The Music Freaks Quotes

It starts so young, and I'm angry about that. The garbage we're taught. About love, about what's "romantic." Look at so many of the so-called romantic figures in books and movies. Do we ever stop and think how many of them would cause serious and drastic unhappiness after The End? Why are sick and dangerous personality types so often shown a passionate and tragic and something to be longed for when those are the very ones you should run for your life from? Think about it. Heathcliff. Romeo. Don Juan. Jay Gatsby. Rochester. Mr. Darcy. From the rigid control freak in The Sound of Music to all the bad boys some woman goes running to the airport to catch in the last minute of every romantic comedy. She should let him leave. Your time is so valuable, and look at these guys--depressive and moody and violent and immature and self-centered. And what about the big daddy of them all, Prince Charming? What was his secret life? We dont know anything about him, other then he looks good and comes to the rescue.

I’m a word freak. I like words. I’ve always compared writing to music. That’s the way I feel about good paragraphs. When it really works, it’s like music.

Holy fellatio! You are standing there licking him up with your eyes! Do you freaking hear the old seventies porn music playing in your head?

Life's a freaking mess. In fact, I'm going to tell Sarah we need to start a new philosophical movement: messessentialism instead of existentialism: For those who revel in the essential mess that is life. Because Gram's right, there's not one truth ever, just a bunch of stories, all going on at once, in our heads, in our hearts, all getting in the way of each other. It's all a beautiful calamitous mess. It's like the day Mr. James took us into the woods and cried triumphantly, "That's it! That's it!" to the dizzying cacophony of soloing instruments trying to make music together. That is it.

I was born to let my freak flag fly and celebrate all of life's beautiful eccentricities.

Jerott, for God’s sake! Are you doing this for a wager?’ said Lymond, his patience gone at last. ‘What does anyone want out of life? What kind of freak do you suppose I am? I miss books and good verse and decent talk. I miss women, to speak to, not to rape; and children, and men creating things instead of destroying them. And from the time I wake until the time I find I can’t go to sleep there is the void—the bloody void where there was no music today and none yesterday and no prospect of any tomorrow, or tomorrow, or next God-damned year.

We have looked for myths that include us in great novels, music, the latest comic book, or even some stupid advertising campaign. We'll look anywhere for a mythology that embraces people like ourselves.

Well, look at the other characters in Winnie the Pooh. They all actually demonstrate that Pooh is the most mentally balanced. There’s Tigger, I mean, that tiger just can’t stay in the moment and enjoy it. He’s too much of a hedonist; he always wants the next adventure. That’s not healthy, he’ll burn out.” I started properly laughing. “And what about Eeyore?” “Well he’s a depressive, isn’t he? If Eeyore walked into my doctor’s office he’d be prescribed with a lifetime supply of antidepressants. And not just because US doctors dole them out like candy canes at Christmas.” The music stopped and I found myself clapping without even looking. “But Pooh?” “Pooh lives in the moment. He doesn’t fret about the past, or freak about the future. He’s an expert at mindfulness.” Kyle

I loved county fairs in the South. It was hard to believe that anything could be so consistently cheap and showy and vulgar year after year. each year I thought that at least one class act would force its way into a booth or sideshow, but I was always mistaken. The lure of the fair was the perfect harmony of its joyous decadence, its burned-out dishonored vulgarity, its riot of colors and smells, its jangling, tawdry music, and its wicked glimpse into the outlaw life of hucksters, tattoo parlors, monstrous freaks, and strippers.

This seemed to be happening more and more lately out in Greater Los Angeles, among gatherings of carefree youth and happy dopers, where Doc had begun to notice older men, there and not there, rigid, unsmiling, that he knew he'd seen before, not the faces necessarily but a defiant posture, an unwillingness to blur out, like everyone else at the psychedelic events of those days, beyond official envelopes of skin. Like the operatives who'd dragged away Coy Harlingen the other night at that rally at the Century Plaza. Doc Knew these people, he'd seen enough of them in the course of business. They went out to collect cash debts, they broke rib cages, they got people fired, they kept an unforgiving eye on anything that might become a threat. If everything in this dream of prerevolution was in fact doomed to end and the faithless money-driven world to reassert its control over all the lives it felt entitled to touch, fondle, and molest, it would be agents like these, dutiful and silent, out doing the shitwork, who'd make it happen. Was it possible, that at every gathering--concert, peace rally, love-in, be-in, and freak-in, here, up north, back east, wherever--those dark crews had been busy all along, reclaiming the music, the resistance to power, the sexual desire from epic to everyday, all they could sweep up, for the ancient forces of greed and fear? 'Gee,' he said to himself out loud, 'I dunno...

