Non Nuoc Huu Tinh

Non nước hữu tình quê mình xinh đẹp quá
Từ những cầu hò ý nhạc thành bài ca.
Ngày vui em đến thăm Hà Nội.
Gió chiều Hồ Gươm vang bóng thời xưa.
Ba sáu phố phường năm cửa ô cổ kính.
Về đất quang họ hát mừng ngày hội Lim.
Ngẩn ngơ như bức tranh tuyệt vời,
Ngắm Vịnh Hà Long, ngất ngây Chùa Hương.

Hơ...ớ...duyên nào đưa ta vào tích xưa.
Đồng Đăng có phố Kỳ Lừa, có nàng Tô Thị, có Chùa Tam Thanh.
Câu hát quan ho bao đời nay vẫn sống.
Dòng máu Tiên Rồng thấm lòng từ thời Thăng Long.
Dù đi đâu, đến phương trời nào
cũng chẵng đẹp hơn nước non Việt Nam.
- Thanh Sơn

Non nuoc huu tinh que minh xinh dep qua
Tu nhung cau ho y nhac thanh bai ca.
Ngay vui em den tham Ha Noi.
Gio chieu Ho Guom vang bong thoi xua.
Ba sau pho phuong nam cua o co kinh.
Ve dat quang ho hat mung ngay hoi Lim.
Ngan ngo nhu buc tranh tuyet voi,
Ngam Vinh Ha Long, ngat ngay Chua Huong.

Ho...o...duyen nao dua ta vao tich xua.
Dong Dang co pho Ky Lua, co nang To Thi, co Chua Tam Thanh.
Cau hat quan ho bao doi nay van song.
Dong mau Tien Rong tham long tu thoi Thang Long.
Du di dau, den phuong troi nao
cung chang dep hon nuoc non Viet Nam.
- Thanh Son

Khi nghe bai hat nay cua nhac si Thanh Son, trong long vua ghen mot ti, vua buon mot ti, vua yeu mot ti. Buon vi nho den nhung canh Viet Nam, tu Ho Guom toi ba sau pho phuong toi Chua Huong, va minh kg biet khi nao se co dip de tro ve Viet Nam. Yeu vi du minh o rat xa nhung canh dep que nha, nhung van mang trong long mot niem nho nhung kho quen. Du cach nguyen Thai Binh Duong, minh cung van nho va yeu Vietnam -- khong nhung yeu cai gi tuoi dep cua VN nhung cung yeu cai gi xau xi va o ue o VN. Cai buc tranh ma nhac si Thanh Son nhac den khong chi co canh Ho Guom tho mong, nhung cong them do la canh xoi bo xoi bon cua nep song chat hep o tren nhung khu pho nho be cua ba sau pho phuong. Neu yeu canh ruong dong xanh vang cua may mien, thi cung phai yeu nhung cai "thui", cai do, cai xau, v.v.

Thich nhat trong loi bai hat nay la cach nhac si TS jump time va space. Ong dung nhung hinh anh chong chat len nhau (collage? mosaic?) de ve mot buc tranh cua Viet Nam va buc tranh nay noi den cai ve timelessness cua VN. Chung trong mot cau ma minh thay duoc 3 hinh anh rat cu the va concrete: To Thi, Tam Thanh, va pho Ky Lua. Bai hat nay ve nhung canh non nuoc que ta mot cach gian di, don so. Tung y nhac, tung cau chuyen, tung cau ho -- tat ca duoc gom gop lai va dat vao bai hat de goi len nhung cai gi everlasting cua VN.

These feet were made for walking

Berkeley in April

If everyone lived like me, we would need 3.9 planets

Thanks to Holy Folly, I took the Earth Day Footprint Quiz to find out what my ecological footprint looks like. I am ashamed to say that my results page concluded with the warning:

If everyone lived like you,
we would need 3.9 planets

The quiz is short and simple. You'll also find suggestions on how to be ecologically responsible.

As for me, I hang my head in shame.

ISFJ: Mother Teresa and George HW Bush?!

