Johnny Cash Quotes

All your life, you will be faced with a choice. You can choose love or hate…I choose love.

I wore black because I liked it. I still do, and wearing it still means something to me. It's still my symbol of rebellion -- against a stagnant status quo, against our hypocritical houses of God, against people whose minds are closed to others' ideas.

You build on failure. You use it as a stepping stone. Close the door on the past. You don't try to forget the mistakes, but you don't dwell on it. You don't let it have any of your energy, or any of your time, or any of your space.

My arms are too short to box with God.

There's a lot of things blamed on me that never happened. But then, there's a lot of things that I did that I never got caught at.

Music is storming, driving, relentless, devotional, slinky, subtle, heartbreakingly-beautiful sounds that, lyrically, switch from the cynical to the sanguine, the defeated to the defiant, dealing in love, war, beauty, children, romance, rejection, Pethedine, poetry, panties, God, Auden, Johnny Cash, cold potatoes, too-much-money, not enough money, writer’s block, flowers, animals and more flowers. But maybe I’m projecting here.

Flesh and blood needs flesh and blood, and you're the one I need

it's good to know who hates you and it is good to be hated by the right people

The beast in me Is caged by frail and fragile bars.

There's unconditional love there. You hear that phrase a lot but it's real with me and her [June Carter]. She loves me in spite of everything, in spite of myself. She has saved my life more than once. She's always been there with her love, and it has certainly made me forget the pain for a long time, many times. When it gets dark and everybody's gone home and the lights are turned off, it's just me and her.

You're so heavenly minded, you're no earthly good.

There's no way around grief and loss: you can dodge all you want, but sooner or later you just have to go into it, through it, and, hopefully, come out the other side. The world you find there will never be the same as the world you left.

Beneath the stains of time the feeling disappears, you are someone else I am still right here.

Sometimes I am two people. Johnny is the nice one. Cash causes all the trouble. They fight.

You're nothing like your sister," he tells me. "She meant a lot to me, okay? It's true. But the things I like about you have nothing to do with her. You - you are so strong and stubborn it drives me crazy. You're the one going through all this and you still put Laney first every time, instead of throwing yourself the pity party we both know you deserve. You call me out on my shit, and I like that, because sometimes I need someone to call me out on my shit. And you get Johnny Cash, and you take these incredible photos, and everything about you makes me hurt, in a good way, and it blows my mind that someone can be so amazing and not even see it.

I shot a man in Reno just to watch him die.

I'm not bitter. Why should I be bitter? I'm thrilled to death with life.

You will always be my June, Tru." "And you're my Johnny Cash, Jake.

You build on failure. You use it as a stepping sone. Close the door on the past. You don't try to forget the mistakes, but you don't dwell on it. You don't let it have any of your energy, or any of your time, or any of your space.

I wear the black for the poor and the beaten down, Livin' in the hopeless, hungry side of town, I wear it for the prisoner who has long paid for his crime, But is there because he's a victim of the times. I wear the black for those who never read

Everybody was wearing rhinestones, all those sparkly clothes, and cowboy boots. I decided to wear a black shirt and pants and see if I could get by with it. I did and I've worn black clothes ever since.

I keep a close watch on this heart of mine I keep my eyes wide open all the time I keep the ends out for the tie that binds Because you're mine, I walk the line.

They're powerful, those songs. At times they've been my only way back, the only door out of the dark, bad places the black dog calls home.

This morning, with her, having coffee

Here is the easiest way to explain the genius of Johnny Cash: Singing from the perspective of a convicted muderer in the song "Folsom Prison Blues,: Cash is struck by pangs of regret when he sits in his cell and hears a distant train whistle. This is because people on that train are "probably drinkin' coffee." And this is also why Cash seems completely credible as a felon: He doesn't want freedom or friendship or Jesus or a new lawyer. He wants coffee. Within the mind of a killer, complex feeling are eerily simple. This is why killers can shoot men in Reno just to watch them die, and the rest of us usually can't.

Despite his last name, I’ll bet Johnny Cash never had an inflated ego, or needed a wheelbarrow full of last name to go shopping.

