I sit at the other, trying to concentrate on the pancakes and not breathe through my nose.

Don't get me wrong, Kimchi is great! (Insert Victory dance) It's the second staple of the Korean diet (The first being...take a wild guess...rice), and most of the time, the number one thing they miss about home. Kimchi has a great* flavor and a refreshing** odor, and after spending a month away from home, it was the only food I was craving. Kimchi in the morning however, well....

But I digress. You see, the main crux in my delima is the toaster. As I've mentioned before, my family can survive without a toaster. In fact, they would thrive without a toaster. And- I'm not exagerating- if you crept in at night and stole our toaster, they probably wouldn't notice. Thus, a total toaster breakdown didn't really rock anyone's world. Except for mine, because my breakfast nearly always consists of bread. With the occasional side of bread. The toaster breakdown signified a new epoch in my diet. I also lost a lot of weight (just kidding).

So one day, I decided I had had enough of the toaster's schenanigans. There wasn't really anything wrong with it, excepting the acrid smoke that wafted through the air whenever we used it. I used my brilliant (haha) brain and decided that smoke=somethingburning, so, f(toaster)=somethingburningX= breadcrumbs, and thus, the only natural thing to do to redeem my toast would be to clean out the toaster.

Cue horror music.

Ok, so I'm not the most brilliant girl who ever flipped eggs with a spatula, but I figured that I, being a resonably intelligent human being, and it being an inanimate hunk of metal and plastic, I could win this battle!

Who was I kidding? My stroke of genius that would decisively win the war consisted of unpluging the toaster and using wooden chopsticks instead of a metal fork (Like I have done previously. Now you know why I'm so loopy-- just kidding, I did use a metal fork, but it had a plastic handle, and luckily, Dad showed up in time to prevent permanent mental damage. I think.). The real battle was about to begin.

Ten minutes later, I was still struggling. The brilliant plan of using chopsticks to swab a paper towel around kept getting caught on all kinds of metal protrusions, and worse yet, the wet paper towel kept slipping from chopsticks, getting stuck underneath the funny grill like thing, and staying there. You see, the openings in the toaster are like, super thin, centimeter wide...that is, half inch wide, cracks of doom. Manuverability and Visibility hit a negative 7. If a passerby were to come along, they'd probably see this asian girl with leopard print glasses and cat slippers squinting at a toaster and ramming a bunch of chopsticks in it with as much delicacy as a neurosurgeon performing an operation with a sledgehammer. They would probably wish they were still dreaming.

Well, at any rate, I wished I was too.

So halfway into the fray, with half the toaster innard's cleaned out, I realize that, hey, if I can remove the breadcrumb tray, I should be able to penetrate the most vital part of the enemy's defenses! Attacking from the bottom would enable me to clear out those crusty, sticky black crumbs that I was barely able to reach from the top! I whipped out the crumb tray and flipped the crummy thing on the back, only to realize....

....That the equally diabolical manufacturers had added a plastic grill to prevent people from messing around.

Now seriously, that makes no sense. We already have a bread crumb tray-- a removable bread crumb tray at that-- so why in the world do we need to have a second breadcrumb tray that probably doesn't do its job well because there are holes in it?***

I mean, when you first think about it, it makes sense. Then you spend like, two more seconds thinking about it, and you realize, human intelligence is overrated. And yes, I'm not only referring to the crackpot creators of the toaster, I'm also referring to the equally crazy girl (me) who thought she could take on the toaster at 7:34 in the morning. I should have known better-- my brain doesn't start fully functioning until 9:00 (I have physical science 1st period at 8:00. Go figure) and even when it's functioning at top- notch quality, it's not much to brag about anyways. As numerous incidents would tell, but then again, I'm trying to salvage every shred of respect I can hold on to. Said incidents will follow me to my grave. Unless, of course, I get bored.

But I digress.

Then, I spied, to my infinite glee, the screw holes in that screwed up breadcrumb tray-- a way in past the line of defense! Elatedly, I rushed to the toolbox and grabbed every kind of screwdriver there was in the box. This was it-- the path to the perfect toast, I was so close...

