Jack Daniels Quotes

I like to see the glass as half full, hopefully of jack daniels.

There are gods in Alabama: Jack Daniel's, high school quarterbacks, trucks, big tits, and also Jesus.

Basically, I'm for anything that gets you through the night - be it prayer, tranquilizers or a bottle of Jack Daniels.

I mean, you know how it is. You chase a bottle of sleeping pills with a bottle of Jack Daniel's and life's never the same, no matter how many times you try to tell people it was just an accident.

Then why don’t you and Bubba have girlfriends? (Nick) I don’t want the drama of it. After the last one burnt up all my clothes with my Jack Daniel’s Black Label collection and tried to decapitate me with my CDs, I decided I’d take a hiatus for a bit. (Mark)

I didn't know whether it was the events of the night or the coffee that had made me jittery.  I reached into the cabinet over the sink and pulled down the bottle of Jack Daniels.

Hey there, Lissa Daniels," he said. He raised his Coke. "Would you like to say hello to your distant cousin, Jack?

Sorry to hear about your Dad." He shrugged. "He was seventy, and we always told him fast food would kill him." "Heart attack?" "He was hit by a Pizza Express truck.

So there we were shooting Jack Daniels into our veins, like what the fuck we can just drink it.

Why did everyone send casseroles in times of crisis? Why didn't anyone ever send brownies and Jack Daniel's?

Then I tug the toaster from the wall and swing the appliance around my head like a lasso. I'm not aiming to knock her out. I'm aiming to knock off her fucking head.

Asking the Department of Agriculture to promote healthy eating was like asking Jack Daniels to promote responsible drinking.

What would you rather have?" "Cheeseburger and a small fry. Coke classic. Better yet, dope classic." "Sure. I'll take a milkshake. What's the special flavor this week, chocolate Jack Daniels?" "Strawberry scotch." "Stick one of those paper umbrellas in mine." "Shove a syringe in mine. And a plastic tombstone. RIP, baby. He was born a rock star. He died a junkie." "Rock in peace." [...] "He wanted the world and lost his soul. [...] Sold it all for rock and roll. Lost his heart in a needle. Found his life in the grave. The road to hell is paved in marijuana leaves. Now he rocks in peace.

Another scar or two won't ruin my pretty face." "Right." "Carlos, are you being polite? That's not why I came here for. I know I'm not Steve McQueen." "My lady is totally in love with him. Lucky for me he's dead or I'd be in trouble." I hold up my glas of Jack Daniel's in a toast. "Here's to all the guys better looking than us. May they all die first.

I wish I was like that. More carefree." "Anyone can be. People aren't carved out of marble. We're all works in progress. The trick is to define ourselves, rather than let outside influences define us.

I think it was the ChapStick that did it; he tasted like ChapStick and Jack Daniels. That reminder of human vulnerability got to me in a way that polished experience wouldn’t have. Not that he had lied about the experience.

If you ever reach that stage in life where you really couldn't give a toss about what others think of you, then you have achieved freedom.

The most important job anyone can ever have is being a mother.

[...]dar oamenii nu se cunosc pe ei înșiși până ce nu-s puși la încercare, iar curajul se dobândește cu timpul și prin experiență.

I try not to watch the news. Too depressing.

Mark Twain once said that true bravery isn’t the absence of fear, but the ability to act in the face of fear.

Chico was a small-time hustler and big-time loser who liked to bet the ponies and hit women. He was more successful at the latter.

Sitting on a bar stool and sipping a shot of Jack Daniel's washed down by a cold bottle of beer is an impeccable routine. I cannot think of a better ritual.

feeling sorry for myself and developing a steady relationship with my first (and last) boyfriend—a dude named Jack Daniels—my

curiosity is the most delightful of all human characteristics "I see. No men in her life then?" -"Not unless you count Jack Daniels and Johnny Walkers

The no-booze rule is one of several shams perpetuated by certain religious groups, presumably to keep their flocks in line. After all, what’s a shepherd to do with drunk sheep? So take your medicine, but leave the booze on the shelf. We have a label to keep, and it’s not Jack Daniels. Don’t mourn for me. Just tell me what to do rather than teach me what to be. Slam another pill, pop that one last sedative…you’ll find me in the kitchen, washing my glass.

She thought the jimster (Jack Daniels) would cure whatever was wrong with her- whatever made her feel like she was in a hall of mirrors, watching herself go through the motions of having a riotous good time

My thoughts are free to roam back to the way she leaned her head on my arm for a split second, as if wishing she could let herself go, let herself lean farther. But she didn't, and I can’t help but respect her for that, even I know her strength is false, propped up by the shaky girders of Old Man Jack. One day soon, those girders will collapse, and her world will crumble, and I know I have to be there when that happens.

He went to the kitchen and grabbed the bottle of Jack Daniels from the top of the refrigerator. 'Ah, my last surviving friend,' he said to no one at all. He unscrewed the cap, and put the bottle to his lips. Better to drink until a blackout, than to remember thoughts like knives that cut him from the inside out, and bled him dry.

A colleague and friend, Jack Kornfield, has a great way of thinking about this important process: Forgiveness is giving up all hope for a better past. In this way, we forgive not to condone, not to say it was fine, but to let go of false illusions that we can change the past.

In chili’s hand were his car keys, Ray-bans and Marlboros, without which he wouldn't leave his bathroom. Chili drank only black coffee and neat Jack Daniel’s; his suits were Boss, his underwear Calvin Klein, his actor Pacino. His barber shook his hand, his accountant took him to dinner, his drug dealer would come to him at all hours and accept his checks.

You can’t let the uncertainty of tomorrow interfere with the joy of today,

Personally, I wouldn’t mind Alzheimer’s. You buy one magazine, and you’re entertained for the rest of your life.

Success means nothing unless you have someone to share it with.

Some people are naturally brave. Others, like me, learn to fake it. I still had no idea if faked bravery and real bravery were the same thing.

the distilled spirits business is dominated by giant producers who run immensely productive facilities that produce complex, expensive chemical admixtures year after year. That’s not necessarily a criticism: just because Jack Daniel’s comes from a chemical plant doesn’t mean it isn’t a damn-fine-tasting chemical.

