Joe Walsh Quotes

Because when you hurt, I hurt. When you burn, I go down in flames with you. We’re entwined, Joe. We’re mirrors. Don’t you get that by now?

I said no, Aoife." "You can't tell me what to do, Joe," I growled, feeling a combination of drunk and dizzy. "You don't own me." "Well, that's bad fucking luck on my account, because you sure as shit own me!" Drunk or not, his words hit me like a wrecking ball to the chest. Feeling the air whoosh from my lungs, I glared up at him, feeling a torrent of emotions crashing through me. "Why would you say that to me?" "Because it's the truth." "Since when?" "Since I was twelve.

I can't complain, But sometimes I still do.

All flowers bloom, Joe, even the late ones. And sometimes, it's the late blooming flower that makes the biggest impact.

You know, there’s a philosopher who says, “As you live your life, it appears to be anarchy and chaos, and random events, non-related events, smashing into each other and causing this situation or that situation, and then, this happens, and it’s overwhelming, and it just looks like what in the world is going on ? And later, when you look back at it, it looks like a finely crafted novel. But at the time, it don’t.

excuses are like faces everyone has one

You want a future with me, Joe?” “I know that I don’t want one without you, Molloy,” I replied, leaning in to brush my lips against hers. “So that narrows shit down, doesn’t it?

You can’t tell me what to do, Joe,” I growled, feeling a combination of drunk and dizzy. “You don’t own me.” “Well, that’s bad fucking luck on my account, because you sure as shit own me!

Hey, Joe?" "Yeah?" "Can you do me a favor?" He tipped his chin up, letting me know he was listening. "Please don’t do to me what Darren did to us." Folding my hands under my cheek, I whispered, "Don’t leave me." "I won't," my brother vowed, tone laced with grit and sincerity. "I won't ever leave you here with him." I breathed out

It’s so scary, Joe.” Tadhg sniffled, appearing from beneath my quilt on the top bunk. “What if he’s hurting Mammy again?

This is my world. It’s fucking horrible, but I’m willing to show you, if you’re willing to stay.” “Always, Joe,” I whispered, wrapping my arms around his waist. “Always.

Queen. So, do you have a name, boy-who-can-think-for-himself? You're my favorite friend, with my favorite everything. If I had a packet of Rolos right now, I'd give you my last one. Don't worry, Peter Pan. I'll be your Wendy. It's okay. Just concentrate on us. I love you, Joey Lynch. Ride or die, Joe.

Yeah, yeah, be frank.” “Joseph, may I be frank?” “Be whoever the fuck you want, Doc. I’m not your keeper,” I mumbled, enjoying the feel of Molloy’s fingers in my hair so much, I leaned in closer and rested my chin on her shoulder. “You be Frank and I’ll be Joey.” “No, Joe, he meant… Never mind. Go ahead, Doctor.” “In cases like Joseph’s—” “Joey,” I grumbled. “It’s Joey, Frank.

He turned to me and gestured to the girl. “Joe, this is Caoimhe Young. You were probably too young to remember her in primary school, but her little sister is friends with Shannon.

We’re going to make it, Joe,

Joe’s the only parent I remember having, so trust me when I tell you that your kid…” He paused to gesture to my stomach before adding, “Is going to have one hell of a father.

Everyone is looking at Shannon and I get it, I do, but what about Joe?

P.S: Don’t stop trying, Joe.

All flowers bloom, Joe, even the late ones,” I told him. “And sometimes, it’s the late blooming flower that makes the biggest impact.

She laughed, reaching up to pat my cheek. “And just so you know, Joe…” She leaned in close and pressed a kiss to my cheek. “You’re my favorite friend, with my favorite everything.” Well, shit.

See, that’s a huge part of our problem right there, Joe, because I’ve never needed your protection,” I croaked out. “I’m not your mother or your sister. I’m not another girl who needs something from you. I’m the girl who wholeheartedly wants you. I’m the girl who wholeheartedly loves you. The hurler. The mechanic. The boy. The protector. The asshole. The lover. The addict.” Sniffling, I added, “All of your versions. All of your shapes and colors. I accept them all. So, I don’t care how fucked up in the head you get, or how bad of an idea you decide you are for me. If you can’t be with me, warts and all, then walk away now, because I won’t go through this again with you.

