Rocker Love Quotes

I'm a model!" "Who the fuck cares? You're a model, good for you. I'm a rock star bitch.

Jealousy always trumps schadenfreude! It’s a rule from the heartbreak version of ‘rock, paper, scissors.

Just read this fabulous screenplay. A remake of Camus's The Stranger with Meursault as a bi break-dancing punk rocker. Randy showed it to me. I loved it. Randy thinks "basically unfilmable" and that filming an orange rolling around a parking lot for three hours would draw a bigger audience.

I miss you every damn second I’m not with you,” I breathed against her ear, making her shiver in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. “There is no one—not one fucking person—that makes me feel what you do… Remember that, Dallas. Always remember that.

But more than anything, as a little girl, I wanted to be exactly like Miss Piggy. She was ma heroine. I was a plucky little girl, but I never related to the rough-and-tumble icons of children's lit, like Pippi Longstocking or Harriet the Spy. Even Ramona Quimby, who seemed cool, wasn't somebody I could super-relate to. She was scrawny and scrappy and I was soft and sarcastic. I connected instead to Miss - never 'Ms.' - Piggy; the comedienne extraordinaire who'd alternate eye bats with karate chops, swoon over girly stuff like chocolate, perfume, feather boas or random words pronounced in French, then, on a dmie, lower her voice to 'Don't fuck with me, fellas' decibel when slighted. She was hugely feminine, boldly ambitious, and hilariously violent when she didn't get way, whether it was in work, love, or life. And even though she was a pig puppet voiced by a man with a hand up her ass, she was the fiercest feminist I'd ever seen.

If you're going to be a musician's girlfriend, you have to know that your man will always love his bandmates in a way you can't even touch, because they are the guys who help him create music. You can only help him create a living human being, with your dumb uterus.

She lay over him, her lips brushing his as she whispered, “I can’t get close enough… love.

I always wondered what your type was, but I never imagined it would be a hard-core rocker!” Here we go. I had been hoping he'd be too sleepy for this conversation. “He's not my type. If I had a type it would be...nice. Not some hotheaded, egocentric male slut.” “Did you just call him a male slut?” Jay laughed. “Dang, that's, like, the worst language I've ever heard you use.” I glowered at him, feeling ashamed, and he laughed even harder. “Oh, hey, I've got a joke for you. What do you call someone who hangs out with musicians?” He raised his eyebrows and I shrugged. “I don't know. What?” “A drummer!” I shook my head while he cracked up at his joke for another minute before hounding me again about Kaidan. “All right, so you talked about my CDs, you had some cultural confusion with some of his lingo, then you talked about hot dogs? That can't be everything. You looked seriously intense.” “That's because he was intense, even though we weren't really talking about anything. He made me nervous.” “You thought he was hot, didn't you?” I stared out my window at the passing trees and houses. We were almost to school. “I knew it!” He smacked the steering wheel, loving every second of my discomfort. “This is so weird. Anna Whitt has a crush.” “Fine, yes. He was hot. But it doesn't matter, because there's something about him I don't like. I can't explain it. He's...scary.” “He's not the boy next door, if that's what you mean. Just don't get the good-girl syndrome.” “What's that?” “You know. When a good girl falls for a bad boy and hopes the boy will fall in love and magically want to change his ways. But the only one who ends up changing is the girl.

I'm going to sit here with your weird fucking family who don't know me and think I'm some kind of punk rocker turned heroine addict while you dance the night away with Noah mother fucking Scott. And I'm going to do that because I love you.

Because falling in love is like rain. You can't always predict it and when you do it might never appear, but you can always see the signs of it before it falls.

Love, true love, lasts through thick and thin, pain and happiness, trials and tribulations. I

His lips hovered near my ear as he sang to me in that beautiful gravel of a voice, “In my arms I hold the only thing that matters…in my arms I hold the entire world…in my arms is my heart and soul.

Scott is gone. I've had two days with this truth. This truth and me, we're acquainted now, past the shock of our first unhappy meeting and into the uneasy-cohabitation stage. Its barbs are slightly duller than they were that first night, when even breathing felt agonizing and wrong. Tootsie and Marjorie hovered over me, waiting to see whether I'd collapse, while Mama looked on, white-faced, from her rocker by the fire. "Gone?" I would whisper, to no-one in particular. I, too, waited for me to be overwhelmed - but all that happened was what happens to anyone who has lost their one love: my heart cleaved into two parts, before and foreverafterward.

