Ol' '55

I've been injected with four gigs of beatific tunes. My auditory system is working overload and inhaling some weird spasmodic noises. The best on the bunch is Tom Waits, obviously.
Some day I'll shoot the breeze with Waits: we'll converse about peculiar topics like mutated insects or how to properly dig the streets. Afterwards, we'll hit the road and hang our hats at some beat jazz joint in Denver and rendezvous with our dear old compadres Jack Kerouac and Dean Moriarty. After a brief amiable reunion, with Nick Cave serving up some cranberry juice from the bar, we'll roar out to California and slave at a southern vineyard for a while -- you know, for heck of it -- and eventually save up enough cash to head back out east to New York where Waits is playing a gig at the Blowing Tavern at eleven. Of course, we'll need to accumulate enough green to bring back Marylou -- a totally gone Mexicali looker I encountered in the fields.
By Jove! That was a futile digression. All I desired to say is that I've got some pleasurable new tunes. Also I need more Tom Waits; two albums is deficient. Also I wanted to say that sometimes I feel like a dead car battery and I need a boost. Of course that boost being Tom Waits.