Music drives you. It wakes you up, it gets you pumping. And, at the end of the day, the correct tune will chill you down.

When I tried to play something and screwed up, I'd hear some other note that would come into play. Then I started trying different things to find the beauty in it.

My old man was a musician - that's what he did for a living. And like most fathers, occasionally he'd let me visit where he worked. So I started going to his recording studio, and I really dug it.

The worst advice I ever received from my dad was to play by the book.

Musicians tend to get bored playing the same thing over and over, so I think it's natural to experiment.

If you improvise a riff and the crowd immediately reacts to it, you know you're on to something.

It kills me when I see some metal band trying to pass themselves off as an 'alternative band.

Lessons didn't really work out for me, so I went to the old school, listening to records and learning what I wanted to learn.

I'm not saying I wouldn't play a seven-string. It's just that I've never needed one. Most dudes who play seven-strings don't sound any different than someone playing a six-string that's tuned down.

To get my sound in the studio, I double guitar tracks, and when it gets to the lead parts, the rhythm drops out, just like it's live. I'm very conscious of that.

A lot of bands whine about the road and how tough it is.

Marriage is situational but love is accidental.

Agile is more a “direction, ” than an “end, ” a philosophy and mindset at board level.

Total freedom from error is what none of us will allow to our neighbors; however we may be inclined to flirt a little with such spotless perfection ourselves.

...I want to grab her collarbones as if they were handlebars.

If you have no fear, no one has power over you.

I need her with me. She goes where I go.

Farts and poop are still funny and will always be funny.

[Bill Shawn] had always been in The New Yorker immaculately dressed - quietly, immaculately dressed, very soft-spoken. On the phone I could hardly hear him sometimes.

I may have said the same thing before... but my explanation, I am sure, will always be different.

Mayor: How horrible our Christmas will be! Jack Skellington: *No.* [the Mayor switches to his upset face] Jack Skellington: How *jolly*! Mayor: Oh. How *jolly* our Christmas will be.