If you write you may be read and if you read you may understand, but if you understand you will never write. © 2018 Danny Kemp All rights reserved

Don’t waste your time wishing for things you don’t have. Do your best with what you do have.

He tastes like smoke, Jack Daniels, and sin personified.

I’m for anything that gets you through the night, be it prayer, tranquilizers or a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

They were full of things men eat in the woods: Dinty Moore, canned soup, sardines, eggs, bacon, pudding cups, coffee, plenty of Wonder Bread, two sixpacks of beer, and our annual bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

Jack Zenger and Joseph Folkman, who run a leadership consultancy, analyzed 3,492 participants in a manager development program and found that the most effective listeners do four things: 1. They interact in ways that make the other person feel safe and supported 2. They take a helping, cooperative stance 3. They occasionally ask questions that gently and constructively challenge old assumptions 4. They make occasional suggestions to open up alternative paths

Charlie Polard was a former news anchor, now field reporter, whose star had been falling rapidly the past year. Consequently, his constant need to use Jack Daniels as his career coach had caused him to nearly miss several assignments.

Suddenly the effects of the Jack Daniels were wearing thin and the black reality of a speed crash was barreling in on. Mink began scribbling a note on a Tampax paper, "HELP!! WE ARE BEING ABDUCTED BY ASSHOLES!! CALL THE POLICE IMMEDIATELY!!

My own view of the relationship between drugs and PTSD is reminiscent of what Frank Sinatra said when a reporter asked him about his philosophy of life—“Basically, I’m for anything that gets you through the night—be it prayer, tranquilizers, or a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

Every drive that stayed on the fairway, every chip to the green, his specialty, any long putts that dropped in—his Jack Daniel’s on the rocks next to him. He exaggerated, he even cheated . . . But he knew how to find people; it was his business. Karen turned to the sink. Should she do the dishes?

A pair of aces," Daniel said with a fierce look in his eye. Justin set his cards down quietly and faceup. "Two pair.Jacks and sevens." He sat back as Caine swore in disgust. "You son of-" In frustration, Daniel broke off, shifting his eyes from his daughter to Shelby. "The devil take you, Justin Blade." "You're sending him off prematurely," Shelby commented, spreading her cards. "A straight,from the five to the nine." Alan walked over to look at her cards. "I'll be damned, she drew the six and seven." "No one but a bloody witch draws an inside straight," Daniel boomed, glaring at her. "Or a bloody Campbell," Shelby said easily. His eyes narrowed. "Deal the cards." Justin grinned at her as Shelby scooped in chips. "Welcome aboard," he said quietly and began to shuffle.

Johnnie Walker is my celebratory drink,” I explained. “But when I’m out, I typically only drink whiskey. My dad only drank whiskey. His preference was Jack Daniels. And long before I was ever able to drink, I overheard my dad say that whiskey was like my mom. Rich, bold, sweet, fiery, full-bodied and multilayered.

El café no es mi único vicio; siempre tengo dos paquetes de Camel correteando sobre la mesa y un petaca llena de Jack Daniel´s escondida en el primer cajón. El bourbon me sirve para darle sabor al café cuando llevo un día especialmente duro y si se pasa de duro, me enchufo directamente a la petaca y le doy sabor a la vida. No me falla... casi nunca.

Mothers shouldn’t be allowed to get old and fragile.

People aren’t carved out of marble. We’re all works in progress. The trick is to define ourselves, rather than let outside influences define us.

Gail Ledbetter: "It wasn’t so much what he (Jack) said but how he said it that made the difference.

Whatever you do do it with style.

I picked up a transsexual hooker named Thor, all six feet of her, at the off ramp to Eau Claire, Wisconsin, as I was driving up north to kill a man.

But Thor and I weren’t going to happen, ever. I didn’t tell her this. I might be a killer, but I’m not mean.

life is too narrow to walk in but wide to run throw

author of more than

The scariest monsters have the best masks.

He did not consider it “the function of law to jack up the moral tone of any community.” That, he said, was “the function of the home and the church.

What happens to rage deferred? It explodes. It explodes in spectacular fashion.

Nothing is black and white. There are no universal standards that determine what’s good and what’s evil. It’s subjective.

[...]într-atâta este de adevărat că lipsa uneia singure dintre plăcerile vieții poate uneori otrăvi toate celelalte desfătări.

His motto is actually “write drunk and edit sober”—he’s got the words hanging on a plaque in bold black letters behind his desk right above an ever-present bottle of Jack Daniels—but I say nothing. Monday afternoon is not the best time to argue, much like every other day of the week. And unfortunately for me, I don’t have a pregnant wife at home to fall back on.

I put on a good show but I never liked performing tricks in the sex circus and preferred spending time with Jack Daniels rather than the male performers I was paid to fake it with. That’s right, none of us hot blondes enjoy making porn. In fact, we hate it. We hate spreading our legs for sexually diseased men. We hate being degraded with their foul smells and sweaty bodies..,

When someone threatens me, I don’t threaten them back. Bad people don’t respond to threats. They respond to violence. The only time I point a gun at someone is when I’m going to shoot that person.

The truth is, she has no idea how many have died at her hands. It’s like counting the number of times you’ve had sex. Maybe you can remember the first fifty. After that, everything becomes a blur.

You remember what you told me, Mom? That there are no medals for the completion of a good life? I’ve been thinking about that. About how no one wins. Like you said, it’s impossible to win, because the finish line is death.

I followed all the advice my mind could compute and digested it to the best of my ability. I’d run, work out, eat healthy, and then swallow a fifth of whiskey. The man cave below my home began to look like a recycling center for Crown Royal and Jack Daniels distilleries. I discovered that empty whiskey bottles made an eerily satisfying thud when stacked up like cordwood. The sturdy glass was much thicker and stronger than my own skin, and I admired their resilience to outside forces.

