A summary of common band pieces

-Chorale and Shaker Dance: everyone’s played it but no one remembers how it goes
-Emperata Overture: your introduction to mixed meter
-Let’s Go Band: All rise for the band geek anthem
-Jupiter: clarinet massacre, then everyone praises god
-Angels in the Architecture: demons maul an angel and crash a Jewish wedding, then get owned by heaven (mostly)
-Second Suite in F: euphonium anxiety
-Stars and Stripes Forever: piccolo anxiety
-Blue Shades: clarinet anxiety
-Anything by John Mackey: *experimenting on Finale Notepad*
-Any Sousa march: horns go die
-Irish Tune from Country Derry: woodwinds wait forever, then brass wait forever
-Molly on the Shore: the same thing but a million times
-Concord: red-blooded patriotism but in 7/8
-Sleigh Ride: annual winter torture
-Pomp and Circumstance: annual summer torture
-Anything by Eric Whitacre: heavenly choirs
-Variations on a Korean Folk Song: the only Asian band piece most of you will ever play

  • No other day on tumblr is better than the fourth of July. I seriously came here to reblog USA stuff like our forefathers came here for freedom and a tea-filled harbor.
  • *chest bumps George Washington*
  • *moonwalks backwards while fireworks burst in the air*
  • *a marching band plays The Stars and Stripes Forever*
  • *morphs into a bald eagle*
Don't Act Like Your July 4th Ain't Like This Every Year
  • Patriot: Son, come into my office. I've got something to show you.
  • Son: *coyly walks into office* Yeah, dad.
  • Patriot: Do you know what day it is, son?
  • Son: Tuesday.
  • Patriot: No, son... well, yes, but there's more to it than that. It's Stars 'N' Stripes day, son. Do you know what that means?
  • Son: *shrugs*
  • Patriot: It's the day our beautiful country broke away from the incredibly far-left tyranny of the British monarchy and took the first step towards becoming the greatest country on god's earth.
  • Son: Oh, word.
  • Patriot: Yes, son, absolutely word. Now, take a look at this. *pulls box from under his desk and places in on table* What do you think this is?
  • Son: A box with crazy colors.
  • Patriot: No, son... well, yes, but the colors on this box all represent something. The red represents the blood of those who sacrificed themselves for our beautiful country, the white represents uhh...
  • Son: Cum!
  • Patriot: Boy, I have it in me to pop you if you keep saying nonsense like that!
  • Son: *snickers*
  • Patriot: No, the white does not represent... that substance. It represents uhh, the snow that tops the great mountains that you can find in certain parts of our beautiful country. And the blue represents the ocean, which we of course have national ownership over.
  • Son: Wow, interesting.
  • Patriot: It's more than interesting, son. It's everything that I stand for. What your forefathers stood for, and what your children too will stand for. Now, take a look at what's inside this box, son. *pops open the box* What do you think of that?
  • Son: Ooh... well, I like the silky velvet lining.
  • Patriot: Hmm?
  • Son: There's really nice lining on the inside of the box.
  • Patriot: What are you talking about? *turns box around* Well, Andrew Jackson be damned! There's nothing in this box! Boy, did you take what was inside of this box?
  • Son: No, this is the first time I even saw the thing.
  • Patriot: *red with anger* Argh! Calm down. Calm down... breathe easy. Well, son. What was supposed to be in this box was the flag of our country. The same flag that your great grandfather flew in the big war as he bayoneted some sausage twirling Kraut in the neck.
  • Son: That's messed up.
  • Patriot: It's not messed up, he was defending our country! You know what, son. I'll discuss this with you later once I find where that god damn flag. Go check on your grandpa for me, son.
  • Son: Do I have to? Grandpa's weird.
  • Patriot: By Lincoln's glory, you young folks really have no respect. Your grandpa, while not a veteran or anyone of significant importance - unlike the men on my mother's side of the family - ran a car dealership for 42 years before retiring and using all of his savings to buy us this beautiful house in which we still live. You will check on him and pay respect to him on this blessed Stars 'N' Stripes day, or so help me god I'll... I'll... just get, boy!