I love songs about horses, railroads, land, Judgment Day, family, hard times, whiskey, courtship, marriage, adultery, separation, murder, war, prison, rambling, damnation, home, salvation, death, pride, humor, piety, rebellion, patriotism, larceny, determination, tragedy, rowdiness, heartbreak and love. And Mother. And God.

Most of the time when I have met artists who have meant a lot to me, the experience has been well above expectation. People like Iggy, Lou Reed, Jerry Lee Lewis, Black Sabbath, Nick Cave, Hubert Selby Jr, Billy Gibbons, Al Pacino, John Lee Hooker, James Brown, Johnny Cash etc. have been really great to me. What strikes me is most of the time, the bigger the celeb/legend, the more polite and cool they are. It's the insecure ones who treat you like they're doing you a favor by shaking your hand.

So I simply don't buy the concept of "Generation X" as the "lost generation." I see too many good kids out there, kids who are ready and willing to do the right thing, just as Jack was. Their distractions are greater, though. There's no more simple life with simple choices for the young.

I Walk the Line

I took the easy way, and to an extent I regret that. Still, though, the way we did it was honest. We played it and sang it the way we felt it, and there's a lot to be said for that.

I’m not the smartest guy in the world, but I’m certainly not the dumbest. I mean, I’ve read books like "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" and "Love in the Time of Cholera", and I think I’ve understood them. They’re about girls, right? Just kidding. But I have to say my all-time favorite book is Johnny Cash’s autobiography "Cash" by Johnny Cash.

Backstage at the Grand Ole Opry, I got on my knees and told her that I was going to marry her some day. We were both married to someone else at the time. ‘Ring Of Fire’—June and Merle Kilgore wrote that song for me-that’s the way our love affair was. We fell madly in love and we worked together all the time, toured together all the time, and when the tour was over we both had to go home to other people. It hurt.

Six foot six he stood on the ground He weighed two hundred and thirty-five pounds But I saw that giant of a man brought down To his knees by love

How well I have learned that there is no fence to sit on between heaven and hell. —Johnny Cash

I wish that in order to secure his party’s nomination, a presidential candidate would be required to point at the sky and name all the stars; have the periodic table of the elements memorized; rattle off the kings and queens of Spain; define the significance of the Gatling gun; joke around in Latin; interpret the symbolism in seventeenth-century Dutch painting; explain photosynthesis to a six-year-old; recite Emily Dickenson; bake a perfect popover; build a shortwave radio out of a coconut; and know all the words to Hoagy Carmichael’s “Two Sleepy People”, Johnny Cash’s “Five Feet High and Rising”, and “You Got the Silver” by the Rolling Stones...What we need is a president who is at least twelve kinds of nerd, a nerd messiah to come along every four years, acquire the Secret Service code name Poindexter, install a Revenge of the Nerds screen saver on the Oval Office computer, and one by one decrypt our woes.

The beer and the wurst were wonderful, but I was dying to be back in the South, where the livin' was easy, where the fish were jumpin', where the cotton grew high.

However, neither he nor anyone else could have become the star Elvis was. Ain't nobody like Elvis. Never was.

Johnny Cash had all of the same talents and problems as Elvis - a poor upbringing in the rural South exposure to gospel music throughout his childhood a penchant for drug abuse...they had the same sort of influencing experiences but Johnny' Cash's problematic relationship was with his father not his mother. If he had had the mommy issues that Elvis had instead of a compelling need to prove himself to his father, he wouldn't have been the badass man in black, the guy in Folsom Prison watching the train roll by. Elvis was a lot of things but even with the karate and the gunplay he was more unstable than badass.

I love weather. I'm a connoisseur of weather. Wherever my travels take me, the first thing I do is turn on the weather channel and see what's going on, what's coming. I like to know about regional weather patterns, how storms are created in different altitudes, what kinds of clouds are forming or dissipating or blowing through, where the winds are coming from, where they've been. That's not a passion everybody shares, I know, but I don't believe there are any people on earth who, properly sheltered, don't feel the peace inside a summer rain and the cleansing it brings, the renewal of the earth in its aftermath.

