Last Sunday there were to be big fireworks, but it fell through on account of rain. It’s a strange thing—when there are to be fireworks, the weather almost always turns sour.
I can tell you a story about that: A certain fellow once had a fine tan coat, but every time he put it on, it rained. He seldom wore it, but never brought it home dry. So he goes to the tailor and asks him: why? The tailor shakes his head and asks the coat to be left with him a few days for experiments; he is not yet sure whether the problem might be caused by a hat, or the boots, or a particular shirt.
Not at all—the tailor puts on the coat and goes out, and it starts raining cats and dogs. The poor fellow forgot his umbrella and had to take a cab home. He got wet, and the coat was damp. With nothing else to do, he began to rip it aparat in search of a goblin that might be hidden within, drawing the clouds. He tears the sleeves—nothing. The lower part—nothing.
At long last he rips into the breast of the coat and finds it lined with announcements of fireworks.
- Frédéric Chopin, writing to his family from Vienna, 1831.
i just started listening to the bernstein/ny phil recording of capriccio espagnol but i didn’t like the claret so i switched to eugene ormandy/philly and i like the clarinet more but this version’s tempo (for the first movemetn at least) is so much faster it was so weird to go from one ot hte other
haha [deletes thirsty imagines] hahaha [rips down posters] hahahaha [destroys all evidence that i was ever a 1d fan] so hey ur that harry guy right wow do you want to date [mini cardboard harry cutout falls out of pocket] ah shit
if harry leaned in to kiss me on the cheek i’d turn my damn head and kiss him on the lips then laugh maniacally and throw a smoke bomb on the ground and disappear into the night leaving him standing there feeling violated aroused and amazed
So why does Cracked CONSTANTLY push Feminist propaganda so hard? And let's not bullshit ourselves. You do. Just yesterday you published five articles. Two specifically referenced either Feminism or Feminist backed statistics. Conversely whenever you cover anything related to the opposition you not only mislead about their views... you straight up fucking lie about them and people let you get away with it because you're a "humor magazine". So I'm wondering why you propagandize *so hard*. Why?
Because we’re true believers!
Let me take this moment to say how Cracked could have gone another direction 7 or 8 years ago, a more Maximy, Booby Gallery of the Day direction if not for the steadfast resistance of David Wong and Jack O’Brien. I barely acknowledge the side that opposes feminism, but Wong goes out of his way to understand people who are mad at feminists, and he writes about those views with more sensitivity and understanding that I could ever muster.
To sum up: We don’t have an explicit agenda but if one comes across, It’s not one I’m ashamed of.
The little boy's name Harry brought on stage yesterday is Cameron, and they kept calling him Eric lol. His mom tweeted about it and said he was confused this morning because they kept calling him the wrong name lmao how cute
she’s lucky she got that kid back, harry renamed him and was ready 2 raise him on his own
I came to this conclusion over Gus that having crushes on people you are close friends with is the worst because you want to be with them because you are friends but also you want to not be with them because you have dumb feelings about them and you want to talk about them all the time because you like them but also mention them casually because they happen to be a part of a lot of separate stories that they aren’t central in
I miss having crushes on people I don’t know those are so much more fun
“On 5th October , Weber, Haslinger and Benedict drove out to Baden, where Beethoven was staying until the late autumn. They were received by the master with boisterous cordiality. He recognized Weber at once and greeted him with a shout: ‘There you are, you little devil!’ (du Teufels Kerl). Der Freischütz had opened the eyes of ‘the old bear’ to Weber’s real genius. Examining the score one day in the ‘musical emporium,’ he suddenly banged it with his fist and cried: ‘I never could have believed it of the poor weak little runt. Weber must write operas now; nothing but operas, one after another!’ And of the finale of the second act he said: ‘I see what he means, but he has put such devilish strange stuff in here. When I read the wild hunt, I can’t help laughing, but for all that I feel that it is the thing itself, the real thing. This is music that must be heard—heard only.’…The visitors found his place in the most appalling disorder—‘music, money, clothing on the floor, the bed unmade, dozens of coffee-cups upon the table, the open pianoforte with scarcely any strings left and thickly covered with dust, while [Beethoven] himself was wrapped in a shabby old dressing-gown.’ In order to find Weber a seat, a pile of music had to be pushed from an old sofa on to the floor. Beethoven, as usual, was full of complaints, but in his own rough way he treated Weber kindly. They dined together in the Sauerhof, as the guest afterwards wrote in his diary, ‘in the happiest mood,’ and many questions of art were discussed. At one point the question of Euryanthe was raised. ‘How is the book?’ asked Beethoven. ‘Good! Full of good situations,’ replied Weber. But Beethoven suddenly caught a glimpse of Haslinger’s face and burst out laughing: ‘Oh!’ he shouted, ‘the old story! These German authors don’t have the least idea as to how a good opera-book should be written.’ But Weber was not to be downed in this fashion. ‘What about Fidelio?’ he asked. ‘Oh, that’s different altogether,’ said Beethoven, ‘it was derived from the French and translated into German from the Italian.’ At last the time of parting arrived and Benedict tells how reluctant Beethoven was to let Weber go. ‘Again and again he embraced him, and it was a long time before he would loose the thin delicate hand from the grasp of his big fist.’ But at last they tore themselves away, and Beethoven’s last words were, ‘Success to your new opera. If I can, will come on the first night!’ Circumstances, however, prevented the fulfillment of this promise, and the two musicians never met again.”—William Saunders, Weber (1970), 148-49