  • Son: Jeez, alright. *trots down the hallways and peaks into granpda's room* Hey, grandpa. I'm here to check on you.
  • Grandpa: *rocking back and forth in his chair* Marybeth? Marybeth is that you, dear?
  • Son: No, granpda. It's me, your grandson. Do you remember me?
  • Grandpa: Oh, dear. You sound just like my Marybeth.
  • Son: Grandma's dead, grandpa.
  • Grandpa: What was that, sweetheart? I can't quite hear you. I think it's the television. It's too loud.
  • Television: *silently displaying white noise*
  • Grandpa: Too loud... I've been watching this movie for too long and now it sounds just like the rumbling of the earth.
  • Son: Grandpa, what are you wrapped in? Is that a flag.
  • Grandpa: It was Marybeth's paw's flag.
  • Son: You took dad's flag. He's gonna be mad at you.
  • Grandpa: I didn't take no flag. The flag took me, just like it took Marybeth and her paw. *stands up, kneels in front son, pull's son's face close to his* Look into my eyes, little Marybeth. What do you see?
  • Son: That's... that's impossible. It's like staring into a void of red, white, and blue. What is this?
  • Grandpa: An infinite amount of graves for an infinite amount of souls. The final resting place for an ideology that stands above and beyond humanity. It's stars and stripes forever and ever.
  • Son: *pulls himself from grandpa's gaze* You're acting crazy again, I'm telling dad! *runs from grandpa's room* Dad!
  • Patriot: *steps from his room with a gun* Freemasonry, son.
  • Son: Dad, Grandpa's gone crazy again. He's doing weird things with his eyes.
  • Patriot: It's freemasonry, son.
  • Son: Huh?
  • Patriot: You'll learn soon enough. *shoots son in the chest*
  • Son: *clutches wound and breathes heavily*
  • Patriot: Sorry about that, son. But, it was all a part of today's plan. It's freemasonry, or some call it communism or witchcraft. But in the end, it's all the same thing. I hate it for the life of me. It's unpatriotic, but it runs in our family like a damn disease. You know how furious I got. I got so furious when I saw your grandmother running off to her "gatherings", getting up to god knows what and with who. I would've shot the lady like I just did you if I didn't see it, son. Those stars and stripes going on forever and ever. Vibrating and twisting in that graveyard of ideology. Do you see it now, son? Even clearer than before? Tell me, do you see it?
  • Son: *cough up blood* I see... mom in the mirror. No, it's grandma, and I'm her. She's young... my age.
  • Daughter: ...Huh. I must've zone out for a moment. That was weird.
  • Patriot: *call from his office* Little Marybeth, come into my office. I've got something to show you.
  • Daughter: *coyly walks into office* Yeah, dad?
  • Patriot: Do you know what day it is, Little Marybeth.
  • Daughter: It's Star 'N' Stripes day!
  • Patriot: *rubs daughter's head* Ah, that's my girl. Just as good as your mom. You see that flag hanging on my wall.
  • Daughter: Mhmm, that's that the flag of our country.
  • Patriot: No, it's not. It may look like the flag of our country, but it represents something far greater. An ideology beyond ideologies. One so great that it trumps all other rules of existence.
  • Daughter: What ideology is it, dad?
  • Patriot: I can't quite put it into words. But, I can tell you, Little Marybeth, that the first time I became aware of it was when I bayoneted some damn sausage twirling Kraut right in the neck. I stomped on his neck afterwards so he couldn't even struggle to breath before he died. I saw it then. The stars and stripes of the false flag I carried upon my back reflecting in his eyes, and I knew then that one truth; that one real ideology. But, like I said, I can't really put it into words. All I can tell you is that we ain't worth shit, Little Marybeth. Not you, not me, not your mom. None of us.
  • Daughter: That's kinda messed up dad.
  • Patriot: Well, life's messed up, dear.


Your phone buzzes. Surprisingly, you don’t confuse it for the deep rumble of the parade in the distance. You’ve got a text from Lucien.

“The Raven has landed.”

You chuckle at the code name you and Lucien have chosen for Damien. He’s supposed to be luring his dad right into your trap… but it hasn’t been easy so far. Apparently, Damien is not only afraid of horror movies, but loud, booming noises as well.