If there is anything on this earth that I know better than anyone, it is that the ones who give you everything except what matters most are the ones with the deepest wounds. We may never love or be more than this beautiful bond between us but whatever we will ever be it is going to be integral to my life.

I could only nod as emotions rolled in like a destructive storm. This was it. It was over. My incredible time with this beautiful talented man was up. I had to clench my teeth and swallow hard to mask the loss that threatened to overcome my calm exterior. I was holding on for dear life then he said two words with pure tranquility.

Girls, don’t ever fall in love with a boy who doesn’t even know how to pull up his motherfucking pants.

happiness is a choice. You can choose to let your mind and emotions control you, or you can be the one in charge. It’s really simple. Alotta people just don’t practice it.

Through Jimi Hendrix's music you can almost see the assassinations of President John F. Kennedy and of Martin Luther King Junior, the beginnings of the Berlin Wall, Yuri Gagarin in space, Fidel Castro and Cuba, the debut of Spiderman, Martin Luther King Junior’s ‘I Have a Dream’ speech, Ford Mustang cars, anti-Vietnam protests, Mary Quant designing the mini-skirt, Indira Gandhi becoming the Prime Minister of India, four black students sitting down at a whites-only lunch counter in Greensboro North Carolina, President Johnson pushing the Civil Rights Act, flower children growing their hair long and practicing free love, USA-funded IRA blowing up innocent civilians on the streets and in the pubs of Great Britain, Napalm bombs being dropped on the lush and carpeted fields of Vietnam, a youth-driven cultural revolution in Swinging London, police using tear gas and billy-clubs to break up protests in Chicago, Mods and Rockers battling on Brighton Beach, Native Americans given the right to vote in their own country, the United Kingdom abolishing the death penalty, and the charismatic Argentinean Marxist revolutionary Che Guevara. It’s all in Jimi’s absurd and delirious guitar riffs.

...this, this life, this "everything" you know is a mere paper construction. You, my TV dinner-sucking, glazed-eyed friends, are living in ... the matrix ... and all you have to do to see the real world, God and Satan's glorious kingdom on Earth, all you have to do to taste real life is to risk being your true self... to dare... to watch... to listen... to all the late-night staticky-voiced deejays playing "race" records blowing in under the radar, shouting their tinny AM radio manifesto, their stations filled with poets, geniuses, rockers, bluesmen, preachers, philosopher kings, speaking to you from deep in the heart of your own soul. Their voices sing, "Listen... listen to what this world is telling you, for it is calling for your love, your rage, your beauty, your sex, your energy, your rebellion... because it needs you in order to remake itself. In order to be reborn into something else, something maybe better, more godly, more wonderful, it needs us. This new world is a world of black and white. A place of freedom where the two most culturally powerful tribes in American society find common ground, pleasure and joy in each other's presence. Where they use a common language to speak with... to be with one another.

To those of us gathered here today, Matthew Connell filled a number of different roles in our lives. Matthew was a son, a brother, a father and a friend. Matthew's last days in his young life were bleak, suffering ones. Yet, we must remember the real Matthew, the loving young man who had a great lust for life. A keen musician, Matthew loved to entertain friends with his guitar playing... Renton could not make eye contact with Spud, standing next to him in the pew, as nervous laughter gripped him. Matty was the shitest guitarest he'd known, and could only play the Doors' 'Roadhouse Blues' and a few Clash and Status Quo numbers with any sort of proficiency. He tried hard to do the riff from 'Clash City Rockers', but could never quite master it. Nonetheless, Matty loved that Fender Strat. It was the last thing he sold, holding onto it after the amplifier had been flogged off in order to fill his veins with shite. Perr Matty, Renton thought. How well did any of us really know him? How well can anybody really know anybody else?

