Knoxville Quotes

We are talking now of summer evenings in Knoxville Tennessee in the time that I lived there so successfully disguised to myself as a child.

When we were working on Jackass and I'd be traveling in the same bus, car, or van with Johnny Knoxville on road trips, he'd sometimes stick sedative pills in my food in the hope that they'd shut me up so he could enjoy some peace and quiet. Never once did it work. Each time, I think he was truly amazed at the doses of downers that failed to quiet me down.

Down we felt as up we grew, dancing our didn'ts and drinking our dids.

I’m your last choice,” she said. “You tried everything, tasted everyone in Knoxville. And when the princess told you off, you came to me, the last ditch effort.

The lights of Knoxville quaked in a faint penumbra to the west as must the ruins of many an older city seen by herders in the hills, by barbaric tribesmen shuffling along the roads.

What you got in the sack son? He peered from under the load at his inquisitor lounging in the open window of a halted cruiser. He shifted the weight a little higher on his shoulder. Bats, he said. Bats. Yessir. What, ballbats? No, them little'ns. Flittermouses. The policeman's face bore a constant look of tolerant interest. Set the sack down son and let's see what all you got there. Harrogate rolled the sack from his shoulder and lowered it to the paving and spread the drawstring mouth with his thumbs. A musky smell rose. He tilted it slightly policeward. The officer thumbed his cap back on his head and bent to see. A prefiguration of the pit. Vouchsafed a crokersack vision of hell's floor deep with the hairy damned screaming mute and toothy toward the far and heedless city of God. He raised his head and looked at the waiting Harrogate and he looked at the bright sky above Knoxville and he turned to the driver. You know what he's got in that sack? What's he got? Dead bats. Dead bats. Right. Well.

Mr. Peg read the Knoxville News Sentinel, including obituaries of a thousand people he didn’t know, and griped about having no place to go smoke.

The trailer where Mom and I lived was technically a Peggot trailer, former home of Maggot’s aunt June before she moved to Knoxville.

After school let out for summer, the Peggots offered to take me to Knoxville.

The derelict station, like most of the old downtown section, was fixed in a rigor mortis of past usefulness; shapes flitted among the shadows here and there but it couldn't be said the place was inhabited. The impression that people no longer wanted to live in this part of town was reinforced by the new tall buildings to the east: orthogonal Venusian World's Fair constructions, a giant mega-globe and the expensive hotels thrown up to host a transient population. A freeway loop on stilts cut across the city like the dreadful scar from a dangerous necessary operation. Knoxville had recently undergone some major surgery; its vital organs had been replaced by artificial replicas. It had been transformed into a Conference Centre, one of those places that depends for its prosperity on cartel-constructed hotels that guarantee a standard minimum-quality accommodation for businessmen siphoning off the wealth of other richer cities. Where local industry had declined the franchise commodity and service companies had moved in: Hilton, McDonald's, Texaco. If you had ever wondered how it was you could cross the United States without ever encountering the family hotel, the home-made hamburger or locally-brewed beer, in Knoxville, Tennessee, you can see the reason with your own eyes: the miracle of capitalism regenerating itself on its own corpse.

This was the first experience with pizza that many people in Knoxville had. It wasn’t widely available in 1961.

through any structure without detection by his prey. He was a flawless assassin. It was just before five local time when Steven settled into the plush leather seating of the first-class compartment. The Deutsche Bahn Intercity Express, or ICE, was a high-speed train connecting major cities across Germany with other major European destinations. The trip to Frankfurt would take about four hours, giving him time to spend some rare personal time with his team. Slash was the first to find him. The men shook hands and sat down. Typically, these two longtime friends would chest bump in a hearty bro-mance sort of way, but it would be out of place for Europe. “Hey, buddy,” said Steven. “Switzerland is our new home away from home.” “It appears so, although the terrain isn’t that different from our place in Tennessee,” said Slash. “I see lots of fishin’ and huntin’ opportunities out there.” Slash grew up on his parents’ farm atop the Cumberland Plateau of Tennessee about halfway between Nashville and Knoxville. His parents were retired and spent their days farming while raising ducks, rabbits and some livestock. While other kids spent their free time on PlayStation, Slash grew up in the woods, learning survival skills. During his time with the SEAL Teams, he earned a reputation as an expert in close-quarters combat, especially using a variety of knives—hence the nickname Slash. “Beats the heck out of the desert, doesn’t it?” asked Steven. After his service ended, Slash tried a few different security outfits like Blackwater, protecting the Saudi royal family or standing guard outside some safe house in Oman. “I’m not saying the desert won’t call us back someday, but I’ll take the Swiss cheese and German chocolate over shawarma and falafel every friggin’ day!” “Hell yeah,” said Slash. “When are you comin’ down for some ham and beans, along with some butter-soaked cornbread? My folks really wanna meet you.” “I need to, buddy,” replied Steven. “This summer will be nuts for me. Hey, when does deer hunting season open?” “Late September for crossbow and around Thanksgiving otherwise,” replied Slash. Before the guys could set a date, their partners Paul Hittle and Raymond Bower approached their seats. Hittle, code name Bugs, was a former medic with Army Special Forces who left the Green Berets for a well-paying job with DynCorp. DynCorp was a private