I am not a music snob. If anything, my musical taste is bad by any critical standards. My favorite song of all time is "Come On Eileen" by Dexys Midnight Runners. A close second is "MMMBop" by Hanson. So I am not out there claiming any musical superiority, but Creed really does suck. Bad music, pretentious lyrics, and a messianic front man. Also they are from Florida. No good rock music has ever come from Florida. Undoubtedly, there will be legions of offended readers who think to themselves, What are you talking about! Such-and-such band is from Flordia and they're freaking awesome! No, whatever band you are thinking of, if they are from Flordia, they suck. Not as much as Creed, but they still suck.

You have something to protect and I have something to destroy. You escape into music and I’m trapped there. You hid from me and I still found you. Where you end, I begin.” He wraps long fingers around the back of my neck. “We may not be from the same world, Cadence, but we’re made of the same freaking soul.

They are the appreciators of genius, and as art critic Clive Bell said, “The essential characteristic of a highly civilized society is not that it is creative but that it is appreciative.” By that measure, Vienna was the most highly civilized society to grace the planet. Mozart didn’t compose for an audience but for audiences. One audience was the wealthy patrons—nobles, typically, including the emperor himself. Another audience was the city’s finicky music critics. A third was the public at large, middle-class concertgoers or dust-caked street sweepers attending an open-air, and free, performance. Musical Vienna was not a solo performance. It was a symphony, often harmonious, occasionally discordant, never dull. Mozart was no freak of nature. He was part of a milieu, a musical ecosystem so rich and varied it practically

I watched the light flicker on the limestone walls until Archer said, "I wish we could go to the movies." I stared at him. "We're in a creepy dungeon. There's a chance I might die in the next few hours. You are going to die in the next few hours. And if you had one wish, it would be to catch a movie?" He shook his head. "That's not what I meant. I wish we weren't like this. You know, demon, demon-hunter. I wish I'd met you in a normal high school, and taken you on normal dates, and like, carried your books or something." Glancing over at me, he squinted and asked, "Is that a thing humans actually do?" "Not outside of 1950s TV shows," I told him, reaching up to touch his hair. He wrapped an arm around me and leaned against the wall, pulling me to his chest. I drew my legs up under me and rested my cheek on his collarbone. "So instead of stomping around forests hunting ghouls, you want to go to the movies and school dances." "Well,maybe we could go on the occasional ghoul hunt," he allowed before pressing a kiss to my temple. "Keep things interesting." I closed my eyes. "What else would we do if we were regular teenagers?" "Hmm...let's see.Well,first of all, I'd need to get some kind of job so I could afford to take you on these completely normal dates. Maybe I could stock groceries somewhere." The image of Archer in a blue apron, putting boxes of Nilla Wafers on a shelf at Walmart was too bizarre to even contemplate, but I went along with it. "We could argue in front of our lockers all dramatically," I said. "That's something I saw a lot at human high schools." He squeezed me in a quick hug. "Yes! Now that sounds like a good time. And then I could come to your house in the middle of the night and play music really loudly under your window until you took me back." I chuckled. "You watch too many movies. Ooh, we could be lab partners!" "Isn't that kind of what we were in Defense?" "Yeah,but in a normal high school, there would be more science, less kicking each other in the face." "Nice." We spent the next few minutes spinning out scenarios like this, including all the sports in which Archer's L'Occhio di Dio skills would come in handy, and starring in school plays.By the time we were done, I was laughing, and I realized that, for just a little while, I'd managed to forget what a huge freaking mess we were in. Which had probably been the point. Once our laughter died away, the dread started seeping back in. Still, I tried to joke when I said, "You know, if I do live through this, I'm gonna be covered in funky tattoos like the Vandy. You sure you want to date the Illustrated Woman, even if it's just for a little while?" He caught my chin and raised my eyes to his. "Trust me," he said softly, "you could have a giant tiger tattooed on your face, and I'd still want to be with you." "Okay,seriously,enough with the swoony talk," I told him, leaning in closer. "I like snarky, mean Archer." He grinned. "In that case, shut up, Mercer.

When I lift my eyes to the mirror, my lips part. It’s me. The witchy, white-blonde hair. The baby blue eyes. But at the same time, it isn’t. There’s a void in there. A… numbness. I’m about to move to the shower when something else stops me. My scar. Several angry red marks surround it. Did the psycho leave freaking hickeys around my scar? What in the ever living hell was going on in his defective brain? I rip my gaze away from the mirror and take the longest, most scalding shower in history. When I step back into the room, the song has changed to Good Grief by Bastille. I let the music drift around me as I climb into bed, still in a towel, and close my eyes. I fight the tears and lose.