When the psychologists Daniel Brown and Jack Engler studied experienced meditators, they found, to their surprise, that meditators were just as anxious as everyone else. There was no lessening of internal conflict, but only a “marked non-defensiveness in experiencing such conflicts”3 among their subjects. The implications of these findings are profound, because Brown and Engler discovered that meditation, on its own, is not particularly effective at solving people’s emotional problems. It

I didn’t think you were gay, though. Sir.” Jack shook his head. “I’m not.” Daniels frowned. “I don’t consider myself gay. Being with Ethan wasn’t some kind of realization of who I was deep inside. It wasn’t a…yearning of my hidden gay man, buried deep.” Jack frowned and rubbed Ethan’s shirt between his fingers. He hadn’t spoken of this to anyone, not even Ethan. They’d carefully avoided any talk at all about Jack’s sexuality, and what it all meant. “It was just me falling in love,” Jack finally said. “And figuring out how to make that work with Ethan.” “I’m not sure I could be with a dude. No matter how I felt about him.” Jack smiled. “When you love someone, really love them, you’ll do anything. Figure anything out. Because having them in your life is worth more to you than living without them. That’s how I felt about Ethan.

Tonight, I decided to take a stroll down to my local liquor store. Maybe I’ll find a refreshment to wash down this full moon. I hate showing up & the clerk fucking knows my name, perhaps because I’m a regular. Anyways got my shit, left…barely covering the tax. Took the long way home; to get away from that haunting typewriter. Sat down at some park bench, as I started to open my poison; A memory rushed into me. A empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s under the Christmas tree. I thought my dad would want another drink, so started to pour my bottle into the dirt & cried.

The rise of the western crews may have shocked eastern fans, but it delighted newspaper editors across the country in the 1930s. The story fit in with a larger sports narrative that had fueled newspaper and newsreel sales since the rivalry between two boxers—a poor, part-Cherokee Coloradoan named Jack Dempsey and an easterner and ex-Marine named Gene Tunney—had riveted the nation’s attention in the 1920s. The East versus West rivalry carried over to football with the annual East-West Shrine Game and added interest every January to the Rose Bowl—then the nearest thing to a national collegiate football championship. And it was about to have additional life breathed into it when an oddly put together but spirited, rough-and-tumble racehorse named Seabiscuit would appear on the western horizon to challenge and defeat the racing establishment’s darling, the king of the eastern tracks, War Admiral.

Or what is it you used to say when we’d to go out in my pickup truck down by the pond, just the two of us? I’m the bit to your bridle. I’m the Jack in your Daniels….” Would it be weird if I were shedding tears right now? “You’re the fruit in my pie…you’re the sprinkles on my cake,” I finish his sentence.

Any guy who dates Taylor Swift knows she’ll eventually write a brutally vindictive yet insanely catchy pop hit that drags his name through the mud and trashes his reputation. Jack pursued you even after he knew you worked for the competition. You may as well have Date at your own risk tattooed on your forehead!

If you ever find someone who truly and consistently cares about what happens to you, someone who loves you unconditionally, someone who would take a bullet for you without giving it a second thought, then you need to cling to that person like paint on a wall. It’s very unlikely you’ll ever run across anyone like that again.

be apart. Despite getting rejected by my top-choice school, I was starting to really believe in myself again based on all the positive feedback we continued to get on our videos. And besides, I knew I could always reapply to Emerson the following year and transfer. • • • College started out great, with the best part being my newly found freedom. I was finally on my own and able to make my own schedule. And not only was Amanda with me, I’d already made a new friend before the first day of classes from a Facebook page that was set up for incoming freshmen. I started chatting with a pretty girl named Chloe who mentioned that she was also going to do the film and video concentration. Fitchburg isn’t located in the greatest neighborhood, but the campus has lots of green lawns and old brick buildings that look like mansions. My dorm room was a forced triple—basically a double that the school added bunk beds to in order to squeeze one extra person in. I arrived first and got to call dibs on the bunk bed that had an empty space beneath it. I moved my desk under it and created a little home office for myself. I plastered the walls with Futurama posters and made up the bed with a new bright green comforter and matching pillows. My roommates were classic male college stereotypes—the football player and the stoner. Their idea of decorating was slapping a Bob Marley poster and a giant ad for Jack Daniels on the wall.

thought all the wilderness of America was in the West till the Ghost of the Susquehanna showed me different. No, there is a wilderness in the East; it’s the same wilderness Ben Franklin plodded in the oxcart days when he was postmaster, the same as it was when George Washington was a wildbuck Indian-fighter, when Daniel Boone told stories by Pennsylvania lamps and promised to find the Gap, when Bradford built his road and men whooped her up in log cabins. There were not great Arizona spaces for the little man, just the bushy wilderness of eastern Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Virginia, the backroads, the black-tar roads that curve among the mournful rivers like Susquehanna, Monongahela, old Potomac and Monocacy.

Wednesday got comfortable, ordered himself a Jack Daniel’s. “My kind of people see your kind of people…” He hesitated. “It’s like bees and honey. Each bee makes only a tiny, tiny drop of honey. It takes thousands of them, millions perhaps, all working together to make the pot of honey you have on your breakfast table. Now imagine that you could eat nothing but honey. That’s what it’s like for my kind of people…we feed on belief, on prayers, on love. It takes a lot of people believing just the tiniest bit to sustain us. That’s what we need, instead of food. Belief.” “And Soma is…” “To take the analogy further, it’s honey wine. Mead.” He chuckled. “It’s a drink. Concentrated prayer and belief, distilled into a potent liqueur.

