pocky

This week has been crazy. I look to cheap quizzes on the internet for fun in times like these--

Among my many college roomies were two Japanese girls. Etsuko thinks she's Euro but is really the most American person ever: come on, chan chan, Hardee's, Walmart, and Tennessee football? Nothing so Parisian about that! Ai is just super cool and even goes by Aiball. It was when I lived with Aiball that I discovered POCKY! It's the Japanese super-snack that has tantalized my tastebuds for 7 years now, or whenever 1998 was (hi, I'm an English teacher--can't do math). I found Pocky at Worldmarket yesterday and did the Balki Bartokumus dance of joy----do you rememeber Balki? Anyways, they only had chocolate. Strawberry Pocky is my favorite. Look below. Take the quiz. Have fun!

(real writing returns soon)

You Are Banana Pocky

Your attitude: fun and lighthearted Unique and unforgettable You are cutie everyone falls for

What Flavor Pocky Are You?

not pacino, but close.

Listening to: Sigur Ros
Thinking about: how I need to go to sleep so I can be a teacher in the morning
Excited: that Valentine's Day is over

I don't have my mother's classic dark hair and eyes. I live in the South and I'm not stuck in a kitchen (though I do make a mean sauce) and donning crucifixes around my neck. I didn't grow up in the neighborhood. I hate gangs, crime, and guns. I believe faith is a little more than attending a Mass ritual. I'm not a Catholic anymore and am not sure I ever really was. Still, I can be considered Italian, or at least partially Italian-American.

Both seventy-five percent of my mother's blood and one of the three languages flowing from my tongue can be claimed Italian. I have a weakness for Sinatra, All In The Family, and sfogliatelli. I know people named Al and Lou, several actually, and am related to all of them. Even though my eyes are green, my heritage reaches from Norway to Kentucky plantations, and not all of my relatives came over on the boat and settled the grand county of Queens, a small part of me is still very much "a good Italian girl." Need some more proof? I recently became a godmother.

I have a certificate from the priest and everything.

Like Southern Baptists, Italian Catholic New Yorkers can be a lovable but strange bunch of people, but I suppose Tony Soprano's stereotype may have already told you. Even though many of them aren't sure what the Church believes, don't attend Confession, and aren't sure about the Saints--or even Christ at times--they will get incredibly defensive in honoring the traditions and rituals of the Church. Putting down the Church is like dissin on yo mama. It's kind of like the idea that it's ok for you to gossip about your relatives, but anyone outside the family can fuggheddaboutit. The criteria for becoming a godparent: that you yourself were once christened. Don't mind your spiritual growth and development after that point, if there is any; it's that one sprinkling of water and guaranteed entrance to God's kingdom (in their theology) that matters.

Some godparents don't do too much after they stand in front of the church and watch the baby being held in the Father's arms and getting sprinkled. They send birthday cards and gifts throughout the years, but then they forget. I hope I am Never like that.

So, today is my godson's 1st birthday. Just think, this is his very first! It all becomes rote after this point, and his memory cells aren't developed enough yet to comprehend this beauty. It is a huge honor for me to be in Thomas' life, even though he doesn't really know who I am right now. I pray for him daily, hope to make a difference in his life, and want to help him cultivate the most astounding faith in God.

As Christians, we are all given the oppotunity to become 'godparents.' You don't need to be Italian, Catholic, or in the Mafia. I don't want to come across as a crispy fundamentalist Falwell follower, and I'm not talking about witnessing, passing out Bibles and then abandoning your preaching fields--I'm talking about nurturing relationships, planting seeds for new ones, and resigning yourself to pray specifically for one person. Make it two. Make it in earnest, and make it consistent. Imagine the impact.

It has been four months since I've seen baby Thomas, and the Long Island girl that I am is dying to take him to Jones Beach, grab a slice, and play on the swings as soon as the sun shines more. I wish I could have watched his big brown eyes grow huge and spiky blonde hair stand up straight as he blew out his first-ever birthday candle today. If you happen to read this, say a little prayer for blessings on Thomas and his first birthday :)

aunt hoo fung shooey?

Listening to: Jack Johnson
Reading: selections from Foster's "Celebration of Discipline: The Path to Spiritual Growth"
Excited about: Ringling Bros is coming to town. I hope someone will go with me to the circus!!!


When I first moved into this apartment, I knew I had to do things right. And that meant consulting The Feng Shui of Love.

Yes, while browsing around my favorite wellness shop in Bedford, Virginia, I saw the cream-colored shiny book and its title pleaded with my inner hippie. Fifteen dollars later and weeks before the West End, I spent some time mapping out which piece of furniture would go where. Never before had I thought about windows, doors, sharply pointed angles, and the "source of positive energy." Even my plants were plotted out. To the disapproval and bewilderment of my more fundamentalist friends, I decided that feng shui might actually work, and at the very least, couldn't really hurt.

My skeptical and assanine dad keeps asking me how the "fung shoo-ey" --as he calls it--is going.

Since consulting The Feng Shui of Love, I have fallen out of love, been hurt in love, feigned interest in love, forced myself to feel like I was in love, and gotten out of the entire bloody mess of it all. My fickleness factor is at an all-time psychotic high, and I've experienced more negativity than I could ever get used to. Ironic: the theory is that this eastern idea is supposed to bring a calming, peaceful, positive arena to my life and spirit........hmmmm.....

