Like some sort of  unintentional core sample, this song gracefully arcs across Tom Waits’ Asylum, Island and Anti years, distilling what’s notable about each of these periods. Think of it as his Greatest Hits encapsulated in a single monologue . . .

Circus

We put up our tent on a dark

green knoll, outside of town by

the train tracks and a seagull dump

Topping the bill was Horse Face Ethel

and her ‘Marvellous Pigs In Satin’

We pounded our stakes in the ground

All powder brown

And the branches spread like scary

fingers reaching

We were in a pasture outside Kankakee

And One Eyed Myra, the queen of

the galley who trained the

ostrich and the camels

She looked at me squinty with her

one good eye in a Roy Orbison

T-shirt as she bottle fed

an orangutan named Tripod

And then there was

Yodeling Elaine the

queen of the air who wore a

dollar sign medallion and she

had a tiny bubble of spittle

around her nostril and a

little rusty tear, for she had

lassoed and lost another tipsy sailor

And over in

the burnt yellow tent

by the frozen tractor, the

music was like electric sugar

And Zuzu Bolin played

‘Stavin’ Chain’ and Mighty

Tiny on the saw and he

threw his head back with a

mouth full of gold teeth

And they played ‘Lopsided heart’

And ‘Moon over Dog Street’

And by the time they played ‘Moanin Low’

I was soakin’ wet and wild eyed

And Doctor Bliss slipped me a

preparation and I fell asleep with

‘Livery Stable Blues’ in my ear

And me and Molley Hoey drank

Pruno and Koolaid and she had a

tattoo gun made out of a cassette

motor and a guitar string and

she soaked a hanky in 3 Roses

and rubbed it on the spot

and drew a rickety heart and

a bent arrow and it hurt like hell

And Funeral Wells spun Poodle Murphy on the target

as he threw his hardware,

Only once in Sheboygan did he miss

at a matinee on Diamond Pier and

she’d never let him forget it

They were doing two shows and she

had a high fever and he took

off a piece of her ear and

Tip Little told her she should

leave the bum

but Poodle said, “He fetched me

last time I run.”

But I’d like to hammer this ring into a bullet

And I wish I had some whiskey and a gun

my dear

And I wish I had some whiskey and a gun

my dear

–Tom Waits

I’ve just upgraded my Dropbox account to 50 GB, and upon doing so, this is where I was taken. While there are many technical reasons to love Dropbox, this adds Memorable Off-Center Humor to the list . . .

For that handful of visitors who may wonder why I’ve opted to use an avatar here, this bit of iPhone self-portraiture should neatly explain everything. Try to ignore my look of trepidation and let’s have a soul-searching discussion about my hair, shall we? It is not an inexpensive cut and yet everyday it looks like David Lynch, Bryan Ferry and Old-School Hugh Grant are all fighting for domination of my scalp . . .

This is not some seasonal anomaly, some low-humidity Winter Thing; this is basically what it looks like all year ’round. Horrifying as this may seem, the cut is remarkably consistent: It looks like this as I make my entrance at a dinner party and it also looks like this after I’ve accidently turned the leaf blower on myself while attaching the cord. So clearly, one of these circumstances is getting the not-so-short, hirsute end off things. I’m either turning up to dinner with leaf-blower hair or getting lawn debris to the curb with an inappropriate haircut. If only I know which one it was.

But I’ve digressed; sod the consistency of thing. The problem is that it clearly needs to make up it’s mind: Lynch, Ferry, or Grant; just chose, for god’s sake.

Sincere apologies for this post; 20 minutes ago I didn’t know I’d be writing this. But loping back to my office with a fresh cup of coffee, I passed by a print under highly reflective glass and it suddenly seemed the right time to confront my Hair Problem. Because admitting there’s a problem is always the first step to fixing it. But until then, I’ve made a mental note not to lose my avatar file–all indications are that I’ll be using it in the foreseeable future.