June 28, 1983 Mianus River Bridge Greenwich, Connecticut   George Tesla was drunk. This wasn’t new for him, but the reason was. He was going to be a father. Fifty years old, and he’d knocked up a thirty-year-old carnie. Someone careful enough to live through a trapeze act ought to be careful enough to not get pregnant. But she hadn’t been. Tatiana flat-out refused to talk about abortion or adoption or any sensible solution to the problem. She was perfectly willing to talk about leaving him to raise the baby alone, but nothing else. Her mind was set. He leaned against the cold side of the bridge and took a long sip of Jack Daniel’s from his silver hip flask. He’d bought the flask when he was first made professor of mathematics at New York University. Another thing that would have to change, since Tatiana had told him she had no intention of giving up performing to move to New York

taking it,’ he said as he fumbled for his wallet to pay for the bottle. With that, he grabbed June’s hand and practically lifted her up. ‘Come on, we’re going.’ June had another fit of the giggles. It was the longest mile for Pope. The valet was surprised to see them again so soon. They got into the elevator, only to have to wait ‘til they got back to the room before he could rip the dress off her. With them in the elevator car were a Chinese couple and their six-year-old son. Pope used June as a human shield to hide his erection, but to get even, he kept rubbing his hardness against her backside. She desperately tried to stop laughing but failed miserably, causing the family to wonder what was so funny. Thank God for magnetic keys, because if he’d had to fumble with a traditional key to open the door, he was certain that they would just have to do it right there. The rest of the evening was consumed with passion that was fiery, unreserved, and delirious. ‘I can’t remember having

Unlike some of his buddies, Truely had never been afraid of books. Following his daddy's example, he had read the newspaper every day of his life since the sixth grade, starting with the sports page. He had a vague idea what was going on in the world. It was true that Truely could generally nail a test, took a certain pride in it, but he was also a guy who like to dance all night to throbbing music in makeshift clubs off unlit country roads. He liked to drink a cold beer on a hot day, maybe a flask of Jack Daniel's on special occasions. He wore his baseball cap backwards, his jeans ripped and torn--because they were old and practically worn-out, not because he bought them that way. His hair was a little too long, his boots a little too big, his aspirations modest. He preferred listening to talking--and wasn't all that great at either. He like barbecue joints more than restaurants. Catfish and hush puppies or hot dogs burned black over a campfire were his favorites. He preferred simple food dished out in large helpings. He liked to serve himself and go for seconds.

How are we going to bring about these transformations? Politics as usual—debate and argument, even voting—are no longer sufficient. Our system of representative democracy, created by a great revolution, must now itself become the target of revolutionary change. For too many years counting, vast numbers of people stopped going to the polls, either because they did not care what happened to the country or the world or because they did not believe that voting would make a difference on the profound and interconnected issues that really matter. Now, with a surge of new political interest having give rise to the Obama presidency, we need to inject new meaning into the concept of the “will of the people.” The will of too many Americans has been to pursue private happiness and take as little responsibility as possible for governing our country. As a result, we have left the job of governing to our elected representatives, even though we know that they serve corporate interests and therefore make decisions that threaten our biosphere and widen the gulf between the rich and poor both in our country and throughout the world. In other words, even though it is readily apparent that our lifestyle choices and the decisions of our representatives are increasing social injustice and endangering our planet, too many of us have wanted to continue going our merry and not-so-merry ways, periodically voting politicians in and out of office but leaving the responsibility for policy decisions to them. Our will has been to act like consumers, not like responsible citizens. Historians may one day look back at the 2000 election, marked by the Supreme Court’s decision to award the presidency to George W. Bush, as a decisive turning point in the death of representative democracy in the United States. National Public Radio analyst Daniel Schorr called it “a junta.” Jack Lessenberry, columnist for the MetroTimes in Detroit, called it “a right-wing judicial coup.” Although more restrained, the language of dissenting justices Breyer, Ginsberg, Souter, and Stevens was equally clear. They said that there was no legal or moral justification for deciding the presidency in this way.3 That’s why Al Gore didn’t speak for me in his concession speech. You don’t just “strongly disagree” with a right-wing coup or a junta. You expose it as illegal, immoral, and illegitimate, and you start building a movement to challenge and change the system that created it. The crisis brought on by the fraud of 2000 and aggravated by the Bush administration’s constant and callous disregard for the Constitution exposed so many defects that we now have an unprecedented opportunity not only to improve voting procedures but to turn U.S. democracy into “government of the people, by the people, and for the people” instead of government of, by, and for corporate power.

Oh, and Jack said to tell you something…what was it? Ah…he said, ‘If the Mets get anywhere near home base, it’ll be the last game they ever play.’” She laughed. “I don’t know a lot about baseball. Did that make sense?” Daniel gulped. “Perfect sense.” In other words, touch my daughter and die, asshole. “See you tomorrow, Daniel.” “Bye, sunshine.” Daniel hung up the phone and stared off into space. Obviously Jack was trying to kill him. Take my beautiful daughter out, sit next to her for hours on end, and bring her home untouched. The prom date from hell. Matt and Brent came up behind him. “How’d it go?” Matt asked. “Oh, you know…perfect.” He turned to Brent. “I’m taking her to the game tomorrow night.” Brent’s mouth dropped open. “What the hell? I thought you were taking me?” “Tough shit. She smells better than you.

Again, the publick shewed that they would bear their share in these things; the very Court, which was then gay and luxurious, put on a face of just concern for the publick danger. All the plays and interludes which, after the manner of the French Court, had been set up and began to increase among us, were forbid to act; the gaming tables, publick dancing rooms, and music houses, which multiplied and began to debauch the manners of the people, were shut up and suppressed; and the jack-puddings, merry-andrews, puppet-shows, rope-dancers, and such-like doings, which had bewitched the poor common people, shut up their shops, finding indeed no trade; for the minds of the people were agitated with other things, and a kind of sadness and horror at these things sat upon the countenances even of the common people. Death was before their eyes, and everybody began to think of their graves, not of mirth and diversions.

Damn your eyes, Justin Blade; you've the luck of the devil." "Sore losers, those MacGregors," Shelby sighed, sliding her gaze to Alan's. "We'll see if the Campbells can do any better.New blood," Alan announced from the doorway. Smoke hung in the air,the rich, fragrant sting of expensive tobacco. They were using Daniel's huge old desk as a table, with chairs pulled up to it. The three men looked over as Shelby and Serena walked in. "I don't like taking my wife's money," Justin commented,sending her a grin as he clamped a cigar between his teeth. "You won't have the opportunity of trying." Serena lowered herself to the arm of his chair with a quiet sigh. "Shelby'd like a game or two." "A Campbell!" Daniel rubbed his hands together. "Aye then,we'll see how the wind blows now.Have a chair,lass. Three raise, ten-dollar limit, jacks or better to open." "If you think you're going to make up your losses on me, MacGregor," Shelby said mildly as she took her seat, "you're mistaken." Daniel made a sound of appreciation. "Deal the cards, boy," he ordered Caine. "Deal the cards.