...And yet so far.

You get the gist of this story: Pitiful human female is constantly outwitted at every turn by inanimate toaster. And the worst of it was, my emotions were oscillating between extreme despair and estatic euphoria. It was like I was on sugar or something (else) except I wasn't. (Now you know why all my friends avoid me while I'm hyper)

It figures perfectly that every single screwdriver I tried-- yes, every single screwdriver was too shallow to even reached the screwed screws! I'm serious, why would they even bother putting screws in that scr***d up thing if the average human (female teenage birdbrain) can't reach them? Unless... they figured the most natural reaction to seeing the screws would be a mistaken assumption that the battle would soon be won in my favor...

...thus setting the stage for the destructive return of my frustrated wrath, tenfold.

It was back to the usual tactic: keep messing around with the chopsticks and paper towel in hopes of somehow winning the battle before I would be obliged to enter the lunatic asylum.

Two days later...well, maybe 15 minutes...the b

attle was won, in some sorts. True, there were pockets of resistance, but the main body of scum had been flushed out. Of course, by then, my toast had thawed out, but as you know, toast isn't toast unless it's toasted. Thawing doesn't count. Then it's called bread, and tastes like marshmallows without sugar. Triumphantly, I plugged the malevolent malicious machiavellian !&*$^@ thing back in, popped in the toast and beat a hasty retreat to the table where I waited for my toast, in exhausted but euphoric anticipation.

A good ending to a probably boring story...

...except five seconds later, acrid smoke was flowing from the kitchen.

Whoever came up with the phrase "Demonic Toaster", in my humble opinion, should have used a few stronger adjectives.

This is Quiet Girl, eating her juk and kimchi placidly.

-Shhh...

*ly memorable. Let's leave it at that. If you're a Kimchi novice, you may or may not necessarily agree with me when I say Kimchi tastes good.

**again, depending on your background. In all honesty, it stinks up the room. But the most interesting thing is, if you're eating the Kimchi, you can't smell it. If you're not eating the Kimchi, you can smell it. From very far away.

***Which, incidentally, don't help one bit, because, aside from providing me a lovely vision of what I could accomplish if the breadcrumb tray was not there, it is also too small for me to get my chopsticks through. Seriously, I'm begining to think the designers are descended from at least one of Hade's Furies.

Me I

On Being Weird and Not Giving a Bleep

Which is actually harder to do than it looks. Sometimes I really envy those people who are weird to the core and love being that way. Those people who don't mind the stares, the whispers, the 'wth' glances 'cause they know the absolute truth that weird is beautiful and they are enjoying every moment of it.

There's a part of me that wonders why I can't be weird too-- which is a pretty weird dream for a teenager, but hey, I try! There's a middle stage that's never popularized, a kind of insecure limbo between normalcy and all-out rebellion. The people who kinda sorta maybe wish they were confident, cool, and weird, but lack a certain something that will help them break free from the normal camp. Right now, I'm struggling with that limbo.

You can see it in my leopard* glasses and my eyelash curler, my stationary set and my cellphone, my fencing shoes and my high heels, there's an ever present struggle between the call of the weird and the security of being (relatively) normal. Who am I kidding?!? I've gone way past normal, and so far, the idea of normal things has begun to feel alien to me. But at the same time, I feel the lack of pizazz, a certain something that prevents me from being all-out weird.

It's when I talk to my best friends, work on origamic architecture, play Bach's fourth invention, take the plunge in Lake Tahoe, or get epically pwned on the fencing strip that I'm really comfortable. I feel weird, and I'm loving it. It's the rush of happiness, the pure joy in living, and the confidence in who I am that boosts me to being really happy at being weird. And during those times, I stop feeling the glances, stop hearing the whispers, and stop caring about what other people think, whether real or imaginary.

