Kanan is a big road through the Santa Monica Mountains. Between mid-March and mid-April, when you get over to the western side of the mountains, it's populated by Spanish broom - this beautiful, yellow, flowering weed that smells the way I imagine it smells along the Yellow Brick Road.
Follow the yellow brick road.
The way to Everest is not a Yellow Brick Road.
Too many people think life is a yellow brick road. We learned that hardships make you better and that you have to adapt to your surroundings. And then you understand.
The road to the City of Emeralds is paved with yellow brick.
How lonely it is going to be now on the Yellow Brick Road.
I'd rather drive the yellow brick road, you wouldn't happen to know of a rental car place around.
I just go with the flow, I follow the yellow brick road. I don't know where it's going to lead me, but I follow it.
My first albums as a little kid were Elton John's 'Goodbye Yellow Brick Road,' Simon and Garfunkel's 'Greatest Hits' - and 'Workingman's Dead.' How many other people still listen to the music they liked at age 12?
That brick that you're standing on, that foundation that you're standing on, there's a brick in there that was placed by someone you never knew, sort of a faceless possibility, but you're there now. You have an opportunity to put your own brick in there. That's what it feels like we're doing with 'Hamilton'
Fame stole my yellow. Yellow is the color you get when you're real and brutally honest. Yellow is with my kids[...]The bundle of bright yellow warming my core, formerly frozen and uninhabitable[...]They got yellow from me, and I felt yellow giving it to them and it was all good[...]So, why am I leaving my show? It took my yellow. I wanted it back. Without it I can't live. The gray kills me.
Films like 'Road, Movie' and 'Brick Lane' add a lot to your resume.
Talk about the flag or drugs or crime (never about race or class or justice) and follow the yellow brick road to the wonderful land of consensus. In place of honest argument among consenting adults the politicians substitute a lullaby for frightened children: the pretense that conflict doesn't really exist, that we have achieved the blessed state in which we no longer need politics.
What's your road, man? - holyboy road, madman road, rainbow road, guppy road, any road. It's an anywhere road for anybody anyhow. Where body how?
I remember myself, age five, sitting on a porch overlooking a very muddy road. The day was rainy. I was wearing rubber boots, yellow - no, not yellow, green - and for all I know, I'm still there.
If you want to knock down the wall between you and the life of your dreams, it's best to do it one brick at a time!