I wish Tom waits was one of my white friends

Picture me in college. Ithaca New York. I'm dating one of the cutest women I've ever known in my life. We share cigarettes, talk politics and teach each other the joy of discreet affection. The world is far from perfect and soon I will be forced to leave this idyllic scnerio due to too big a mouth and a serious lack of cash flow. But I don't know that at the time. At the time, I fall asleep every night with a small marijuana scented red headed Grecco-Peruvian listening to Tom Waits Rain Dogs on tape. I still love that girl and I still love Tom Waits.

The girl I have spoken to in years. But whenever I need to feel a sense of wonder in a time of misery, I know I can rely on good old Tom. I swear I thought the man was black for the first year I knew of him. Only a black man could make feeling bad sound so good I thought. Shows what I know. I've had the good fortune to see the man live twice. I count those shows among the best, like Maceo Parker and Nina Simone. If you get a chance go. If you don't pick up everything he's ever done and bow done to the drunken raspy melancholy that is Tom waits.