Y'know, when I first started listening to punk rock music, I used to get my fucking ass kicked for it! I was known as a fucking freak! But now I'm amongst many many many freaks here with me tonight! - Billie Joe Armstrong,Stay The Night, Reading Festival 2013

Hacker with Bullhorn: "Save your money! Accept one of our free tanks! It is invulnerable, and can drive across rocks and swamps at ninety miles an hour while getting a hundred miles to the gallon!" Prospective Station Wagon Buyer: "I know what you say is true...but...er...I don't know how to maintain a tank!" Bullhorn: "You don't know how to maintain a station wagon either!" Buyer: "But this dealership has mechanics on staff. If something goes wrong with my station wagon, I can take a day off work, bring it here, and pay them to work on it while I sit in the waiting room for hours, listening to elevator music." Bullhorn: "But if you accept one of our free tanks, we will send volunteers to your house to fix it for free while you sleep!" Buyer: "Stay away from my house, you freak!

Ancient philosophy was framed by prodigies, Aristotle, Plato and Socrates. And even though their thoughts were deemed the aristocratic voice, they also had a thing for little boys. Katherine the Great so it's been said, needed large animals to be fulfilled in bed. From historic rulers to the Ancient Greeks, we're standing on the shoulders of freaks. Isn't life pretty? Earnest Hemingway once said, then he a bullet through his head. Salvador Dali's surreal paintings were God sent, you'd never know he ate his own excrement. Then there's Da Vinci for whom it required, dressing in women's underwear to be inspired. From the great romantics to the Ancient Greeks, we're standing on the shoulders of freaks. Truman Capote needless to say, would be intoxicated 20 hours a day. From the modern authors to the Ancient Greeks, we're standing on the shoulders of freaks.

can’t believe The Ballad of the Green Berets was No. 1 for five freaking weeks,” Adam muttered aloud, wondering how it was possible that a Vietnam tribute sung by an armed forces medic could invade a musical landscape inhabited by the likes of the Beatles, Simon & Garfunkel, and the Supremes.

thousand flowers bloom. Sometimes it’s nice to be in the hands of a control freak. • • • Jobs’s intensity was also evident in his ability to focus. He would set priorities, aim his laser attention on them, and filter out distractions. If something engaged him—the user interface for the original Macintosh, the design of the iPod and iPhone, getting music companies into the iTunes Store—he was relentless. But if he did not want to deal with something—a legal annoyance, a business issue,

David Lester, a psychology professor at Richard Stockton College in New Jersey, has likely thought about suicide longer, harder, and from more angles than any other human. In more than twenty-five-hundred academic publications, he has explored the relationship between suicide and, among other things, alcohol, anger, antidepressants, astrological signs, biochemistry, blood type, body type, depression, drug abuse, gun control, happiness, holidays, Internet use, IQ, mental illness, migraines, the moon, music, national-anthem lyrics, personality type, sexuality, smoking, spirituality, TV watching, and wide-open spaces. Has all this study led Lester to some grand unified theory of suicide? Hardly. So far he has one compelling notion. It’s what might be called the “no one left to blame” theory of suicide. While one might expect that suicide is highest among people whose lives are the hardest, research by Lester and others suggests the opposite: suicide is more common among people with a higher quality of life. “If you’re unhappy and you have something to blame your unhappiness on—if it’s the government, or the economy, or something—then that kind of immunizes you against committing suicide,” he says. “It’s when you have no external cause to blame for your unhappiness that suicide becomes more likely. I’ve used this idea to explain why African-Americans have lower suicide rates, why blind people whose sight is restored often become suicidal, and why adolescent suicide rates often rise as their quality of life gets better.

show me your face i crave flowers and gardens open your lips i crave the taste of honey come out from behind the clouds i desire a sunny face your voice echoed saying "leave me alone" i wish to hear your voice again saying "leave me alone" i swear this city without you is a prison i am dying to get out to roam in deserts and mountains i am tired of flimsy friends and submissive companions i die to walk with the brave am blue hearing nagging voices and meek cries i desire loud music drunken parties and wild dance one hand holding a cup of wine one hand caressing your hair then dancing in orbital circle that is what i yearn for i can sing better than any nightingale but because of this city's freaks i seal my lips while my heart weeps yesterday the wisest man holding a lit lantern in daylight was searching around town saying i am tired of all these beasts and brutes i seek a true human we have all looked for one but no one could be found they said yes he replied but my search is for the one who cannot be found

You know how some people think cool equals bored, and they act like they’re alien scientists who drew the short straw and ended up assigned to observe this lowly species, humans, and they just lean against walls all the time, sighing and waiting to be called home to Zigborp-12, where all the fascinating geniuses are? Yeah, well, Mik doesn’t sigh or lean, and his eyes are fully open like something awesome might happen at any time and he doesn’t want to miss it. If he’s an alien, he’s an alien from a gray planet without pizza or music, and he freaking loves it here.