I said out loud, "Damn you for saving yourself. How come you left me with nothing but to love you and hate you, and that's gonna kill me, and you know it is." Then I turned round, went back to the cellar room, and picked up the sewing. Don't think she wasn't in every stitch I worked. She was in the wind and the rain and the creaking from the rocker. She sat on the wall with the birds and stared at me. When darkness fell, she fell with it.

Dad used to tell Mama he hurt us because he loved us too much. She’d sit in her rocker and he’d kneel at her feet with tears in his eyes and lies on his lips. She’d stroke his hair and tell him it was all okay because we loved him, too. And I hated her for it.

Worse, in the video for it (which is also played everywhere constantly), Boris is singing to a girl who is dying in a hospital bed, and Boris is telling her (lyrically) that he'll give her a million stars (plus his love) if she'll find the strength within herself to not die, and love him forever. Of course the girl is so moved by this hot rocker dude's amazing song that she doesn't die. Because it is a medical fact that people with fatal diseases only need a hot rocker dude to sit on the edge of their hospital bed and sing them a rock ballad in order to give them the strength to go on living.

If the early English and LA punk bands shared a common sound, the New York bands just shared the same clubs. As such, while the English scene never became known as the '100 Club' sound, CBGBs was the solitary common component in the New York bands' development, transcended once they had outgrown the need to play the club. Even their supposed musical heritage was not exactly common -- the Ramones preferring the Dolls/Stooges to Television's Velvets/Coltrane to Blondie's Stones/Brit-Rock. Though the scene had been built up as a single movement, when commercial implications began to sink in, the differences that separated the bands became far more important than the similarities which had previously bound them together. In the two years following the summer 1975 festival, CBGBs had become something of an ideological battleground, if not between the bands then between their critical proponents. The divisions between a dozen bands, all playing the same club, all suffering the same hardships, all sharing the same love of certain central bands in the history of rock & roll, should not have been that great. But the small scene very quickly partitioned into art-rockers and exponents of a pure let's-rock aesthetic.

Advice. Who’s the coolest, toughest, hottest rocker girl you can think of?” “Debbie Harry,” Mom said. “Tha—” “Not finished,” Mom interrupted. “You can’t ask me to pick only one. That’s so Sophie’s Choice. Kathleen Hanna. Patti Smith. Joan Jett. Courtney Love, in her demented destructionist way. Lucinda Williams, even though she’s country she’s tough as nails. Kim Gordon from Sonic Youth, pushing fifty and still at it. That Cat Power woman. Joan Armatrading.

Then I’ll sing, though that will likely have the child holding his ears and you running from the room.” This, incongruously, had her lips quirking up. “My father isn’t very musical. You hold the baby, I’ll sing.” She took the rocking chair by the hearth. Vim settled the child in his arms and started blowing out candles as he paced the room. “He shall feed his flock, like a shepherd…” More Handel, the lilting, lyrical contralto portion of the aria, a sweet, comforting melody if ever one had been written. And the baby was comforted, sighing in Vim’s arms and going still. Not deathly still, just exhausted still. Sophie sang on, her voice unbearably lovely. “And He shall gather the lambs in his arm… and gently lead those that are with young.” Vim liked music, he enjoyed it a great deal in fact—he just wasn’t any good at making it. Sophie was damned good. She had superb control, managing to sing quietly even as she shifted to the soprano verse, her voice lifting gently into the higher register. By the second time through, Vim’s eyes were heavy and his steps lagging. “He’s asleep,” he whispered as the last notes died away. “And my God, you can sing, Sophie Windham.” “I had good teachers.” She’d sung some of the tension and worry out too, if her more peaceful expression was any guide. “If you want to go back to your room, I can take him now.” He didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to leave her alone with the fussy baby; he didn’t want to go back to his big, cold bed down the dark, cold hallway. “Go to bed, Sophie. I’ll stay for a while.” She frowned then went to the window and parted the curtain slightly. “I think it’s stopped snowing, but there is such a wind it’s hard to tell.” He didn’t dare join her at the window for fear a chilly draft might wake the child. “Come away from there, Sophie, and why haven’t you any socks or slippers on your feet?” She glanced down at her bare feet and wiggled long, elegant toes. “I forgot. Kit started crying, and I was out of bed before I quite woke up.” They shared a look, one likely common to parents of infants the world over. “My Lord Baby has a loyal and devoted court,” Vim said. “Get into bed before your toes freeze off.” She gave him a particularly unreadable perusal but climbed into her bed and did not draw the curtains. “Vim?” “Hmm?” He took the rocker, the lyrical triple meter of the aria still in his head. “Thank you.” He

