Ain’t Got No Spare, Ain’t Got No Jack

For some reason, I find myself turning to Tom Waits when the weather turns warm each year.

Tom can get you through, no matter how muggy the evenings get or how hot the days get. May to September, stumbling around the warm, moist dog’s mouth that is the Midwest, he gets you through those humid nights where you lie in bed all crumpled up and sticking to yourself like a handful of warm Colorforms left on a naugahyde carseat after a long road trip. He gets you through the days, when there’s so much heat and water in the air that the skin on your face boils off as you walk down the street.

So, when the weather turns warm and even my thoughts are sweaty . . . Tom’s music is like cheap whiskey, only without that aftertaste reminiscent of so many of the finer cleaning solvents. Like the soothing heat of cheap whiskey, Tom’s music doesn’t cool you off when it’s warm . . . he just makes it so you don’t give quite so much of a fuck.