You stand up on your tiptoes and use your superior dad arms to shield the sun from your eyes as you look for the duo. You’re standing on the street corner, behind a few children. The entire road is blocked off with street vendors selling various fatty foods and snacks. The faint rumble of the parade echoes in the distance. You remove your dad hat and wipe some sweat off of your forehead. It’s hot.

Amanda slides into the crowd beside you, cotton candy in one hand and a huge cup of soda in the other. She’s been drinking a lot more soda since she graduated. You pretend not to notice. She raises an eyebrow.

“They can’t be that hard to spot,” she says. “I’m sure Bat Dad is the only one wearing black on a day like today.”

The sun beats down and a cicada chirps its agreement with her statement. You roll your eyes at the totally dumb nickname she gave to Damien. ‘The Raven’ is so much better.

At last, you catch a glimpse of black out of the corner of your eye. Lucien drags a confused looking Damien in your direction and waves. You can’t help but crack a smile. Damien is so cute when he’s scared. You wave back.

“Oh thank goodness we finally found you!” Damien calls once he sees you. He frees himself from his son’s grip and rushes in your direction, throwing his arms around you. “There are far too many people here and it’s very loud.”

Your heart sinks. “We don’t have to stay here if you’re uncomfortable.”

He’s still got his arms tightly wound around your middle, and he looks up at you with heavily lined eyes. He didn’t wear the contacts today. His eyes are dark and charming.

“I feel much better now that I’m with you.”

This time your heart soars into your throat. You can hear your heartbeat thrumming in your ears, so loud you can’t even think straight. You manage to crack a smile and lean in to kiss him. Amanda and Lucien’s loud whoops interrupt your moment.

Turns out it isn’t your heart drumming in your ears, but the actual sound of drums. The marching band leads the parade around the street corner and Damien pulls away from you to follow your eyes where the band is making an entrance. The crowd cheers. Damien’s eyes lighten as he listens to the band playing a classic tune of “The Stars and Stripes Forever”. He takes your hand and gives it a firm squeeze. He can’t take his eyes off of the band and you can’t take your eyes off of him.

Once, he glances back at you and his eyes are glistening with excitement. Damien isn’t one for shouting but you’ve read his lips a thousand times so it’s easy to decipher his quiet words, “This is so lovely.”

You squeeze his hand back and return his elated grin. You can’t believe his father never took him to see a marching band.

send me a dream daddy writing prompt???

Woody Allen e l'ipocondria

Quando il New York Times mi ha chiamato, chiedendo se potevo scrivere qualche parola sull'ipocondria, sono stato preso alla sprovvista. Che luce potrei gettare su questo tipo di comportamento picchiatello in quanto, contrariamente alla credenza popolare, io non sono un ipocondriaco, ma appartengo a tutt'altro genere di pazzia?

Io sono un allarmista: non sperimento malattie immaginarie, le mie malattie sono reali.

Ciò che distingue la mia isteria è che alla comparsa del sintomo più mite, diciamo le labbra screpolate, balzo subito alla conclusione: le labbra screpolate indicano un tumore al cervello. O forse il cancro del polmone. In un caso ho pensato che fosse la mucca pazza.

Il punto è che io sono sempre certo di qualcosa di minaccioso. Poco importa se le persone non siano mai state trovate morte di labbra screpolate. Ogni piccolo dolore mi porta ad un studio medico dove ho bisogno di rassicurazione.

Purtroppo mia moglie si fa carico di questi miei drammi patologici. Come quella volta che mi sono svegliato alle 3 del mattino con una macchia sul collo che aveva chiaramente le caratteristiche di un melanoma. Alla fine, in ospedale, si è rivelato essere un succhiotto, dopo molti pianti e stridore di denti. Seduto a un'ora assurda al pronto soccorso, ero già passato attraverso le cinque fasi del dolore: da “negazione” o “compromesso”.