With the indie kids you have to remember this: they really think that what they do matters in some way. They reckon that history will care. (They don’t know that history will have other shit to be getting on with.) The indie kids figure that they’re passing on the torch or some fucking thing. That, just as they were influenced by someone—the Velvet Underground, Jonathan Richman, the Stooges, whoever—then, in the future, young bands will be influenced by them. Maybe so. Maybe a few thousand malnourished cockless freaks scattered around the globe will give a shit. So what? Real people don’t..

Like everyone else in the show, Max avoided the Ogre, despising him as the lowest of the freaks, until one fateful night when his insomnia was eased by an unexpected strain of Mendelssohn that came wafting across the soft Manitoba summer night. Max went in search of the source of the music and was led, to his astonishment, to the misterable iron wagon at the back of the fairgrounds. In the moonlight he read three short words: SEE THE OGRE! It was then that Max, who had never before in all this time considered the matter, realized that all men, no matter what their estate, were in possession of shining immortal souls.

In there, the music was slightly less deafening, so Cara didn’t have to yell when she said, “Holy crap, are you okay? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to abandon you. I thought you were dancing alone and then I turned around and they had their dirty paws all over you and—” “Cara.” Meg grabbed her hands and gave them a squeeze. “Cara, I’m good. They asked to dance. I said yes. It’s good.” “They…” If anything, Cara’s eyes went wider. “Oh shit, I am the worst wingwoman in the history of wingwomen. You were getting busy, weren’t you? Look at you, you’re all flushed.” She laughed and leaned against the counter. “God, I thought you were freaked out and couldn’t escape and that’s why you looked like that. But it was lust.” She gave Meg a playful smack. “Get it, girl!

Sometimes Cookies Are the Best Medicine For hospice patients at death’s door, big existential conversations aren’t always the needed medicine. One oddly powerful alternative is baking cookies together. “Just the basic joy of smelling a cookie. It smells freaking great. [And it’s like the snowball.] You’re rewarded for being alive and in the moment. Smelling a cookie is not on behalf of some future state. It’s great in the moment, by itself, on behalf of nothing. And this is another thing back to art. Art for its own sake. Art and music and dance. Part of its poignancy is its purposelessness, and just delighting in a wacky fact of perhaps a meaningless universe and how remarkable that is. One way for all of us to live until we’re actually dead is to prize those little moments.

We are hardwired to hear and make music. Yes, we will sigh with pleasure when we hear a favorite theme played by an orchestra, and who hasn’t felt a stab of nostalgia, or even brushed away a tear, when hearing a song reminiscent of youth or a lost love? However, such exquisite moments notwithstanding, the musical experience represents something far deeper. Broadly defined, music is sound in time. Sound is nothing less than our perception of the vibrations, the movement, of the universe around us. Music is an intensification, a crystallization, a celebration, a glorification, of that movement and those vibrations. Pretty heady stuff. Far beyond spoken language—which, with its sounds in time, might rightly be considered a low-end sort of music—music is a universal language; one need not speak Ashanti in order to groove to West African drumming; or German in order to be emotionally flayed by Beethoven; or English to totally freak when listening to Bruce Springsteen. Say it with flowers? Nah. If you really want to get your expressive point across, say it with music. No human activity

I love this song, can you turn it up?” I reached and turned the dial up on the Vance Joy song “Red Eye.” Adam bobbed his head to the music. At the stoplight I looked over at him. He was wearing the black beanie my brother had given him, his black Wayfarers, and the hospital gown. I laughed. He turned to me and smiled. “What?” he said. “You’re cute.” “Oh yeah? Wanna fool around?” He grinned. I was glad that Adam couldn’t see my eyes welling up behind my sunglasses. The car behind us honked. I hit the gas and my car lurched forward from the intersection. “How much time do we have?” I asked. “What? Are you serious?” “Yes, Adam, I am serious.” He was having a good day. He reached for my phone. “We have like an hour and a half before Leah freaks out.” I knew I was taking a big chance, but how could I say no to him? There was so much joy in him that day just because he got to go to the drive-thru at In-N-Out. “Okay.” I glanced over at him and flattened my lips. “You better not have a seizure on me.” “I can’t think of a better place to have a seizure. Although I can see how that wouldn’t be much fun for you.” I laughed hysterically. “Oh man, I didn’t mean literally on me; I meant on my watch.” “Well, Charlotte, I don’t have much control over that, but I’ll try. You know what helps?” “What?” “Alcohol.” “Really?” As we passed the Four Seasons he said, “Pull in here.” “This is too expensive, Adam.” “What? Are you crazy?” The energy in the car was tangible. “This may be the last time I ever go to a hotel with a girl. I’m paying. I have a ton of money. Come on, Charlotte, please?” His mood was instantly lighter than it had been in several days. “Okay.” I did a U-turn and pulled into the driveway of the hotel.