I have tried drugs and a little of everything else, and there iss nothing in the world more soul-satisfying than having the kingdom of God building inside you and growing.

Johnny Cash singing, “We are the shepherds, we walked ’cross the mountains. We left our flocks when the new star appeared.

Success is having to worry about every damn thing in the world, except money.

I don't have Paul's calling - I'm not out there being all things to all men to win them for Christ - but sometimes I can be a signpost. Sometimes I can sow a seed. And post-hole diggers and seed sowers are mighty important in the building of the Kingdom.

And I'd be dead , but by God's grace Drive on, don't mean nothin' My children love me, but they don't understand And I got a woman who knows her man Drive on, don't mean nothin', drive on

This business I'm in is different. It's special. The people around me feel like brothers and sisters. We hardly know each other, but we're that close; somehow there's been an immediate bonding between total strangers. We share each other's triumphs, and when one of us gets hurt, we all bleed - it's corny, I know, but it's true. I've never experienced anything like this before. It's great. It turns up the heat in life.

I wish it were different. I wish that we privileged knowledge in politicians, that the ones who know things didn't have to hide it behind brown pants, and that the know-not-enoughs were laughed all the way to the Maine border on their first New Hampshire meet and greet. I wish that in order to secure his party's nomination, a presidential candidate would be required to point at the sky and name all the stars; have the periodic table of the elements memorized; rattle off the kings and queens of Spain; define the significance of the Gatling gun; joke around in Latin; interpret the symbolism in seventeenth-century Dutch painting; explain photosynthesis to a six-year-old; recite Emily Dickinson; bake a perfect popover; build a shortwave radio out of a coconut; and know all the words to Hoagy Carmichael's "Two Sleepy People," Johnny Cash's "Five Feet High and Rising," and "You Got the Silver" by the Rolling Stones. After all, the United States is the greatest country on earth dealing with the most complicated problems in the history of the world--poverty, pollution, justice, Jerusalem. What we need is a president who is at least twelve kinds of nerd, a nerd messiah to come along every four years, acquire the Secret Service code name Poindexter, install a Revenge of the Nerds screen saver on the Oval Office computer, and one by one decrypt our woes.

You can choose love or hate…I choose love.

Trust gets you killed. Love gets you hurt. And being real gets you hated.

I could enjoy the simple life with a small living quarters, a scratched album of Johnny Cash and a Box of Twinkies

Johnny Cash, God’s Gonna Cut You Down,” he says. I can’t help it; I look up at Ike and smirk. “What? You’re not a Cash fan?” He gives me a sad look. “I am,” I whisper. “What?” he groans. “Beautiful and fantastic taste in music! Where were you when I was alive?

True love is many things and can survive the strongest and most painful of times. When love comes out the other side of a fire, it may be scarred forever, but this bruised love is somehow only greater for having survived the pain.

meander, v. "...because when it all comes down to it, there's no such thing as a two-hit wonder. So it's better just to have that one song that everyone knows, instead of diluting it with a follow-up that only half succeeds. I mean, who really cares what Soft Cell's next single was, as long as we have 'Tainted Love'?" I stop. You're still listening. "Wait," I say. "What was I talking about? How did we get to 'Tainted Love'?" "Let's see," you say, "I believe we started roughly at the Democratic gains in the South, then jumped back to the election of 1948, dipping briefly into northern constructions of the South, vis-a-vis Steel Magnolias, Birth of a Nation, Johnny Cash, and Fried Green Tomatoes. Which landed you on To Kill a Mockingbird, and how it is both Southern and universal, which -- correct me if I'm wrong -- got us to Harper Lee and her lack of a follow-up novel, intersected with the theory, probably wrong, that Truman Capote wrote the novel, then hopping over to literary one-hit wonders, and using musical one-hit wonders to make a point about their special place in our culture. I think." "Thank you," I say. "That's wonderful.

If this were a movie I'd be the bad guy.

It’s good to know who hates you, and it’s good to be hated by the right people.

You build on failure. You use it as a stepping stone.