There’s a tap on my shoulder. I turn around and get lost in a sea of blue. A Jersey-accented voice says, “It’s about time, kid,” and Frank Sinatra rattles the ice in his glass of Jack Daniel’s. Looking at the swirling deep-brown liquid, he whispers, “Ain’t it beautiful?” This is my introduction to the Chairman of the Board. We spend the next half hour talking Jersey, Hoboken, swimming in the Hudson River and the Shore. We then sit down for dinner at a table with Robert De Niro, Angie Dickinson and Frank and his wife, Barbara. This is all occurring at the Hollywood “Guinea Party” Patti and I have been invited to, courtesy of Tita Cahn. Patti had met Tita a few weeks previous at the nail parlor. She’s the wife of Sammy Cahn, famous for such songs as “All The Way,” “Teach Me Tonight” and “Only the Lonely.” She called one afternoon and told us she was hosting a private event. She said it would be very quiet and couldn’t tell us who would be there, but assured us we’d be very comfortable. So off into the LA night we went. During the evening, we befriend the Sinatras and are quietly invited into the circle of the last of the old Hollywood stars. Over the next several years we attend a few very private events where Frank and the remaining clan hold forth. The only other musician in the room is often Quincy Jones, and besides Patti and I there is rarely a rocker in sight. The Sinatras are gracious hosts and our acquaintance culminates in our being invited to Frank’s eightieth birthday party dinner. It’s a sedate event at the Sinatras’ Los Angeles home. Sometime after dinner, we find ourselves around the living room piano with Steve and Eydie Gorme and Bob Dylan. Steve is playing the piano and up close he and Eydie can really sing the great standards. Patti has been thoroughly schooled in jazz by Jerry Coker, one of the great jazz educators at the Frost School of Music at the University of Miami. She was there at the same time as Bruce Hornsby, Jaco Pastorius and Pat Metheny, and she learned her stuff. At Frank’s, as the music drifts on, she slips gently in on “My One and Only Love.” Patti is a secret weapon. She can sing torch like a cross between Peggy Lee and Julie London (I’m not kidding). Eydie Gorme hears Patti, stops the music and says, “Frank, come over here. We’ve got a singer!” Frank moves to the piano and I then get to watch my wife beautifully serenade Frank Sinatra and Bob Dylan, to be met by a torrent of applause when she’s finished. The next day we play Frank’s eightieth birthday celebration for ABC TV and I get to escort him to the stage along with Tony Bennett. It’s a beautiful evening and a fitting celebration for the greatest pop singer of all time. Two years later Frank passed away and we were generously invited to his funeral. A

Perhaps nothing would have happened were it not the pit of summer, with a month and a half ahead. There is no air-conditioning in the apartment, and this year - the summer of 1969 - it seems something is happening to everyone but them. People are getting wasted at Woodstock and singing 'Pinball Wizard' and watching Midnight Cowboy, which none of the Gold children are allowed to see. They're rioting outside Stonewall, ramming the doors with uprooted parking meters, smashing windows and jukeboxes. They're being murdered in the most gruesome way imaginable, with chemical explosives and guns that can fire five hundred and fifty bullets in succession, their faces transmitted with horrifying immediacy to the television in the Gold's kitchen. 'They're walking on the motherf***ing moon,' said Daniel, who has begun to use this sort of language, but only at a safe remove from their mother. James Earl Ray is sentenced, and so is Sirhan Sirhan, and all the while the Golds play jacks or darts or rescue Zoya from an open pipe behind the oven, which she seems convinced is her rightful home. But something else created the atmosphere required for this pilgrimage: they are siblings, this summer, in a way they will never be again. Next year, Varya will go to the Catskills with her friend Aviva. Daniel will be immersed in the private rituals of the neighborhood boys, leaving Klara and Simon to their own devices. In 1969, though, they are still a unit, yoked as if it isn't possible to be anything but.

She smiled and then she was gone, and I drove home more depressed than I had been in years. Why? Because the truth was that I wanted to drink. And I don’t mean I wanted to ease back into it, either, with casual Manhattans sipped at a mahogany and brass-rail bar with red leather booths and rows of gleaming glasses stacked in front of a long wall mirror. I wanted busthead boilermakers of Jack Daniel’s and draft beer, vodka on the rocks, Beam straight up with water on the side, raw tequila that left you breathless and boiling in your own juices. And I wanted it all in a run-down Decatur or Magazine Street saloon where I didn’t have to hold myself accountable for anything and where my gargoyle image in the mirror would be simply another drunken curiosity like the neon-lit rain striking against the window. After four years of sobriety I once again wanted to fill my mind with spiders and crawling slugs and snakes that grew corpulent off the pieces of my life that I would slay daily. I blamed it on the killing of Julio Segura. I decided my temptation for alcohol and self-destruction was maybe even an indication that my humanity was still intact. I said the rosary that night and did not fall asleep until the sky went gray with the false dawn.

She poured herself half a tumbler of Jack Daniels (the Paranoids having left them a fresh bottle the evening before) and called the L.A. library.

Fate is a future you didn't try hard enough to change. If you want things to go your way, being smart and being strong are helpful, but you still have to work your ass off.

The cardinal rule of abduction is; if someone wants to take you someplace to do terrible things to you, resist.

The more you understand death,” Mr. K said, “the more you appreciate life.

That you go on. That you can take so much more pain than you think. We’re built for it. It’s almost like that’s our purpose. We’re vessels that exist to be filled with pain.

After everything is taken from you, you see that you still have control over so much. Control over how you cope with misery. You realize all the beautiful choices you still own.

Damn it, you idiot! It’s supposed to be righty-tighty, lefty-loosey!

Jack O'Neill: I distinctly remember sitting here listening to Carter prattle on about solar activity and a corona something. Samantha Carter: Coronal Mass Emissions. I was just about to bring it up. Jack: There you go. How would I know that? Samantha: Maybe you read my report. Daniel Jackson: Maybe he read your report? (Weird faces)

We all grow up being told we’re special. That’s a lie, Pasha. We aren’t special. We’re all lumps of carbon that replicate and believe self-awareness makes us different. But at the end of the day, it’s all just survival of the fittest.

