Penny Lane Quotes

3) Saturday night is the official meeting night of Penny Lane's Lonely Hearts Club. Attendance is mandatory. Exceptions are for family emergencies and bad hair days only.

Adams grew up in the sixties, and the Beatles “planted a seed in my head that made it explode. Every nine months there’d be a new album which would be an earth-shattering development from where they were before. We were so obsessed by them that when ‘Penny Lane’ came out and we hadn’t heard it on the radio, we beat up this boy who had heard it until he hummed the tune to us. People now ask if Oasis are as good as the Beatles. I don’t think they are as good as the Rutles.

My favourite prank in heavy metalwork was to get a penny and spend three or four minutes making it really hot with a blowtorch, and then leave it on Mr Lane’s desk, so that he’d see it and pick it up out of curiosity. First you’d hear: ‘Waaaaahhhhhh!’ Then: ‘Osbourne, you little bastard!’ Heh-heh-heh. The old hot-penny trick. Priceless, man.

Well," Mr. Cheeseman interjected. "Perhaps there's an easy solution to this. Maybe Captain Fabulous has an alter ego." "What's an alter ego?" asked Gerard. "It's a superhero's true but secret identity," said Chip. "You know, the way that Superman is really Clark Kent." "Superman is really Clark Kent?" "It's pretty obvious," said Penny. "To everyone but you and Lois Lane." "Okay," Gerard conceded. "Captain Fabulous's alter ego will be...Teddy Roosevelt.

Those called penny bags. Each of them got a brand-new penny on the bottom. The light reflecting off the penny supposed to confuse the flies, so they don’t come around and bother the food, although every time I see a fly, they confused enough already. Know what I mean?” Queenie chuckled.

REGLAMENTO OFICIAL DEL CLUB DE LOS CORAZONES SOLITARIOS, DE PENNY LANE. El presente documento expone las normas para las socias del Club de los Corazones Solitarios. Todas las socias deberán aprobar los términos de este reglamento pues, de lo contrario, su afiliación quedará anulada automáticamente. 1. Las socias están en su derecho de salir con chicos si bien nunca, jamás, olvidarán que sus amigas son lo primero y principal. 2. A las socias no se les permite salir con cretinos, manipuladores, mentirosos, escoria en general o, básicamente, con cualquiera que no las trate como es debido. 3. Se exige a las socias que asistan a todas las reuniones de los sábados por la noche. Ninguna socia excusará su presencia en la fecha señalada para las reuniones con objeto de citarse con un chico. Se mantienen como excepción las emergencias familiares y los días de pelo en mal estado, exclusivamente. 4. Las socias asistirán juntas, como grupo, a todos los eventos destinados a parejas incluyendo (pero no limitándose a) la fiesta de antiguos alumnos, el baile de fin de curso, celebraciones varias y otros acontecimientos. Las socias podrán llevar a un chico como acompañante, pero el mencionado varón asistirá al evento bajo su propio riesgo. 5. Las socias deben apoyar siempre y en primer lugar a sus amigas, a pesar de las elecciones que éstas puedan hacer. 6. Y sobre todo, bajo ninguna circunstancia, las socias utilizarán en contra de una compañera los comentarios realizados en el seno del club. Todas sabéis a qué me refiero. La violación de las normas conlleva la inhabilitación como socia, la humillación pública, los rumores crueles y la posible decapitación.

He'd chosen to go for a soldier. Maybe he had a story that began that way: a poor widowed mother at home and three young sisters to feed and a girl from down the lane who smiled at him...he'd go home then in his fine uniform and put silver in his mother's hands and ask the smiling girl to marry him. Or maybe he'd lose a leg and go home sorrowful and bitter to find her married to a man who could farm; or maybe he'd take to drink to forget that he'd killed men...“They all had stories. They had mothers or fathers, sisters or lovers. They weren't alone in the world, mattering to no one but themselves. It seemed utterly wrong to treat them like pennies in a purse. I felt the soldiers understood perfectly well that we were making sums out of them...this many safe to spend, this number too high, as if each one wasn't a whole man.

After a short breather, Reiko crushed her cigarette out and picked her guitar up again. She played “Penny Lane,” “Blackbird,” “Julia,” “When I’m 64,” “Nowhere Man,” “And I Love Her,” and “Hey Jude.

