#it's just my absolute favorite song

[staticbluue]

HAPPY NEIL BANGING OUT THE TUNES DAY!!!

I usually don't manage anything more than a doodle for this international holiday, but this year Neil gets the colored, shaded piece he deserves!!

[senipsenipsenip]

The Pines family sat at the table, quietly eating their breakfast, when Mabel slammed her hands on the table and shouted “KERMIT THE FROG”.

Dipper leapt forward to right his orange juice glass, gathering nearby napkins to sop up the puddle. “What?”

“Kermit the frog! He plays the banjo!”

“Yyyyes?”

Ford raised his hand. “Who’s Kermit the Frog?”

Stan snapped his head up from his plate. “Who’s Kermit the Frog? The Muppets, Pointdexter, you were around for The Muppet Show. They had a movie and everything.”

Ford frowned. “Muppets.”

“Yeah, they’re a riot! There’s this bear whose got some great puns and this pig who really know how to throw a punch. You’d love it, they’ve even got a scientist!”

Ford raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you were such a fan of children’s television.”

“Children?!”

Dipper stirred his cereal. “I’m just impressed you remember all that. Yesterday you forgot you were married.”

“That’s because The Muppets are forever!” Mabel exclaimed.

“Wait, Stanley you were married?”

“Yep. Twice. Actually, unless I’m forgetting a divorce, I might still be married.”

“You didn’t,” Mabel chirped. “I’d have it on my Romance Chart if you did. You’ve missed a lot of anniversaries.”

“So has he!” Stan argued. “I’m not the only bad husband here!”

Ford spluttered. “Husband?”

Dipper frowned. “I think we’re getting a little too far away from why Mabel screamed Kermit the Frog and knocked my orange juice over.”

Mabel nodded. “Right, so, I was thinking of Mr. McGucket -

“Stanley you have a husband?“

“I was thinking of Mr. McGucket,” Mabel interrupted. “And how he could maybe help around the Shack. And he plays banjo! He could play banjo and people could put money in his lil banjo case like a real musician.”

At the mention of money, Stan leaned forward.

“But like, no one knows banjo music,” Mabel continued. “So I was like, maybe pop hits banjo? But then BOOM! Kermit the Frog! People love that frog. He could play the rainbow song. He’d be a hit!”

“Interesting,” Stan muttered. “Preying on people’s nostalgia to milk them for cash. I love it!”

Ford hummed. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea, Mabel. Activities like playing musical instruments have been proven to help patients with Alzheimers and dementia. Not that Fiddleford’s condition has the same root cause, but it may prove beneficial to memory recovery.”

“Eugh, don’t ruin this for me.”

“If playing an instrument helps with memory loss, maybe Grunkle Stan should learn an instrument,” Dipper suggested.

“Ooo!” Mabel squealed. “What about guitar? Or the piano? OH!” She clutched Stan’s arm with a fervor. “The triangle!”

Ford grimaced. “Maybe not that one.”

“Sorry, kid. I’m not exactly a music guy,” Stan shrugged out of Mabel’s grasp. “Let’s leave that to the professionals.”

Mabel frowned, but let the topic go.

Ford stood from the table. “Well, I happen to be visiting Fiddleford this afternoon. I can broach the topic and see what he thinks.”

Fiddleford, as it turns out, loved the idea. To the surprise of everyone, Fiddleford admitted that he had always wanted to play in a jugband when he was younger, but could never get over his stage fright enough to audition for the local band. Then he went off to college and then…everything else.

“Maybe I zapped away that scared bit enough to play!” he had cackled, knocking at the side of his head with his knuckles.

It was settled. “Fiddlin’ Fridays at the Mystery Shack with Fiddleford McGucket”. Dipper tried to point out the title didn’t make sense since it was a banjo, not a fiddle. Stan argued that “customers are suckers for alliteration”. The set up was just Fiddleford dragging an old rocking chair onto the porch and opening up his banjo case. Mabel had made a large glittery banner, but it was quickly absconded by Fiddleford’s raccoon.

“Tell your wife to give me back my banner!” Mabel had yelled, chasing the raccoon into the bushes.

“Ex-wife,” Fiddleford sighed sadly. “Apparently I was too emotionally available.”

Ford pulled at his hair. “Did everyone get married without telling me?”