My father gave me a present every time I encountered him. I believe the biggest present he gave me was his gift for music.

Will God allow me to be killed in a freak accident if I keep lying to my parents about music and movies?

I have given the matter a good deal of thought and I believe that these writers are not being contrary but that this is their honest conception which they have formed and which for some reason persists about writing a love story. More than any other story type, the love story is looked upon as a freak, which can be turned out without much thought or preparation. It is felt that any set of stock characters will answer the purpose as long as they fall in love and the heroine gets her ideal man or the hero wins the woman of his heart and that no matter how dull the story form, moonlight, white shoulders, and soft music will take care of that. As a matter of fact, the love story is all that any other story is — and a love story, too. The author must build up a story and create and carry on a love interest at the same time. Although the story will be motivated by the love angle, the writer can not be obvious about it and nothing will be gained by the mere repetition of love scenes if they have not already played their part in advancing the story. Here extra care must be exercised because while repetition is boring in any story, repetition of love scenes may become silly or downright ridiculous. It is not so much a question of the words of love but to what use they are put and some perfectly good love stories are written without using the word “love” at all.

I came back from this tour feeling really cleansed,” he offers. “All the things that had been happening between me and Stevie and between John and Chris mellowed into the situations they are now. And it was important that I met a lot of beautiful women who I like a lot because, y’know, with the exception of one intervening summer, for the past ten years I’ve been tied up with just two ladies. Now here I am at 26, re-realizing capabilities about myself and being a little more aggressive socially and having a good time. “And for Stevie, someone like Don Henley is good for her. It’s strange; it’s one thing to accept not being with someone and it’s another to see them with someone else, especially someone like Don, right? A big star in another group. I could see it coming and I really thought it was gonna bum me out, but it was really a good thing just to see her sitting with him. It actually made me happy. I thought there was something to fear but there wasn’t. So the whole break-up has forced me to redefine my whole individuality—musically as well. I’m no longer thinking of Stevie and me as a duo. That thought used to freak me out but now it’s made me come back stronger, to be Lindsay Buckingham.

A little girl named Mary goes to the beach with her mother and brother. They drive there in a red car. At the beach they swim, eat some ice cream, play in the sand, and have sandwiches for lunch. Now the questions: 1.  What color was the car? 2.  Did they have fish and chips for lunch? 3.  Did they listen to music in the car? 4.  Did they drink lemonade with lunch?

Might you introduce me to these two lovely ladies?” I smirk. The guy just called me a lady. I guess he was giving me the benefit of the doubt. “Certainly. Might I introduce you to Lady Everson and Miss Rebecca Vaughn.” It’s hard not to scowl at his continued snub. “So lovely to meet you, Lady Everson, Miss Vaughn. Do you suppose you might like to dance?” When I come up from my curtsy, I realize he’s looking at me. I think I stop breathing for a second, because every muscle in my body freezes. I don’t even blink. This guy wants to dance with me instead of this “lady.” It’s exactly what I wanted, and yet I’m paralyzed with terror. I don’t know how. I’ve never even been asked to dance. Ever. Equal parts of anxiety and elation race through me. “Wouldn’t you prefer to dance with Lady Everson?” Alex says. And then before I know what he’s doing, he’s gently pushing Lady Everson forward and stepping in front of me, blocking my view of Brimmon. “She is a peer, after all.” I’m so stunned; the two disappear before I can even more. When Alex turns to me, I come unleashed. “You are the rudest, most ridiculously arrogant person I have ever met in my life!” I say, and then spin on my heel and stomp away. I’ve gone less than two yards before he stops me, a hand on my shoulder. “Miss Vaughn. As you are my guest, it is expected that the two of us shall dance.” I snort. “Oh, no, that’s not necessary. I won’t be your charity case. Wouldn’t you rather--“ But he grabs my hand, places it on his elbow, and starts pulling me toward the floor just as the music transitions. Half the guests are looking at us. I can hardly rip my arm away and stomp on his foot without looking like a total freak. Not if I want a nice guy to ask me to dance later. Besides, if Emily’s right, I can’t decline the first guy to ask me, or it will signal that I don’t want to dance all night. I hadn’t imagined the first guy would be Alex. Argh. We take our places in the middle of the line up. He bows, and so I curtsy, and then follow his lead as we walk forward and back a few times, standing on our toes when we’re close, and bowing down a bit as we step away. Everything I do is a half step behind him, but we’re managing. My anger still simmers below the surface. This is preposterous. He’ll dance with me because he has to, but he thinks I’m not actually good enough for him--or for anyone with a title. I knew my first impression of him would prove correct. I knew he wasn’t worth the ground I spit on! Talk about insulting! He holds his hand up, palms facing me, so I push my hand against his and we sort of walk in a circle, our gloved hands palm to palm. Thank God we’re wearing gloves; I don’t want to touch this jerk.