When Mama leaned over to kiss me, I hugged her so tight she could hardly breathe. “I’ll never forget you,” I whispered. Mama drew back. “What did you say?” “Nothing,” I mumbled. “I love you, Mama.” She smiled. “Well, for goodness sake, you little jackanapes, I love you too.” Smoothing the quilt over me, she turned to the others. “What Andrew needs is a good night’s sleep. In the morning, he’ll be himself again, just wait and see.” “I hope so,” Andrew said. Papa frowned. “No one will get any sleep, good or bad, with Buster making such a racket. I don’t know what ails that animal.” While we’d been talking, Andrew had gone to the window and whistled for the dog. Though the Tylers hadn’t heard the loud two-fingered blast, Buster definitely had. His howls made the hair on my neck prickle. Even Andrew looked frightened. He backed away from the window and sat quietly in the rocker. “Edward told me a dog howls when somebody in the family is about to die,” Theo said uneasily. Papa shook his head. “That’s superstitious nonsense, Theodore. Surely you know better than to believe someone as well known for mendacity as your cousin.” Muttering to himself, Papa left the room. Taking Theo with her, Mama followed, but Hannah lingered by the bed. I reached out and grabbed her hand. “Don’t leave yet,” I begged. “Stay a while.” Hannah hesitated for a moment, her face solemn, her eyes worried. “Mama’s right, Andrew,” she said softly. “You need to rest, you’ve overexcited yourself again. We’ve got all day tomorrow to sit in the tree and talk.” When Hannah reached up to turn off the gas jet, I glanced at Andrew. He was watching his sister from the rocker, his eyes fixed longingly on her face. A little wave of jealousy swept over me. He’d get to be with her for years, but all I had were a few more minutes. In the darkness, Hannah smiled down at me. “Close your eyes,” she said. “Go to sleep.” “But I’ll never see you again.” Hannah’s smile vanished. “Don’t talk nonsense,” she whispered. “You’ll see me tomorrow and every day after that.” In the corner, Andrew stared at his sister and rocked the chair harder. In the silent room I heard it creak, saw it move back and forth. Startled by the sound, Hannah glanced at the rocker and drew in her breath. Turning to me, she said, “Lord, the moon’s making me as fanciful as you. I thought I saw--” She shook her head. “I must need a good night’s sleep myself.” Kissing me lightly on the nose, Hannah left the room without looking at the rocking chair again.

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

priests in the seminary were no strangers to physical abuse. Punching, slapping, and beatings were not unusual. I remember one priest in particular who taught Latin. He used to walk up and down the aisles cracking kids with his belt the way that someone would slap another guy with a towel at the gym. You could hear his footsteps walking up and down the aisle, never knowing whether this would be your day to feel the belt on your back. You could actually see on his face the great pleasure that he got from abusing these young boys in this way. He was really a sick person. Some of these priests had not completed any formal training in teaching and had no real desire to help children learn. Years later when I was in college, I saw this same priest in the parking lot. He told me that he was there to take a few teaching courses. I can only hope that someone stepped in to discipline this man and change the way that he treated his students. But it’s difficult to imagine that he was capable of that kind of dramatic change.

parents often rationalized that somehow their kids must have done something to deserve the abuse.

