#golly gee mr. capitalism

[momotech764]

maybe this wouldn't have happened if employees with seniority weren't allowed to have whatever they want at the expense of new employees.

maybe this wouldn't have happened if we didn't spend our entire lives watching our parents dedicate themselves to a company for over a decade and still get treated like shit with nothing to show for it.

if you capitalist ghouls want to make me play your game, fine! not like i have a choice! but i'll play it however i damn well please

"AAAHHH!! WAHHHHH !!!! THOSE STUPID LAZY ZOOMERS ARE JOB SURFING!! THEY AREN'T INTERESTED IN LONG-TERM CAREER BUILDING ANYMORE OOUUHHH WOOUUHH" BOO HOO!!!! BOO FUCKING HOO

[littlemonstersau-blog]

Meet The Parents

Written by @jkl-fff, illustrated by me

————————————————————————————————

Bill, meticulously arranging props in front of laptop: … Okay, that looks enough like organization getting unintentionally messy … [puts cotton balls in cheeks to make them rounder, straightens tie, puts on stolen glasses, picks up pen] And now, to wait for the skyelp to come through! [bends over “homework” as if dutifully studying … holds exact pose for over 5 minutes while quivering with excitement]

*laptop chimes as skyelp comes online*

Dipper, excitedly: Will? You there? I’m here with Mom and— [registers costume (especially new additions of sweater vest, tie, and glasses) and gasps]

Bill, beaming and voice-cracking: Dippy!

Dipper, breathlessly happy: … h-hey there …

Ms. Pines, squealing softly to her husband: My gosh, he’s so cute!

Mr. Pines, just as softly and trying not to laugh: He looks like a tiny, Irish accountant. Like he’s balancing the ledgers for the Leprechaun King.

Ms. Pines: I know! I just wanna pat his chubby, little cheeks and put a pencil behind his ear!

Dipper, blushing: M-Mom! Dad! Don’t embarrass me with B-Will! [clearing throat] Um, Will. This is m-my Mom and Dad.

Bill, dripping with wholesome enthusiasm: Pleased to meecha, Ms. and Mr. Pines! I’m William Corduroy, but you can call me Will. Or even (ugh) Willy, if you like.

Ms. Pines: Well, Willy, it is sooo nice to finally meet you!

Mr. Pines, sternly: What are your intentions with my son? [gets smacked by wife while son groans] What? C’mon, I had to ask it at least once. I’m a dad!

Bill: My intentions? [flashes through everything he’s imagined doing with Dipper since the twins had to go home … it’s pretty wild; blushes; starts to sweat] hhh … HOLD HANDS! MAYBE KISS FACE! CH-CHERISH! [gestures helplessly at Dipper] I mean, look at him! What else could anyone intend with him?!

Ms. Pines and Dipper: D’awww!

Mr. Pines, still sternly: You tell me. What else do you intend?

Dipper, burying face in hands: Oh, Moses, Dad …

Ms. Pines: Dear, stop, you’re making the poor boys nervous. And teenage boys already sweat enough as it is. Just look at Dipper.

Dipper: Mom!

Ms. Pines, insistently: We can have a talk about … safety and responsibility later. [Bill and Dipper exchange a horrified look] Right now, we’re here to get to know Dipper’s little boyfriend. So stop acting out clichés for 5 minutes, please. Now, Willy … um … How’s your day been? What’ve you been up to?

Bill, relaxing visibly as things go back on script: Oh, y’know. Same old, same old. School. Now I’m just here at the library, gettin’ my homework done for the weekend. [gestures at prop “homework” like a good student] Sorry I couldn’t do this at home where you could meet my dad, but we don’t have a computer. If you can believe that. It’s also why I’m still wearin’ these school clothes.

Dipper, confused: School clothes? Gravity Falls schools don’t require uniforms. They’re public.

Bill: Oh, well … Today was … special.

Dipper: Did you … dress up just to impress my parents?

Bill, a little defensively: Golly, I just wanted to make a good first impression! So your folks’ll, y’know … like me. And let us keep being together.