“Excuse me?” A voice piped up. Fiddleford and Ford turned to see a little boy standing at the bottom of the porch. He was dressed in hiking clothes that were obviously new. In the distance, a young woman was unstrapping a baby from its seat in an SUV. Obviously city folk coming to the “wilderness” for the first time.

“Are you a real hillbilly?” The boy asked. Suddenly the door slammed open, Mr. Mystery striding through, eyepatch in place.

“Sure is!” Stan grinned. “Our very own genuine hillbilly just waiting to play you a tune! All you gotta do is put some of your mom’s money in his case there.”

The little boy’s eyes widened, turning around to race towards his mother.

“Stanley,” Ford admonished. “Fiddleford isn’t some show monkey to throw money at.”

“During work hours he is.” Stan turned to Fiddleford. “So, did Mabel teach you that song she was so excited about?”

Fiddleford sat frozen, watching the little boy yank at his mothers pants to try and get her attention, the baby beginning to fuss.

“Well…” Fiddleford cleared his throat. “Some good news and bad news fellas.”

Ford furrowed his brows. “What is it?”

“Good news is, my mind ain’t all broken.” Fiddleford hugged his banjo and turned to look up at Ford. “Bad news is I knows it ‘cause I still got stage fright.”

Stan scoffed. “Stage fright? C’mon it’s one kid and a couple o’ city slickers who would probably think you playing three wrong notes and spitting is ‘authentic’.”

“Stanley, be supportive.”

“I am! Look I’ve been at this job forever. All you gotta do is smile and if something goes wrong, you blame a ghost or something. They eat that up.”

Fiddleford shook his head. “But this is music. If’n I mess up music, ‘specially somethin’ they know. Music is real special to people, I can’t spoil it.”

Ford knelt down next to Fiddleford’s chair. “You don’t have to play that song Fiddleford. You don’t have to play at all.”

Fiddleford looked anxiously between Ford and the family. It seemed the little boy had finally gotten his mother’s attention and was excitedly pointing toward the porch.

“I…” Fiddleford shook his head. “I can’t let the little ‘uns down. ‘Specially not those ones.” As he said this, he gestured with his chin towards the other end of the porch where Dipper and Mabel sat bickering in lawn chairs. Mabel had returned from her raccoon chase covered in twigs and holding a surprisingly docile raccoon. Dipper was leaning away from the pair while trying to convince Mabel to stop feeding it gummy worms before it developed a taste for human food and tried breaking into the Shack.

Ford's gaze drifted to the twins. "Alright," he relented. "But you still don't have to play Mabel's song."

Fiddleford bowed his head.

"Yet!" Ford offered. "Not yet. She'll understand I'm sure."

Fiddleford frowned, looking unconvinced.

"Of course not yet!" Stan interjected. "You can't go playing the grand finale right out of the gate! You gotta warm 'em up first, keep 'em wanting more." Stan slapped his hand on Fiddleford's back. "If you give 'em what they want right away, they won't come back! Hold that one off until tomorrow or...uh...next week. Tease it or something."

Stan had started rubbing the back of his neck with his other hand as he spoke, a tell Ford was quick to recognize. It was the same one he did when he would "begrudgingly" let Mabel choose the movie for movie night or let Dipper rope him into another game of Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons. Covering the most vulnerable part of his body while he let his emotions go soft.

Fiddleford seemed to perk up at Stan's words.

"Well," Fiddleford offered. "I do know some proper jugband music. Only, it don't have the same ring to it without a jug."

"We've got a jug!" Mabel cheered from the other side of the porch. It seemed the raccoon argument had reached enough of a truce that the twins were once again paying attention to the concert. "I used to keep pond water in it, it's in the kitchen!" She hopped off of her chair, lugging the racoon along with her like it was a rather expensive lap cat.

Dipper followed her. "Why did you have a jug of pond water?"

"Because, dummy, if I met a frog prince he would need something in the shack to remind him of home."

"Aren't you supposed to turn him into a person though?"

Whatever Mabel's retort was to be was cut off by the door swinging shut.

"There ya go," Stan grumbled. "You're getting your jug. Just in time too." He gestured toward the SUV. The mother was walking toward the Shack, one hand holding the baby, the other gripping tightly to the little boy's hand. The little boy gripped a few dollars in his fist, eyes alight with excitement.