A few days ago, my sister told me about taking the HumanMetrics Jung Typology Test. I hemmed and hawed and put it off, thinking that I'd already taken the Myers-Briggs and have always been correctly pegged (or so I thought) as INFJ. Besides, I didn't want to take another lengthy exam, agonizing over each answer. However, the exam was a very quick 72 questions and the profiles they provided was dead-on. Marina Heiss's profile of ISFJs is so accurate that I am a bit scared someone who knows nothing about me knows so much about me. The profile even describes in detail exactly what I am -- down to the spotless office desk. Keirsey's Portrait of the Protector Guardian is equally scary. Most interesting was the discovery that Mother Teresa and George HW Bush were also described as Protector Guardians. Scary.

The following folks share the ISFJ profile:
+Louisa May Alcott
+Alfred, Lord Tennyson
+Queen Elizabeth II of England
+Robert E. Lee
+Queen Mary I ("Bloody Mary") of England

Fictional:
+Bianca in Taming of the Shrew
+David Copperfield
+Hero in Much Ado About Nothing
+Melanie in Gone With The Wind
+Ophelia in Hamlet
+Dr. John H. Watson, M.D. (Sherlock Holmes' faithful sidekick)

+William Howard Taft
+Johnny Carson, comedian
+Jerry Seinfeld
+Kristi Yamaguchi, US Olympic figure skater
+Ed Bradley, journalist

I don't know whether to laugh or cry. Jerry Seinfeld and Dr. Watson both? Bloody Mary and Louisa May Alcott? Ophelia and Johnny Carson? How strange is that? Now that I've revealed myself as an ISFJ (as if you didn't know), you know all my flaws and weaknesses (except for a few minor ones). Be kind. Please?

Thank You

David Sedaris in 2 days!

This Friday, David Sedaris will be reading at Zellerbach Hall at Cal Berkeley. I have been waiting for this day for a long time -- ever since I first heard him at UNCW. I have had these tickets since the first day they were available, and it feels like I've carried them with me in my Franklin Covey for 6 months. At first I did not believe it would be too difficult getting tickets, but little did I know. There are probably hundreds of people out there coveting their copy of Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim, waiting for him to sign it, as with all over books, with some silly message or picture.

At his reading in Kenan Auditorium at UNCW in 2003, Sedaris had me laughing in the aisles (embarassingly, I might have needed a "stadium pal" if he'd kept it up longer than he did) with my stomachs knotted in laugh pains. By the end of the evening, hundreds of folks lined up waiting for a signature -- some sort of memento of the evening, perhaps connection to his world, his reality.

I too lugged my copy of Me Talk Pretty One Day to the stage, all the time thinking of some witty remark to prove that I wasn't just a tongue-tied klutz trying desperately to impress a humor writer with my poetry skills. Of course, nothing could have prepared me for the moment he asked for my name. Naturally you'll need my name to sign my book. Of course, thanks to my parents, I have the delightful opportunity of explaining to Sedaris how my parents named me not Sue, not Amy, not Stephanie, but H.

"Uh, no, it sounds like "wh" but it's not really, and you need the "ng" in there, too."

"Correct. That's N-G first, and then it ends with N-H. Right, it's hyphenated. Er, no, my parents didn't run out of names."

I will never forget the TO DO list that David Sedaris assigned me that day:

1. Get a nickname
2. Get married

I have done neither of those things. At the time, it was really funny that David Sedaris culled someting so clever out of the monotonous routine of spelling my name to strangers -- something he knew I'd done too many times before and will continue to do unless I heeded his advice.

For some folks, H. is too difficult to pronounce. A name too unfamiliar to spell. It takes too long to get through the initial introductions at meetings. At job interviews, it doesn't make a sharp, smart impression. This is a "challenge" that I can overcome by getting a nickname -- something quick and easy for others to use. I can ease their awkwardness with something short and funny like... HAT, for instance. It rolls off the tongue without any hiccups and there's no polysyllabic tongue-twisters to confuse folks. This is then one opportunity to ease others' pains -- in a way.