Ms. Pines, charmed: Oh, don’t worry, Willy. It worked; I think you look absolutely darling!

Bill: Gee, thanks! I can see where Dippy gets his sweet personality!

Ms. Pines: Oh, you!

Mr. Pines, rolling eyes: Okay, honey, dial back the falling for cheesy compliments. Anyway, Will, what do you like to study?

Bill: Oh, I really like math. Especially … trigonometry.

Dipper, snorting: Pff! Seriously? Oh, um, inside joke.

Bill: Perpendicular.

Dipper: Hahaha! C’mon, man, be serious!

Bill: Let’s see … I also like psychology. Dream analysis is fun, ‘cause then I getta tell people that, like, I’m the boy of their dreams … analysis! At least, I getta tell Dipper that.

Mr. Pines, snorting: Okay, I’ll give you points for that one, kid. Dad Joke level of corniness. 6.5/10.

Bill, grinning: Gee, thanks!

Mr. Pines: You getting good grades in math and psychology?

Bill, playing at modesty: Oh, golly, sir. I don’t wanna brag … But it is easier to work hard when it’s fun, y’know? Unlike the way they do history classes here.

Mr. Pines: Boring teachers?

Bill: Yeah. Plus, they’re complete schills for the conservative military-industrial complex. It’s bad propaganda done borin’ly.

Mr. Pines, perking up: What makes you say that?

Bill: Oh, the usual. The don’t even teach that Ben Franklin was secretly Gwen Franklin, that JFK was killed by mobsters from the future to keep him from becomin’ a robo-dictator, and that Ronald Reagan was a mind-controlled puppet put in power by a conspiracy of billionaires to keep colonizin’ other countries for their resources and essentially slave labor.

Mr. Pines: Ugh! Tell me about it! And it’s all because they want to keep the populace uninformed and easy to pacify.

Bill, defiantly: But it’s not gonna work on me! Or Dippy! We do our own historical research and stick it to the man!

Mr. Pines: Boo-yeah! Tear down corporate capitalism! [turns to wife] Okay, I like this kid.

Bill: I can see where Dipper gets his keen judgment of character. Along with his striking good looks.

Mr. Pines: Oh, go on!

*Dipper gives bill a secret thumbs-up*

Ms. Pines, smirking: Okay, now who has to dial back the falling for cheesy compliments? [turns back to Bill] So, math and psychology and rebellious history study … Given any thought to what you’d like to do with those when you grow up?

Bill, feigning thoughtfulness: I … think … I’d … like to make video games. Coding and design and such. But ones that make players think and be creative.

Ms. Pines, impressed: Really? Has Dipper told you that’s the kind of work I do?

Bill: What? No! Gosh, Dippy, why’d you never tell me! That’s just swell, ma’am! What kind?

Ms. Pines: Indie games, so there’s a lot of side-scrolling and retro RPG elements—very basic gaming elements— but sooo much more heart. And, like, artistic integrity. The kinda stuff that really touches people.

Bill, starry-eyed: That’s the kinda stuff I wanna make!

Ms. Pines: It’s not easy … but it’s worth it. So, how’d you and Dipper meet? When’d you start dat—

Mr. Pines: Wait, sorry, hold up. Is that a freakin’ skull? [points at shelf]

Bill, genuinely surprised: What? [turns, has to take off glasses to actually see] Well, gosh, it looks like it is.

Dipper, mouthing silently: Why in the 79 hells would you even put that there?!

Bill, honestly: I’m honestly not sure why the library’d have that. I didn’t even notice it.

Mr. Pines: Might wanna get your prescription checked, kiddo.

Bill: They’re reading glasses, so …

Dipper, mouthing silently: Where’d you even … ARE THOSE GRUNCLE FORD’S?!

———

[Meanwhile, back at the Shack, Ford, stumbling around all squint-eyed: Ah, Stan, there you are! Have you seen my glasses?

Sascrotch, standing mutely like a taxidermied figure: …

Ford: It’s the darndest thing. I’d swear I set them on the end table when I laid down to take a nap, but couldn’t find them when I woke up. Of course, I’m not having much luck finding my glasses without my glasses.