I’m a maker of ballads right pretty I write them right here in the street You can buy them all over the city yours for a penny a sheet I’m a word pecker out of the printers out of the dens of Gin Lane I’ll write up a scene on a counter - confessions and sins in the main, boys confessions and sins in the main Then you’ll find me in Madame Geneva’s keeping the demons at bay There’s nothing like gin for drowning them in but they’ll always be back on a hanging day, on a hanging day They come rattling over the cobbles they sit on their coffins of black Some are struck dumb, some gabble top-heavy on brandy or sack The pews are all full of fine fellows and the hawker has set up her shop As they’re turning them off at the gallows she’ll be selling right under the drop, boys selling right under the drop Then you’ll find me in Madame Geneva’s keeping the demons at bay There’s nothing like gin for drowning them in but they’ll always be back on a hanging day, on a hanging day

Psychoanalysis: An Elegy" What are you thinking about? I am thinking of an early summer. I am thinking of wet hills in the rain Pouring water. Shedding it Down empty acres of oak and manzanita Down to the old green brush tangled in the sun, Greasewood, sage, and spring mustard. Or the hot wind coming down from Santa Ana Driving the hills crazy, A fast wind with a bit of dust in it Bruising everything and making the seed sweet. Or down in the city where the peach trees Are awkward as young horses, And there are kites caught on the wires Up above the street lamps, And the storm drains are all choked with dead branches. What are you thinking? I think that I would like to write a poem that is slow as a summer As slow getting started As 4th of July somewhere around the middle of the second stanza After a lot of unusual rain California seems long in the summer. I would like to write a poem as long as California And as slow as a summer. Do you get me, Doctor? It would have to be as slow As the very tip of summer. As slow as the summer seems On a hot day drinking beer outside Riverside Or standing in the middle of a white-hot road Between Bakersfield and Hell Waiting for Santa Claus. What are you thinking now? I’m thinking that she is very much like California. When she is still her dress is like a roadmap. Highways Traveling up and down her skin Long empty highways With the moon chasing jackrabbits across them On hot summer nights. I am thinking that her body could be California And I a rich Eastern tourist Lost somewhere between Hell and Texas Looking at a map of a long, wet, dancing California That I have never seen. Send me some penny picture-postcards, lady, Send them. One of each breast photographed looking Like curious national monuments, One of your body sweeping like a three-lane highway Twenty-seven miles from a night’s lodging In the world’s oldest hotel. What are you thinking? I am thinking of how many times this poem Will be repeated. How many summers Will torture California Until the damned maps burn Until the mad cartographer Falls to the ground and possesses The sweet thick earth from which he has been hiding. What are you thinking now? I am thinking that a poem could go on forever.

People like me—like the Roussels—are a dying breed, our gifts of little value to a world that no longer believes in la magie. For generations, my family has been part of a kind of conte de fée—a fairy tale. Though perhaps fairy tale is the wrong term. Fairy tales have happy endings. Fables are meant as cautionary tales, lessons intended to teach us about life and its consequences. And over the years, the Roussels have learned much about consequences. There are many names for what we are. Gypsies, hexers, white witches, and shamans. In England we’re called cunning folk, though I’ve always hated the term. Perhaps because it conjures thoughts of slick-handed cheats, waiting to separate the unsuspecting passerby from the few pennies in his pocket, the charlatans with their phony magic and vulgar showmanship, making up fortunes and doling out platitudes. We are not those people. For us, The Work is sacred, a vocation. In France, where I come from, we are les tisseuses de sort—Spell Weavers—which is at least closer to the truth. We possess certain skills, talents with things like charms and herbs, cards and stones—or in our case, needle and thread. There are not many of us left these days, or at least not many who depend on the craft for their living. But there are a few still, if one knows where to look. And for a time, I was one of them, like my mother and her mother before her, living in the narrow, twisty lanes of Paris discreetly known as the craft district.