The second way, naturally, is to get married and acquire myself a different surname. And since my current surname isn't that difficult (being only 4 letters long), I'm assuming the married name should be something easy, not like MacIntyre or Klabbik or Ng. Naturally, being the woman, I would change my name to that of my husband's and obligingly assist the world with an easy to manage first and last name.

Looking back on that day, I was a bit naive, unschooled, unsuspecting. I didn't know how to retort to something so funny. But after considering this over for the past several years, isn't it interesting that it is my problem (small problem that it is) that folks can't figure out how to pronounce my name. I can't, and actually won't, blame this problem on my parents, either. It's not a cultural thing, or rather it is a cultural thing. It's about a culture of exposure, about the double-consciousness of being attuned to differences - linguistic or otherwise.

In these kinds of moments, it is easier to ease the awkwardness with a bit of laughter. It is equally easy to use humor to dismiss some larger issues undergirding these situations. I find it exceedingly interesting that both of Sedaris's suggestions -- getting a nickname, getting married -- involves the problem being resolved by me, but by me assimilating, conforming, accommodating.

Surely I am exaggerating this into extreme proportions, but I hope that there is some truth to all this senseless talk. It isn't just about names and naming. Oftentimes it is the un-named that deserves our attention.

2.14 billion: SOLD!

I'm not an avid reader of financial news, and I don't follow the stocks unless it was part of an effor to glean material for found poetry, so I did not get the news flash that Tenaris has purchased Hydril for 2.1 billion. This news normally doesn't phase me because, shamefully, I normally just write it off as another "unchangeable" in the larger world where I cannot make a difference. However, just today, I learned that the former president, trustee, and chairman of the Hydril company (a gas/oil company) is a current donor for the seminary... Knowing this forces me to once again re-evaluate my principles, to examine once more what it means for me to be working in a theological institution that is supported financially (among other means) by companies such as this. I am astounded by the amount of money that we're discussing here. 2.14 billion is not an insignificant sum, and yet we are begging, pleading, tearing our hair and nails out b/c we hope to acquire a $100,000 or so to begin covering the huge financial deficit our seminary is facing -- and not just our seminary but seminaries all over.

I listen to our trustees' investment sub-committee and wonder whether it means anything to say that we want to be responsible stewards of our resources, to say that we want to research the companies we invest in, etc. It isn't strange or demanding; it is a part of being responsible investors and that means knowing exactly where our money is going and what it is doing.

The 2.14 billion is such a huge number for me, I don't think I even know how much that is. Imagine all of that in pennies, and I'm running barefoot in it...

But think of what the 0.1 will do to help theological education. Not to mention eradicating poverty, hunger, disease. Imagine what the 0.04 can do for education in the developing nations.

Exactly how much of 2.14 is 0.1, I don't know. What does it mean for any of us -- for those of us who have it and those who don't... what does the 0.1 equal?

Greening our church

I just returned from a meeting of the Pan Asian Ministry, where we finished drafting a proposal to the church's board of administration and trustees. Given that today is Earth Day, it seemed appropriate that we submit a proposal for the implementation of policies for greening of our church. I have high hopes that this proposal will pass with minimal objections, especially since I sit on that board. We've had many conversations about the need to become better stewards of our resources, especially since the church features as one of the more prominent fixtures in Oakland's Chinatown. Though I've only recently joined this particular faith community, the church has been around for 120 years (the 120 year celebration is this May), and there is a strong sense of community and commitment. Let's cross our fingers that the board will approve the proposal so that everyone can take a more active part in greening church and preserving our faith community!

Gently, Gently

We, too, began with joy.
Then, sickness came;
then, poverty.
We were poor, so poor,
our children were our only friends.

Gently, gently,
through anger and pain,
love justified itself,
like the nails in the house
during a storm.

Somehow, we created hope,
reliable drum
in the shadow's wrist;
a tuning fork
on the sidewalk of dreams.

- Bert Myers, The Wild Olive Tree

Bert Meyers: Old

Last Thursday, the Bert Meyers reading at Black Oak Books was packed with a very impressive lineup of readers, including the likes of Robert Hass and Morton Marcus.