Riona,” I say slowly. “This is in Knoxville.” “I know,” she laughs. “I saw it when we went into town to get the horse stall mats.” “You bought a building . . . in Tennessee?” I know I sound like an idiot, but I can’t quite believe this. “Yes,

Alejandro Cruz eats pussy like a man starved.

He’s good at doing exactly the opposite of what you’d expect.

Emmy had told me in Knoxville they had these city buses that could take you all over. Not just to school, but for people of every age to ride to the movies, skate park, wherever.

Red Fox dying ushered in a series of struggles that anyone I asked attributed to “life out in the country,” but secretly, I knew were happening because I lacked the courage to make them stop. Any calm confidence I’d felt before was officially gone. I spent the days worrying and reacting to a hemorrhage I couldn’t staunch. Such as the lump in William’s leg. Hang Judith’s old warnings about doctors—I took him to the only doctor in town, terrified it was a tumor. “Do you have cats?” asked the doctor. “Particularly un-vetted cats?” We were overrun with the cats by now. Today’s count was thirty-eight, and just this morning, in my hurry, I’d popped the head of a kitten when I backed out the van. I’d scraped the little body into a bag, careful not to let the kids see, and choked back my tears because I didn’t want them to see me cry either. “I think your son has cat-scratch fever, not cancer. Here’s a prescription. Get rid of the cats,” he said, tearing a paper for antibiotics off his pad. Next came the intestinal symptoms that ravaged little Liam’s gut. We went to Children’s Hospital for that, in Knoxville, because he needed a colonoscopy and eventually a PICC line. The doctor said stress and bacteria were the likely culprits, and could I please tell him what life was like at home.

We are talking now of summer evenings in Knoxville, Tennessee, in the time that I lived there so successfully disguised to myself as a child.

The Halley Library branch on the north end of Knoxville was the other half of my halfway life, after I graduated from detox-and-therapy boot camp, learned respect for properly dosed Suboxone under the tongue, and settled into my residency situation.

You come out thirty miles from Knoxville? That baby in your belly may need something,” he said, pointing to her pregnancy.

These notoriously destructive White-on-Black race riots started en masse just one year after the end of the Civil War and continued until the beginning of the modern Civil Rights Movement. Some historians have claimed that there were anywhere from 250-300 race riots over this period, most of which have been conveniently forgotten about by the American academia and press. Over 25 race riots broke out between April and October 1919 alone, a six-month period poet James Weldon Johnson labeled the "Red Summer." Among the most deadly outbreaks were those in East St. Louis, Illinois (1917); Chester, Pennsylvania (1917); Philadelphia, Pennsylvania (1917); Houston, Texas (1917); Washington, D.C. (1919); Chicago, Illinois (1919); Omaha, Nebraska (1919); Charleston, South Carolina (1919), Longview, Texas (1919); Knoxville, Tennessee (1919); Elaine, Arkansas (1919); and Tulsa, Oklahoma (1921). Ward noted,   Although urban race riots in the United States between 1866-1951 were unique episodes rooted in the particular historic situation of each place, they shared certain characteristics. To begin with, the whites always prevailed, and the overwhelming majority of those who died and were wounded in all of these incidents were blacks. They also tended to break out in clusters during times of significant socio-economic, political, and demographic upheaval when racial demographics were altered and existing racial mores and boundaries challenged. Perhaps most importantly, the riots usually provoked defensive stances by members of the black communities who defended themselves and their families under attack. Seldom did the violence spill over into white neighborhoods.

Knowing it was just a matter of time before they’d be out on their own, in Knoxville at college, away from the prying eyes of Nashville’s glitterati, helped them get through the events.

