How to Tell the Difference Between a Violin and an Accordion

It's one of those awkward moments that happens to everyone. You see someone playing an instrument and go to complement them.

"I didn't know you could play the accordion!"
"It's a violin, you thtoopud!"

Awkward. Very awkward. After a recent incident involving a spatula and a very irate accordion purist, we decided that a public service announcement was in order. What follows is a concise but complete 2-step guide to determining which instrument you're looking at. We like to call it the FCN Accordion/Violin Method, or simply the FAV Method.

Step 1) Avoid making a total fool of yourself.

There are many different kinds of instruments, including bassoons. If the instrument in question is neither a violin nor an accordion, you should avoid using this method. Here are a few red flags:



A big flaring end. This is for sound to come out of when you blow into it. Any instrument with such a device is definitely not a violin or an accordion, and may possibly be a bagpipe.

Frets. These usually come on stringed instruments, which make them hard to spot because violins also have strings (more on this later). Look for metal lines running perpendicular to the strings. If you see them, the instrument is not a violin or accordion. There's an important exception to this rule, however. If the frets are made of paper tape, you can be absolutely certain the instrument belongs to a beginning violinist.

A mouthpiece. Mouthpieces are for blowing into. Violins and accordions are NOT for blowing into. Even a violinist with taped paper frets will not blog into her instrument.

Bigness. Anything requiring wheels, multiple decks of keys, a hand crank, or trade tariffs is probably not what you're looking for.

Safety devices. Instruments are designed to be safe to use (except for harmonicas of course). If you have to buckle yourself into it, it's probably not a violin or accordion.

A trigger. The only musical instruments that come with triggers are custom-made mandolins, the players of which are not to be trifled with. You should never come close enough to an object with a trigger to determine whether or not it is an accordion.

2) Look closely.

This is a violin. Note the bow, strings (without frets), bridge, unique box shape, and tuners.

This is an accordion. Note the keys, levers, handles, contracting accordion bag, and general frenchiness.

And that's all there is to it! Remember that the key to the FAV Method is practice. Don't beat yourself up if you get it wrong a few times. Keep practicing. It's okay to print out these pictures and take them with you for quick reference. Observe a few violins/accordions close up and personal. Note what they have in common and what sets them apart. With time you'll get it and you'll be able to join the ranks of the FAV Masters.

Madame, cover that up...please?

It was a gorgeous Spring day outside and the French class felt couped up behind the white walls of the biggest classroom building on campus. Someone suggested we enjoy the amenities of nature and spend part of the class dehors. No one objected so we grabbed our textbooks and sortied.

As I have had opportunity to mention here before, French classes are dominated by the fairer sex. Something about the Y chromosome doesn't take to language instruction and we guys generally shun all courses whose modus operandi is to "get you out of our box." Males have a hard enough time communicating in English much less in a second tongue, especially one that forces all vowel sounds through the nose. Without exception, the guys in my French class are eccentric, odd and just plain weird (if you just applied that sentence to me, please don't think you are being original or insulting). With some exceptions, the males are also submissive, Type B personalities who would rather bow down than face conflict.

I offered my consent for the departure, a mark of approval I now regret giving.

The class' female majority led the males out of the classroom toward a picnic table where the Professor would be conducting her lecture. Predictably, the request to go outside had been as shortsighted as our bifocaled instructor and the seating area we secured lacked the capacity for all fifteen of us. Being gentlemen as well as scholars, we males let the ladies take the seats and squatted like our ancestors on the warm cement. While my left leg went to sleep, the professor asked us questions about the depressing Senegalese author she'd assigned the week before.

At first my attention was devoted solely to the material. I struggled to comprehend the author's difficult vocabulary and took notes about the other student's thoughts on the selection. For the most part, I was not environmentally aware. All of that changed when I looked to my left.

A young woman, who's name has graced these pages before, was seated on a picnic table bench directly beside me. She was leaning forward, presumably for the same reasons I was leaning forward (although I doubt think her leg was asleep). Unlike me, she was wearing a short cut blouse that failed to reach the top of her jeans. Actually, it failed miserably. Her shirt left about five inches of bare skin on her back to exposure to the outside elements.

This sort of thing has always bothered me, but I'd never had to deal with it in such close proximity. From my perch, inches away from the exhibit, I could see the roots of the hairs as they rose from her skin. I blinked twice, trying desperately to delete the image. I forced my eyes back to the reading and calmed my breathing. I thought about changing seats, but was penned in by another student to my right who was leaning toward me to stay in the shade. Any movement on my part would really disrupt the precarious tranquility we'd managed to attain. Moving would also break the code of non-disruption and throw the apple cart doctrine into a state of flux.

I thought about reaching up and pulling the young woman's shirt down. Such a nonchalant move could restore some standards of propriety to our small group and would also allow me to breath normally. Then I remembered the pending lawsuits on campus against males who had performed similar behaviors and decided force was not a suitable remedy. Maybe that was the reason guys don't take French: they can't take the lower backs.

I was powerless to enforce any kind of decency. The young woman had made her shirt selection and the rest of us had to suffer because of her mistake. I decided to mitigate the pain by keeping my concentration on my book.

