Tom Waits, Singer, song writer
Misery is the River of the World. I wanted to make a Waits CD for the drive to work. I selected the songs and prepared to burn the disc, but soon discovered I was out of blank discs. I saved the list for another morning.
In the car I knew there was a Waits CD. The glove box doesn’t open because all the CDs are piled in and have jammed to keep it from opening. A few smacks and I got it to open. Shuffling through the CDs I don’t see Waits. I search the seat dividing console where there are several more CDs. No Tom Waits. Back to the glove box and slowly check again, I know there is one in here. Eureka!
I know have the soundtrack to a mentally crappie morning that has been building for a while now. The part of the family tree related to my grandparents on my mother’s side is in the December of its days. My great uncle passed away. I was not particularly close with him, but I have found memories of him when my mother and grandmother visited him or visa versa. My second cousins who I usually see at funerals anymore will be at the memorial on Sunday.
Everything Goes to Hell. As I drive east toward corporate Mecca the morons who I have to share the freeway with slowdown considerably to stare at the sun. Here is a news flash, auto manufacturers installed those mirrors above the steering wheel primarily as a means for blocking the sun from blinding you while heading east in the morning and west in the late afternoon. I realize this may come as a shock to the women applying makeup or plucking their eyebrows or the men shaving and brushing their teeth on the way to work.
God’s Away on Business. A co-worker told me he couldn’t do my job.
“You handle assholes so well. How do you do it?”
“It’s called paying the mortgage.”
Why do assholes always sharpen their knives on your mistakes?
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