Sascrotch: …

Ford: What? Oh, am I still getting the silent treatment for saying you’re too old to have hair that long?

Sascrotch: …

Ford, indignantly turning away: Fine, who needs you anyway? I’d find them without your hel—

Ford, tripping: AAA!

Ford, lying flat on his face: … I’m alright!]

———-

Bill, continuing as if to the Dad, but actually to Dipper: It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. [goes and puts a book in front of the skull] There! Problem solved!

Mr. Pines: Yeah, that’s much bet … Is that The Necronomicon?!

Bill, genuinely surprised again: … Huh. Looks like it is. [picks it up, pages through it … shakes head] Nah, it’s just The Nockoffronomicon. You can tell ‘cause it doesn’t mention Shaggy or even Bob. And instead of Cthulhu, it’s dedicated to Cthhula. [puts different book in front of skull] The best dancer among the Elder Gods, am I right?

Mr. Pines: Heh … 7/10 for that one.

Bill: Gee, thanks! Anyway, um … D’you mind if I tell ‘em, Dippy? You’re sure it’s okay? [pretending to get bashful] So, um … Dippy used to have a crush on my big sis, Wendy. And ‘cause she works at the Shack, they’d be, like, hanging out together a lot. He even came over to the house a few times. And, um, naturally I had a crush on him from the get go, ‘cause just look at him! Who wouldn’t?

Dipper, blushing: Ah, jeez …

Ms. Pines: D’awww!

Mr. Pines, grudgingly: D’awww …

Bill, making himself grin and blush wholesomely: So I started coming along to hang out. Then, before I knew it, it was just us hanging out alone together. And we were exploring the woods one day when we found some wild mistletoe—golly, I told him, “That’s wild mistletoe. That’s what it looks like in the wild.” and then he said … No, he stepped under it first, then he said, “Guess we gotta kiss now.”—and so we kissed.

Mr. Pines, slapping his son on the back: You sly, little dog!

Bill: And I was like, “Gee, that was swell!” Can you believe it?! Real lame-o line to follow a first kiss, right? And he was like, “We could do it again, if you want.” And I said, “But, gosh, we’re not even dating! Everyone’ll think I’m a boy-floozy!”

Ms. Pines: HA! Oh, that’s precious!

Bill, giggling: Y-yes, ma’am! It was! And then Dippy, he said, “Well, be my boyfriend. We’ll start calling our hang-outs dates, and I’ll fight anyone who calls you a floozy.” It was soooo chivalrous!

Dipper, beet red and with his hands in his face: Stahp …

*a while later, after the parents have left*

Dipper, relieved: That … That went a lot better than expected. And they sure loved Willy Corduroy.

Bill, self-assuredly: Natch. I’m inescapably charming, no matter the alias. [pulls out cotton balls and tosses them in the trash] If you ever call me Willy, though, I will shank one of your stuffed animals. That was me takin’ one for the team. Which is us, by the way. The team is us.

Dipper: Heh! Yeah, I gathered that.

Bill: Still, I’m surprised they never asked about my eyes …

Dipper: Oh, I “warned” them in advance. Told them you had a medical condition, and that you were really sensitive about it.

Bill: Good thinking. You’re so smart. And handsome. And sexy.

Dipper, grinning: Stahp!

Bill, grinning back: Nope. Never. Because I love you.

Dipper: Hehehe! I love you, too … Willy!

[thesinglesjukebox]

VAMPIRE WEEKEND - THIS LIFE

[6.67]

The best show of the 90s, if you ask the membership of Change UK, but what about the song?

