Not only do I say, get up and get out, I tell the cancer to get up and get out. And if you don't get up and get out, I'm going to shout you out. And I get to shout.

I'm lookin' at these Disney characters, these young girls coming out looking like, little whores.

I've got these five-pound weights and a treadmill in the living room. I work out the other parts that have affected my voice: my diaphragm - doctors took mine out in surgery - and my lungs. I've got to build back my legs, too, so I can run across that stage. I've got a lot to do, but I'm going to get out, sing songs and tell the stories.

There ain't no way I'm going to be droppin' nothing. If I was in my twenties, maybe. But now I try to keep it looking decent. I don't want to expose too much of my bare ass.

Doctors removed my gallbladder and pancreas, which are supposed to break down sugar and alcohol.

Record designers marvel on that stuff. They go back and look at old covers, then make new ones.

I remember going into a raggedy studio, still with my work uniform on. At the time, I was driving money trucks for Wells Fargo, so I had my gun and hat, which weighed me down in the heat. It was 97 degrees here in New York, and they had to turn the air conditioner off because it was too loud. So, I say, "Damn, it's hot in here!" That's how we came up with the song, "Damn, It's Hot." It was from our soul. We just got together, sang and made our own lyrics.