One of the soldiers was a boy my own age, industriously sharpening pike-heads one by one with a stone, skillfully: six strokes for each one and done as quick as the two men putting them along the wall could come back for them. He must have put himself to it, to learn how to do it so well. He didn’t look sullen or unhappy. He’d chosen to go for a soldier. Maybe he had a story that began that way: a poor widowed mother at home and three young sisters to feed, and a girl from down the lane who smiled at him over the fence as she drove her father’s herd out into the meadows every morning. So he’d given his mother his signing-money and gone to make his fortune. He worked hard; he meant to be a corporal soon, and after that a sergeant: he’d go home then in his fine uniform, and put silver in his mother’s hands, and ask the smiling girl to marry him. Or maybe he’d lose a leg, and go home sorrowful and bitter to find her married to a man who could farm; or maybe he’d take to drink to forget that he’d killed men in trying to make himself rich. That was a story, too; they all had stories. They had mothers or fathers, sisters or lovers. They weren’t alone in the world, mattering to no one but themselves. It seemed utterly wrong to treat them like pennies in a purse. I wanted to go and speak to that boy, to ask him his name, to find out what his story really was. But that would have been dishonest, a sop to my own feelings. I felt the soldiers understood perfectly well that we were making sums out of them—this many safe to spend, this number too high, as if each one wasn’t a whole man.

Discovery consists of seeing what everybody else has seen and thinking what nobody else has thought. —Albert Szent-Györgyi Session 1 Journal Entry: THE TRACKS I KILLED MY BROTHER WITH A PENNY.

So perhaps now it was time to stop trying to please other people and start trying to please herself.

Cora: I sort of adopted a serial killer’s two dogs. Meet Jude and Penny Lane. Twenty minutes later, I’m standing in her living room. “Are you nuts?

Patrick would flip The Beatles on mornings after a fight, when we’d bake bread, kneading our troubles into something we could eat. We’d take turns in two-part harmony, working the gluten out, 'fussing and fighting', and as the smell of it baking filled the apartment with the homeliness of 'Penny Lane', we’d be 'ob-la-di-ing' over the sink, one washing, the other drying, hitting hips in three-four time. When we'd slice it open, knife a bit of butter in and take a bite of what had become of the last night’s troubles, it was clear 'we’d still need each other, we’d still feed each other, when we’re sixty-four'.

De acuerdo, Penny Lane no es precisamente una canción de amor; pero, para mí, fue el gesto más romántico que una persona podía tener.

Jimmy,

No woman sings an Aria in this country.

Grown-ups don't look like grown-ups on the inside either. Outside, they're big and thoughtless and they always know what they're doing. Inside, they look just like they always have. Like they did when they were your age. Truth is, there aren't any grown-ups. Not one, in the whole wide world.” ​— ​Neil Gaiman, The Ocean at the End of the Lane

It's all happening.

Penny Lane (of Beatles fame) is named for James Penny, one of Liverpool’s most famous and prolific slave traders.

You can’t blame me for lying about that. I had to make sure you wouldn’t let me walk out that door and go to C-Bomb. I didn’t want to be Caleb Baumgarten’s Penny Lane for a week.” I nuzzle my nose against Reed’s. “I wanted to be yours.” Reed runs his palm down my arm, before it disappears into the warm water of the hot tub and rests on my tailbone. “I was never going to let you go to Caleb, baby. Over my dead body.” He kisses me passionately, sending my spirit swirling through the night sky. “What the hell are you doing to me, Georgina?” he mutters.

Side One of 1967–1970 is up there with Side Three of Hot Rocks in the annals of great vinyl sides. (“Strawberry Fields,” “Penny Lane,” “Sgt. Pepper,” “With a Little Help,” “Lucy,” “A Day in the Life,” and “All You Need Is Love” vs. “Jumpin’ Jack Flash,” “Street Fighting Man,” “Sympathy for the Devil,” “Honky Tonk Women,” and “Gimme Shelter.” Damn.) For the Beatles, it was just another rip-off repackage.

