A Quote by G. Gordon Liddy

The press is like the peculiar uncle you keep in the attic - just one of those unfortunate things. — © G. Gordon Liddy
The press is like the peculiar uncle you keep in the attic - just one of those unfortunate things.
Just as Uncle Tom, back during slavery used to keep the Negroes from resisting the bloodhound or resisting the Ku Klux Klan by teaching them to love their enemies or pray for those who use them despitefully, today Martin Luther King is just a twentieth-century or modern Uncle Tom or religious Uncle Tom, who is doing the same thing today to keep Negroes defenseless in the face of attack that Uncle Tom did on the plantation to keep those Negroes defenseless in the face of the attack of the Klan in that day.
Those peculiar social sensibilities nourished by our own peculiar political principles, while they enhance the true dignity of a prosperous American, do but minister to the added wretchedness of the unfortunate; first, by prohibiting their acceptance of what little random relief charity may offer; and, second, by furnishing them with the keenest appreciation of the smarting distinction between their ideal of universal equality and their grind-stone experience of the practical misery and infamy of poverty.
While I was there, I was just gathering images and names, and ideas and rhythms, and I was storing all of these things - which I didn't realize I was doing - but I was storing them all in an attic in my mind somewhere. And when it was time to sit down and write songs, when I reached into the attic to see what I was gonna write about, that's what was there.
Bullying has been around forever, and so it became one of these issues that as an adult we look back on and say, 'Yeah, it's just one of those unfortunate parts of growing up.' You know you're not going to stop it, so it just became easier to call it one of those things that 'just happens.'
I believe I'm not in the press, just in terms of being photographed and paparazzi all the time, or looking for that sensationalistic type of side or anything like that, so I keep things very quiet.
Sometimes, it's just unfortunate you get injured in the game. But you can definitely take strides to prevent those things.
An uncle of mine emigrated to Canada and couldn't take his guitar with him. When I found it in the attic, I'd found a friend for life.
There are some people that the press like to pick on and not just the gay press, but the press in general. And some people, the press just doesn't care about at all.
There are some people that the press like to pick on and not just the gay press, but the press in general. And some people, the press just doesn't care about at all
The press needs stories constantly. No need to bleed, just feed. Branding will keep you standing... Get press not stress.
I just go out and play my game. Just making sure I keep doing those little things, like playing with toughness, that's just me.
I wasn't just the madwoman in the attic--I was the attic itself. The past was all over me, all under me, all inside me.
Obviously, I've seen what the press has done to my cousins. I would never let that rule my life, but I'm not the kind of person to rebel or do things. I don't know. I don't let the potential for bad press dictate who I am, but I keep that in mind. How can you not?
Dad told Uncle Seth not to screw things up,” she informed me as we washed our hands. “He said even if Uncle Seth is famous, him getting a woman like you defies belief.” I laughed and smoothed down the skirt of my dress. “I don’t know about that. I don’t think your dad gives your uncle enough credit." Brandy gave me a sage look, worthy of someone much older. “Uncle Seth spent last Valentine’s Day at a library.
The problem isn't getting your hands on a press pass - it's acquiring one of those wide-brimmed fedora hats in which to keep your press pass.
Nothing in my life ever seemed to fade away or take its rightful place among the pantheon of experiences that constituted my eighteen years. It was all still with me, the storage space in my brain crammed with vivid memories, packed and piled like photographs and old dresses in my grandmother’s bureau. I wasn’t just the madwoman in the attic — I was the attic itself. The past was all over me, all under me, all inside me.
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