By age thirty, I was living a life that most people only dream of living. But it’s a strange phenomenon. When you’re caught in the whirlwind, it begins to feel commonplace. Suddenly, you begin to forget all the years of walking through the kitchen to play the wedding. You forget the people throwing quarters at you on some makeshift stage. It all becomes a distant memory. You feel elevated. People treat you differently. Now that you can afford things, you seem to get a lot of things for free. The guitar strings that I used to buy—free. The guitar itself—free. Clothes, sneakers, tennis rackets—you name it, we were being offered it. Now that we had a best-selling album and were a household name, everyone wanted us to use their brand of whatever. It was crazy. The money wasn’t bad either after all those years of eating every other day and sleeping four to a room. I remember when we got our first big royalty check. The business manager that we had used for years called John and I and said, “Come see me, I have a check for you both.” When John and I went to see him, he handed us both an envelope. I opened mine first and looked inside. When I saw the amount, I said, “Oh, this can’t be for us.” I asked, John, “How much is yours?” He said, “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. How much is yours?” I said, “Two hundred and fifty thousand.” All we could do was laugh. This was crazy money to us. When we started out I remember thinking, if I could make $50,000 at this I’ll be happy. Now, it looked like we were going to make a little bit more. I didn’t spend elaborately when we started making money. But I did have my little splurges. For instance, I bought a Jaguar. I remember the Jaguar salesman warning me, “Now are you sure you want to buy this car? I don’t want you spending all your money.” Eventually,

Of course, many of the fans who came to wait for us were women. You could count on that. There were certain women who would follow the group from city to city. Others would be local girls who liked Styx, or who liked the rock scene in general. In the beginning, the number of women (or girls, it was sometimes hard to tell their age) who turned out for our performances surprised me. In time, though, you just expected it. The faces began to blur together from city to city, and for all I knew, it could have been the same group of fifty or so scantily clad women who were transported and plopped down in front of the stage door in each different city. Most of them never made it beyond the back door. The lucky ones found a way to get backstage passes. But even the ones allowed backstage rarely got attention from any of the guys in the band. After a certain point, it just gets a little monotonous—even if you’re straight and single. If you’re married, or worse yet, gay, it gets old very quickly. This meant that our road crew got very lucky, very often. If the girls couldn’t get to anyone in the band, the roadies were the next best thing. And the roadies were never too busy or too tired to take one for the team. In exchange, the girls got access to hang out backstage while Styx performed. Everyone seemed happy enough with the system. While

While reading some old articles to jog my memory for this book, I came across an article in the Chicago Sun-Times by Rick Kogan, a reporter who traveled with Styx for a few concert dates in 1979. I remember him. When we played the Long Beach Civic Center’s 12,000-seat sports arena in California, he rode in the car with JY and me as we approached the stadium. His recounting of the scene made me smile. It’s also a great snapshot of what life was like for us back in the day. The article from 1980 was called, “The Band That Styx It To ‘Em.” Here’s what he wrote: “At once, a sleek, gray Cadillac limousine glides toward the back stage area. Small groups of girls rush from under trees and other hiding places like a pack of lions attacking an antelope. They bang on the windows, try to halt the driver’s progress by standing in front of the car. They are a desperate bunch. Rain soaks their makeup and ruins their clothes. Some are crying. “Tommy, Tommmmmmmmmy! I love you!” one girl yells as she bangs against the limousine’s window. Inside the gray limousine, James Young, the tall, blond guitarist for Styx who likes to be called J.Y. looks out the window. “It sure is raining,” he says. Next to him, bass player Chuck Panozzo, finishing the last part of a cover story on Styx in a recent issue of Record World magazine, nods his head in agreement. Then he chuckles, and says, “They think you’re Tommy.” “I’m not Tommy Shaw,” J.Y. screams. “I’m Rod Stewart.” “Tommy, Tommmmmmmmmy! I love you! I love you!” the girl persists, now trying desperately to jump on the hood of the slippery auto. “Oh brother,” sighs J.Y. And the limousine rolls through the now fully raised backstage door and he hurries to get out and head for the dressing room. This scene is repeated twice, as two more limousines make their way into the stadium, five and ten minutes later. The second car carries young guitarist Tommy Shaw, drummer John Panozzo and his wife Debbie. The groupies muster their greatest energy for this car. As the youngest member of Styx and because of his good looks and flowing blond hair, Tommy Shaw is extremely popular with young girls. Some of his fans are now demonstrating their affection by covering his car with their bodies. John and Debbie Panozzo pay no attention to the frenzy. Tommy Shaw merely smiles, and shortly all of them are inside the sports arena dressing room. By the time the last and final car appears, spectacularly black in the California rain, the groupies’ enthusiasm has waned. Most of them have started tiptoeing through the puddles back to their hiding places to regroup for the band’s departure in a couple of hours.” Tommy

eventually I started hanging out at a specific Old Town bar that was known as a leather-and-Levi’s kind of place. You get the picture—jeans, leather vests, uniforms, and combat boots. Think the Village People without the Indian. The first time that I went there, I was scared to death. I knew I was attracted physically to the men and the way that they dressed, but I wasn’t sure exactly what they were into. A huge bear of a man in leather pants and a cop hat can be a bit intimidating to a newbie. But as I worked my way into the crowd and began to hear snippets of conversations, I realized, “These guys are talking about recipes!” Suddenly,

