An open letter to Tom Waits
Creative Strategy #52: This is called negging. I'm told it used to work on women.
So really, Dude.
Not to interrupt your online gaming mastery,
but, Santa Rosa—Get Off the fucking couch.
This is not a cheery Howdy Doody neighbor.
This is a Wake Up Call.
Mr. Waits. Sir. Pal. Buddy.
In case you haven’t noticed it’s a fucking shitshow out here.
It’s a gorgeous warm fall day in Michigan and I am pissed.
Since your last album we’ve had an orange monster,
a world pandemic, and I’m not gonna say shit about the wars.
Remember Aliens? Or was that too commercial for ya?
They’re in the ceilings. They’re coming from everywhere.
“In case you haven’t been paying attention,
we’re getting our butts kicked here!”
Hey. Soldier. Duty calls.
I’m the fan letter you never opened. You were right.
It’s gonna suck. It’s gonna take that cute little persona
you’ve been riding for decades & throw it under the bed.
Wakey Wakey. Get yer estate in order!
Yer kids will hate you even more if you don’t!
I’m an old man, too.
I got three things wrong with my body
& a bloodstream fulla pain killer and THC.
I know. And I don’t wanna hear it.
I’m sure as I am sure of anything
that you got an album’s worth of new songs.
Hell, you already got the title.
“One
Last
Look”
Stack those puppies
& you got an award winning poster.
I’ll take that song & nine others, thank you,
& I will shuttup,
so long as there’s no throwaways.
No fucking Covers. We know how you love Gary Puckett.
We want premium Choice Cuts.
The Pick. No Jams. No Ken Nordine rips.
Career Ending Singalong Shit. Goddamit.
Dig in Dude—Give us your White Christmas.
I want Lyrics. I want candid career meditations.
I want buds telling us what a prick you were.
Oh, come on you know it’s true.
This is called “negging.” I’m told it used to work on women.
Anyway, Mrs Waits. May I call you Kathleen?
What is your number? Well, how am I going to call you then?
(OUTRIGHTED PROLONGED LAUGHTER)
Listen. You don’t know nothin about me
I don’t know nothin about you.
But frankly, Madame, doesn’t he get in the way alot?
Like when yer in the library?
Leaving shoes all over.
Forgetting to shower.
Oh yeah, I’m sure Mister Multi-genre has got an arsenal of quaint annoyances.
They’d burden any woman, much less one as beautiful as you.
(HANDCLAP)
I gotta great idea.
Let’s get old Tom Tom off the Peleton and into a fucking studio!
Where he won’t rearrange your stuff.
Where he won’t cough every 15 minutes.
And God Knows how many monologues you’ll be spared.
Tell him it's good for him. Tell him his friends are lonely.
I don’t give a shit what you tell Tommy Grammy Pants.
Isn’t there an award show he can host?
Maybe he can be a charming corner gagster on the Hollywood Squares?
They’ll love his kind tart there,
& with any luck he’ll commute to Burbank
& leave you alone to write your novel.
I’m done.
I just love the music.
Thanks for all the great songs you wrote together.
Thanks for hearing me out.
__Patrick O’Leary