It was a pretty good year for predators.
You’re driving with your eyes closed.
There is not wrong, there is no right, and I will sleep very well tonight.
The government bugged the men’s room in the local disco lounge.
Johnny can get down and Johnny can throw up, but Johnny can’t read.
The Eagles ended on a rather abrupt note, although in retrospect I realize now that it had been ending for quite some time.
Fame, at one time, was associated with accomplishment, but in this day and age fame and notoriety have become confused.
My love for you will still be strong after the boys of summer have gone.
The Eagles and the critics were not the best of friends.
So much time weeping and wailing and shaking our fists, creating enemies that really don’t exist.
I remember a time when things were a lot more fun around here, when good was good and evil was evil, before things got fuzzy.
This year, notoriety got confused with fame, and the devil is down hearted because there is nothing left for him to claim.
We all know that crap is king, give us dirty laundry.
We’re being treated to the wisdom of some puffed up, little fart. Doing exactly what I used to do, pretensions to anarchy and art.
I saw a Dead Head sticker on a Cadillac. A little voice inside my head said, don’t look back, you can never look back.
Insect politics, indifferent universe. Bang your head against the wall, but apathy is worse.
Oh beautiful for spacious skies, but now those skies are threatening. They’re beating plowshares into swords for this tired old man we elected king.
Sharper than a serpents tongue, tighter than a bongo drum, quicker than a one night stand, slicker than a mambo band.
An angry man can only get so far until he reconciles the way he thinks.
Arm chair warriors often fail.
No shame, no solution, no remorse, no retribution, just people selling t-shirts.