Over And Over" Over and over just as plain as can be Taken for granted, out in the open, easy to see Taking my chances, I'm counting my shoes I'm playing a game, making it easy, counting in two's By the time you get started, you're already through Just a matter of time till it shows Like reading the headlines, yesterday's news Over and over That's how it goes, or haven't you heard Talking so fast, only at the same time Searching for words It's all about the same thing underneath the disguise Just like they say If you're looking for answers open your eyes And sooner or later, it's easy to see Just a matter of time till it shows Like keeping a secret everyone knows Over and Over Over and Over. Joe Walsh, But Seriously Folks...

(The neighborhood) Parents are afraid to let their children play outside… parents are afraid to let their children go to school; why? Because the higher authority does not protect them and the kids are becoming nothing but hell raisers. So, we want the computers to become the teachers for the children, and the PlayStation's to be the main form of entertainment… Just look around, Joe Walsh he tells it like it is saying quote- ‘Violence and murder is rated PG, too bad for the children they are what they see!’ On the other hand, it all could be that they are afraid of me, and what they think I will do to them; I do not know- do you? The parents in ‘The Land of Many Steeples’ are getting welfare, and have ten different boyfriends or girlfriends a night to satisfy their needs. Then they just keep popping out kids. Yap and it is our tax dollars, which pays for it all.

You can’t tell me what to do, Joe,” I growled, feeling a combination of drunk and dizzy. “You don’t own me.” “Well, that’s bad fucking luck on my account, because you sure as shit own me!” Drunk or not, his words hit me like a wrecking ball to the chest. Feeling the air whoosh from my lungs, I glared up at him, feeling a torrent of emotions crashing through me. “Why would you say that to me?” “Because it’s the truth.” “Since when?” “Since I was twelve.

The RNC was easy for Trump to corrupt to his will, because it had already been corrupted with voter suppression, Frank Luntz messaging, the Hastert Rule, the selling of Sarah Palin, telling different lies to different voters just to gain their support, Mitch McConnell's theft of the supreme court (assisted by those justices prevaricating at their senate hearings), to name just a few. And how about the New York Times, and all those journalists country-wide who cared more about appearing "fair and balanced" than exposing lies and corruption? We watched them not know how to handle the vilification of facts, but that, too, started before Trump (think Joe Walsh calling out "You lie!" during Obama's State of the Union, when Obama was stating facts. They reported the lack of decorum, but not the lack of veracity.) Now we watch the legal system--and its avenues for motions and appeals before, during, and after conviction--be abused and corrupted by Trump's legal team, with an assist from judges who don't even try too hard to hide their partiality. We need those who participated whose eyes have now cleared to be as forthcoming as Michael Cohen has been in exposing how and why the deeds were done, and owning their culpability. They need to come clean, to help us find ways to strengthen the frayed and fraying institutions that are barely holding together. It may be the only way through.

Kushner’s preferred outlet was Joe Scarborough and Mika Brzezinski’s Morning Joe, one of the president’s certain morning shows. Bannon’s first port of call was the alt-right media (“Bannon’s Breitbart shenanigans,” in Walsh’s view). By the end of the first month in the White House, Bannon and Kushner had each built a network of primary outlets, as well as secondary ones to deflect from the obviousness of the primary ones, creating a White House that simultaneously displayed extreme animosity toward the press and yet great willingness to leak to it. In this, at least, Trump’s administration was achieving a landmark transparency.

Early on, before getting down to attacking each other, Bannon and Kushner were united in their separate offensives against Priebus. Kushner’s preferred outlet was Joe Scarborough and Mika Brzezinski’s Morning Joe, one of the president’s certain morning shows. Bannon’s first port of call was the alt-right media (“Bannon’s Breitbart shenanigans,” in Walsh’s view). By the end of the first month in the White House, Bannon and Kushner had each built a network of primary outlets, as well as secondary ones to deflect from the obviousness of the primary ones, creating a White House that simultaneously displayed extreme animosity toward the press and yet great willingness to leak to it. In this, at least, Trump’s administration was achieving a landmark transparency. The constant leaking was often blamed on lower minions and permanent executive branch staff, culminating in late February with an all-hands meeting of staffers called by Sean Spicer—cell phones surrendered at the door—during which the press secretary issued threats of random phone checks and admonitions about the use of encrypted texting apps.

I always win, Joe.

The 49ers didn’t have a first-round pick—it had been traded years earlier to the Bills in the O.J. Simpson trade—and Walsh was hoping to take Simms at the top of the second round. But the Giants took Simms seventh overall, and Walsh had to settle for Joe Montana with the last pick in the third round.

Grebner shuffled warily to his feet. Pike turned him around, tied off his hands, then pushed him back to the floor. Grebner squinted at Pike, trying to read him, but saw only the mirrored surface of Pike’s sunglasses—blue bug eyes in an expressionless face. Pike knew Grebner would find this unnerving. Like Walsh when she had him at Parker Center, he was psyching the edge.

