With an iron-clad fist, I wake up and French-kiss the morning.

There's a vintage which comes with age and experience.

There's not a platinum record hanging in my house anywhere. It doesn't exist here. I'm over it. They're all in the garage, wrapped up in bubblewrap.

I could always write songs, act, get into politics, or stay home with the kids. But I've got to have some fun.

I was just another long-haired teenage kid with visions of grandeur, strumming a tennis racket or a broom in front of his bedroom mirror.

Passion + Persistence = Possibility

Heaven looks a lot like New Jersey.