Well, 5. Shit, I mean what were you expecting?

He's the cool old uncle we wish we had. He will buy us girly magazines and weed and we'll expect him to molest us, but he won't, he'll just teach us how to roll the best joint, a joint so perfect that for decades we'll compare all other forms of marijuana to this one, purely Platonic of joints. We'll think he was trying to corrupt us, but no, he saved us from a lifetime of bad weed, we got good jobs and paid our bills, and all because, just once, so many years ago, he so introduced us to such a high degree of perfection that everything else is inferior.

We won't be bitter. We'll be angry at the world until we pause, ever so briefly, and realize that that single taste of perfect sin saved us from a lifetime of mediocre dalliances. He made us better people and our only regret is the knowledge that they don't make them like that any more.

I love you internet.

I'm impressed with his solution.

I must see this man live already. I MUST.

I love you, Tom.

Everything about this, perfection.

Waits.

This man. Oh man this man.

The idea of Tom Waits coming to my birthday, eating some cake and opening a few of my presents doesn't discourage me from wanting to fuck with his internet listening party thing. Kind of the opposite, in fact.

I have no idea what he is talking about in this staged fiasco, but he says it in a fun way.

♥♥♥♥♥

Yes, I would totally be OK with Tom Waits crashing my birthday party or telling me my wife was pregnant.

I wonder how many times people ask him if he'd name his next album "For no one" or the like. And then he just looks them in the eye and says, "No."