It’s an amazing feeling to think that people actually took time out of their lives to learn the words to our music. The adulation and sound of the crowd can be overwhelming, but the idea is to perform like you’re performing for one person. Whether you’re performing for 3 people or 30,000, you have to be 100 percent there. By

The fan reaction to our music was incredible. In fact, we ended up getting a bigger response from the crowd than they did. This scenario repeated itself again and again with many of the acts that we fronted. In short, we started to become a nightmare of an opening act for the featured artists because we often got a more enthusiastic reception than they did. It got to the point where no one wanted us to open for them anymore. This ended up being a good thing. That’s when we stopped being the opening act and became “the act.” By

She'd discreetly asked a few of her customers today and found out, much to her dismay, that everyone was under the impression Jack was back, and not just for a visit. She let her head fall back and sighed heavily. Damn him. Damn him and my sister both. She knew it wasn't fair to be mad at Jack just for coming home, but she couldn't help it. After everything she'd sacrificed to keep Amanda's secret, it was ready to be blown to bits by his arrival. She was going to drive herself crazy if she didn't stop dwelling on it. Cassie picked up her phone and slid her finger across the screen. With a couple taps on the glass, it was ringing. Time to call in the reinforcements. "Hey girl, what's shaking?" came the sound of Lissa's voice. "Hey." She sat there, unsure what to say to her best friend, just knowing she needed her support. "Uh oh. What's going on?" "Jack came in my shop this morning." "I'll be right there." The line went dead. Cassie smiled. Of course she would. She closed her eyes and rested while she waited. She and Melissa Winters had been through everything side by side, so why should this be any different? Lissa was the only person in the world besides Cassie that knew the secret about Sarah. She had helped her adjust to a new baby, teaching her everything she had learned from growing up the oldest sister of five. It was always in times like those that Cassie wished she had her mother around, but Lissa had stepped up. Caroline Powell would have loved helping with Sarah, but as it was, she often didn't even remember who Sarah was when Cassie would take her for visits to the full-time care facility she lived at in The city. Footsteps on the porch stairs shook her out of her reverie, and she opened her eyes to see Lissa walking up, Chinese takeout bags in hand. "General Tso to the rescue," she proclaimed, dropping into the rocker next to Cassie. "And some sweet and sour chicken for Miss Priss, of course." "Of course," Cassie smiled. "You're the best." They sat in silence for a few moments, Cassie turning her glass round and round in her hands until Lissa couldn't take it any longer. "Okay, spill. You can't drop a bomb on me like that and then just sit there in silence," Lissa chided. "I just don't know what to say. I'm terrified, Liss." "Let's think rationally. There is no reason for him to suspect anything." "He seemed really confused about Sarah. Surprised. He kept asking about her.

You broke us, Ally. I want you to remember that. When you’re with him and you’re miserable and unhappy because you realized too late that he’s a whoring, alcoholic douchebag with the attention span of a newborn, I want you to remember that you broke us. That decision you made two years ago in my bedroom, to keep silent about being pregnant, was the wrong decision. So is every other decision you’ve made since then. This is not on me. It’s all on you,and you’ll regret it. I promise you that. You’ll regret not choosing me.

Do you want those things? Do you want to go to bed with me at night? Wake up with me in the morning? Drive me crazy looking all sexy and drowsy over your tea? Spend your life with me, Hannah. Grow old with me. We can sit on the porch in our rockers and I swear, baby, at the end of it all, you'll know no one could have loved you more or better. I can give that to you. I swear I can, baby. Love me back, Hannah.