Solara: You know, you say you've been walking for thirty years, right? Eli: Right? Solara: Have you ever thought that maybe you were lost? Eli: Nope. Solara: Well, how do you know that you're walking in the right direction? Eli: I walk by faith, not by sight. Solara: [sighs] What does that mean? Eli: It means that you know something even if you don't know something. Solara: That doesn't make any sense. Eli: It doesn't have to make sense. It's faith, it's faith. It's the flower of light in the field of darkness that's giving me the strength to carry on. You understand? Solara: Is that from your book? Eli: No, it's, uh, Johnny Cash, Live at Folsom Prison.

The only bit I have pictured in any detail is the music (maybe 'The Book of Love' by the Magnetic Fields. Or Johnny Cash's 'It Ain't Me, Babe'). It doesn't matter if the selection is slow or fast, but couples shouldn't scramble to select it. If you have ever gone dancing or on a road trip or had a romantic bout of serenaded sex on a winter night, you should have a few to pick from. If not, you probably shouldn't be getting married.

The only really frightening thing about Cinnamon Hill belongs in the realm of the living and serves to remind me that some of them-just a few of them, a tiny minority-are much more dangerous than all the dead put together.

Hardin wouldn't run.

Cash said he was someone “made up of bad parts but was trying to do good.

Let me tell you, Mr. teacher when you say you'll make me right, in five hundred years of fighting not one Indian turned white

Johnny Cash and existential philosophy, they both probe the human soul to see what’s inside, and unhappy with their findings, they both leave it open!

Eddie Money and Johnny Cash should have collaborated. I’d have paid good last name to see them in concert.

Since he’d shared, I felt compelled to give him something. “‘Hurt’.” He nodded. “The original Johnny Cash or Nine Inch Nails?” I smiled. “Johnny. Always.

Johnny Cash isn’t king. Not in this inflationary economy. He should have called himself Johnny Gold, but that sounds too full of usury. But Johnny Duckeggs, now THAT sounds kingly.

Well you may throw your rock and hide your hand Workin' in the dark against your fellow man But as sure as God made black and white What's down in the dark will be brought to the light

The radio has a CD player and a few CDs, but they’re country-western. “I’m not dying to—” I look at one of the CDs, “Shania Twain. Sorry. I could do Patsy Cline or Johnny Cash, but not Shania.

There's three different kinds of Christian," said Cash. "There's preaching Christians, church-playing Christians, and then there's practicing Christian. I'm trying very hard to be a practicing Christian.

The smell of cigarette smoke in the air in a tavern that changes names often, a bar cursed because of a girl who died of a drug overdose in the basement, we put a few coins in the jukebox; chose “Angel Band” by Johnny Cash and sat down at the bar, ordered a soda, you wanted a whiskey on the rocks. We saw the coal miner who moved here from West Virginia knocking back liquor like I drink sweet tea. No one asked why he was so solemn today. It was warm. It was relatively quiet. To anyone else, this place could feel sinister. But to us, it was freedom. It was a hiding place. No one was ever here long enough to know us. And we liked it that way.

Truth, said the Master, cannot be hid But he didn’t say slap it in the face of my kids.

What would Warhol be without his paranoia, Hunter S. Thompson without his Quaaludes, Johnny Cash without his philandering? We Somebodies are not expected to walk the line.

Eddie Money and Johnny Cash are similar, but not related. The first is something real, and the latter will soon suffer from hyperinflation.

Well, I'd love to wear a rainbow everyday and tell the world that everything's okay / But I'll try to carry off a little darkness on my back / 'Til things are brighter, I'm the man in black.

Betty and Arnie danced two or three songs. He smelled like Old Spice aftershave, and she liked his happy laugh. They agreed that every Johnny Cash song was the same damn tune with different words.

Okay, the question is, 'What enormously popular novel by William Peter Blatty, set in the posh Washington D.C. suburb of Georgetown, concerned the demonic possesion of a young girl?' '' ''Johnny Cash'', Henry replied. ''Jesus Christ!'' Tricks Postino yelled. ''That's what you say to everythin! Johnny Cash, that's what you say to fuckin everythin!'' ''Johnny Cash is everything,'' Heny replied gravely...

