Home is where you hang your hangover.
I try to stay two drinks ahead of reality and three behind a drunk
Youth endures all things, kings and poetry and love. Everything but time.
When I finally caught up with Abraham Trahearne, he was drinking beer with an alcoholic bulldog named Fireball Roberts in a ramshackle joint just outside of Sonoma, California, drinking the heart right out of a fine spring afternoon.
The only person more cynical than a drunk is a reformed drunk.
I had done either too much coke or too little, a constant problem in my life.