So I spent my entire afternoon pre-spring cleaning. When it's sunny out, when you're having company in a day and when the contents of your closet have been vomitted into every room of your apartment, it's time to pre-spring clean. I was hard at work in my bedroom and decided to "let the sunshine in" (can you hear Hair in your head?) and noticed that I am almost able to catch sight of some trees if I look out one of my windows. Seeing trees from your window's view is a huge deal in this community. Usually I just see parking lots, cars, other buildings and the occasional other tenant. Forgive my cliche, but I struck gold today.

While singing along with the immaculate version of Madonna and revelling in the joys of nesting, I decided to forge on and forget the feng shui theory. It was time to change some things, to move things around. I placed my grandmother's slipper chair diagonally opposite the tree window and beside a small book shelf. It's absolutely lovely and seeing nature just steps away is much more enlightening to my spirit than any furniture arranging gods could ever claim otherwise.

me and mcgee

Pat, that is. And his Band.

Upon advice and propaganda from my friend John, I went to see the Pat McGee Band perform tonight @ The Canal Club. Now, my friend is a music teacher, and has never steered me into a wrong musical direction. In fact, it was he who turned me on to Toad The Wet Sprocket (who I LOVE). I figured that his choice must be gold.

I had gone on their website a few nights ago, and listened to a few songs (as per John's suggestions). They had a very acousticky-rock sound, not dissimilar to Toad. The Canal Club usually books good acts, so we went and tried out The Pat McGee Band this evening.

Talk about disappointment. Maybe I'm a total music snob now, but I prefer original music when I go to a concert--or at least covers done in a completely unique way. These McGees were repetitive radio jargon canned and shipped onto the stage. I will give them credit for some harmonic guitar work and a rippin' version of a Fleetwood Mac tune...I can just imagine my Aunt Hoo Fung boys mocking it now.....it was white people music. This Amazon, curly-headed girl was going nuts and singing along with everything--it was like she had never heard anything better in her entire life. I was so sad for her. Some early college boys were jumping up and down like Kris Kross was demanding them to do it right then and there. Hootie and the Blowfish had more soul appeal. Let's put it this way: My jaws have never practiced yawning so much. Sorry, John darling, but they're not for me.

As a creative person, you always aspire to getting your work out in hopes that people GET it. Despite experiencing exhaustive ennui, I remained awake. The people-watching was prime. I was most amazed at the multitude of young folks who came out to hear this band, cheering, fists in the air, jumping around, smiling, and knowing every word. My head swivelled back and forth between the crowd and the cheezy band in awe that somehow, this McGee was reaching people in his audience; and even though I may not be diggin him, by way of some sort of cosmic craziness, his job as an artist was complete.

my first love

This entry has no particular meaning. There is not depth of insight, cryptic symbolism, nor open, heartfelt thoughts contained within this page. Just one announcement, and one announcement alone:

I love you, Paul McCartney!!!!!!

my drug of choice

Listening to: my former house settling in for the night
Thinking about: the many possiblilties for next year
Excited about: a) putting together the photo, frame, and mat scheme @ Cindy's gallery today-I'll now have springtime in
my house year-round
b) Arleen fixing my hair color back to normal. Praise you Jesus.

inspiration is the most wonderfully addictive drug on earth when it's available to you and the worst craving possible when you can't get a fix.

The cycle of withdrawal symptoms fall into this pattern:

1. Exhaustion: you're just too wiped out to create for a while.
2. Distraction: you put any leftover energy into other various pursuits.
3. Denial: you tell other folks about what your latest project was (but it was quite some time back, now).
4. Sadness: you remember what it used to feel like to get so high.
5. Apathy: self-explanatory.
6. Depression: sad about being apathetic.

I'd been clean for too long and got my fix this week, baby. It was the most messed up junk: It was the poetry slam, it was the coffeehouse we did for my seventh graders, it was conversations with creative minds, it was a night of exhibits, it was a warm afternoon in an artisan's gallery in a main street town. Poems put away six years ago finished themselves, untouched pianos were played after months without getting any, and now a little girl named Punky F. has an insatiable urge to paint. (She also developed the most genius idea for a sellable book this week, but you can't ask her about it. You will want the idea and, in her druglike-induced state of consciousness may have to break your legs, Italian-style).

I'm on an overdose of this overdue soul medication for now. If only I was afforded the time to take this trip and see what crazy beauty can come out of it...

root beer renewal

Listening to: my heater
Thinking about: how much I don't want to do any more grading, dammit
Excited about: going home to see my puppy on Saturday

Lesson realized today: When recent days have felt like a child's cloggy cold and there's too much noise and too much stress, the best thing to do is to run to what you love.

There should be overflow in the category of "things that you love." What you love should be seeping out of your every spiritual pore. What you love should flush your face and make frown-lines nonexistent and Botox-free. When asked, we can think of the oh-so-many loves of our life. Sometimes, though, the noise and the stress give you headaches, block your arteries and it's harder to hear what your heart is saying.


Mine said to stop stealing milkless bowls of Frosted Flakes, to get off the sage and suede couch, and to go to a poetry slam for the first time ever last night and even the angry political poets that turned me off helped revitalize my energy to Do. On the way home, I cracked up like a five-year-old telling jokes in the ridiculous ride through a drive-thru--the Green Grand Marquis always flirts with the wall and I never can order without laughing at myself--and my gut was sore with happy hysteria. My best Richmond friend (who's secretly a North Carolina gal) didn't go, but she joined me at the best barbeque place this side of the James to succumb to the sinful comfort of a honey root-beer float, sweetly creamed corn fritters, and some friendly gossip... Wouldn't you know it, the headaches vanished.