Grace comes to us in the suffering of sin. There is a sermon in the damage we have done to ourselves and to others. Pain becomes the doorway to salvation, and our tears are a bridge for the awful grace of God.

When they held constant all the factors that typically push men into marriage, they found that actually getting married made a man less likely to commit crimes immediately thereafter.107 The causal pathway has been pithily explained by Johnny Cash: Because you’re mine, I walk the line.

I fly a star ship across the universe divide and when I reach the other side; I'll find a place to rest my spirit if I can. Perhaps, I may become a highwayman again or I may simply be a single drop of rain but I will remain and I'll be back again and again and again and again and again and again.

It was the America of Thomas Edison and the Wright brothers, making dreams take flight, and Jackie Robinson stealing home. It was Chuck Berry and Bob Dylan, Billie Holiday at the Village Vanguard and Johnny Cash at Folsom State Prison—all those misfits who took the scraps that others overlooked or discarded and made beauty no one had seen before.

That he would pause In his killing To go about the business Of preparing for the living Knowing That he will immediately return To the business of killing?

Cash said in return, “I’m a songwriter. I use my imagination. The important thing is the message of the song, not the imagery.

In rivers and bad government the lightest things float to the top.

[My paradise:] This morning, with her, having coffee.

You’re not trying to get them to confess their innermost secrets. If they shot a man in Reno just to watch him die, good for them. We don’t want to know about it.

Okay. The question is, ‘What enormously popular novel by William Peter Blatty, set in the posh Washington D.C. suburb of Georgetown, concerned the demonic possession of a young girl?’ ” “Johnny Cash,” Henry replied. “Jesus Christ!” Tricks Postino yelled. “That’s what you say to everythin! Johnny Cash, that’s what you say to fuckin everythin!” “Johnny Cash is everything,” Henry replied

Shane smise di ballare e si spostò leggermente per guardare Jimmy in faccia. Prese il suo viso tra le mani. “Rattlesnake è casa tua. Penso che tu lo sappia già questo. Ma credo sia anche giunta l’ora di diventare il proprietario di una casa vera e propria; in realtà vale per tutti e due.” Jimmy alla fine fece la cosa che si era ripromesso di non fare mai, ma quella promessa era stata una bugia, e anche stupida. Scoppiò a piangere. Continuarono a ballare, e Jimmy macchiò il cappotto di Shane di lacrime, e Shane fece lo stesso con il suo; Johnny Cash continuava a cantare attraverso il piccolo altoparlante. Jimmy pensò che gli sarebbe piaciuto avere un murale nel salotto tra un paio di solide librerie. Ovviamente avrebbe raffigurato un serpente a sonagli. Tutto era cominciato con un uomo solo negli ampi spazi del deserto, alla guida di una Escort decrepita con un morto sul sedile passeggero. Però la storia era diventata quella di due uomini vivi che danzavano, pronti a mettere su casa insieme. E Jimmy era certo che la fine fosse ancora parecchio lontana.

Seamus tossed down two of his cards. “Hell. I’d train her if Tristan asked me. Wouldn’t mind seeing that pretty face every day.” I studied my cards, pretending not to hear him. “Maybe I should offer to work with her,” he said. “Free you up so you can get back to doing what you love.” My jaw tightened. “You go kill things, and I’ll show the lass some Irish moves. Win-win situation for both of us, right?” The cards in my hand began to buckle. “Ha!” Seamus gave Niall a victorious grin. “Pay up, bro.” Niall’s mouth turned down. “You don’t even like that album.” “I said it wasn’t my favorite one, but you know I like all of Johnny Cash’s stuff.” “Since when?” I stared at the two brothers with a mix of irritation and confusion. “What are you two going on about?” Chris asked. Seamus looked at me with a smug expression. “I told Niall you had it bad for the lass. He said she was too young and sweet to interest you. We made a friendly wager, which he just lost.” “You don’t have proof he’s into her,” Niall argued. “He just might not want your ugly mug around her.” Seamus snorted. “You do realize we’re identical twins.” “I’m still better looking.

