What's in a name?

Although this post (and blog) is not endorsing any candidate or political party, I would like to simply take a moment to reflect on the collection of names that have happened upon our screens during the debates.

First, there is Newt. I'm sorry, but what kind of name is that? And can anyone really imagine themselves saying, "Oh yeah, the president of our country... yeah, his name is Newt." Hmm.

Then there is Mitt. Mitt as in a baseball mitt or mittens? Newt and Mitt.

Then there is Ron and Jon. Their names look alike and they rhyme. 

That brings us to Newt and Mitt, Ron and Jon.

How to bring this all together? Two candidates with the very same name, of course. (Duh).

Finally, we have: Newt and Mitt, Ron and Jon, Rick and Rick.

Or Barack.

Happy campaigning.

Meatballs

For about the past year and a half I have been, for the most part, a vegetarian. It really has been an interesting journey and was a switch that was not as difficult as it probably is for some. Honestly, even though I was brought up a carnivore, I think I was truly cut out to be a vegetarian. Lunch meat has always grossed me out. Just the thought of touching that slimy slice was enough to make me gag when I had to make lunch. Cravings for burgers or steaks weren't really crossing my mind frequently--or ever.

So, when I had the task of cooking chicken by myself for the first time in my life, the experience simultaneously became my last. After deciding I never wanted to have to touch raw meat ever again, it was a pretty effortless slip toward the road of veggies.

Up until now, it was the act of touching the raw meat itself that made my shoulders shake. Watching someone else do it wasn't a problem, but nonetheless I didn't really care to eat it, either. However, I recently was watching Giada on the Food Network (yes, she works with meat occasionally, but she's Italian and what can I say... I love food). Apparently, my raw meat watching tolerance had decreased significantly by the time I saw her recent show where she made meatballs.

Think about it: a BALL of MEAT. To meat lovers, that probably sounds like heaven. But to me, that sounds like a ball of slimy rawness that I do NOT want to be handling. At that point, I had to walk away from the television.

It was a day of mixed feelings. After all, I am Italian. And a culturally foundation was on the line. I've decided I will embrace seafood and cheese. I guess veganism is out of the question.

Dear musicians who do not practice,

Foul sounds emit from your instrument and you wonder why, incompetent fool who doesn’t practice! Your facial expressions seem to scrutinize your own work yet you continue to wonder why you cannot keep up with the tempo, why your fingers do not know the correct positions and why your ear cannot hear the correct pitches. Do you not have the discipline to lock yourself in a practice room for even one measly hour a week to work through difficult passages? Do you not have the patience for a metronome to beat out your rhythms and subdivide, something you clearly are lacking the ability to do on your own?

For heaven’s sake, consider the ears which are your audience! Spare them the horrendous squeaks and atonal sounds you call melodies. Not only is your lack of musicality on display, but your lack of any sort of talent what-so-ever. If not for the contentment of your audience, why do you not practice for yourself? Does it not embarrass and disturb you to struggle through every musical rehearsal? Or, fool as you are, do you simply not realize your idiocy?

You wish to become a performer? How I do laugh. Not only will your lack of motivation to practice keep you from this goal, but it will seep into every aspect of your life. Your unwillingness to commit to self-discipline and hard work will hinder any success in your future until you change your ways, you lazy fool!

If you shall not change your ways through effective practicing, it would be advised that you simply stop playing and cease your assault of our ears.