WASHINGTON, D. C., December 8, 1863, 10.2 A.M. MAJ.-GENERAL U. S. GRANT: Understanding that your lodgment at Knoxville and at Chattanooga is now secure, I wish to tender you, and all under your command, my more than thanks, my profoundest gratitude for the skill, courage, and perseverance with which you and they, over so great difficulties, have effected that important object. God bless you all, A. LINCOLN, President U. S. The safety of Burnside’s army and the loyal people

When all the politics and caution were stripped away, Hillary was at her core a Methodist, a church lady, a fire-and-brimstone Jesus-saves believer. When I try to tell people this, they always say she’s just another pandering politician. Trust me, you don’t drop the prophet Micah in mid-conversation because you’re pandering. You can’t fake extended allusions to the Eight Beatitudes of Jesus (as she did during a town hall in Knoxville, Iowa) or casually quote the Jesuit academic Henri Nouwen’s parable on the prodigal son during a CNN town hall (as Hillary did in response to a rabbi’s question in Manchester).

The operator refused point blank to turn over the key to Captain Comstock as directed by me, stating that his orders from the War Department were not to give it to anybody—the commanding general or any one else. I told him I would see whether he would or not. He said that if he did he would be punished. I told him if he did not he most certainly would be punished. Finally, seeing that punishment was certain if he refused longer to obey my order, and being somewhat remote (even if he was not protected altogether from the consequences of his disobedience to his orders) from the War Department, he yielded. When I returned from Knoxville I found quite a commotion. The operator had been reprimanded very severely and ordered to be relieved. I informed the Secretary of War, or his assistant secretary in charge of the telegraph, Stager, that the man could not be relieved, for he had only obeyed my orders. It was absolutely necessary for me to have the cipher, and the man would most certainly have been punished if he had not delivered it; that they would have to punish me if they punished anybody, or words to that effect.

My theory? I don’t really have one, but if I did, it would probably be along the lines of he knew a huge lawsuit would be coming down the pike and that the medical licensing board would be taking a close look at him, so he ran away to avoid the beating he knew he was about to take.” “So you don’t think any harm has come to him?” “I don’t know, Senator, but if harm did come to him, it couldn’t have come to a more deserving person.” “So Elizabeth tells me you’d like to be the next district attorney general in Knoxville,” Senator Tate said. “Tell me, if you don’t mind, why you would want such a dirty job.” He spoke with a slow mountain drawl, a baritone that was almost mesmerizing. It was the kind of voice that could hypnotize an unsuspecting

The room was crowded with fans, friends, and dignitaries (where’s your crown, King Jericho?), all waiting to say a few words to the band. I noticed guitarist Kirk Hammett, who I’d kind of met once before in 1994 in Atlanta. I had asked him to sign the cast on my broken arm (I’d broken it trying a shooting star press in Knoxville) and he said he would if “I could use his boner as a speed bump.” I’m still not sure what he was getting at, and he wasn’t either when I asked him about it fourteen years later in Chicago. He said, laughing, “I was really drunk on Frangelico that night.” I could relate, considering I had crashed my car and split open my forehead whilst under the influence of said spirit in Calgary back in 1995. (Full versions of

Fear of black independence and self-determination took a Freudian form: rape hysteria. In one town after another, racial violence was sparked by rumors that a Negro had harmed a white woman. This happened in Washington; Omaha, Neb.; Kansas City, Kan.; Knoxville, Tenn.; Longview, Tex.; and Rosewood, Fla.

Yes. It is. —June 23, 2012, at night driving from Henrietta back to Knoxville with the tape recorder off, thirteen months after diagnosis

A judge who found an Adventist guilty of not respecting the Sabbath received a letter from a resident of Knoxville. He offered a duck to anyone who could quote passages from the Scriptures that named Sunday as the Sabbath.

When I heard the Prez wanted us to shakedown the trucker spas toward Knoxville, I could've ripped out my nine millimeter and shot it through the ceiling, screaming like an idiot.