Fiddleford looked frantic. "I can't sing and play the jug at the same time!" He gripped at his hat, pulling it down over his ears.

Ford sighed. "Then don't play the jug."

"It won't be the same!" Fiddleford shook his head. "A jugband without a jug that's...that's like a body with no heartbeat!"

The door swung open and Mabel emerged with an old ceramic jug.

"Here it is!" she exclaimed. "And it only sort of smells like pond scum."

"I don't think that will be necessary," Ford smiled gently. "It seems Fiddleford can't play both simultaneously."

Mabel frowned. "But it's a jugband. It's in the name!"

"How about we wait another day," Ford offered, patting Fiddleford awkwardly on the back. "Maybe someone in town will join you."

"Oh for Pete's sake, give it to me." Stan snatched the jug out Mabel's hand, sniffing at the top and giving a grimace.

Fiddleford stopped pulling at his hat, peeking out from under the brim. "You'll play?"

Stan grunted. "I'm not missing out on good money just because you have a case of the heebie jeebies. Besides, how hard can it be? It's like blowing on the top of a beer...er...I mean soda bottle."

Dipper crossed his arms. "Grunkle Stan, we know what beer is."

"Not from me you don't."

Mabel squealed. "It's happening! Grunkle Stan is learning an instrument!"

"It's not an instrument, Pumpkin. It's dishware."

"It's a scrapbookortunity!"

Mabel dashed into the house once more, leaving Dipper to grin at their Grunkle Stan.

The family was only a few yards away now. Fiddleford looked between Stan, Ford, and Dipper, and straightened up in his seat.

"Alright. Alright!" He clapped his hands together. "Stanley, you get down here with me, otherwise your feet are gonna get mighty sore from standing." He yanked at Stanley's hand until he sat beside the rocking chair with a grumble.

"Now when I tap my foot," Fiddleford instructed. "You blow on the jug. One short note at a time." Fiddleford tapped his foot in demonstration. "You got that?"

Stanley rolled his eyes. "Gee, I don't know. Seems pretty complicated for the guy without a PhD."

Mabel burst through the door, camera clutched in her hands. "Got it!"

"Excuse me?"

The little boy stood on the porch, approaching the banjo case with far more trepidation than before. Eyes darting between the assembly, he dropped a few dollars in the case.

"Is this enough to play a song?"

Fiddleford didn't bother looking at the money. He turned his gaze to Stanley, who shrugged and raised the jug to his lips.

Fiddleford grinned. "You know ‘Boodle Am Shake’?"

The little boy shook his head.

"Well you're about to!" And with that he was off.

By Fiddleford's standards, it wasn't a horribly complicated tune. Ford had heard him pluck out more complex riffs while waiting for the coffee pot in their dorm room to brew. But Fiddleford was smiling. His shoulders had dropped from around his ears, and he was nodding at the little boy to tap his feet along with him. Ford hid his smile behind his hands as he watched Stanley, eyes focused on Fiddleford's bare foot with as much attention as one would give to diffusing a bomb. Next to him, Mabel was snapping pictures of the pair. Dipper stood on his other side, wearing the small smile he tended to get when feeling introspective. Ford laid his hand on Dipper's shoulder, and Dipper leaned into the touch.

The mother was smiling at her little boy, her baby having finally stopped fussing. Maybe it wasn't the grand attraction Mabel had planned, but Ford thought it was worth far more than those few dollars anyway. Nothing could be worth more than his family standing around him, his closest friend singing again.

I know this song, it don't mean a doggone thing. Just do that good old Charleston swing. When you sing...

[julykings]

trying to listen to a new (to me) album every day, here’s what i listened to this past week :-)

[cupophrogs]

I know it's random as hell, but I gotta ask, does drew listen to lady gaga on his phone? I was listening and he have the chaotic vibe of her songs

Yes actually! However

The Doobie Brothers are far better to boogie to!

[suddenly-stickmin]

"Woah, it's really coming down." ___________

It's been raining a lot here lately, the clouds turn to this really nice sea-green color, so I wanted to make something inspired off of that! The music used here is "Learning Spy". I was listening to it while coloring n thought it suited the rain-vibes nicely.

