Editorial Right.

I have little respect for the written word that derives its respect from a long-lost tradition of great journalists.  It is easy to walk into the Columbia Journalism program and feel absorbed by the leather chairs, the musty air of respect and gravitas. It's also easy to ride the flying horses of a merry-go round.

It was not until recently that I discovered that the often troubling titles in the Daily Pennsylvanian editorials are not determined by the editors. Or should I say - the writers?

The names of the editors' columns are sometimes funny - perhaps even appropriate. They reveal something about the ethos of random student number 7 in the college of arts and crafts studying business of engineering. Right? Why do we have to perpetuate the puns and easy, something offensive (to our intellect)  humor.

A lasting iMpact? Really?

A potentially revolutionary concept - I'll let gizmodo and engadget and slashdot correct me if I'm wrong - should carry a little more weight in the seriousness of the literature written about it. Perhaps I'm too big of a believer in Gladwell's value-added story.

A writer should not be denied the great pleasure of naming their work. Parents have enjoyed the privilege of naming their child, sometimes even before he/she is born. You get to look through books and magazines, search for the etymological and ethnic origins of the name and the historically famous people with the name. This stuff matters.

Some, like me, write pieces based on a title. The piece writes itself once the header is on the page. Some daring authors write first and name later.

What's in a name you ask?

The writer's introduction in a column. A first impression is rarely removed by stylistically beautiful prose.  No amount of obscure references, listed sources or quoted John Doe's will remove the stench of an ineptly named piece. The name. Matters. And only one person can correctly title a piece in order to express exactly what he wanted to.

A rose would not be the same. The same as a Stradivarious found in the D.C. subway or a stolen Degas in a flea market in Mexico.

Call it the pretty red one, with the thorns and sort of nice smell.