Daniel Meyers, son of Bert, currently lives in Paris and he flew to the US specifically for the launching of his father's posthumously published book. He kicked off the reading and selected several poems to share with us. One of the poems which really moved me was "Old" from The Wild Olive Tree (1979):

Their children were gone;
almost everyone
they loved and half
of what they understood,
has disappeared.

But the door's still open,
the porch light's on;
a little wind at night
and they hear footsteps
when a few leaves fall.

This poem reminds me of my parents who are now living alone in TX, two lonely lovebirds rattling around their old new house. Now that my brother is here in CA, they feel even farther away, more distant and separated than ever, from their grown children. Whatever it is that keeps them happy must be what keeps Meyers's old couple happy.

Malaysian Batik

Last January, our immersion course visited a batik factory/shop in Malaysia. There are two ways of making batik. I'm not too familiar with it, but this is what I remember from what the artist told us: The artist draws each special design by hand (with paraffin pens) and by inspiration. Because it depends on what the artist is thinking of, each design is unique, making each batik a "customized" piece of fashion art. The fabric is then dipped in inks, and the wax is removed in layers from the designs one at a time so that the fabric will take each color it is dipped into. The process takes hours but the result is well worth the wait. The second method is blocking. Once the fabric is ready, the inks and design blocks are chosen, and the fabric is laid out just like as if the artist were to draw on it with wax, but instead the blocks are dipped in ink and then rolled or stamped onto the fabric. This method is often used for larger bolts of fabric that are then cut into smaller pieces for sarongs or shirts or skirts, etc. The art of making batik is so intricate and every single piece of batik produced is unique. Some of the fabrics available for purchase were in the hundreds of dollars. I too succumbed and purchased a few items. It was not hard to spend several hundred dollars in that place.

Postcard hustlers: 10 for the price of 1

Here are the little faces of pretty big personalities. They earn a living not by getting education in the schools but by selling postcards on the streets -- actually, in the mountains. They follow tourists everywhere, trying to sell packs of 10 postcards (daily life shots, sceneries, landscapes, etc. of VN) for outrageous amounts of money. And the tourists usually pay them because when you convert Vietnamese Dong into USD, it doesn't amount to much. These particular little people live, and work, around the touristy areas of Mui Ne (near Phan Thiet, VN) and its sand dunes -- especially the Red and White Sand Dunes. When the jeep dropped me off and I started my hike, these kids were right on my heels, chattering away in English (pretty decent English, too) and in Vietnamese, trying to sell postcards and they will not be stopped, dissuaded, ignored, or advised. They will keep on until you succumb into buying something (at which point they will all gather around you like bees) or until you hop back onto the jeep or bus that brought you around. I was here for only a short while and by the end of the day, I felt as if I owed these children something more than just a pack of postcards.

They were cheerful, helpful, and annoyingly persistent. One child asked me to buy something and in the effort to brush him off (I was exceedingly rude and irritated by this point, and shamefully, I could not contain my inhumane disregard for their livelihood, which was based upon their ability to behave as needy and desperate as they could), I said off-handedly, I'll think about it when I come back down. Little did I know this meant I had committed myself b/c that was, in his estimation, essentially a solid promise on my part.

Silly of me to be thinking about this, but it was not so easy for me at that time to behave like the tourist -- I resisted the urge to be the Viet Kieu from America who comes waving money in their faces, buying little knick knacks as souvenirs, and regaling them with stories about the American dream, life in the U.S. I also did not want to be the brusque, arrogant, self-centered Viet Kieu who behaved as if she were disgusted to touch their hands and buy their foods and hear their stories. At that point, I was just very tired and desperate to be left alone to simmer in the heat of Mui Ne.

On the way down from the hike, I was shamed and guilted into recognizing the error of my ways -- or at least, recognized the needless worrying. I wasn't going to see them again, and if my buying into their game of feed the starving children from Vietnam, I wasn't the firs and certainly wouldn't be the last. We had a great conversation on the way down, and they were very friendly and helpful. They showed me where to stop and rest and where to stop to get fresh water, and even showed me some great local sights.