I’ve never even been asked to homecoming. Tonight will probably be the first time I ever actually dance with a guy. Crazy. I had to travel two hundred years to go to a freaking dance. But whatever. I’m going to make the most of it and dance the night away, even if I am wearing weird clothes and they don’t play any music I recognize.

I was clearing some plates off a table when I heard the familiar strum of guitar chords. My heart clenched painfully as I slowly made my way to the kitchen. Tonight was another open-mic night, and while I enjoyed having live music playing throughout the bar and dining room, I didn’t usually pay that much attention to it. But there was no way to miss this song. The deep, husky voice began crooning through the speakers as I came back out of the kitchen empty-handed. And I couldn’t shake the feeling that I knew that voice as I made my way to a spot where I could see the stage. I rubbed a hand over my aching chest and stopped suddenly when I saw Kash sitting on the stool in front of the mic with a guitar in his hands. What was he doing? Since when did he play guitar and sing? And why this song? His eyes searched the dining area and landed on me just as he began the first chorus of “I’ll Be.” Tears pricked the back of my eyes and my entire body warmed under his intense stare as he continued through words that meant more to me than he could have known. Not once did he take his eyes from me, and my mind and heart fought over my conflicting feelings. Part of me wanted to yell that he was the guy I’d been waiting for. That I was in love with him and was done being only his friend. The other part wanted to know why he was torturing me with this song. With everything else that had happened tonight and the fourth anniversary of my parents’ death less than two months away, I wanted to run away from there, to curl in a ball and mourn what I had lost and would never have. I couldn’t call my mom and tell her I’d met a guy whose presence alone made me dizzy. Who sang to me the same song Dad had always sung to her. I couldn’t tell my parents that no matter how hard I fought my feelings and pushed Kash away, I knew I’d met the man I wanted to marry. The haunting words drifted to an end, and soon the chords did too. When Kash was finished, he put the guitar on the stand and began walking in my direction. Throughout all of this, his eyes still hadn’t left mine. Before he could reach me, the bitter side of me won out and I turned on my heel and rushed back to my customers. I kept myself busy for the rest of the hour and whenever I had to go over to the bar, I made sure to go to Bryce’s side so I wouldn’t have to face Kash again. I knew I was being ridiculous, but if it had been any song other than that one, if it had been on a night that wasn’t wearing me completely down, I may have been brave enough to finally fight for what I wanted. But right now all I could think of was finishing out this shift at work and staying far from Logan Hendricks. Somehow, he knew how to get to me. And somehow, I knew that our being together was right. But especially after that morning, everything about him—and us together—scared me. And I wasn’t sure I could handle that right now. People say that being in love is amazing. They lie. It’s freaking terrifying.  

There was Ffloyd, the Human Money Tree: the music would suddenly stop and Ffloyd would run through the room, naked, with a hundred one-dollar bills taped to his body. He ran in one door and out the other. A free-for-all ensued and whatever you grabbed was yours to keep. That idea proved so popular, it morphed into the $1,000 Drop. Michael would stand on a table and toss a thousand dollar bills to an often violent mob. Of course, he usually pocketed $990 and passed the remaining ten on to tip-challenged friends. But two hundred blue-faced freaks still screamed and cried and clawed and climbed to get to Michael; why, you would have thought the New Kids on the Block were masturbating on stage, the way everybody carried on.