The problem is that the people best suited to be in office never run for office. Like most politicians, LaBeck is a sociopathic grandiose narcissist. He craves power. He thinks he’s irresistible.

When he was diagnosed with cancer—cancer that doctors told him would be fatal—he decided to drop out of life. Instead of the rat race, he chose to live in the moment, on the fringe of society, taking what he wanted, when he wanted it.

I nudge him and grab the joint out of his hands, taking a hit, inhaling like a pro. I chase it with a swig of Jack Daniel’s. “I’m an old soul, I guess.

Take whiskey. Why do some people chose Jack Daniel’s, while others choose Grand Dad or Taylor? Have they tried all three and compared the taste? Don’t make me laugh. The reality is that these three brands have different images which appeal to different kinds of people. It isn’t the whiskey they choose, it’s the image. The brand image is 90 per cent of what the distiller has to sell.

This is precisely the explanation given to the president in Dr. Strangelove for his lack of ability to send a Stop order to the planes that have been launched by the mad base commander General Jack D. Ripper.

Когда я в первый раз поехал на Статен-Айленд знакомиться с Паттиной семьей, я уже сколько-то дней болтался без сна. У меня была в руке бутылка водки или Jack Daniel’s, я думал, просто завалюсь с ней в дом, ля-ля-ля-ля, типа, не собираюсь вам врать, вот ваш будущий зять. Я, конечно, тогда сильно оборзел. Притащил с собой князя Клоссовски, Стэша. Далеко не лучшая группа поддержки, но мне нужно было их чем-то обаять, и я почему-то решил, что привести к ним домой князя – это будет идеальное прикрытие. Настоящий живой князь. А то, что он был настоящий живой говнюк, как-то меня не волновало. Мне был нужен свой человек рядом.

Having a normal hemoglobin value is primarily a matter of good nutrition and consuming foods that have iron in them. Typical normal hemoglobin values are between 12 and 18 grams per deciliter of blood (depending on age and gender). People are often considered anemic when they have hemoglobin values below 13.5 (for men) or 12 (women), and from a running performance point of view, the difference between a 12 and 13 in hemoglobin could be about 30 to 40 seconds in a 5K run. Again, it is not desirable to try driving that number up high, however.

Run. Run faster. Daniel clapped and cheered for her. She gulped in huge breaths and felt power course through her. The grass flicked up in the air as her paws sank into the turf and ripped out little tufts. She headed back toward Daniel when she saw him pull the ball out of his pocket. She pranced sideways, fighting her momentum to change direction. “You want it, girl?” Daniel

Careful. You smell like Jack Daniel's just came in your mouth,

Jack Daniels, an empty shot glass, and an empty Miller Lite bottle. Someone had been here to drown their sorrows. They drank alone,

The point being, everyone knows a celebratory redemption story, one where the person in question overcomes adversity and becomes the main character in an undeniably remarkable turnaround story. But there's nothing but ridicule for the ones who never turn things around. Like the socialite whose ex-husband was arrested on a money laundering charge and is now an outcast among her former upscale circle. Or the father who abandoned everything for his mistress and now lives an isolated existence in a run-down apartment with no mistress, ex-wife, or kids. Or the bank executive who embezzled money and lost it all only to wind up living under a forty-second street bridge with his close friend Jack Daniels. Or the beauty queen who fell victim to a botched facelift and now curses her existence behind two-inch thick, closed miniblinds. No one celebrates the fallen and discarded because no one wants to admit it could happen to them. But we're all just one misstep away from living an upside-down life while the rest of the world points out all the ways we deserve it.

You have to understand something about getting old, Jacqueline. We can’t hold on to our health. It’s impossible. But we try like mad to hold on to our dignity.

Gene-Jack Wang and colleagues at the Brookhaven National Laboratory found that treatment with Ritalin over a year increased the dopamine transporters (proteins that help clear dopamine, the neurotransmitter that helps us focus) out of the brain’s synapses, meaning that there is less dopamine to do its work. Taking the stimulant seems to increase the need for it.

The order, for completists, is WHISKEY SOUR, BLOODY MARY, RUSTY NAIL, DIRTY MARTINI, FUZZY NAVEL, CHERRY BOMB, SHAKEN, and STIRRED. She’s been the subject of many shorts (JACK DANIELS STORIES, BURNERS, FLOATERS) and has appeared as a supporting character in many of my other novels (SHOT OF TEQUILLA, THE LIST, SERIAL KILLERS UNCUT, BANANA HAMMOCK, FLEE, SPREE, THREE, TIMECASTER SUPERSYMMETRY). Due to popular demand, she’ll be back again in another novel, LAST CALL, being co-written with Blake Crouch.

Someone pour me up a double shot of whiskey They know me and Jack Daniels got a history There's a party downtown near Fifth Street Everybody at the bar gettin' tipsy Everybody at the bar gettin' tipsy Everybody at the bar gettin' tipsy

All of the elements that unlock the meaning of revelation—humility expressed in prayer, friendship with God and willingness to obey God—can be found in this chapter of Daniel [10]. The prophet was given a vision he could not understand. Instead of giving up, he “set [his] mind to gain understanding.” Then he prayed and fasted until the interpretation came. When we pray and fast, we are confessing our weakness and expressing our dependence on God. This is why the angel said that Daniel had humbled himself before God. He had a friendship with God, for he was “highly esteemed” by God (10:19). And he was willing to do whatever was required to obey and to understand the vision.

I disagree. When you die, your opinion of yourself dies with you. What matters is if you’ll be missed.

The Bogle Boys. Vanguard’s founder Jack Bogle always had a young assistant to mentor, and every year all past and present assistants would have a boozy Christmas dinner with their boss. From top left to right: Jeremy Duffield, Jim Riepe, Daniel Butler, Jan Twardowski, Duncan McFarland. From bottom left to right: Jack Brennan, Tim Buckley, Jack Bogle, Jim Norris.