I went home with 40 postcards purchased from three different kids. Instead of sending them home to friends and family, I've kept them all.

Mung Sinh Nhat Cau Tam

April 13th was the birthday of Cau Tam, my mother's youngest brother. At 18, he enlisted in the southern vietnamese army and was MIA since the early 1970s -- I want to say it was either 1973 or 1974. He was stationed near Nha Trang, and was ill the day my grandmother came to see him, which was the last time anyone in our family saw him alive. He'd enlisted after arguing with my grandfather, and had only been in the army for a little while. Ong Ngoai was a discipliined and difficult sort of man who could not tolerate Cau Tam's teenage, laissez-faire attitude, and like any 18 year old, Cau Tam couldn't stand being told to do something with his life.

After Ba Ngoai visited him, the campsite was bombed, they infirmary was scattered, he disappeared. His body was never found, and his name never appeared on any lists of the dead. We don't know whether he disappeared over the Cambodia border or maybe died in some field or on some road or... Grandma stil carries hope that we'll find him one day, or perhaps receive word, finally, that he is buried somewhere in Vietnam.

Happy birthday, Cau Tam.

Hom qua la ngay sinh nhat cua Cau Tam. Neu Cau Tam con o day, minh se chuc mung cau tam duoc them mot tuoi. Mung ngay ay cau ra doi...

Photo by Melissa Ma.

Motorbike Haiku in Vietnam: unJammed

The recent traffic congestions from the East Bay into SF have triggered certain memories of my stay in Vietnam. The culture of transportation (van hoa di chuyen) in most areas of Vietnam boasts several millions of motorbikes in a city the size of Saigon. Owning a motorbike or a vespa is necessary, and some folks have multiple bikes like they do cars, and since each of the 8 million inhabitants of Saigon and the surrounding provinces owns a bike, well, you have about 8 million motorbikes -- excluding the landrovers and SUVs (there are enough automobiles that I'm amazed that they are able to actually drive on the streets), taxis, and buses. (By the way, the 10 months that I was in VN, I saw 1 hummer.)

The swarm of motorbikes during traffic jams is incredible. The staggering vision of bodies metallic and flesh squeezing into the tiny intersections plays itself over and over. As I peer down into the streets from the tall buildings, I can't help but wonder how these drivers remain upright on their motorbikes. One inattentive, accidental kick from someone stopping too quickly at the back of the line will knock over another motorist who is caught unawares, and dominoes fall. It is absolutely stunning.

What you see here are views of the road taken by yours truly -- mostly on a whim -- just b/c it felt so important to capture the essence of being a part of the masses and not quite.

Saigon: motorbikes
jammed at stoplights, exhaust fumes
scattering insects

The haiku describes my imagination of what it feels like to look at the hundreds of motorbikes zoom away. But in fact, in reality, once the stoplight turns green, the droves of bikes move as a unit gushing forward like a dam. And because these are all individual motorbikes, the effect is much more breath-taking and more insect-like than if you were looking at "xe bon banh," the automobiles.

On the eve of the Lunar New Year, Tet 2005, everyone drives to the river to see the fireworks. In the dark, standing on the roof of my cousin's house (nha cua anh Loc va Thao Trang), the feeling was just as this image portrays. We just finished watching the fireworks display, and now that everyone was riding home, it was a different sort of show. The
bright lights, the fast-moving bodies weaving through the dark air -- the rush, the exhilaration, all that movement of individual pieces of metal and sparks of energy and gas fumes converging together into this one image -- glimpsed by me, captured but lost.