Manners hadn't been whistling Dixie about the disturbances in the cottage, however. He seemed like a stand-up guy, even good enough to warn me about the house before I'd forked over the cash. He was probably right about Johnny, and probably Deanna too, at least up to the point where she'd jumped. Boy was he in for a shock!

Arianna simply wasn’t up to it. She had a pretty voice, she could carry a tune—that was never a problem. But she had no depth. She couldn’t interpret a song, place her stamp on it. Unlike Lesley, who fairly stomped on it! And that’s what you need in folk music. These are songs that have been around for hundreds, maybe thousands of years. They existed for centuries before any kind of recording was possible, even before people could write, for god’s sake! So the only way those songs lived and got passed on was by singers. The better singer you were, the more likely it was people were going to turn out to hear you and remember you—and remember the song—whether it was at a pub or wedding or ceilidh or just a knot of people seeking shelter under a tree during a storm. It’s a kind of time machine, really, the way you can trace a song from whoever’s singing it now back through the years—Dylan or Johnny Cash, Joanna Newsom or Vashti Bunyan—on through all those nameless folk who kept it alive a thousand years ago. People talk about carrying the torch, but I always think of that man they found in the ice up in the Alps. He’d been under the snow for 1,200 years, and when they discovered him, he was still wearing his clothes, a cloak of woven grass and a bearskin cap, and in his pocket they found a little bag of grass and tinder and a bit of dead coal. That was the live spark he’d been carrying, the bright ember he kept in his pocket to start a fire whenever he stopped. You’d have to be so careful, more careful than we can even imagine, to keep that one spark alive. Because that’s what kept you alive, in the cold and the dark. Folk music is like that. And by folk I mean whatever music it is that you love, whatever music it is that sustains you. It’s the spark that keeps us alive in the cold and night, the fire we all gather in front of so we know we’re not alone in the dark. And the longer I live, the colder and darker it gets. A song like “Windhover Morn” can keep your heart beating when the doctors can’t. You might laugh at that, but it’s true.

«Non so in che anno pensa di vivere, ma per il resto del mondo è il 2017» disse Cash. «Quello che sta facendo è illegale e se non cambia atteggiamento chiamerò la polizia e racconterò quello che sta succedendo.» «E puoi dir loro che li saluta Johnny della stazione di servizio» disse l’uomo. «Vedi, io e i poliziotti abbiamo vedute simili. Se non vuoi finire in prigione per una settimana, io chiuderei quella boccaccia che ti ritrovi. Non so chi diavolo ti credi di essere, ragazzino, ma nessuno viene nella nostra città e pretende di insegnarci come vivere.» Cash lanciò un’occhiata al giornale che l’uomo stava leggendo. Come un segno del destino, vide una foto di se stesso accanto al titolo principale, che recitava: Cash Carter, la mina vagante: attore sviene durante un concerto. «In realtà sa benissimo chi sono» disse l’attore indicando l’articolo. «Sono la mina vagante di cui stava leggendo poco fa. Avrebbero potuto stampare una foto migliore, ma almeno ne hanno scelta una recente.» Il vecchio alternò lo sguardo tra Cash e il giornale, come fosse qualche sorta di trucco di magia. «Dato che ora ci conosciamo un po’ meglio, apri bene le tue orecchie del cazzo, Johnny» disse Cash. «Puoi anche essere amico della polizia locale, ma io sono amico della polizia di tutto il mondo: si chiamano fangirl, e ce ne sono quasi trenta milioni che seguono ogni mia mossa. Adesso chiedi scusa al mio amico e gli dai la chiave del bagno, perché se non lo fai racconterò a tutte le fangirl il trattamento che abbiamo ricevuto oggi e le scatenerò contro il tuo negozio come uno sciame di locuste! Ti tormenteranno, ti umilieranno e inseguiranno il tuo culo rugoso e razzista fino in capo al mondo, fino al giorno in cui la tua miserabile esistenza deciderà di giungere al termine! Sono stato abbastanza chiaro?»