At other times, however, there's the absence of identity, the feeling of insecurity that starts creeping up, and it's during those moments that I almost wish I was normal. Wouldn't it be the weirdest thing to be seen in that bikini? Or to be the leader in that pack of girls? Or the blond going out on a date? And I catch myself thinking, what would it be like to be normal? To have 568 friends on facebook instead of just 4**? To not worry if the dress is way too short and too low, or if makeup isn't really a product of societies' virus-like inferiority complex and and a sign of the subconscious desire to join the crowd-- I mean, uh, that's to say, um....Anyways...

Wow, this is hard. But the more I think about that, the more I realize I would never be comfortable being normal. I couldn't really wear the skin tight skinny jeans***without feeling self-conscious, or go on a date at fourteen without being sedated, kidnapped, drugged, or temporarily insane. When that day comes, shoot me first....haha....no, really, despite the sometimes overpowering drive to be normal (why do you think I bought another tube of eyeliner that I'll only use during special occasions, like a once-a-year concert? I wasn't thinking, I swear!) there's a certain revulsion to being normal as well. Personally, I think my anti-normalcy firewall is just too deep to ever be ousted. And now I realize, it's 'cause of my love for all things weird-- or rather, my love for being myself.

Maybe people don't have to belong to either camp to be epically awesome. Perhaps being weird-- and being normal-- is way overrated? And maybe, really, it's actually the strive, the struggle to fit in that kills the pizazz, the struggle to be weird like everyone else. To 'join' the rest of the weirdoes and fit in with them. So really, wouldn't being truly, deeply, down to the bone weird mean just being yourself? Even if it's absolutely normal, maybe the struggle shouldn't be to be weird, but just to be original. Or even the struggle to be original should be replaced by an effort to find the self. And in that case, the state of limbo has become a state of Grace. It's blending normalcy and weirdness while not trying to go to either extreme. It means playing both Taylor Swift and Chopin on a Steinway grand, wearing AE high heels with my Jane Austen Costume****, and just going where the spirit leads.....

By the way, that was an obscure reference to Chuang Tzu's parable of Cook Ting....

Moving on. It also means posting random things, as well.

So, after struggling, and struggling, and struggling, and struggling, and....(eternity loop) with inferiority, I'm throwing up my hands and walking away. For right now. I don't want to pretend that all my problems are now solved and I will be a happy, confident teenager, 'cause I know that in approximately two days, three hours, twenty seven minutes and forty one seconds, I will be just as insecure as ever, but really, for now, that's OK. I have the confidence (and trust. Actually, it's mostly trust and a bunch of begging) that I'll pull OUT of this really irritating phase in one piece with relatively sound mental health, so for right now, I'm just going to enjoy the ups and loathe (just kidding) the downs and really hope I don't capsize as I paddle my kayak across Lake Tahoe.

By the way, we went kayaking today at Lake Tahoe, and it was really fun. More on that sometime later.

And sorry, that was really random, but anyways, this is Quiet Girl, kayaking away....

-Shhhh....there's something in the water.

*Yah, why does everyone think they're leopard? It was originally supposed to be tortoiseshell, but then upon further inspection, the color scheme had too much contrast. However, the spots aren't dots in a symmetrical pattern, they're more angular and chunky, and therefore, they're giraffe.

**And maybe to know the answer to that subconscious question: Now that I've gotten a Facebook, what the heck is the big deal about anyways? It's one more way for people to contact me and worse yet, I have to respond-- just kidding, I love you guys, ok?-- But what now? Do I dig up every kid I've ever known and pester them to 'friend' me? Do I even want to? Why do people become addicted to this anyways?

***Ok, I hate to say this, but skinny jeans are really dumb. I mean, they make people's legs look like anorexic pencils! Plus, what if you wanted to go wading? Can you even roll those up to the knee? Seriously, wet jeans are really, really annoying, and I'd hate to think what wet, skin tight jeans would be like. Whoops, that was a bit of a random rant. But I don't get it? What's so appealing about skinny jeans?

****Emma is the best. Really. Right now, she's trumped Totoro as the person I want to dress up as for Halloween. But really, how can I make a Regency era dress easily? Argh, this is going to be so hard....I've already perfected the hairstyle (it just needs more gel. Like, lots more gel), but the dress is still in developmental purgatory....