I remember the summer of 1996, at a drunken wedding with one of my professors, a Hendrix-freak baby boomer, when he was complaining about the 'bullet-in-the-head rock and roll' the kids were listening to today, and he asked Renée, 'What does rock and roll have today that it didn't have in the sixties?' Renée said, ‘Tits’, which in retrospect strikes me as not a bad one-word off-the-dome answer at all. The nineties fad for indie rock overlapped precisely with the nineties fad for feminism. The idea of a pop culture that was pro-girl, or even just not anti-girl - that was a 1990s mainstream dream, rather than a 1980s or 2000s one, and it was real for a while. Music was not just part of it but leading the way - hard to believe, hard even to remember. But some of us do.

​Gaby: Calm down! I don’t believe in monogamy, okay? I don’t understand how you can be with one partner all your life. Love just the same person for the rest of your life, be committed to one person. ​Nathaniel: I can’t believe… This can’t be true. ​Gaby: Let me explain it in your language. It's like listening to the same song throughout your life. The same song every freaking day. Sooner or later you’ll get tired of it. Then those notes, that melody, those words will get on your nerves, and, in the end, one day, you will be done. That’s why there are people like me. We listen to everything, rap, pop, rock, country, even classical music. You must understand, you can’t get everything from one partner. I came back because I knew that no matter what, you will always be there waiting for me. You are giving me things others can’t give and vice versa. It’s easy.

Thirty minutes later, we reached the rocky Anjuna beach and parked the bike. We walked for five minutes and reached a shack called Curlies. We sat on adjacent easy chairs, both of us facing the Arabian Sea. I removed my sneakers to rest my feet on the sandy floor of Curlies. ‘Beer?’ Brijesh said. ‘Sure,’ I said. He asked a waiter to bring us two Kingfishers. Two tables away, I saw another Indian couple. The girl wore red and white bangles on both hands, a wedding chudaa; they had just gotten married. Must be their honeymoon. They held hands, but it seemed a little awkward. Arranged marriage, maybe. I looked at Brijesh. We would be a married couple too by this weekend. Brijesh smiled as he handed me a half-pint Kingfisher bottle. ‘What did you tell your folks?’ Brijesh said. ‘I told Aditi didi that I am going for a walk with you.’ ‘They don’t know you are at Anjuna?’ ‘No,’ I said, ‘mom will freak out.’ I sipped my beer. We watched the sun go down. A young singer at Curlies sang and played the guitar. The Goan sunset became even more poignant with the music. The singer sang Justin Bieber’s song, Sorry. Is it too late now to say sorry? Yeah, I know that I let you down

Calm down! I don’t believe in monogamy, okay? I don’t understand how you can be with one partner all your life. Love just the same person for the rest of your life, be committed to one person… Let me explain it in your language. It's like listening to the same song throughout your life. The same song every freaking day. Sooner or later you’ll get tired of it. Then those notes, that melody, those words will get on your nerves, and, in the end, one day, you will be done. That’s why there are people like me. We listen to everything, rap, pop, rock, country, even classical music. You must understand, you can’t get everything from one partner. I came back because I knew that no matter what, you will always be there waiting for me. You are giving me things others can’t give and vice versa. It’s easy.

Do you know how much of our day we spend listening to music? Like FOUR fucking HOURS. Music is primal. MIT scientists recently figured out ways to prove that we have specific neurons in the brain that pay attention only to music, ignoring all other audial noises. Brains have music rooms.

My first week, one of the other patients came to my room and said, “Why are you screaming so loud?” “Huh? I’m not screaming,” I said. “We all hear you. You’re screaming so loud.” I looked around my room. “I don’t even have music playing,” I said. I later learned that she sometimes heard things other people didn’t hear, but that freaked me out.

Just the basic joy of smelling a cookie. It smells freaking great. [And it’s like the snowball.] You’re rewarded for being alive and in the moment. Smelling a cookie is not on behalf of some future state. It’s great in the moment, by itself, on behalf of nothing. And this is another thing back to art. Art for its own sake. Art and music and dance. Part of its poignancy is its purposelessness, and just delighting in a wacky fact of perhaps a meaningless universe and how remarkable that is. One way for all of us to live until we’re actually dead is to prize those little moments.

the cast-iron skillet that saved Deanna James from certain death. In sheer instinct, she flung it up to block the projectile hurtling toward her head. The thing struck hard, sending reverberations down her arms, even as glass shattered and sprayed her with heavy glass shards and bright yellow crumbs. “What the hell is wrong with you?” From inside the room, an unfamiliar voice dripped with shock and an accent that was more Motor City than Music City. “You asked for cornbread! That was freaking cornbread!” “Jiffy Mix is not cornbread!” the country music diva shouted, then let out a noise that was…not musical. At the banshee

Music's beauty is in the eye of the listener. For most people, the more they listen the more they adapt and appreciate more complex sounds, harmonies and rhythms. Mirroring visual art, music artists propelled past the emotional into the abstract and for the music lovers Hammer have bought the dramatically magnificent over the ear wireless bluetooth headphones. Hammer is the brand for the person who really feels the music and also it is for the people who are fitness freak. The truly wireless bluetooth headphones when put over the ears look extraordinarily amazing and trendy. The sound coming out of the truly wireless headphones not only hit the ears of the person but also it touches the soul of the person. The stylish Hammer Bash wireless headphones by Hammer are not only good in the looks and sound quality but with these products the icing on the cake is the durability of the product and the promising long life of these products.

