For every moment of joy Every hour of fear For every winding road that brought me here For every breath, for every day of living This is my Thanksgiving

Some records with drum machines on them sound phony and plastic. It all depends on how you use the tools.

How can love survive in such a graceless age? The trust and self assurance that lead to happiness, they're the very things we kill.

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 could have played more complex stuff. I could have been a busier player. But that's not what I wanted to do. I played what I wanted to play.

No one in this country need go hungry, and alleviating the problem is primarily a matter of readjusting our priorities. In both the government and the private sector, self-interest has displaced the ideal of community that made this country great. The old world view of "us, we, our" has been replaced by "I, me, mine." The reasons for this are manifold and complex, but at the end of the day, we need to remember that, if one of us is suffering needlessly, all of us are diminished.

I think my first instrument was a ukulele that they gave me. I used to know how to play that pretty well.