the longer the string, the higher the kite flies.
there are these great Italian candies - dark chocolate bon-bon type doodads, with chopped hazelnut that scream sexy times in your mouth - that i became obsessed with in Europe. they're called Baci, meaning "kisses" in Italian, and i happen to love their silver foil with cute blue writing and stars, and best of all, each comes with some sort of proverb or saying, usually romantically inclined, but always translated into four or five different languages that i always try to stumble through, no matter the readily available English translation. they always always always always make me smile.
i used to think, back in the day day (yes, that is an extra "day", to denote just how long ago that day was), that if you hadn't accomplished everything you needed or thought to accomplish by the time you were 35, you might as well just die. well, i'm 35, and the way i look at it - i haven't sung at La Scala and i probably won't, so no check on that box. that kinda peeves me until i think about the work it takes to be an opera singer - a LOT, just the same as a doctor, say, and while i'm really quite fascinated with the amazing inner workings of the human bod, there ain't no way in the highest heaven you'd remotely catch me pulling the 80,000 hr weeks it takes to become a bona fide, certified MD. an opera singer likewise BUSTS their BALLS, their boobies, their buttcracks, their kidneys and livers, everything and anything if you're really goin to get somewhere on that golden stage. i might have had a nice voice, but truth be told, the slightest stressor throws it into all sorts of disarray, including cold, allergies, and mainly but not entirely all other variables limited by and entirely contributed to my psyche.
so, that's that.
this is Maria Callas. after i got over Madonna, i couldn't get over Maria, the way she rolled over even the most arduous series of eighth notes that a chap like Bellini Rossini or Verdi could throw down on a symphonic page. this Greek goddess ate other sopranos for breakfast, in fact, i think she was the greatest that ever lived, and you know how the curtain fell on this one? she got herself involved with a short Greek guy who promptly turned out to be a complete asshole, whereas in she promptly died of a broken heart, alone, in Paris.
plus le cerf-colant vole haut
there are these great Italian candies - dark chocolate bon-bon type doodads, with chopped hazelnut that scream sexy times in your mouth - that i became obsessed with in Europe. they're called Baci, meaning "kisses" in Italian, and i happen to love their silver foil with cute blue writing and stars, and best of all, each comes with some sort of proverb or saying, usually romantically inclined, but always translated into four or five different languages that i always try to stumble through, no matter the readily available English translation. they always always always always make me smile.
i used to think, back in the day day (yes, that is an extra "day", to denote just how long ago that day was), that if you hadn't accomplished everything you needed or thought to accomplish by the time you were 35, you might as well just die. well, i'm 35, and the way i look at it - i haven't sung at La Scala and i probably won't, so no check on that box. that kinda peeves me until i think about the work it takes to be an opera singer - a LOT, just the same as a doctor, say, and while i'm really quite fascinated with the amazing inner workings of the human bod, there ain't no way in the highest heaven you'd remotely catch me pulling the 80,000 hr weeks it takes to become a bona fide, certified MD. an opera singer likewise BUSTS their BALLS, their boobies, their buttcracks, their kidneys and livers, everything and anything if you're really goin to get somewhere on that golden stage. i might have had a nice voice, but truth be told, the slightest stressor throws it into all sorts of disarray, including cold, allergies, and mainly but not entirely all other variables limited by and entirely contributed to my psyche.
so, that's that.
this is Maria Callas. after i got over Madonna, i couldn't get over Maria, the way she rolled over even the most arduous series of eighth notes that a chap like Bellini Rossini or Verdi could throw down on a symphonic page. this Greek goddess ate other sopranos for breakfast, in fact, i think she was the greatest that ever lived, and you know how the curtain fell on this one? she got herself involved with a short Greek guy who promptly turned out to be a complete asshole, whereas in she promptly died of a broken heart, alone, in Paris.
plus le cerf-colant vole haut
