Italians

    I've recently decided that one of my favorite gang movies is A Bronx Tale with Robert De Niro and Chazz Palminteri. It seems that every Sunday afternoon this movie is playing on the telly and my plans for the day are pretty much non-existent at that point, because I know for the rest of the evening I'll be glued to the television screaming at 'C' to listen to his father, or stay away from Sonny. I don't know why I've suddenly found an interest in hard core Italians. Perhaps it's how they conduct themselves when they want to show they've got "heart", or perhaps is they way they strut in their leather jackets and black suits. What ever it is, I've established a new home for them in my heart, where they can come and watch the streets smoking their cigarettes with their fedoras when ever they please.

    But don't be mistaken with the Italian "guido" that seems to be running MTV now a days.

No, no, I'm talking about the real Italians that wore suits every where they went, and kept a baseball bat in corner incase someone got out of line. Not the over muscular, over tanned, gel crusted Italian that walks the streets of Jersey Shore. A Bronx boy, a streets smart kid, a true gangster that lived in a strictly Italian neighborhood. That's the kind of kid I was after.
    And yet, this obsession with the Italian only lasts the night, come Monday I'm back to the typical cookie cutter lover boy I want. With the straight A's and Ralph Lauren button down. Who knows. Maybe it's a sign. Maybe I'm a fling kind of girl, that I can handle the incredibly forward action Italian boy once every blue moon. Maybe I just need to get out more, see the East Coast a little, and hell, maybe even eat some pasta. What ever the case, I need to figure it out soon cause I've been craving a little Italian blood, with possibly a side of fettuccine.