[deadpoets]

DIEGO LUNA + (some of his) FILMOGRAPHY

[jazzically]

i cannot tell u how many times ive watched this in the last 12 hours

[russianchoir]

List 5 favorite songs and tag 10 people, tagged by @angelof-thevoid

1: The Ark & The Tinderbox

2: Billy Joel - vienna

3: Jimmy durante and Eddie Jackson 1955

4: I Believe My Friends

5: Artificial Flowers

tags: @snarkywyvern @online-silkmoth @ozzni @thanook @moonslefttiddy @my-blog-is-a-sideblog @my-life-is-a-sidequest @weterpete @camillahuiguorou @athena-turns-into-an-eagle @traaansfem

[acebytaemin]

no matter what taemin is taemin and don’t you FORGET IT

[rollercoasterwords]

I need to ask cause I kinda want to publish some poetry of mine. How do you self-publish something? Also how do you know when something is good enough to publish?

ummmm i am not the right person to ask lol i have never self-published. the only poetry i've published at all has been in very small indie lit mags & the way i've done that is basically when i find a poet or poem i like i see where they publish & if the publications are accepting submissions etc. there are tons of indie lit mags out there u could also look out for like flyers on college campuses or in coffee shops or bookstores etc sometimes local lit mags or zines or other various publications will advertise that they're open for submission the old-fashioned way. or if u find one lit mag u like go find their insta or social media & see who they follow -- sometimes u can find other similar publications that way.

& there's no such thing as "good enough to publish" tons of dogshit writing gets published every year. free urself from the idea that publication is a metric by which literary value is measured...read essays against publishing by jamie berrout...if you've written a poem that u like & u wanna try to publish it just go for it. & if u decide that u don't wanna publish it u can still just post it on the internet & share it that way. some of my favorite writing i've ever encountered is stuff people just posted on the internet that was never officially published. even if one single person reads it and loves it & copies it down in their journal or memorizes a line or thinks of it from time to time that's what art's all about....

[crispyjenkins]

(AC wip) The Savage Price of Piety

it's desmond's deathday and i wrote like. 9,000 more words to this wip (first two parts here) last week and i want to brag about it, so happy deathday you wet bastard (mostly gen but with a surprise rarepair, time travel/reincarnation, found family, william miles’ a+ parenting, accidental subterfuge, desmond goes by miles mostly, inspired by study of flight by @esamastation but with a twist!, only somewhat historically accurate swears by which i mean probably not at all but leonardo had some Opinions alright) have some (three) chronological but scattered bits of scenes

  “Oh,” Claudia says as soon as she opens the door, seeing Ezio’s rather wretched expression, “you’ve figured it out, then.”

  “You could have told me,” he growls, following her into the entryway and closing the door behind himself. 

  Claudia scoffs, spinning on heel to lead the way further into the building for the kitchens. “I had one conversation with the boy, brother, I was hardly sure of it myself. Wait,” she halts and points a finger at him accusingly, “how did you figure it out?”

  Ezio, quite graciously he thinks, ignores the subtle insult to his intelligence. Sighing, he pushes back his hood before their mother sees him with it on indoors, and runs a hand over his beard. “I had Leonardo visit.”

  Claudia’s face slackens, before twisting into a rage that has Ezio stepping away warily.

  But she punches the wall instead of her brother, a shouted “Gods damn it!” echoing in the narrow space. Then she spins on her heel and hollers further into the residential part of the bordello, “Mother! We forgot about Leonardo!”

  Horrified by his sister and concerned for his mother’s current mental state, Ezio reaches out to put a hand on Claudia’s arm, but he doesn’t get the chance before Maria de' Auditore is shouting right back, “God damn it!”

  Grumbling, Claudia stomps down the hall and leaves a very confused Ezio hurrying to follow; she ignores all his pleas for explanation until she’s stomped into the kitchen, where their mother is pouring two very large glasses of wine, with very little water to cut down the potency. She passes one to Claudia silently, and then they both drink, though luckily they aren’t attempting to down it all at once.

  “I can’t believe we forgot the Maestro,” their mother mutters to herself as she comes over to kiss Ezio on both cheeks, before shoving the still mostly-full glass into his hands.

  “Forgot him for what?” Ezio wants to know, clutching the glass like a mother clutches a babe.