Dolphins... Yeah, dolphins... A lot of people like dogs, cats, and - for some reason I've never been able to fathim - even snakes and toads. But dolphins? Everybody, and I mean EVERYBODY loves bloody dolphins. Don't they? Goes way back, to the ancient Greeks, when shipwrecked sailors would wash up on beaches yammering out crazy stories of how they was staring down a watery grave, when out of nowhere, flipper shows up and pushes them safely back to the shore. Heartarming - and say what you will about aquatic mammal public relations, but that was one ispired move, because here we are two thousand years later and everybody still loves them bloody dolphins. What you don't hear are the other stories, the ones where flipper's watching poor Artemides doggy paddling away and inhaling the warm, salty waters of the Adriatic... and flipper things, "Yeah, sure I could save him, but sod that for a can of sardines" and instead of pushing Artemides back to shore, flipper pushes the poor sod out to sea... in the immortal words of Sir Johnny of the Cash, "Just to watch him die..." See, moral is, if you're gonna be a bastard, be like a dolphin - think big picture, protect your image and above all, leave no trace. Because in the bloodshot, bleary eyes of the world, once you're a bastard, you're always a bastard.

When a middle school teacher in San Antonio, Texas, named Rick Riordan began thinking about the troublesome kids in his class, he was struck by a topsy-turvy idea. Maybe the wild ones weren’t hyperactive; maybe they were misplaced heroes. After all, in another era the same behavior that is now throttled with Ritalin and disciplinary rap sheets would have been the mark of greatness, the early blooming of a true champion. Riordan played with the idea, imagining the what-ifs. What if strong, assertive children were redirected rather than discouraged? What if there were a place for them, an outdoor training camp that felt like a playground, where they could cut loose with all those natural instincts to run, wrestle, climb, swim, and explore? You’d call it Camp Half-Blood, Riordan decided, because that’s what we really are—half animal and half higher-being, halfway between each and unsure how to keep them in balance. Riordan began writing, creating a troubled kid from a broken home named Percy Jackson who arrives at a camp in the woods and is transformed when the Olympian he has inside is revealed, honed, and guided. Riordan’s fantasy of a hero school actually does exist—in bits and pieces, scattered across the globe. The skills have been fragmented, but with a little hunting, you can find them all. In a public park in Brooklyn, a former ballerina darts into the bushes and returns with a shopping bag full of the same superfoods the ancient Greeks once relied on. In Brazil, a onetime beach huckster is reviving the lost art of natural movement. And in a lonely Arizona dust bowl called Oracle, a quiet genius disappeared into the desert after teaching a few great athletes—and, oddly, Johnny Cash and the Red Hot Chili Peppers—the ancient secret of using body fat as fuel. But the best learning lab of all was a cave on a mountain behind enemy lines—where, during World War II, a band of Greek shepherds and young British amateurs plotted to take on 100,000 German soldiers. They weren’t naturally strong, or professionally trained, or known for their courage. They were wanted men, marked for immediate execution. But on a starvation diet, they thrived. Hunted and hounded, they got stronger. They became such natural born heroes, they decided to follow the lead of the greatest hero of all, Odysseus, and