This has always been a city of thoughtful rogues, greedy do-gooders, irreverent theologians, socialist entrepreneurs, hedonistic environmentalists, sensitive newspapermen, philosophical rockers, and high-minded sensualists. And through the years, these mavericks have carried, like an unruly band of Olympic torchbearers, the rebellious, restless, life-affirming fire that was lit in 1849.

The Decline of Western Civilization Part II

Gallic rocker Eddy Mitchell bounces

In grief, there is an element of inconsolability. In our needs, there is an element of unsatisfiability. In the face of life’s most profound questions, there is an unknowability. This fits with the work of Kurt Gödel, the Czech mathematician, who confirmed the “incompleteness theorem,” which states that in any mathematical system there are indeed propositions that can neither be proved nor disproved. These natural incompletions reflect the first noble truth of Buddhism about the enduring and ineradicable unsatisfactoriness of all experience. This is not only Buddha’s truth, it is the one that some of our children and punk rockers also proclaim. Yet there is a positive side. Inconsolability means we cannot forget but always cherish those we loved. Unsatisfiability means we have a motivation to transcend our immediate desires. Unknowability means we grow in our sense of wonder and imagination. Indeed, answers close us, but questions open us. In accepting the given of the first noble truth without protest, blame, or recourse to an escape to which we can attach, we win all the way around.

When rock bands like the Rolling Stones came to prominence in the 1960s, they were perceived as dangerously anti-establishment. Some exploited this reputation by promoting social revolution and sexual hedonism. Even now old rockers in their seventies retain an aura of wildness. Yet Sir Mick Jagger and his ilk changed very little in the society they professed to loathe, and today it is common enough to find our celebrated cultural rebels enjoying multi-millionaire lifestyles based on shrewd investments. They live in large mansions. They enjoy access to the best health care. They take exotic holidays, and so on. We may love the music of Sir Paul McCartney, Sir Elton John and Bob Geldof, KBE, but now we must see that it really is “only rock and roll.” Such people are part of the kinnocratic illusion (see Chapter 7), manipulating the story of being-like-us, fighting for fairness, making the world a better place with their sonic flares in the gloom.

Three windows. And in the third, high in the top storey of the solid, snow-hushed house on this hill at the edge of Christmas the most extraordinary face of all: a visage of curious alloy: earthly wisdom and heavenly innocence, grief like a stone and humor like flame; a face of age and yet of ageless youth. Marya Alexander, mother of Nell Dance, sits in her flowered rocker by the glass and sees through it the soft, white onslaught of the snow and read within each intricately. Jeweled flake the timelessness of Time itself and of loss and of love and of love’s ending. Upon her old spectacles perches a small gold parakeet and she puffs now pensively upon a cigarette and blows the ghost of smoke against the enchanted window pane and witnesses there, for an instant, the misted image of faces long lost beneath so many snows, and smiles to herself at the knowing that Christmastide and a good heart’s breath against a cold pane are enough to bring lost faces back in evergreen eternity.

13. The Chemical Brothers, “Setting Sun” (1996) Everybody’s favorite song in the fall of 1996, uniting rockers, ravers, clubbers, druggers, all factions of the pop massive. The Chemical Brothers turn “Tomorrow Never Knows” into a banging techno loop, warping Ringo’s block-rocking beats into something new. “Setting Sun” is unaccountably obscure these days, considering what a fact of life it was for a year or so, but it’s a song that accurately predicted the future. There was nothing retro about it; instead of capitulating to the past, the Chemicals complimented it enough to ransack it. In this song, the Beatles aren’t legends or saints or icons—they’re a nasty drum break. The vocals were by Oasis’s Noel Gallagher, then Britannia’s biggest rock star, yet he sounded more antique than Ringo’s drums did. It was the ultimate Nineties statement of the Beatles as a right-now thing as opposed to a good-old-days thing.

Owen raised his beer bottle, clinking it against Mason’s for an impromptu toast. They both sipped, long and deep, eyes shadowy and moist in the flickering candle flames. Outside the screen door beside them, nature sounds trilled in the air: rustling leaves, wobbly rockers creaking on the front porch, crickets chirping. It was all music to Mason’s ears, much the same way Owen’s dimples were a feast for his adoring eyeballs.