Review I

DREAM HIGH

Ah, the world of Korean Drama. Sentimental, emotional, shocking, tear wringing, squeal inducing adictiveness. For the past few years, we were hung up with the historical dramas, going back to the Three Kingdom period (The Great Queen Seondeok) to Joeson (Yi San, Dong Yi, Dae Jang Geum). The interesting result is now my brother and I can reply "yes, Your Majesty" sarcastically to each other...in Korean. Oh, and a little while after Dong Yi, we went around saying "Moya?" in that perfectly enraged, frustrated, and shocked tone Jang Hee Jae coined as a major villain.

But after we moved to Reno, there must have been some kind of drama-

selecting time warp, because instead of another historical drama with guys showing off martial arts moves (they couldn't really fly, back then, right?) and girls with impossibly long (and styled) hair, Dad picked dream high, a 21st century 16 episode deal about a bunch of teens who go to Kirin Art High. Talk about culture shock. So instead of learning graceful, sarca

stic, formal respon

ses, I'm trying to pick up the main character's favorite catchphrase: "Hey! You wanna die?"

Dream High, for all practical purposes, is a Korean version of Fame. The storyline has mor

e twists and turns, more shocks (and adictiveness), and more personal rivalry then Fame does, but I still like both. While Fame's struggles are mainly with the rigorous coursework, Dream High works with personal relationships as well as really, truly, biased jerks. I found Fame to be of a story about achieving glory, and Dream High a little more about overcoming obstacles.

There's the main character, Go Hye Mi, a really, truly, annoying person who's used to being the best, but her dreams of going to Julliard remain unrealized because her father has gone deep into debt.

Initially, she isn't accepted into Kirin Art High, and when she is, she is put in the half admission class (of four people), aka, the graveyard. The drama focuses on her personal growth, how she changes into a truly caring person and learns to put her emotions into the song.

This is Yoon Baek Hee. She starts out in the drama as "Go Hye Mi's Follower/Servant", dressing exactly alike, and doing everything she can for Hye Mi. After being betrayed at the Kirin High auditions by Hye Mi, she turns against her, and when Hye Mi is accepted into Kirin High, makes Hye Mi's life positively

miserable. She debuts earlier than Hye Mi, along with Jin Guk, causing a rift between Jin Guk and Hye Mi.

Unlike Hye Mi, who gets steadily more human as the drama progresses, the drive for fame, dominance (over Hye Mi) and Jin Guk cause Baek Hee to become less human. It's after she tries to kill Hye Mi that the audience realizes that what looked like 'normal' bullying has been steadily escalating, and Baek Hee has become a monster.

Meet my favorite character, Song Sam Dong. He's a country boy with unparalleled talent, and he absolutely worships Hye Mi. When she's being bullied at school, he's the one who stands up for her (shielding her from being egged, punching Jin Guk, as well as saving her from Baek Hee's murder attempt) and of course, just like in Beethoven Virus, he's loosing his hearing. Nooo!

Sam Dong is a refreshing character after watching a bunch of teens

who aren't really that nice crawl their way through misunderstandings, betrayal, rivalry and high school love (more like battle their way through, really). At this point in the drama, he's completely devoted to Hye Mi and to protecting her in school (Protecting?). His refreshing honesty, unmistakable talent, and innocence regarding his talent are a nice change from the rest of Kirin High, who are all, in one way or another, struggling to become Korea's next sensation. At the same time, we also see his complex relationship with music, as he falls into depression after receiving the news that he is losing his hearing. His story is one of overcoming all the obstacles against all odds, and right now, we know that, deaf of not, he'll definitely become one of Korea's pop stars

This is Jin Guk, or whatever his name is (he has two

of them--don't ask). We first meet him when he jumps in and saves Hye Mi from a bunch of creepy loan sharks who are badgering her about her father's debt. Of course, the next time we see him, he's creating one huge comotion during the Kirin High auditions with a fire extinguisher. He has a troubled relationship with his politically career obsessed Dad, who wants to send him abroad to study, and a bit of an on and off relationship with Hye Mi (hear the word's love triangle, anyone?). A strange series of circumstances and Yoon Baek Hee lead him to sacrifice his friends when he debuts alongside Baek Hee, and from henceforward, he's a traitor.