In the market of Clare, so cheery the glare Of the shops and the booths of the tradespeople there; That I take a delight on a Saturday night In walking that way and in viewing the sight. For it's here that one sees all the objects that please-- New patterns in silk and old patterns in cheese, For the girls pretty toys, rude alarums for boys, And baubles galore while discretion enjoys-- But here I forbear, for I really despair Of naming the wealth of the market of Clare. A rich man comes down from the elegant town And looks at it all with an ominous frown; He seems to despise the grandiloquent cries Of the vender proclaiming his puddings and pies; And sniffing he goes through the lanes that disclose Much cause for disgust to his sensitive nose; And free of the crowd, he admits he is proud That elsewhere in London this thing's not allowed; He has seen nothing there but filth everywhere, And he's glad to get out of the market of Clare. But the child that has come from the gloom of the slum Is charmed by the magic of dazzle and hum; He feasts his big eyes on the cakes and the pies, And they seem to grow green and protrude with surprise At the goodies they vend and the toys without end-- And it's oh! if he had but a penny to spend! But alas, he must gaze in a hopeless amaze At treasures that glitter and torches that blaze-- What sense of despair in this world can compare With that of the waif in the market of Clare? So, on Saturday night, when my custom invites A stroll in old London for curious sights, I am likely to stray by a devious way Where goodies are spread in a motley array, The things which some eyes would appear to despise Impress me as pathos in homely disguise, And my battered waif-friend shall have pennies to spend, So long as I've got 'em (or chums that will lend); And the urchin shall share in my joy and declare That there's beauty and good in the market of Clare.

Psychoanalysis: An Elegy" What are you thinking? I think that I would like to write a poem that is slow as a summer As slow getting started As 4th of July somewhere around the middle of the second stanza After a lot of unusual rain California seems long in the summer. I would like to write a poem as long as California And as slow as a summer. Do you get me, Doctor? It would have to be as slow As the very tip of summer. As slow as the summer seems On a hot day drinking beer outside Riverside Or standing in the middle of a white-hot road Between Bakersfield and Hell Waiting for Santa Claus. What are you thinking now? I’m thinking that she is very much like California. When she is still her dress is like a roadmap. Highways Traveling up and down her skin Long empty highways With the moon chasing jackrabbits across them On hot summer nights. I am thinking that her body could be California And I a rich Eastern tourist Lost somewhere between Hell and Texas Looking at a map of a long, wet, dancing California That I have never seen. Send me some penny picture-postcards, lady, Send them. One of each breast photographed looking Like curious national monuments, One of your body sweeping like a three-lane highway Twenty-seven miles from a night’s lodging In the world’s oldest hotel. What are you thinking? I am thinking of how many times this poem Will be repeated. How many summers Will torture California Until the damned maps burn Until the mad cartographer Falls to the ground and possesses The sweet thick earth from which he has been hiding. What are you thinking now? I am thinking that a poem could go on forever.

bought a pristine copy of Man on the Run, a biography of Paul McCartney that began not with the Beatles, but with what McCartney did after they broke up. Parker had always preferred McCartney’s work to John Lennon’s, whatever effect it might have had on his standing with the cool kids. Lennon could only ever really write about himself, and Parker felt that he lacked empathy. McCartney, by contrast, was capable of thinking, or feeling, himself into the lives of others. It was the difference between “Strawberry Fields Forever” and “Penny Lane”: although Parker loved both songs, “Penny Lane” was filled with characters, while “Strawberry Fields Forever” really had only one, and his name was John Lennon. Parker might even have taken the view that Lennon needed to get out of his apartment more, but when he did, an idiot shot him. He’d probably been right to spend the best part of a decade locked inside. Ross appeared just as McCartney

Powder Puff! Sorry. Not hard enough. Once more for the B-day girl.” Jessica rolled a third ball. “A 3-6-10 split. That’s what we call a Poison Ivy. Not bad, but sorry, no cigar.” Rocky took the Xtreme Challenge next. “Will he choke?” asked the human bowling pin. Rocky’s first ball hit three pins. His second ball hit five pins. On Rocky’s third try, the guy yelled, “Blowout! All but one. So close.” Frank Pearl took the Xtreme Challenge next. “Try Number One. Creeper! Try Number Two. Sleeper! Try Number Three. Floater in the Moater! That means gutter ball, folks. Next!” At last it was Judy’s turn. She stepped up to the lane. She rubbed her lucky penny. She rubbed the bowling ball. She held it in front of her, lining it up. She squinted one eye, pulled back her arm, and let it fly.