She had fun-sized Butterfingers and small boxes of Sun-Maid raisins for the children, and Jack Daniel’s for their fathers, who stood behind them, red Solo cups in hand. It was an Old Village tradition: moms stayed home and gave out candy on Halloween while dads took the kids trick-or-treating. Everyone kept a bottle of something behind their front door to top off whatever the dads were drinking. The dads got progressively louder and happier as the shadows got longer and the sun went down on the Old Village.

Benedict nodded, finishing his coffee. “You look like a bowl of crap, Jack.” “That’s the poet in you, fighting to get out.

wouldn’t mind Alzheimer’s. You buy one magazine, and you’re entertained for the rest of your life.

It took a special talent to learn absolutely nothing about your job in that amount of time. I asked Sardina about it once, and her reply was jovial. “I like it here. It’s quiet. I can read magazines. Records is considered scut-work, a stepping-stone to other positions. If I did a good job, I’d be promoted out of here. So I don’t do a damn thing.” It made a warped kind of sense.

How old is this car?” McGlade asked. “It’s a model made before airbags, isn’t it?” “Just go limp at impact. It’s the same thing.

I can be a hypocrite and still be right.

The Flutesburg Village Hall looked like a low end McMansion, two floors, Tudor style, falling short of grand and landing squarely on tacky.

Can you tell if men are sexist or not?” “I don’t know I’ve ever tried to. Am I sexist?” “No,” Pasha said. “I’d call you a feminist, but not an enlightened one.” “Which means?” I asked. Jack answered, “You believe women are equals, but you don’t understand us.

Chapter FEEDING YOUR ATTENTION HOG I was once at a New Age party and wanted to get the attention of some particularly lovely sari-wearing, belly-dancing women who were floating in and out of the various rooms. I had discovered that I could move past some of my fear and make a connection with people through singing. So I pulled out my guitar and started playing a song I had worked particularly hard to polish, Fleetwood Mac’s “A Crystalline Knowledge of You.” I was able to make it through without too many mistakes and was starting to feel the relief that comes from surviving traumatic experiences. Then one of the belly-dancing goddesses called to me from across the room, “You are some kind of attention hog, aren’t you!” As soon as she said it, my life passed before me. The room started to swirl, as a typhoon of shame began to suck me down the toilet of my soul. “Embarrassment” is an inadequate word, when someone pins the tail on the jackass of what seems to be your most central core defect. I am usually scrupulous about checking with people when I make requests for attention. But this time I was caught with my hand in the cookie jar up to the elbow. I remember slinking away in silent humiliation, putting my guitar back in its case and making a beeline for my car. I just wanted to get back to my lair to lick my wounds, and try to hold my self-hate demons at bay with a little help from my friend Jack Daniels. After that incident I quit playing music in public at all. Several years later I was attending a very intense, emotional workshop with Dr. Marshall Rosenberg. Our group of about twenty people had been baring and healing our souls for several days. The atmosphere of trust, safety and connectedness had dissolved my defenses and left me with a innocent, childlike need to contribute. And then the words popped out of my mouth, “I’d like to share a song with you all.” These words were followed by the thought: “Now I’ve gone and done it. When everyone turns on me and confirms that I have an incurable narcissistic personality disorder, it will be fifty years before I sing in public again.” Dr. Rosenberg responded in a cheerful, inviting voice. “Sure, go get your guitar!” he said, as though he were unaware that I was about to commit hara-kiri. The others in the group nodded agreement. I ran to my car to get my guitar, which I kept well hidden in the trunk. I was also hoping that I would not just jump in my car and leave. I brought the guitar in, sat down, and played my song. Sweating and relieved that I made it through the song, my first public performance in years, I felt relief as I packed my guitar in its case. Then Dr. Rosenberg said, “And now I would like to hear from each group member how they felt about Kelly playing his song.” “Oh my God!” my inner jackals began to howl, “It was a setup! They made me expose my most vulnerable part and now they are going to crucify me, or maybe just take me out to the rock quarry for a well-deserved stoning!

Don’t get angry, Porky.” Harry grinned.

She ran to the bathroom and just managed to shove the door shut and drop to her knees in front of the toilet before Jack Daniel’s made an encore appearance.

You’re the total of all the choices you’ve made in your life, Jack. This is what you have because this is what you chose.

Bravery isn’t the absence of fear. It’s the ability to still function when fear overtakes you. Some people are naturally brave. Others, like me, learn to fake it. I still had no idea if faked bravery and real bravery were the same thing.

How old are you?” I hadn’t been asked this in a place of business since I was seventeen, when I tried, unsuccessfully, to buy a fifth of Jack Daniel’s at a liquor store across the highway from Mr. Grady’s gas station. It was just as unsettling to be carded at the other end of my life, for a fucking biscuit, no less, but I answered as civilly as possible. “I’m

Well, I Declare!: Jack Daniel’s Old No. 7, the South’s most famous whiskey, is distilled in a dry county. Isn’t that just so Southern--a little bit of piety hides a whole lot of sin.

A Southern Vegetarian’s Story By Erin Stewart, Alabama Grits It wasn’t easy being a vegetarian in Huntsville, Alabama, but I managed it throughout my high school years. At least I thought I did. I remember one trip with my parents that threw everything into doubt. It was a Saturday, and we had reservations at Miss Mary Bobo’s, the famous restaurant in Lynchburg, Tennessee, the home of Jack Daniel’s whiskey. Miss MaryBobo’s is known for serving at least one item cooked in Jack Daniel’s at every meal: this time it was the apples. What really interested me, though, was the greens. I think they were mustard greens. I was just eating my third bite when a large man next to me turned to our hostess, who was watching us all eat at one communal table, and said, “Miss Mary Bobo, these are the best greens I’ve ever had. What’s your secret?” Without a second thought, she replied, “Why, real lard, of course.” I must confess: I took one more bite before I put my fork down! (Don’t tell anyone!) To this day, those are some of the best greens I’ve ever tasted.