Taylor Alatorre: "This Life" has many of the ingredients of prior Vampire Weekend classics: a jaunty rhythm that wears its Graceland influence on its sleeve, a cut-and-paste repurposing of a rap chorus, lush instrumental filigrees, lyrics about personal or national decline or both. It adds up to less than the sum of these parts, as they seem uncertain of how exactly they're supposed to fit together, like boys and girls on the opposite ends of a middle school gym. "Step" is an obvious comparison point; the Souls of Mischief interpolation slotted seamlessly into the lyrical framework, with its first line serving as a jumping-off point for a verse of twee self-deprecation. The "cheating on me/cheating on you" duality isn't as thematically compelling, and to be frank, "Tonight" by iLoveMakonnen just isn't as iconic as "Step to My Girl" or "Get Low," so it doesn't have the same intuitive impact. The song's most rousing moment, a temporary doubling of the tempo in the chorus' second half, is low-hanging songwriting fruit that doesn't make up for all the TED Talk-esque bromides that are played way too straight to be ironic. [5]

Kalani Leblanc: Vampire Weekend found something to divert the attention of the post-Rostam unbelievers: a jolly gee-golly-I'm-a-papa-now sound. The disposition was essential to all dude musicians past the age of experimenting in the 80s (Paul McCartney, Paul Simon, Phil Collins when he wasn't watching people drown, etc), and feels like an organic next step for a band best known as Ralph Lauren polo-wearing English majors. VW's interpretation of jolly dad rock is something like Mac DeMarco's early releases that mirrored classic dude rock without a twinge of seriousness and rolled around in its tackiness. Ezra names the offenses of "you've been cheating on me, I've been cheating on you," only for it to be excused with "but I've been cheating through this life!". That self-awareness makes the record listenable, as Ezra K must be fully aware of. This is the same smarmy self-awareness that asked "who gives a fuck about an oxford comma?". To say VW has "reinvented" themselves is a stretch, as they haven't matured as much as they've had a change of scenery. Ezra K can become a father, but he'll never shed that hands-in-his-khakis stance he's released half-hearted songs like these with. [6]

Tim de Reuse: Sonic clutter and endless Jimmy Buffett cheer and the rhyme of "California" against "before, yeah" and a couple of "hoo-hoo!"s thrown in there for good measure; so insufferably summery you could melt ice caps with it. [3]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: Ezra Koenig putting on "Touch of Grey" drag and quoting Makonnen in order to meditate on his own charmed life should be off-putting, and yet "This Life" is effortlessly charming throughout. Vampire Weekend's success has always ridden on how the band perched on the borderline between irony and sincerity, aware of both their own ridiculousness and the utter seriousness that even ridiculous non-problems can become laden with from their own subjectivity. "This Life" feels like the unraveling of all of those prior Vampire Weekend songs, eschewing the high drama of a "Hannah Hunt" or "Giving Up the Gun" for a beautifully posed shrug on the way out. [9]

Scott Mildenhall: Vampire Weekend's finest moments have always been their bittersweet ones, reflections and reminiscences of times retreating in the rearview mirror. It needn't even always be literal -- it's never been an automatic impediment to not have a clue what Ezra Koenig is going on about -- nor past tense when it is. Though "This Life" is rooted in the present, it carries the burden of perspective that arises with the awareness that the retreat is happening, or already has, or could never even have been made, because the time you thought you had wasn't what it was. Whatever the realisation, "oh Christ" could not be more appropriate. [8]

Alfred Soto: Ezra Koenig doesn't wanna live like this, but he doesn't wanna die -- he understands how these days intellectual curiosity depends on the financial means to satisfy it. So he pays for an iLoveMakonnen sample, strums a chordal pattern reminiscent of "Mrs. Robinson," and hires Chromeo and Ariel Rechtshaid for an expansive, expensive polish. For the Koenig-led project known as "Vampire Weekend," in which original members matter less than they used to, hybrid is both method and result. A shimmer of a single, "This Life" works, even if I tire of straight men discovering capital-m-Maturity with a vehemence that would astonish women, queer men, and every phylum in the animal kingdom. [9]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

[artisticvesscl-a]

Why i don’t use “Atua”

Howdy hey boys and girls, time for “why i don’t use the term ‘Atua” when referring to Angie’s deity!” Written and understood by moi, mr. scribbles. more under the cut~!

As you know, Angie refers to her deity as Atua in the English localization. Upon hearing the name, you think, “well golly gee, Atua is a cool sounding name!” 

