Yes, Please

"After a rain in New York all the dogs that got caught in the rain, somehow the water washed away their whole trail and they can't get back home so about 4 in the morning you see all these stranded dogs on the street and they're looking like - won't you help me get back home, sir, please - excuse me sir - can you help me find my way back home - all makes and models, the short ones, the black ones, the tall ones, the expensive ones, the long ones, the disturbed ones, they all want to get home."
- Tom Waits


So, all I have to say is that I would totally marry Tom Waits.  His voice is like . . . a blackboard that someone threw a thousand glass whiskey bottles at until it was rougher than even an ocean would think possible.  Kind of like that.  There's something at once literary and wino-ish about him, a guy wearing a beautiful winter coat with its collar turned up shuffling through a rat-ridden alleyway at 3 am.  Kind of like that.  Like Bob Dylan, he's a white guy who knows how to make the blues his own.  Except he's aged a little more gracefully, if you can call his hatted-hunch-shuffle "grace".  Hell, you can.  Hell, I do.  Just like that.



Look at that cigarette.  And that pure glee!  And the hat, we can't forget the hat, because: 

84 out of 100 women prefer men who wear hats.  From an old subway car at the New York Transit Museum.   Yes, I am THAT obsessed with public transportation.  Actually, the museum is pretty awesome.  But I'm too sleepy to talk about it now.  I'm going to let Tom Waits sing me slow to sleep.