Jin Gook seems to be a badly formed character-- while all the other character's personalities, ambitions, dreams, and goals pop, he's the one who is stuck in a state of perpetual limbo. His main purpose in Dream High appears not to be one of a personal story, but rather as an object, or force, that incites conflict. His relationship with Hye Mi, especially, seems to serve more as a plot device than an actual relationship. Either that, or he's bipolar. No, not really. But, screenwriting flaws or not, his epic hair makes up for it.

Alongside the main highschool cast, there's my second favorite character, Pilsook. Pilsook has an amazing voice, but most of Kirin High believes her unable to debut because of her weight (one girl says, if she were 30 kilograms lighter, Pilsook may be able to debut) She's really shy, and sweet, and has a humongous crush on Chipmunk boy. It's really pitiful, some times.

Oh yeah, meet Chipmunk boy, aka, Jason. But really, he looks like a chipmunk, right? Right? He's an amazing dancer, and apparently, he doesn't need to work for it. Great, another coaster. But the good thing is, he's really nice to PilSook, so I guess it works out...

Jason and Pilsook's relationship seems to work out mostly as a side story/comic relief (the two of them are so cute!), however, their relationship contains complex dynamics that often question the ideas of goals and hard work. Pilsook, after loosing 200 pounds for Jason, soon realizes that she did all that for someone with no ambition, and berates him to work harder, as a friend. The ideas of hard work as well as really, really awkward love are complexly intertwined throughout their relationship.

And then, there's the teachers. Oh boy, and trust me, if you're looking for a bunch of intense weirdoes, look no further.

First up on the list, is Kang Oh-Hyuk, the lowest scoring teacher in Kirin High, and of course, he's also the one training Hye Mi, Jin Guk, Pilsook, and Sam Dong, in the graveyard. He exemplifies what the director says in the begining-- the loser, yet the loser with so much potential, with the right push, he might become a star.

Kang's story is a remarkable one about strength and empowerment. He is the one who stands by the Half Admission class as a surrogate father figure and he's willing to sacrifice everything to help them realize their dreams. Kang is also the loser, reborn. The drama slowly watches him change and grow, as he transitions from a true loser to the brilliant, confident teacher whom we realize, has always been there inside of him, it just needed the chance to grow.

This is Kang's old high school friend, whom he betrayed, but now they're working together to help the Half Admission class become stars...Yang Jin Man, the dance god. No, not the nice, sophisticated, intelligent looking guy on the right, the creepy looking punk on the left. Teacher Kang is weird. Period. Even though he's one of the Half Admission class' most important teacher and he would do anything for them, he goes to such great lengths to avoid being identified with them. My favorite stunts of his are the times when he lectured the class using two cellphones put on speakerphone, and when he disguised himself as a robot to avoid identification.

Yang Jin Man doesn't have as much depth as Kang Oh-Hyuk does, he functions more as a source of comic relief and occasional Oh. My. Words-- that dance move was amazing. His relationship with Teacher Shi, however, is one of my favorite parts in the drama. After locking her alone in a closet to prevent her from spoiling the fake showcase, Kang Oh-Hyuk leaves to settle the matter on his own terms, and Teacher Shi, preparing to kick down the door (in a surprisingly girly fashion) is rescued by Yang Jin Man. It's love at first sight-- at least for Yang Jin Man. The way he's so oblivious to the fact she doesn't really like him is insane...

Which brings me to Teacher Shi Kyung Jin. Woah. Talk about a nutcase. We first meet her as she scatters 1000 tacks on the floor of her dance class and cheerily informs the class they must pick them all up in 5 minutes or else their footwork-- with bare feet, I might add-- would become very interesting. I love this lady.

(Sorry...this is something I had stewing on the back burner for a long --long long long long...--- time! Promise that I'll write about actual life in Reno soon! Also, the ending is a bit abrupt, but, well, I thought I had fan-gushed on long enough :D)