My Look Away strategy worked until the Professor called on me. As I looked up to answer, I cast an inadvertent glance toward The Back and my mental picture was instantly refreshed. "Ma'am I didn't ask for this refill." I don't recall the question, but my response went something like this: "I think the author demonstrates a lot of backbone in the face of harried circumstances. I mean she could have tried to cover up her pain but instead she aired it out for everyone. Some would see that as a virtue, but I find it a tad disgusting."

The Professor nodded her approval and proceeded to explain my logic to the rest of the class. Apparently "my theory" was shared by some prominent literary critics, although it wasn't the mainstream interpretation.

The beautiful day had fallen under a shadow, the shadow of a nude back. I couldn't see the sun but was frightfully close to seeing the moon and I couldn't wait to get out of there.

French class is like the internet: you can't unwatch anything.

'With Jojoba Oil'

After a hard workout, there is nothing more attractive than an uninhibited bath. To sever all connections with civilization, fill up a steaming tub and relax for several minutes with only the gentle hum of the bathroom fan as accompaniment is the personification of ecstasy.

I just emerged from one such bath. I use the term "just" in the general sense: I got dressed before coming to my computer. My bath was, like most baths, a catalyst for muscle relaxation and mental formation, as Hume calls thinking. My epidermal layer is now wrinkled like a prune in the sun, my mind has completely let go; to this moment I am still enjoying the bliss of perfect escape.

Note: "Bliss of Perfect Escape" is a term borrowed from the back of a shampoo bottle. But there is no shame in stealing slogans from cleaning agents. In fact, there is little else to do while laying partially submerged in steaming water.

Case in point, reading shampoo bottles is precisely what I spent the majority of the last forty-five minutes doing. Given lifestyle decisions and a propensity to find entertainment in more orthodox sources, I have rarely found the time to actually read the information on a shampoo bottle. Even while at the shampoo store, I tend to purchase based only on a price per ounce calculation; ingredients, special scents, pictures of attractive women with lots of hair, advertised textures and "Jojoba" are never considered.

Yes, Jojoba. My brother, who has longer hair than I and therefore uses several non-astringent chemicals to "soothe, satisfy and satiate" (also taken from a shampoo bottle) his scalp purchased a bottle of shampoo that specifically contained some Jojoba. Jojoba is, as you might gather from the banner on this post, a fluffy plant that doesn't in its natural form look at all good for one's hair. But hours of careful processing and several tons of heavy machinery turn God's natural gift of Jojoba into a pasty hair product. Come to think of it, maybe the banner is actually of steam from the Jojoba purification plant.

One of the bottles in our bathtub, a blue bottle with a sleek shape designed to make it look larger than it actually is, advertises its secret ingredient before even naming the product. "With Jojoba Oil" is pasted in large but sexy letters over the brand, drawing the consumer's eye there first.

I have only little idea what Jojoba is or what it does for hair, nor do I really care to know more, but the shampoo company obviously feels that Jojoba is very key. The back of the bottle has a paragraph of prose describing the "euphoric cleanliness" instilled upon the user and the "just woke up this way beauty" that natural ingredients provide.

(I, for one, do not need to shampoo in order to attain the "just woke up this way beauty," but I understand how some people might).

Anyway, to make a long bath short, I reached over and checked the ingredient list on my nondescript economy size shampoo. There, in small letters, barely legible to those with trombone vision, was the word "jojoba." The same ingredient, minus the fancy packaging.

Take that fancy bottle with attractive woman with lots of hair!

FCN Classic: Some Things Just Don't Need...

This post was inspired by Ron Burgandy's gaffe "When in Rome!." We thought that was funny. Not that we know who Ron Burgandy is. Originally posted in October of 2006.

Please accept the chorus of apologies to all the FCN faithful for our infrequent posting habits. Our classes have been so interesting – and our mid-terms so strenuous – that we haven’t had the chance to be funny in class. That all changed for me in an exceedingly tedious Business lecture the other day that served as a catalyst for the following:

Some lines don’t need to be finished; just the first part of a famous quip allows the reader to connect the dots. This has a great conversational application. Whenever you want to utilize a cliché, just use the part listed below and those around you will think you are hip. If they don’t, reconsider your facial hair choices.

Disagree? Decide for yourself…

A bird in the hand...
A fool and his money...
A penny saved...
A picture is…
A rolling stone…
A stitch in time…
A taste of your own...
Actions speak louder...
All bark...
All foam…
All that glitters...
All work…
As long as you live under my roof…
Beauty is in…
Bite the…
Dead as a...
Dead men tell…
Do not ask…
Don’t cry over…
Don’t put all your eggs…
Don't count your chickens...
Don't look a gift horse...
Great minds...
Idle hands...
It is water under...
It takes two...
It’s all Greek...
Leave no stone…
Let bygones...
Let’s bury…
Neither a borrower...
Never bite the hand...
Not the sharpest…
Out of sight...
Out of the frying pan...
People who live in glass houses...
Rome was not built...
Six of one...
The bigger they are...
The early bird...
The straw that broke...
Three bricks shy…
Two wrongs...
What goes up...
What they don't know...
When in Rome...
You can’t teach…
You can't judge a...