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.”
ByeDon wins. Time for a Cold 45!
Meanwhile, at a golf course somewhere in Virginia, a 3-iron spirals into a water hazard.
• Extra-Credit Bonus Snark: Most Jersey reporter ever tells Trump supporter to “Fuck off.”
Made it. Sixty-six minutes and change on the Cateye CS-1000. Winning!
So. Much. Winning.
The playlist included selections from “Powerglide” (New Riders of the Purple Sage”) and “Waiting for Columbus” (Little Feat).
No one who hangs around here should be surprised that the set included “I Don’t Need No Doctor” and “Old Folks’ Boogie.”
And thanks once again to everyone who lit a candle on my virtual cake.
I was awakened at 4:30 a.m. by Miss Mia Sopaipilla singing me “Happy Birthday.”
At least, I think it was “Happy Birthday.” It sounded a lot like “Mrow yowr rowr myowww erroww mrow yowr rowr meeeeeeeeeeeeeowwwwwwwww.” But I’m not much of a crooner myself and so who am I to be critical of another amateur’s warbling?
It goes without saying that when I woke her up a couple hours later, I was the bad guy.
Meanwhile, someone has promised me birthday pancakes. But she’s in her office yelling at NPR so I’m not holding my breath.
Still, I am on top of the earth and I don’t work for the government, as Thomas McGuane has said. So, later, the 66-minute birthday ride. Right after those hotcakes.
Well, kids, there you have it: Stay the (You Know What) Home.
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