Hal—come sit!” Rachel is looking back. She motions toward a sliver of space between Jonah and Madison. “There’s room.” “No. There’s not.” Luke says it without even turning around. “How do you and Hallie know each other, anyway?” “We met in the bathroom. Earlier tonight. She seems cool.” Rachel smiles at Hallelujah. Hallelujah can’t bring herself to smile back. “Sure, if you like the strong, silent type. I don’t. No offense.” Luke laughs, and Brad laughs, and the girls from Knoxville take that as their cue to laugh too. Like it was actually funny. Rachel doesn’t laugh. She’s still smiling, but now it’s like she’s not sure whether she should be. “Come on, Hal,” she says. “We’ll make room.” But Luke’s shaking his head. “Sorry. Guess I’m not being clear. There might be room for someone. But there’s not room for Hallie. Hal. Whatever you wanna call her. Besides. She has to get back. Curfew.” Rachel looks from Luke to Hallelujah, confused. “We’re all breaking curfew.” “Yeah, but it’s Hallie’s fault we have early curfew in the first place. And it’s her fault we have so many chaperones to deal with.” Luke’s counting on his fingers, holding them in the air. “Plus, they’ll probably be checking up on her. So she can’t stay.” “How is all of that her fault?” Rachel asks. “What’d she do?” “Yeah, Luke. What’d she do?” It’s Jonah. Hallelujah is kind of shocked to hear his voice. It’s low, with a dark undercurrent that’s unfamiliar to her. Then again, it’s been months since they talked. And a lot has changed. “If I remember it right,” Jonah goes on, still staring into the fire, “she wasn’t the only one.” Luke looks over at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Nothing,” Jonah says. “Just making an observation.” “An observation,” Luke repeats. “Yeah.” There’s a moment of silence. It’s uncomfortable. Hallelujah feels like the night sounds get louder to compensate. The wind rustling tree branches. The hum of cicadas. Birdcalls. They’re suffocating her. Then Luke shakes his head and laughs. “Whatever. Hallie still has to go.” He swings around to look at her directly. “What are you waiting for?” Hallelujah blinks, wishing that small movement could make her vanish. Everyone in the circle is staring. Waiting for her to leave. Their eyes cut into her. She takes two steps backward, tears clouding her vision. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. She turns and starts walking away. Walking, not running. She doesn’t want to give Luke that satisfaction.

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Years later, a Jackson partisan (who wasn’t at Knoxville) said Jackson had praised the melodiousness of “Tennessee” as a word that had “as sweet a flavor on the tongue as hot corn-cakes and honey.

Probably Emmy had moved now. I would be in Knoxville soon, she’d be in Lee County, and whoever was sitting at control center of the universe, laughing his ass off.

All this was making me hanker to go take more pills. Sick as that is. I wondered if Emmy knew how deep I was in. But she was wrapped up in her own shit. She said in Knoxville, June could refer these patients someplace for help, but here their insurance only covered the pills.

My first question: Is Knoxville near the ocean. Answer: Wrong direction.

They closed the transient 5th Avenue Motel and now where will they go? They came from all over to stay for a night or a month or whatever they could afford, however they can afford it – and now it’s gone, broken windows boarded up, chain link fence surrounding it like it’s a dog with scurvy. The transient hotel drained pale, pissing in an empty ashtray.

Gdy przyglądałem się ciału, Arthur Bohanan, specjalista z laboratorium kryminalistycznego wydziału policji w Knoxville, zwrócił się do mnie z prośbą: – Bill, podaj mi rękę. Pracowałem z nim od lat, wiedziałem więc, że bynajmniej nie szuka u mnie oparcia. Chciał, żebym usunął jedną z dłoni ofiary i podał mu ją. W sprawach dotyczących morderstw zdarza się nieraz, że śledczy odcinają palce lub nawet całe dłonie, by zabrać je do swojego laboratorium lub przesłać je FBI. W sytuacji, gdy tożsamość ofiary jest nieznana, należy spróbować każdej możliwej techniki, by powiązać ze sobą odciski i nazwisko. Przyjrzałem się dłoniom ofiary. Skóra była rozmoczona, wyglądało na to, że lada moment zsunie się z kości, wiedziałem jednak, że to nie powstrzyma Arta przed zdjęciem odcisków; słynął z tego, że potrafił włożyć własne palce w skórę palców ofiary, by przywrócić im naturalny kształt i pobrać odciski.

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As a dirt farm in the Tennessee mountains, this place was a ticket to starvation, but as a retirement community for the Knoxville country club set, it was a gold mine.

Interestingly, he hadn’t taken I-40 for most of the trip, preferring smaller state roads, like the Oak Ridge Highway. I’d been told it was a scenic drive on the Oak Ridge Highway between Oliver Springs and Knoxville. I’d also been told there were historic Cherokee caverns just before Karns which were decorated with lights and displays around Christmastime. Beyond Knoxville, I’d never driven on the Oak Ridge Highway, though I’d always wanted to see the caverns. When my family drove any significant distance—like to Nashville—we stuck to the large freeways, and ventured out only during daylight hours, never at night. Roscoe was approaching Solway now, and I watched as he took the exit for the Pellissippi Parkway. This route made sense if he didn’t want to drive through Knoxville. Assuming he didn’t make any detours, he’d be in Green Valley in about an hour.

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