  “To test if Miles really is an Auditore.” It’s said so flippantly, like it doesn’t affect Claudia at all, but she also collapses into one of two chairs at the little tea table under the largest window. Their mother takes the other, massaging her forehead and looking like she’s grieving their family all over again.

  It occurs to Ezio, as he moves to stand next to the table, that she probably is.

--

“It’s all up to you now, Seventeen.”

  Desmond opens his eyes to the dark of the dormitory, faint moonlight cutting over the floor between his bed and Nino’s, and he can’t bring himself to move — even to roll off his arm that is very much still asleep. 

  Clay still haunts him.

  Five hundred fucking years, and his current twenty-four besides, and that fucker still won’t leave him alone. If Desmond were not so familiar with what an actual Bleed feels like, he’d almost think Clay is stuck in his brain the same way as his ancestors. Thank fuck he stopped Bleeding Ezio’s memories and feelings, while still retaining much of the training.

  Fuck, time travel is so weird.

  Or, reincarnation? He’s not sure of much, but he’s sure he was dead, he’s sure he burned, and he’s sure that though his 15th century mother had affectionately called him [redacted], his name is Desmond Miles.

  Or just Miles, he supposes. Sue him, he panicked when Adele first approached him, and the best aliases are ones you know you’ll respond to, right? If only he’d have had the forethought to divorce himself from his... future family’s surname.

  It sounds different enough with an Italian accent that it hasn’t caused any problems, yet. Like making him flinch. Or snapping that he hasn’t been a Miles since he was sixteen.

  Granted, he still has no idea what he would go by instead. Altaïr and Conner would feel weird, while Sef or Darim are just a bit on the nose, and does he look like an Edward? Malik, maybe. His grandmother here, now, is actually from the Levant, so his skin is certainly dark enough that people wouldn’t be surprised by the name.

Except that feels almost akin to naming himself Leonardo.

--

  So instead, Leonardo spends every spare moment with his best friend, sometimes to brainstorm, sometimes to simply be there for him. It’s during one of these visits, he and Ezio once again observing the youngest assassins in the training ring, that he hears Miles laugh for the first time, and it’s as if ice water has been poured directly into his veins.

  Oh fuck. Oh Saints, oh Holy Father, oh fuck.

  “Leonardo?” Ezio asks quietly, head tilted towards him in concern, but Leonardo ignores him to stumble for the bannister to lean over it and stare down at Miles learning a little jig from Tullio, laughing all the while.

  He had only heard it once, truth be told, and it had been Salaí that had caused it, but even three years later, Leonardo remembers the laugh of Rodrigo Borgia’s sinister little shadow.

  Below, Miles doesn’t stop smiling, but his golden brown gaze yanks up towards Leonardo as if knowing his thoughts are about him. His eyes narrow, then widen slightly in realisation, and then he winces and looks away, which is all the confirmation Leonardo needs.

  Turning around, Leonardo grabs a confused Ezio by the arm and drags him from the training room, ignoring his protests until they find the nearest empty room.

  “Leonardo, what—?”

  “Romulus.”

-

[pineapple-frenzy]

Kuko on the brain because we're getting rhyme anime s2 so ofc

[mbat]

oh my singing monsters, why must you have limited time holiday events when im not far along enough in the game to get the little guys that come with them </3

[songhunter]

both adonis and arashi have white (pure) 5* mv outfits and black (impure) SCR outfits in their center song events. both the Mystic Fragrance song and the Love & Beast drama involve opposing natures / dual personalities symbolized by these white and black outfits — adonis’ character grapples with the innocent inogari and the beast, and mystic fragrance has odile and odette, the white and black swans. both songs are departures from their units’ usual themes — forbidden rain is all about restraint and loving someone so much that you sacrifice this love to keep them safe (more akin to Knights’ themes of knighthood and self-sacrifice), while mystic fragrance is all about casting off the fake layers of yourself, giving into desire, and living as your truest self, even if it’s “selfish” or “impure” (more akin to UNDEAD’s usual songs). both adonis and arashi are transgender. in this essay i will—

[tristansarchive]

Come inside of my heart If you're looking for answers Look at the stars, go a little bit faster Date In The Woods Special (Come Inside of my Heart)

[lilidawnonthemoon]