Walsh wet her lips again, and her jaw flexed. As if there was too much information to process, and the swell was lifting her too high and too fast to catch her breath. She finally nodded. “Okay. I’m listening.

WALSH AND FOUR AGENTS from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms arrived at Cole’s house an hour later. Two stayed with their cars, but two male agents came in with Walsh—a tough-looking Latin guy named Paul Rodriguez and a tall lanky guy named Steve Hurwitz. Hurwitz was wearing an olive green Special Response Team jumpsuit. SRT was the ATF’s version of SWAT. They spread through Cole’s living room with an air of watchful suspicion, as if someone might jump out of a closet. Jon Stone had brought in a large box of his surveillance gear, and Cole was helping him set up. Cole was shirtless, but had strapped on a bullet-resistant vest. Pike couldn’t blame them for being wary, especially with the cash. Seven

Seven hundred fifty thousand dollars in cash didn’t take up much room. It could be packed in four shoe boxes, and fit in a single grocery bag. Walsh carried the money in a gym bag slung over her shoulder. The bag was smaller than Pike thought, but he could see the weight in her walk. She

Stone held up something that looked like the GPS locator he removed from Pike’s Jeep. “Remember this?” Walsh reddened as Stone went on. “It’s not yours. We canned the one you put on his Jeep. This one’s mine. White-burst digital ceramic, no RF, will not show on airport scanners or wands. It’s better than yours.” The

Walsh looked at Cole. “Both of you?” Pike said, “He’s going to have people. It’ll look better if I have people, too.” Cole pointed at himself. “I’m his people.” Pike went on with it. “He thinks we’re meeting to pick up the money. The real reason is to give him this.” Stone showed them a handheld GPS locator.

They spent the next hour going over their plan and setting up their equipment. Stone loaded his software onto Carlos’s laptop, then fit locators on Pike and Cole, one in Cole’s hair, and the other on the back of Pike’s belt buckle. Both Walsh and Hurwitz made multiple calls, coordinating the tactical SRT team and six additional Special Agents. At

WALSH AND FOUR AGENTS from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms arrived at Cole’s house an hour later. Two stayed with their cars, but two male agents came in with Walsh—a tough-looking Latin guy named Paul Rodriguez and a tall lanky guy named Steve Hurwitz. Hurwitz was wearing an olive green Special Response Team jumpsuit. SRT was the ATF’s version of SWAT. They spread through Cole’s living room with an air of watchful suspicion, as if someone might jump out of a closet. Jon Stone had brought in a large box of his surveillance gear, and Cole was helping him set up. Cole was shirtless, but had strapped on a bullet-resistant vest. Pike couldn’t blame them for being wary, especially with the cash.

It’s me. Where’s Rina?” “With Yanni. I brought her back after our tour.” “Do me a favor, and go get them. The ATF knows I was at their building, and suspects I was seeing a source. They want the source.” Cole made a soft whistle. “How do you know?” “I just spent three hours with them.” Pike sketched out what he found at Willowbrook, what happened when Walsh had him picked up, and the information she gave him about Darko.

Terrio and Deets left without a word. The chief followed them, and the woman Pike had seen in the backseat of Terrio’s car on the day they told him about Frank entered and closed the door. Blue blazer over a white shirt. Dark gray slacks. An angry slash for a mouth. She studied Pike as if he were a lab specimen, then glanced up at the camera, hanging patiently from the ceiling. She went to the camera, unplugged it, then turned back to Pike. She held up a federal badge. “Kelly Walsh. I’m with the ATF. Do you remember me?” Pike nodded. “Good. Now that we’ve met, you’re going to do exactly what I say.” As if she had no doubt it was so. Part Three It’s Personal

KELLY WALSH STOOD twelve inches from the table, close enough so he was forced to look up, but not so close as to touch the table. Pike recognized this as a controlling technique. By assuming a superior position she hoped to create a sense of authority. Like unplugging the camera. She was demonstrating she had the power to do as she wished, even at Parker Center. Pike

successful and based on Sunset Strip. I’ve talked to guys since like Joe Walsh of the Eagles and many other white musicians about what they listened to when they were growing up, and it was all very provincial and narrow and depended on the local, usually white, FM radio station. Bobby Keys reckons he can tell where someone came from by their musical tastes. Joe Walsh heard us play when he was at high school, and he’s told me that it had a huge effect on him simply because nobody he knew had ever heard anything like that because there wasn’t anything. He was listening to doo-wop and that was about it. He had never heard Muddy Waters. Amazingly, he was first exposed to the blues, he said, by hearing us. He also decided there and then that the minstrel’s life was for him, and now you can’t go into any diner without hearing him weaving that guitar of his on “Hotel California.