Ma perché dovrei vivere in questo terrore costante? Mi prendo cura di me stesso. Ho un personal trainer, non fumo e sto attento a quello che mangio, evitando accuratamente qualsiasi alimento che dà piacere. Oltre alle visite mediche annuali dove faccio tutti i vaccini e le vaccinazioni disponibili, mi rendo immune a tutto, dalla malattia di Whipple al ceppo Andromeda.

Per quanto riguarda i farmaci, sono flessibile, ma prudente, perché se è vero che gli antibiotici uccidono i batteri cattivi, ho sempre paura che uccideranno anche i miei batteri buoni, per non parlare dei miei feromoni, e quindi non voglio dare via eventuali vibrazioni sessuali in un ascensore affollato.

Anche quando i risultati del mio check-up annuale mostrano una perfetta salute, come mi posso rilassare sapendo che il minuto dopo che lascio lo studio del medico qualcosa può cominciare a crescere in me e il mio petto a raggi X sarà simile ad un Jackson Pollock? Per inciso, questa preoccupazione implacabile con la salute mi ha fatto diventare un medico dilettante abbastanza esperto. Per esempio, una volta ho convinto una donna che aveva un lieve ronzio nelle orecchie di avere dei batteri carnivori, e un'altra volta ho dichiarato morto un uomo che si era semplicemente addormentato su una sedia.

Ma cos'è questa mia ossessione? La mia ipotesi migliore è la morte. Ho sempre avuto una paura bestiale della morte, un destino orrendo secondo solo a dover trovare da sedere in un concerto rock. Mia moglie cerca di consolarmi sulla mortalità e mi assicura che la morte è una parte naturale della vita, e che noi tutti moriremo prima o poi. Stranamente questa notizia, sussurrata in un orecchio alle 3 del mattino, mi ha fatto balzare sul letto, ho acceso ogni luce in casa e ho messo la mia registrazione di “The Stars and Stripes Forever” a tutto volume fino al sorgere del sole.

A volte penso che la morte potrebbe essere più tollerabile nel sonno, anche se in realtà nessuna forma di morte è accettabile per me, con la possibile eccezione di essere preso a calci a morte da un paio di cameriere poco vestite.

Eppure, ci sono cose peggiori della morte. Molte sono in un cinema vicino a te. Per esempio, non mi piacerebbe sopravvivere ad un gravissimo ictus, non vorrei andare in coma, e stare in un letto d'ospedale dove non sono morto, e non riuscire nemmeno a muovere gli occhi per segnalare all'infermiera di cambiare canale. E per inciso, e se l'infermiera è uno di quei pazzi angeli della morte che odia vedere la gente soffrire e mi riempie il sacchetto di glucosio per via endovenosa con Exxon?

Ma peggiore della morte è quello di essere in vita ad ascoltare i miei cari in un acceso dibattito sul fatto di staccare la spina e sentire mia moglie dire: “Secondo me è ora di staccare la spina, sono passati 15 minuti e siamo in ritardo per la cena”.

Riassumendo, ci sono due gruppi distinti, ipocondriaci e allarmisti. Entrambi soffrono a modo loro, e le caratteristiche di un gruppo possono sovrapporsi all'altro, ma se sei un ipocondriaco o un allarmista, a questo punto, uno dei due è probabilmente meglio che essere un repubblicano


GIANNTTTT-ass concert band in Japan plays Armenian Dances and the Stars and Stripes Forever (WITH GIANT PICCOLO LINE!) This was awesome to watch. THERE ARE 7800 HIGH SCHOOL KIDS IN THIS BAND. The clarity and rhythmic accuracy for a band this size is incredible! 

Different POV here:


Sam the Eagle and the Muppets - Stars and Stripes Forever

The Birthday Present

Avengers movieverse fanfic.  This is how I mentally explain the necklace Natasha seems to be wearing in some stills from WINTER SOLDIER (see below).  I was bummed when I found out that Clint wouldn’t be in it, too… so this is also how I reconciled myself to his absence.


“He could NEVER make that shot.”  Muttered through a handful of popcorn, Clint Barton’s critique lacked a certain… something.  “Seriously.  Look at how he’s got his bow.  Hey, KevinHood! There are Hollywood archery coaches out there, you know!”  A pause, then, “Get your elbow up - DUDE!  You could NEVER make that shot!”

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