Hey, Mr. Music Teacher. You of all people should know that Tchaikovsky has nothing to do with a subgenre of hardcore punk.

I ****ed that Seuss spelling up good, didn't I?

the letter s

it was SO frustrating taking my laptop to work this morning to read this and then be unable to reply all day(they cut our net, so i often open a bunch of threads to have some reading material).

emo is a versatile term, it can also describeanything or anyone overly emotional

This.

:shake:

The virgin offering insights into sex :shake:

This is what's on my mind:

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I like Rachmaninoff and Stravinsky as well. However, the specific pieces I mentioned are not among the emo pieces. I do know that Tchaikovsky was one weepy mother****er though. Ironically, I like 1812 the best, and he wrote it to be sarcastic.

Indeed, Mr. Fax. let's keep this rollin

'Mystery Race'
Dwarves and giants among us
Our numbers yet untold
Though we exist in the day
At night are we most bold
You may reach for us
Yet not a one can you hold
Name to you our closest member
And you shall take the gold

I've had this piece stuck in my head for weeks.

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Probably my favorite classical piece of all-time, but only when Yo-Yo Ma plays it. Everyone else plays it too quickly. They don't give you enough time to savor the melody.

That's a good one, but I don't think any single definable aria, solo, or set piece, can match up against Bach's Air on a G String.

It's like Johann figured out the mathematical progression to unlock the emotional centers of the brain. You find yourself powerless in it's grasp.

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The Village Blacksmith

Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long;
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate’er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter’s voice
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother’s voice
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend.
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

.

If Plato is the topic I must confess that every time I start reading The Republic (it's not an easy book to read straight through) two things cross my mind:

1. It's hard not to agree with everything Plato writes.

2. Some of his points would make even a Fascist dictator seem liberal.

I've never finished it because it either wears me out or I start to think about how he's wrong (or right) so much that I get sidetracked.

I would run from anyone who quotes from The Republic as a concrete guide to governance but there is far too much good stuff to dismiss.

It also goes a long way to showing that many of the problems we have today have been around a long time and no one has come up with the "right" answer.

Only after the commercial and mainstream viability of emo music.

But good for you picking apart a throwaway joke and looking like a jackass on two levels.