Well, it really isn’t.  Its in a different language, meaning “god”. And no, not “God” as in there’s one, but, “god” as in, there’s many. So that’s the first clash between Angie and this Atua thing.  Angie specifically says to shuichi (I think) that there is only one god that she worships. One could argue that capitalizing Atua can mean God, but i have a feeling just cause it works in English, doesn’t mean it works in other languages.  There’s another thing with this. If I were polynesian and aware of my heritage, I’d be bothered by the use of Atua, because of all the things that this supposed god promotes in the present day. Sure, islands in polynesia had some issues with cults and stuff (involving multiple atua, but one reigning supreme over the others, but he had a name dammit) and sacrifices and shit, but here’s the kicker-- THAT DOESN’T MEAN THEY WANT TO BE ASSOCIATED WITH THAT NOW, especially since it was in the times of James Cook (forgot the era, but know it was a long long time ago before your grandmother was born).  its kind of like associating Japan with Militaristic Japan, and no more than that. its insulting.  However, I try my best to make Angie’s island seem separate from this existing culture as much as possible, and make it similar, but not so similar as to bring Atua into the picture. Then why would they change it? To keep those who worship God, as in the monotheistic god, at bay, and wanted to avoid backlash. Because monotheistic god, whether you’re Christian, Muslim, Jewish, or anything, isn’t like that, despite borrowing common themes from those religions.  The term God is more generic than Atua is.  SO.  I stick with the term “God”.  I hope ny’all can understand, and other Angie rpers are free to use that name. After all, a word is a word. but for me? I’m sticking with the upper case G God when referring to Angie’s deity. Also, having it as God gives me more cringe factor. I love it. 

[libertariantaoist]

“Turn with me to the third chapter of Ecclesiastes,” instructed our pastor.

“Let’s leave,” I whispered tightly to my wife Korrin. She quietly but firmly shushed me, and she had a point.

At the time – March 2003, the Sunday before the beginning of the most recent Gulf War – our family hadn’t yet welcomed our youngest daughter, Sophia, who would be born the following January. Nonetheless, there were six of us, situated very near the front of the chapel, and had we chosen to take our leave at the beginning of the service we would have caused quite a spectacle. So we sat through the entire sermon, which was a potted, pre-fabricated homily on the theme of the supposed virtues of war, just as I knew it would be.

Our pastor at the time was a young man, well-turned out and personable with a remarkable high baritone singing voice. His sermons tended to be well-crafted and theatrical, and generally very effective. This particular installment was less than inspired or inspiring, because the pastor seemed determined to circle the point he was making without running directly into it.

The Bible says that “there is a time for war,” he said in at least a half-dozen different ways, none of them sufficiently clear or specific to permit his audience to answer this question: Was the then-impending war in Iraq one Christians could support in good conscience?

Although he was emphatic in making the case for the righteousness of war in the abstract, our pastor seemed unable to make a case for this particular venture. His message appeared to be that when our Leader commands us to kill, it is our duty as Christians to obey.

The following Saturday, several days after the invasion of Iraq had begun, our family happened to be driving down the main street of Appleton, Wisconsin – our residence at the time – en route to the YMCA. Just short of our destination we saw two contending demonstrations. On our left was a small group gathered behind a large banner bearing the legend “SUPPORT OUR TROOPS!” — which is always phrased as an imperative, and generally in capital letters with an exclamation point. Most of the people arrayed behind that sign were people from the church we were then attending.

On the right side of the street was a somewhat larger group of anti-war protesters drawn from various local activist groups. Korrin and I glanced at each other briefly and – without a word, practically in unison – shouted our support for the peace protesters through the windows of our mini-van, as I honked the horn to get their attention.

“It would appear,” I commented to Korrin as we pulled into the parking lot at the Y, “that we are attending the wrong church.”

Hey, Christian war-bots — remember this guy, the Prince of Peace?

We migrated to three other churches, only to encounter the same problem: Theologically and politically conservative churches were badly infected with the leaven of Bushiolatry, and saw nothing amiss in their approval of the blood sacrifices being offered up in Iraq.