All flowers bloom, Joe, even the late ones. And sometimes, its the late blooming flower that makes the biggest impact.

Forget it, Jake. It's Chinatown.

The moment Detective Joe Matthews lied about interviewing every single witness that was still alive, everything he did after that has become tainted

The moment Detective Joe Matthews lied about interviewing every single witness that was still alive, everything he did after that has become tainted.

And I know being loved is a foreign concept to you, but it doesn’t come with strings or conditions. It’s unconditional, Joe.

What John Ayers was doing seemed routine. But to the few who knew, and watched, it was a thing of beauty. The ball is snapped and John Ayers sees Taylor coming, and slides quickly back one step and to his left. And as he slides, he steps to meet his future. He’s stepping into 1985, when the turf will be fast and he won’t be able to deal with Lawrence Taylor…. Another quick step, back and left, and it’s 1986, and he’s injured and on the sidelines when the Giants send Joe Montana to the hospital and the 49ers home on the way to their own Super Bowl victory…. A third quick step and he crouches like one power forward denying another access to the hoop. But now it’s 1987 and Coach Bill Walsh is advising John Ayers to retire. Ayers ignores the advice and then learns that Walsh won’t invite him back to training camp…. He takes his final quick step back and left and times his blow, to stop dead in his tracks the most terrifying force ever launched at an NFL quarterback. “I don’t think I’ve ever played against a football player who had more drive and intensity to get to the quarterback,” John Ayers will say, after it’s all over, and he’s been given the game ball by his teammates. “It was almost like he was possessed.”…But now it’s 1995, and John Ayers has just died of cancer, at forty-two, and left behind a wife and two children. Joe Montana charters a plane to fly a dozen teammates to Amarillo, Texas, to serve as pall-bearers. At the funeral of John Ayers the letter of tribute from Bill Walsh is read aloud.

A line from the Joe Walsh song reverberated in my head. ‘ “Nature loves her little surprises,” ’ I said. Piper snorted. ‘She sure does.’ I stared at the rows of Caligula’s outfits – everything from wedding gowns to Armani suits to gladiator armour. ‘It’s been my observation,’ I said, ‘that you humans are more than the sum of your history. You can choose how much of your ancestry to embrace. You can overcome the expectations of your family and your society . What you cannot do, and should never do, is try to be someone other than yourself – Piper McLean.’ She gave me a wry smile. ‘That’s nice. I like that. You’re sure you’re not the god of wisdom?’ ‘I applied for the job,’ I said, ‘but they gave it to someone else. Something about inventing olives.’ I rolled my eyes.

I can't complain but sometimes I still do";

You hate me.” “No.” “You’re mad at me.” “Yes.” “You want to scream at me.” “Because I—” Stopping short before I blew a gasket, I released a furious growl and tried to regain some control before speaking again. “I’m not turning my back on you, Molloy.” “Prove it.” “How?” “Give me a hug.” “Molloy.” “Hug me, Joe.

So, you like the color yellow?” “It recently became my favorite.” “Is that so?” “That’s so, Molloy.” “My favorite color is yellow, too.” “It’s a good color on you.” “I look even better when I take it off.” Feeling mischievous, I purred, “You’re so sure of us being incompatible, but I wonder if that might change if I sat on your lap. Hmm? Do you think we’d find common ground there, Joe?” “Why don’t you take a seat, and we’ll find out.” “Wh-what?” Thrown off-kilter by his flirtatious attack, I frowned at him. “What are you doing?” “What are you doing?” “You’re flirting with me.” “You’re flirting with me.” “So?” I scoffed. “I always flirt with you.” He grinned. “Well, maybe I’ve decided to change tactics.” “By flirting?” “Well.” He shrugged. “Being an asshole doesn’t seem to be working in my favor, does it?” “But you’re so good at being an asshole.” “Come closer and I’ll show you how good I can be in other ways.” “Okay, now you’re freaking me out,” I choked, springing away from him. “Stop this right now and give me back my asshole.” Laughing, Joey wheeled himself back under the car. “You lost that round, Molloy.” “I didn’t lose,” I huffed. “You changed the rules.” “Yeah, yeah,” he called out from under the car. “Go and buy your shoes, princess.