The feeling of watching traffic is not unlike the image of this young woman stopped at the light. The sense of being her, parked in anticipation of moving forward towards something, someplace, someone -- that sense that stays with you as if you too are merging and joining with something larger even though you are a smaller part, an insignificant unit perhaps. It wasn't until I was in riding on one of those new-fangled motorbikes with my hair blown every which way that I recognized, and understood, this feeling. Perhaps it was b/c I didn't have four metal walls protecting me from the elements. My arms and legs were dangled out there without seatbelts or safety nets. Winding up and down the mountains in Dalat, I could essentially reach out with my arms and pluck a leaf or a flower or even touch another motorist -- and I did, too -- with nonchalance, as if yeah this was nothing new. I'm riding a motorbike like the rest of the Vietnamese population, actually doing something the locals are doing, being a part of something larger than me. Stuck in traffic or not, parked in a lot or soaring down a mountainside, it seemed like I was actually transported somewhere, scrambling without knowing the exact mechanisms of the thing, without knowing the exact directions of the place... but it felt right. It always would.

Tipping my hat...

I'm thrilled to discover that I've been visited by so many friends from different languages. Unfortunately, they're all hiding under hats b/c I don't speak their language. Men language for one. Spanish for another. Indonesian. German. Norwegian. I will be crushed if you folks drop by without at least tipping your hat in my direction... Chao! Ciao! Adieu! Adios! Twame naw! Auf Wiedersehen! Selamat jalan! Paalom!

Lotus Feet on her toes

Yesterday, I was reminded of how ghastly I look now that I've completely lost my tan thanks to the winter months. The cute red sleeveless chemisier from H&M does not look good with two pale, pale arms sticking out. That, my friends, is only one of a hundred other signs that I see everywhere reminding me of how utterly un-springlike I look. And it made me think how our definitions of beautiful have changed throughout time. My sister and I always joke that we would have been natural beauties and worshipped like goddesses if we'd been born several centuries earlier. Our "vices" now would have been virtues back then instead of being suctioned, yoga-ed and lifted away.

On our trip to Malaysia this past January, we visited Chinatown in Melacca, Malaysia, and Candis and I stopped by at a little shop that made bound feet shoes. The shop-owner is the last remaining shoemaker in the area for women with bound feet. They allowed us to browse around and take photographs. They even displayed some old black and white photos of old women who had their feet bound decades ago. Feet-binding begins at very young ages, and begins with a painful process of tightly wrapping the feet in fabric to reshape the bone structure. With each wrapping, the feet are tightened until they become so mis-shapened that they no longer look like feet and whenever the fabrics are unwrapped, the women experience excruciating pain. the toes and heels are so bent that they lay completely flat under the arch of the foot. The lack of support and the pain cause the women to walk very slowly, and have to be aided by maids everywhere they go. Thus, the Lotus Feet (Got Sen -- Lotus Heel). The walk, the attitude, the position, the state of being.

The tiny shoes that you see are handmade for adult women's feet that have been bound. They are exactly like doll's shoes. And these types of shoes came in all types and fashions, and many were made by the women who wore those shoes. It was the "in" thing -- to make your own shoes. And to bind your feet. Very a la mode.

The prettier and fancier the shoes, the more fashionable. The most beautiful shoes were the ones made of rich, gold fiber and exotic fabrics and colors. And very small. The smaller, the richer, the more elegant and high-class. Because only the poor, un-cultured, lower-class servants would keep their grotesquely big, flat feet unbound in order to shuffle around doing work. The hurried, hasty walk was the walk of those who must work, who were born into servitude, not of the ones that have purpose and meaning in life.

Back then, it wasn't just the pale faces or dark hair or the sensuous, swaying gait of a curvaceous body. It was how you actually achieved that affect -- all the tactics you would employ in order to permanently walk in that way, the way of the high-class ladies of culture.

We now look upon bound feet as a horrific practice of a culture and society that is too foreign and ancient for us to understand. In retrospect, feet binding seems like it was an oppressive practice, a practice (most probably) designed and imposed by chauvanistic, insecure, arrogant, sexist males living in a dominant, patriarchal society. But it can't be simplified by blaming the men who coveted those Lotus Feet or the ladies who were the Lotus Feet.

In Bound Feet and Western Dress, we read about traditions that give way from one culture to the next, from one decade to another, from one family to another. In all of this, we can look at how "beauty" was and is defined. In 2007, we no longer bind feet, but we starve ourselves. We burn our skins under UV rays. We laser beam our eyes. Staple stomachs, lift eyebrows, file chins, puncture cheeks, liposuction thighs and abdomens, and even insert gels and liquids into our breasts.

