A happy 71st birthday to Tom Waits. This particular autumn is taking a whole lot of leaves; I hope it won’t take him.
* For anyone who isn’t a Tom Waits fan — could such a person exist? — the headline riffs on the title to his song “Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis,” from the album “Blue Valentine.”
Bob Dylan has sold his entire songwriting catalog to the Universal Music Publishing Group for more than $300 million, according to The New York Times.
In related news, Novelty Gag Products & Auto Body Repair of Sinvergüenza, New Mexico, announced that it has acquired the rights to the entire Mad Dog Media catalog for $149.99, a used whoopie cushion, and a vague promise to paint a 2005 Subaru Forester an eye-pleasing sage green at a time and date TBD.
“We plan to target bike shops, portable-toilet rentals, and nursing homes with our new line of Mad Dog soft goods,” explained Novelty CEO Desgraciado “Chuey” Hediondo. “We figure to clean up bigtime.”
“What the hell?” added Mad Dog Media founder Patrick O’Grady. “Ammo’s in short supply, and anyway, I’m tired of hosing lawyers off my lawn. Now get the hell off my lawn.”
Another Black Friday passeth without my being compelled by bitter circumstance and/or simple covetousness to draw the mighty card, Exchequer, from its ripstop scabbard. The realm remains unencumbered by debt and grails.
This is the scariest Halloween I can remember.
Thank Cthulhu so many people voted early. Only the Great Old Ones know what the sluggards are likely to do come Tuesday, as they crash hard from Saturday’s sugar frenzy followed by Sunday’s end to daylight saving time. Probably cast write-in votes for Mars-Wrigley, the Dread Lord of Type-2 Diabetes, or worse, Darth Cheney.
One thing seems pretty certain, though. If we don’t punt the Not-So-Great Pumpkin off the national porch next week, Halloween 2021 will be even scarier. Boogity-boogity-boogity.
For those of us of a certain age, there was only one James Bond.
Sean Connery has gone west after being unwell for some time, according to his family. He passed in his sleep, in the Bahamas, but no doubt Scotland was on his mind and in his heart; he had long been a staunch supporter of Scottish independence.
As a squirt in Texas I read every Ian Fleming Bond novel there was, and I always pictured Connery as 007. Everybody else was just play-acting.
Connery won his only Oscar for playing a Mick cop in the Kevin Costner-headlined remake of “The Untouchables.” But then he turned up in a lot of interesting places, as King Agamemnon and a fireman in Terry Gilliam’s “Time Bandits,” and as Daniel Dravot, an ex-soldier likewise bound for a crown in “The Man Who Would Be King,” a John Huston film based on a Rudyard Kipling story.
No matter who he was playing, or in what, you just knew he was having a whole lot more fun than you. Enjoy your work and the paychecks will keep coming, he seemed to say.
And it goes without saying that he was an inspiration to the rest of us handsome and charismatic bald fellas.
So fill to Sean the parting glass, and drink a health whate’er befalls. …
• Addendum: Here’s The New York Times obit, the one I always think of as official. Talk about your rags-to-riches story:
He was born Thomas Sean Connery on Aug. 25, 1930, and his crib was the bottom drawer of a dresser in a cold-water flat next door to a brewery. The two toilets in the hall were shared with three other families. His father, Joe, earned two pounds a week in a rubber factory. His mother, Effie, occasionally got work as a cleaning woman.
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