You sit back in the darkness, nursing your beer, breathing in that ineffable aroma of the old-time saloon: dark wood, spilled beer, good cigars, and ancient whiskey - the sacred incense of the drinking man.
Oh! Moon of Alabama We now must say good-bye We've lost our good old mama And must have whiskey Oh, you know why!
Congress allows lemonade to the members and has it charged under the head of stationery-I move also that whiskey be allowed under the item of fuel.
The giant imaginary bottle of whiskey is with me.
We come late, if at all, to wine and philosophy: whiskey and action are easier.
Friedman stumbled in, late to the seminar as usual and reeking of cigar smoke and whiskey. He hadn't read the paper being presented, and halfway through he just gets up, walks up to the podium, socks the mother****er right in the face and takes a piss all over his lecture notes.
I take the juice of two bottles of whisky.
It was a place of sin, loose women, whiskey and gambling. It was no place for a good Presbyterian, and I did not long remain one.
Well I ain't seen my baby since I don't know when, I've been drinking bourbon whiskey, scotch and gin Gonna get high man I'm gonna get loose, Need me a triple shot of that juice Gonna get drunk don't you have no fear I want one bourbon, one scotch and one beer One bourbon, one scotch, one beer.
The whiskey warmed his tongue and the back of his throat, but it did not change his ideas any, and suddenly, looking at himself in the mirror behind the bar, he knew that drinking was never going to do any good to him now. Whatever he had now he had, and it was from now on, and if he drank himself unconscious when he woke up it would be there.
Fortunately, an extremely sexy, pixie-voiced blond named Ronnie Harran, who booked the Whisky, saw us...She had an ear for talent...the Whisky was finally a gig we could be proud of.
Johnny Rivers...returned to L.A. to accept a lucrative offer from Elmer Valentine to open at his lavish new nightclub based upon the popular European discotheque concept. Johnny Rivers at the Whisky A Go-Go turned Hollywood upside down. His first Imperial album, "Johnny Rivers At The Whisky A Go-Go," (produced by Lou Adler) was high in the charts for 45 weeks in 1964.
There were happy days, with watermelon, and sad days of whiskey.
When LOVE played the still hipper Whisky A Go-Go, further west along Sunset, Arthur Lee claims they 'started the whole hippy thing' in tandem with an in-crowd of freaks led by aging beatnik sculptor Vito Paulekas. It was Vito, Carl Franzoni, Sue, Beatle Bob, Bryan Maclean and me...people would come to Ben Frank's to hang out with us after we played shows.
Everybody who tells you how to act has whiskey on their breath.
...I was tired of men. Hanging in doorways, standing too close, their smell of beer or fifteen-year-old whiskey. Men who didn't come to the emergency room with you, men who left on Christmas Eve. Men who slammed the security gates, who made you love them and then changed their minds.
They're a dark people with a gift for suffering way past their deserving. It's said that without whiskey to soak and soften the world, they'd kill themselves. (Irish)
Would you like a whiskey?' I say. 'I've got some.' (That's original. I bet nobody's ever thought of that way of bridging the gap before.)
The whiskey died away in time and was renewed and died again, but the street ran on. From that night the thousand streets ran as one street, with imperceptible corners and changes of scene.
My Papa's Waltz: The whiskey on your breath Could make a small boy dizzy; But I hung on like death: Such waltzing was not easy. We romped until the pans Slid from the kitchen shelf; My mother's countenance Could not unfrown itself. The hand that held my wrist Was battered on one knuckle; At every step you missed My right ear scraped a buckle. You beat time on my head With a palm caked hard by dirt, Then waltzed me off to bed Still clinging to your shirt.
She's no lady. Her songs are all unbelievably unhappy or lewd. It's called Blues. She sings about sore feet, sexual relations, baked goods, killing your lover, being broke, men called Daddy, women who dress like men, working, praying for rain. Jail and trains. Whiskey and morphine. She tells stories between verses and everyone in the place shouts out how true it all is.
If I'd just paid money to watch a soccer game, I'd want to kill someone too (once the buzz wore off and I realized where I was, because the only thing that would make me pay to watch a soccer game is perhaps a half gallon of whiskey).
I was very lucky to be offered a lovely piece of property to build a career on. I started building a house on it, but it wasn't necessarily a house I would want to live in. So I ripped down that house, and I worked with these great lumberjacks to build a really cool cabin-a place I want to drink whiskey in and hang out until the sun rises.
My life was once whiskey, tears and cigarettes... now it's snot, tears and a color of poop. Bliss. I do miss the whiskey, though.
It makes one hope and believe that a day will come when, in the eye of the law, literary property will be as sacred as whiskey, or any other of the necessaries of life. It grieves me to think how far more profound and reverent a respect the law would have for literature if a body could only get drunk on it.
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