By late 2005, Korrin and I had found a theologically suitable church whose pastor was a disillusioned ex-Republican and recent recruit into the Constitution Party (which, alas, has problems of its own with which to grapple). We had also become regular weekend participants in anti-war demonstrations in Appleton and as far away as Milwaukee.

Just shortly before leaving Appleton to move to Idaho in November of that year, our family took part in that most stereotypical liberal exercise, the candlelight vigil for peace. We didn’t join in the John Lennon sing-a-long, or participate in any of the New Age rituals some protesters insisted on performing.

We attended those events to give voice to our opposition to a monumental crime against Christian decency and constitutional law – and, when opportunities presented themselves, to explain to fellow protesters the intimate connection between a large, interventionist government (which many of them supported) and an aggressive, interventionist foreign policy (which they obviously opposed).

With remarkable consistency we found that anti-war activists were willing to reverse-engineer their assumptions about big government from their opposition to the war.

We also found that our friends and family members who are conservative supporters of the war have been utterly unwilling to reconsider their positions in spite of their advertised hostility to big, invasive government.

It’s likely that millions of other politically and theologically conservative Christians have had similar experiences. Perhaps more than a few of them have reconsidered their support for the Iraq war as the multi-layered rationales for this misadventure have been abraded way by the pitiless sandstorm of reality.

Roughly four years ago, as it became clear that the Bush Regime wouldn’t settle for any outcome in Iraq that didn’t involve invasion, occupation, and the theft of that nation’s energy resources, a small but significant fissure became visible between those who pledged their devotion to the Dear Leader, and those of us who don’t reside in the reality-optional realm where Bush’s will is the only standard.

That fissure has now become a chasm. And others will soon develop as well.

The Wee Decider has let it be known that, well, gee golly Ned, it would be a ripping good idea to expand the size of the Army.

Like any small child too long permitted to believe in the invincible sovereignty of his whims, the Bush-baby doesn’t explain exactly how this is to be done. He’s simply going to have incoming Minister of War Robert Gates devise a “plan” to accomplish this objective.

It works like this: Georgie wants, and Georgie must have it, so the nice adults surrounding him have to find some way to get it for him.

Perhaps Mr. Gates can simply inform the Pentagon’s recruitment officers that they needn’t be so picky, and that they are now free to enlist the hordes of would-be inductees who are being turned away – their hopes of glory cruelly dashed, their eyes bright with frustrated tears.

Those hordes, of course, have made their absence keenly felt. This isn’t going to change.

Which means that at some point, the order will be given to send forth the draft-nappers. When this occurs, parents in countless conservative churches across the nation will likely be treated to yet another version of the same homily based on the third chapter of Ecclesiastes, as pastors try to swaddle child sacrifice in the sanctified robes of Christian duty.

When this happens, how many parents will look on their children – both sons and daughters, since the New Model Slave Army would be “gender-inclusive” — and decide that the State, the coldest of all cold monsters, is entitled to feast on the warm, living flesh of their offspring?

How many, on the other hand, will find themselves blinking awake in mortal horror as they realize – however tardily – that it is utterly perverse to allow strangers living in a cocoon of privilege to steal their children, in order to have them either kill or be killed by children of other parents with whom they have no quarrel?

The chasm opened between those two types of parents could conceivably lead to an actual shooting war in this country, one side of which would be considered entirely just by non-pacifist anti-war activists like myself. Our National Anthem points out that it is the duty of “free men” to “stand between their loved homes and the war’s desolation,” and that this is a “cause [that] is just.”

God grant that I’m entirely wrong, and that what we’re contemplating here never transpires. But it’s clear that our rulers are perfectly willing to allow young Americans – including, may God forgive us, young mothers – to kill and die in Iraq simply because neither of the ascendant factions wants to risk the political liabilities for “cutting and running” from a war we should never have fought.

Those bastards (no other word is suitable, at least none I would use) care that little for the lives they waste in the service of their own convenience.

The time will most likely come when the battle-cry of the patriots at Thermopylae so suitably adopted by the gun rights movement, will be adopted as well by those of us determined to protect our children from those who would steal them to serve in the imperial Slave Army: Molon labe!