Looks like we're not just re-shaping the feet. This time, it's an extreme make-over.

San Francisco Tet Parade

For the parade held in SF, even the Three Little Pigs came out to play.


Little piggy ladies dressed to impress in New Year's color of lucky red.


Giant life-size lantern to bring light and good fortune to welcome in the new year.


At the head of the 100-feet long golden dragon.


One lonely dragon separated from the pack.

Cau Trang Tien tai Hue

Day la canh hoang hon tai Cau Tran Tien o Hue. Di qua di lai, toan la xe moto. Lau lau thay mot xe xich lo cho nhung nguoi khach Tay Ba Lo. After sunset on Trang Tien bridge in Hue. Every which way there are motorcycles and vespas, and once in a while, a cyclo goes by carrying expats and backpacking tourists. One of which took this very photo.

Poetry flash

I just found out today that Robert Hass, Brenda Hillman, Morton Marcus, Anat Silvera, and others, are reading from the life works of Bert Meyers at Black Oak Books in Berkeley. This Thursday at 7:00 p.m.

Banh Cuon Vuon Chuoi

Trong mot hem nho nho cua duong so 4, duong Vuon Chuon, co mot Ba cu la chuyen gia do banh cuon. Bon gio sang moi ngay, luc mat troi chua moc, Ba cu thuc day de khuay bot. Luc 6g thi Ba bat dau do bot.

Nhung nguoi khach den tim banh cuon cua Ba la nhung nguoi khach trung thanh. Moi buoi sang ho den voi bung doi, them thuong nhung cuon thit mem va nong, tron chung voi nuoc mam pha san moi ngay va nhung cong gia gion rum.

Ngoai ra banh cuon, cung phai co banh cong chien gion, ngon thiet ngon cham voi nuoc nam cay.

Obsessions du Jour

We wouldn't be human if we did not harbor some sort of obsession each day of our lives. Thanks to Ms. Pen, I'll use this opportunity to list my most recent/current obsessions -- pitiful and meaningless as they are at this point.

1. House. As in Dr. Greg House. He is vulgar, crass, opinionated, self-centered, arrogant, sexist, intolerant, but absolutely brilliant. He could diagnose any medical illness known to man, and does it with the quickest wit and sharpest tongue on Fox television. I haven't been this intrigued by a man before, and he's a lame one at that. At the beginning of each episode, I can't wait to figure out who he will offend next and why they tolerate such behavior.

2. Bitter melons. This is not a new thing, but I've recently developed a stronger craving for this bitter, green vegetable -- and nothing seems to appease my appetite. Regardless of how you prepare the bitter melon, it still tastes the same -- delicious.

3. Office cleanliness. I've been obsessed with keeping my office clean. All of my desks need to be perfectly spotless and shiny with as few items cluttering the tabletop as possible. Last week, a student unwrapped some candy while standing above my desk, and during our entire conversation, I had to sit on my hands to quell the urge to pick up each tiny drop of sugar that spattered the tablecorner. My computer screens, bookshelves, and tables have to be dusted almost daily, and each piece of paper has to be filed perfectly centered inside each appropriately labeled, color-coded file folder. I know this borders on OCD, but I don't know how else to deal with the mountainous load of work that piles up. The more work that needs to be accomplished in the office, the stronger the urge to re-organize and re-arrange. It's the age-old need to control my busy-ness through cleanliness.

4. Unknown. I'd like to think there is a friendly face out there somewhere from some unknown country, unknown organization, and unknown continent who visits the website periodically. If it weren't because of sitemeter I would never know that this person (or persons) has flickered through nothing but HAT's. Who are you? Where do you come from? Are you the visitor from Lima? From Indonesia? Queensland? Oceania? New South Wales? Why is it that the unknown compels us so?

5. Origami cranes. I have about 600 before I make my first 1000. The work is slow but steady.