Crazed; Love me through your hatred and tell me that you need me, then turn around and knock me down. Down on the cold hard ground. Tell me that I'm crazy, but is it I who is insane, when you're the one driving the loony train? You want to take a drill bit to my brain, hollow out the goo that makes me, me, and not you. You're off your fucking rocker and you're a deranged stalker. Always following me around, trying not to make a sound. Cut me if you want, you can fill my fucking cunt. The more pain I am in, the more it will feel like a win.

What is Sapiens (The Sonnet) Soil can survive without sapiens, But there is no sapiens without soil. There is no us if nature goes off the rocker, Yet way more than nature, we value gas and oil. We started off using clothes as cover for privacy, And we ended up prioritizing clothes over integrity. Instead of loving people and using the products, We ended up loving products and abusing humanity. Sapiens is supposed to mean wise and aware, But in practice, sapiens is code for shallow. Sapiens has become just a synonym for show-off. Neither wise, nor aware, sapiens just means narrow. However, no error is ultimate if we're willing for reform. An expanding heart is the antidote to all narrow norm.

making love

He only cried when your father was killed. I remember he sat downstairs all by himself when he got back. Must have been well toward dawn. He sat down there and had a drink. I was awakened by a sound I’d never heard. I snuck downstairs. He was sitting in that old rocker there”—John pointed through the crowd to a threadbare old chair that had stood in the same spot for fifty years—“and rocked back and forth and sobbed like a baby. He loved your father. He thought Earl Swagger was the most perfect man ever put on earth: hero, father, police officer, incorruptible symbol of everything that was right and strong about America.

Rocker claimed that it was "meaningless to speak of a community of national interests, for that which the ruling class of every country has up to now defended as national interest has never been anything but the special interest of privileged minorities in society secured by the exploitation and political suppression of the great masses." For behind nationalist ideas, wrote Rocker, are "hidden ... the selfish interests of power-loving politicians and money-loving businessmen for whom the nation is a convenient cover to hide their personal greed and their schemes for political power.

Ahh, it’s true. Secret rocker. So, is the science teacher just a facade? Kinda like the real Peter Parker? Do you secretly save the world on your off time?” I’m smiling at him, enjoying the banter. His frame seems so much bigger, being in the small space. He’s not saying anything, so I go on. “Did I just bust you out? You gonna have to keep me quiet now?” I laugh. But he doesn’t. He leans over and wraps his strong hand around my neck, bringing our faces close, our lips pressing together. I can’t remember the last time I ever made out in a car, if that’s what we’re doing. The old-school French kissing outside the parent’s house until the lights go on and we have to break apart. But this time, I’m an adult and no one’s going to stop us. Not sure what comes over me, but I lean forward, letting him know I want more. His response is just want I want as he pulls my body over the center console to his side, my legs now straddling him. My body is on fire, being in this position. I shamelessly grind forward, loving the friction the hardness between his legs brushing against my covered clit causes. His grip around my ass tightens and he growls into my mouth. Our kiss becomes brutal, my hands working their way up his tight chest, up his neck and into his thick, dark hair. I grip handfuls into my fists and, as I cock my head to the side for a deeper kiss, I accidently knock his glasses off. “Shit, sorry,” I moan into his mouth. He doesn’t skip a beat, grabbing my ass cheeks tighter and grinding what feels like a gigantic sized monster against my sex. This is not how I saw this going, but man, am I glad. His mouth, his strong hands, his hard cock, everything has become a pleasant surprise. The sound of Axl Rose singing in the background while we kiss and grind, our teeth scraping, our tongues dancing around one another, while our hands explore, squeezing, pulling and pinching. It’s almost becoming too much and the buildup is going to cause me to orgasm. I should stop this; this is immature what we’re doing. Dry humping in a car, god, what’s wrong with us? His grip is strong and intense, pushing, pulling, as our bodies move.

You aren’t just the rocker/actor everyone loves, the one we all think will for sure make it when he moves to LA. Suddenly, you’re Romeo shunned by Rosaline. Or Hamlet, suffering the slings and arrows of destiny: To be, or not to be, that is the question.

She’s using her child to get to you.  Baby, she is off her rocker.  If you could have seen the look in her eyes—she is a freaking psycho.  I will knock the crap out of her if she confronts me like that again.