Roughly translated, the phrase means: If you want them, you’re going to have to come and get them.

That’s not an invitation. It’s a warning.

[goodbyenothanks-blog]

Week 1: Classical Music Since 1985

Classical music is still going strong!

I think there’s a perception in modern music that classical style music fell out of favor after 1950, and that much of the classical music written since then is dissonant, abstract music. Well, that’s simply not true! Some of the greatest things humanity has ever created originated from the 1950s onward. We made Alf! We made pogs! We made Alf pogs!!

Remember Alf? He’s back, in pog form!

But of course, most importantly, we made some good music. Really good music. Only an hour of which I’m able to share with you this time. But don’t you worry, there will be more down the road.

Playlist Link

1. Guitar, from Concerto for Guitar & Orchestra for Two Christophers by Elmer Bernstein (performed by the London Symphony Orchestra; Christopher Parkening, Guitar)

And yeah, Mr. Parkening is one of the Two Christophers. One thing I love about this movement in particular is its interweaving of fiery and punchy guitar sections with more melodic and reflective interludes. This piece, with its somewhat adventurous overtones, reminds me of a Koji Kondo Legend of Zelda composition. And I love me some Koji Kondo.

Beautiful.

2. "Still Life" at the Penguin Café - Ballet, Mov. 1 (Air à danser)  by Simon Jeffes (Performed by the BBC Concert Orchestra)

Whenever I’m in a bad mood, feeling down or feeling mad, I always listen to this piece, and I always feel better, without fail. I think this is the most light, fun, happy piece I’ve ever heard. The original version of this piece invokes the same feelings, and I love the organic sound of the Penguin Café Orchestra. Other pieces in the Penguin Café suite include “Texan Kangaroo Rat” and “Humboldt’s Hog Nosed Skunk Flea.” But I am left to wonder, however, about the efficacy of penguins running a Café.

3. Four pieces for orchestra - Mov. 2 (Southern jukebox music) by Simon Jeffes (Performed by the BBC Concert Orchestra)

And from a bright and happy piece, we move onto a darker and more subdued selection from Mr. Jeffes. This piece, although dissimilar from the previous entry, still powerfully evokes an emotional response; instead of happiness and glee, this time one feels  hope; a hope that withers and blooms, a hope that never fully is realized, but a hope that never truly dies. Or maybe it’s just a nice four minute piece about jukebox music from the south; I’m not actually an insightful music critic.

4. Love Letters by Carter Pann (Performed by The Ying Quartet)

String quartets are my favorite sub-genre of classical music. There, I said it. You can guarantee I’ll play a lot more string quartets in future episodes, but for now I’ll share one of my favorite recent discoveries, Love Letters. Each movement has a unique and interesting feel to it; I especially love the dance feel of Limbo and the frenetic energy of Passions. Just as importantly, I love some of the markings in the score, including “nightmarish,” “buoyant,” and “maniacal.”

Radical!

5. Rainbow Body by Christopher Theofanidis (Performed by the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra)

And no, Mr. Theofanidis is not the other Christopher, but he is the Christopher who composed the final piece on this week’s playlist. And golly gee willikers, this piece is Amazing. Capital “A” Amazing. There are sections with a divine serenity, and there are sections with internal strife. My favorite part, however, is the ending.

THE ENDING.

And why wouldn’t the ending be amazing? The piece itself is based upon the Tibetan Buddhist concept of “Rainbow Body,” which, according to Mr. Theofanidis, is “that when an enlightened being dies physically, his or her body is absorbed directly back into the universe as energy, as light.“ The ending truly feels like a musical apotheosis. I’ve listened to this piece so many times, and each time I listen to it again, when the last minute or so of the piece begins, I still feel in awe. I can’t think of any better way to end the playlist.

Thanks for reading my ramblings about the playlist for the inaugural edition of The ƒ-hole. Join me next week, where (among other pieces) I will play the first movement of Hindemith’s Symphonic Metamorphoses! Connect with me on Facebook, and I hope to see you next week!