The number of movies released shrank too, from twenty-two in 2011 to just thirteen in 2015. And annual development spending, the R&D of the movie industry, fell dramatically, from $127 million in fiscal 2010 to $71 million in 2015. Pascal even had to let go of her longtime assistant, Mark Seed. He made her life run so magically that she nicknamed him “Mark Poppins,” but he made more than $250,000 per year. Pascal had less to work with and at the same time, Sony Corporation demanded more from her, as it responded to pressure from Loeb and the struggles of its electronics business. One result was growing tension between Pascal and Lynton, who in 2012 had been promoted to CEO of Sony Entertainment, putting him in charge of the company’s music businesses and officially making him Pascal’s boss, not her partner. Their relationship grew less familial, and he privately admonished her about the company’s faltering financial situation. “Why is everyone freaking out[?]” she asked, when the Hollywood Reporter revealed her assistant’s eye-popping salary. “Because we said no cost is too small,” responded Lynton. “An assistant paid that amount suggests a lack of controls. We claim to have those controls.

Trust me when I tell you that you don’t want to mess with that dude. I won’t allow it,” he said, leaning closer so his breath tickled my cheeks. Is he for real? I gasped in dramatic fashion. Coco would be proud. “You won’t allow it? You did not just say that.” The nerve. “Are you serious?” “Dead fucking serious, G.” He stormed across the room as I followed him with my eyes. He talked to a guy in the band, and the music stopped. What the hell was he doing? “Listen up. You see this girl here?” he shouted, and everyone turned as he made his way over to me and palmed the top of my head like a freaking lunatic. “If you so much as hit on this girl, I’ll punch you in the fucking face. Are we clear?

First published in 2020 this book contains over 560 easily readable compact entries in systematic order augmented by an extensive bibliography, an alphabetical list of countries and locations of individuals final resting places (where known) and a day and month list in consecutive order of when an individual died. It details the deaths of individuals, who died too early and often in tragic circumstances, from film, literature, music, theatre, and television, and the achievements they left behind. In addition, some ordinary people who died in bizarre, freak, or strange circumstances are also included. It does not matter if they were famous or just celebrated by a few individuals, all the people in this book left behind family, friends and in some instances devotees who idolised them. Our heartfelt thoughts and sympathies go out to all those affected by each persons death. Whether you are concerned about yourself, a loved one, a friend, or a work colleague there are many helplines and support groups that offer confidential non-judgemental help, guidance and advice on mental health problems (such as anxiety, bereavement, depression, despair, distress, stress, substance abuse, suicidal feelings, and trauma). Support can be by phone, email, face-to-face counselling, courses, and self-help groups. Details can be found online or at your local health care organisation. There are many conspiracy theories, rumours, cover-ups, allegations, sensationalism, and myths about the cause of some individual’s deaths. Only the facts known at the time of writing are included in this book. Some important information is deliberately kept secret or undisclosed. Sometimes not until 20 or even 30 years later are full details of an accident or incident released or in some cases found during extensive research. Similarly, unsolved murders can be reinvestigated years later if new information becomes known. In some cases, 50 years on there are those who continue to investigate what they consider are alleged cover-ups. The first name in an entry is that by which a person was generally known. Where relevant their real name is included in brackets. Date of Death | In the entry detailing the date an individual died their age at the time of their death is recorded in brackets. Final Resting Place | Where known details of a persons final resting place are included. “Unknown” | Used when there is insufficient evidence available to the authorities to establish whether an individuals’ death was due to suicide, accident or caused by another. Statistics The following statistics are derived from the 579 individual “cause of death” entries included in this publication. The top five causes of death are, Heart attack/failure 88 (15.2%) Cancer 55 (9.5%) Fatal injuries (plane crash) 43 (7.4%) Fatal injuries (vehicle crash/collision) 39 (6.7%) Asphyxiation (Suicide) 23 (4%). extract from 'Untimely and Tragic Deaths of the Renowned, The Celebrated, The Iconic