Human beings are incapable of making big decisions when they are being crippled by numerous little decisions. It was why people stayed employed at soul-crushing jobs, because they only had to handle it on a day by day basis, rather than think of it as a forty year wasted chunk of their lives. I

I bent over to give my hair another shake, and glanced at my boots, along with the several dozen roaches climbing up them. Then I felt them inside the boots, between the suede and the naked skin of my calves. I

Midway upon the journey of our life I found myself within a forest dark, For the straightforward pathway had been lost.” DANTE ALIGHIERI, The Divine Comedy

A good thriller should have a captivating beginning, an engrossing middle and a dynamic ending. A great book would have all three but tell a story that sets the reader on edge as he or she listens to the heartbeat of the writer. © 2018, Danny Kemp All rights reserved.

Man, no wonder Kat left you. You smell, your hair is knotted, and you haven't shaved in how many days? Forget fighting the gallu. One whiff of you would kill them." He looked at Kish as he stood up. "Don't strike a match. The alcohol fumes alone would send him up like a Roman candle." "Shut up," Sin snarled as he got up and grabbed the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel's off the coffee table. He headed for his bedroom so that he wouldn't have to put up with their nagging anymore. At least that was the plan, but the walls were so thin, he couldn't help but overhear them. "When was the last time he changed those clothes?" Damien asked. "I think it was the last time he bathed ... the day Kat left." Sin heard the sound of glasses clinking together. Damien cursed. "How much shit is he drinking?" "Let me put it to you this way ... I restock the cabinet twice a day now." "Damn, how can he fight the demons and be that wasted?" "I think you were right earlier. He strikes a match and breathes at them. Like a human blowtorch.

Daniel and the Pelican As I drove home from work one afternoon, the cars ahead of me were swerving to miss something not often seen in the middle of a six-lane highway: a great big pelican. After an eighteen-wheeler nearly ran him over, it was clear the pelican wasn’t planning to move any time soon. And if he didn’t, the remainder of his life could be clocked with an egg timer. I parked my car and slowly approached him. The bird wasn’t the least bit afraid of me, and the drivers who honked their horns and yelled at us as they sped by didn’t impress him either. Stomping my feet, I waved my arms and shouted to get him into the lake next to the road, all the while trying to direct traffic. “C’mon beat it, Big Guy, before you get hurt!” After a brief pause, he cooperatively waddled to the curb and slid down to the water’s edge. Problem solved. Or so I thought. The minute I walked away he was back on the road, resulting in another round of honking, squealing tires and smoking brakes. So I tried again. “Shoo, for crying out loud!” The bird blinked, first one eye then the other, and with a little sigh placated me by returning to the lake. Of course when I started for my car it was instant replay. After two more unsuccessful attempts, I was at my wits’ end. Cell phones were practically non-existent back then, and the nearest pay phone was about a mile away. I wasn’t about to abandon the hapless creature and run for help. He probably wouldn’t be alive when I returned. So there we stood, on the curb, like a couple of folks waiting at a bus stop. While he nonchalantly preened his feathers, I prayed for a miracle. Suddenly a shiny red pickup truck pulled up, and a man hopped out. “Would you like a hand?” I’m seldom at a loss for words, but one look at the very tall newcomer rendered me tongue-tied and unable to do anything but nod. He was the most striking man I’d ever seen--smoky black hair, muscular with tanned skin, and a tender smile flanked by dimples deep enough to drill for oil. His eyes were hypnotic, crystal clear and Caribbean blue. He was almost too beautiful to be real. The embroidered name on his denim work shirt said “Daniel.” “I’m on my way out to the Seabird Sanctuary, and I’d be glad to take him with me. I have a big cage in the back of my truck,” the man offered. Oh my goodness. “Do you volunteer at the Sanctuary?” I croaked, struggling to regain my powers of speech. “Yes, every now and then.” In my wildest dreams, I couldn’t have imagined a more perfect solution to my dilemma. The bird was going to be saved by a knowledgeable expert with movie star looks, who happened to have a pelican-sized cage with him and was on his way to the Seabird Sanctuary.

Daniel and the Pelican So there we stood, on the curb, like a couple of folks waiting at a bus stop. While he nonchalantly preened his feathers, I prayed for a miracle. Suddenly a shiny red pickup truck pulled up, and a man hopped out. “Would you like a hand?” I’m seldom at a loss for words, but one look at the very tall newcomer rendered me tongue-tied and unable to do anything but nod. He was the most striking man I’d ever seen--smoky black hair, muscular with tanned skin, and a tender smile flanked by dimples deep enough to drill for oil. His eyes were hypnotic, crystal clear and Caribbean blue. He was almost too beautiful to be real. The embroidered name on his denim work shirt said “Daniel.” “I’m on my way out to the Seabird Sanctuary, and I’d be glad to take him with me. I have a big cage in the back of my truck,” the man offered. Oh my goodness. “Do you volunteer at the Sanctuary?” I croaked, struggling to regain my powers of speech. “Yes, every now and then.” In my wildest dreams, I couldn’t have imagined a more perfect solution to my dilemma. The bird was going to be saved by a knowledgeable expert with movie star looks, who happened to have a pelican-sized cage with him and was on his way to the Seabird Sanctuary. As I watched Daniel prepare for his passenger, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I knew him from somewhere. “Have we ever met before?” I asked. “No I don’t think so,” was his reply, smiling again with warmth that would melt glaciers. I held my breath as the man crept toward the pelican. Their eyes met, and the bird meekly allowed Daniel to drape a towel over his face and place him in the cage. There was no struggle, no flapping wings and not one peep of protest--just calm. “Yes!” I shrieked with excitement when the door was latched. What had seemed a no-win situation was no longer hopeless. The pelican was finally safe. Before they drove away, I thanked my fellow rescuer for his help. “It was my pleasure, Michelle.” And he was gone. Wait a minute. How did he know my name? We didn’t introduce ourselves. I only knew his name because of his shirt. Later when I called the Sanctuary to check on the pelican, I asked if I might speak with Daniel. No one had ever heard of him.

Jack Daniels. Damn, she broke out the good stuff for him.

Christmases after his death were usually as unpredictable as they were untenable. It depended on how early in the day—or the evening before—her mother decided to start the festivities and who the guests would be—Jim Beam, José Cuervo or Jack Daniel. If the year had been especially successful, Johnnie Walker might replace all the others.