Elvis was pretty slick. Nonetheless, I knew that he was cheating. His four-of-a-kind would beat my full house. I had two choices. I could fold my hand and lose all the money I’d contributed to the pot, or I could match Elvis’s bet and continue to play. If a gambler thought he was in an honest game, he would probably match the bet thinking his full house was a sure winner. The con artist would bet large amounts of money on the remaining cards, knowing he had a winning hand. I narrowed my eyes and pursed my lips, as if struggling to decide whether to wager five hundred pesos or fold my hand and call it quits. I knew there were five men between me and the door and watched them from the corner of my eye. Even if I folded and accepted my losses, I knew they would not let me leave without taking all my cash. They had strength in numbers and would strong arm me if they could. The men stared, intently watching my next move. I set down my beer and took five one hundred peso notes from my wallet. The men at the bar relaxed. My adrenaline surged, pumping through my brain, sharpening my focus as I prepared for action. I moved as if to place my bet on the table, but instead my hand bumped my beer bottle, spilling it onto Elvis’ lap. Elvis reacted instinctively to the cold beer, pushing back from the table and rising to his feet. I jumped up from my chair making a loud show of apologizing, and in the ensuing pandemonium I snatched all the money off the table and bolted for the door! My tactics took everyone by complete surprise. I had a small head start, but the Filipinos recovered quickly and scrambled to cut off my escape. I dashed to the door and barely made it to the exit ahead of the Filipinos. The thugs were nearly upon me when I suddenly wheeled round and kicked the nearest man square in the chest. My kick cracked ribs and launched the shocked Filipino through the air into the other men, tumbling them to the ground. For the moment, my assailants were a jumble of tangled bodies on the floor. I darted out the door and raced down the busy sidewalk, dodging pedestrians. I looked back and saw the furious Filipinos swarming out of the bar. Running full tilt, I grabbed onto the rail of a passing Jeepney and swung myself into the vehicle. The wide-eyed passengers shrunk back, trying to keep their distance from the crazy American. I yelled to the driver, “Step on the gas!” and thrust a hundred peso note into his hand. I looked back and saw all six of Johnny’s henchmen piling onto one tricycle. The jeepney driver realized we were being pursued and stomped the gas pedal to the floor. The jeepney surged into traffic and accelerated away from the tricycle. The tricycle was only designed for one driver and two passengers. With six bodies hanging on, the overloaded motorcycle was slow and unstable. The motorcycle driver held the throttle wide open and the tricycle rocked side to side, almost tipping over, as the frustrated riders yelled curses and flailed their arms futilely. My jeepney continued to speed through the city, pulling away from our pursuers. Finally, I could no longer see the tricycle behind us. When I was sure I had escaped, I thanked the driver and got off at the next stop. I hired a tricycle of my own and carefully made my way back to my neighborhood, keeping careful watch for Johnny and his friends. I knew that Johnny was in a frustrated rage. Not only had I foiled his plans, I had also made off with a thousand pesos of his cash. Even though I had great fun and came out of my escapade in good shape, my escape was risky and could’ve had a very different outcome. I feel a disclaimer is appropriate for those people who think it is fun to con street hustlers, “Kids. Don’t try this at home.

Girl from the North Country.

Love with everything you have because it all passes like the blink of an eye.

He could tolerate Johnny Cash and Hank Williams, the classic country he grew up around—had an uncontrollable affection for Charley Pride on principle—but blues was a black Texan’s true legacy. He

Most of the other early rockers were Welsh, too: Jerry Lee Lewis from Ferriday, Louisiana; Carl Perkins and the Everly Brothers from Tennessee; Conway Twitty (born Harold Jenkins) from Arkansas. Same with Ronnie Hawkins and Levon Helm. Even Johnny Cash and a lot of the country and western stars: Loretta Lynn. Buck Owens. Kitty Wells. Hank Williams.

(Skip Litz) was road managing Todd Snider one time, which meant he had to sneak Todd's tiny dog, Lulu, into hotels. In Atlanta, Skip checked Todd into a hotel that didn't accept dogs. Then Skip carried Lulu in his arms, right through the lobby, and a guy behind the hotel desk saw this happening and said, 'Is that a dog?' Skip looked the guy square in the eye and said, 'No.' Then he and Lulu got on the elevator, and no one said another word about it.

I wound up writing a review that asserted her greatness but also said that this was not her career album, and that she could and would do even better than this. I was in Atlanta, late at night, leaving a piano bar (don't ask), when my cell phone rang and I distractedly picked it up. 'Hello?' 'Peter Cooper?' The words came out as one: 'Petercooper?' 'Yes.' 'You better get your ass over here right now.' 'Who is this?' 'Petercooper, it's Leeannwomack. Where the hell are you?' 'I'm in Atlanta?' 'Why?' That one was hard to answer. I paused to ponder. 'Doesn't matter. Get your sorry ass over here right now.' 'I can't. I'm in Atlanta.' 'Well, get in your car and drive to Nashville. 'Cause I'm gonna give you three swift kicks to the groin.