Today I needed to get an ultrasound scan of my Achilles tendon, since it suddenly produced a sensation like a can of soda being opened in my heel during mild effort this weekend. This feels as weird as it sounds. It also sounded like a can of soda being opened, thereby depriving my SO of the chance to make snide remarks about shirking work. So I went to the doctor, and guess what he told me? Guess what he told me? He said to wear shoes with 1″ heels for a while. SO thinks this is hilarious and has been referring to me as “Prince” ever since.
Anyway, the scan came up all clear. A few days’ rest is all that’s required. The temptation to put my feet up and listen to Tom Waits submerges me and I yield gratefully, knowing it means not tottering around the house in unfamiliar, testosterone-crushing heels. Yes, I know a guy can do this and still get elected President; it’s not a consolation. I may die of shame.
Listening to Tom Waits songs has the happy effect of reminding me that what I heard last weekend also sounded like a can of beer being opened. It brings back pleasant memories of a gig that seemed far too short, in between the music and a constant stream of wry jokes. Yesterday, the NME posted this little snippet of pure joy:
Start cleaning your ears ready to have that gravelly treacle voice poured into them. This is the good shit. Accept no substitutes. See you in the queue on the 23rd.
In the meantime, a little whimsy:
- ‘Tom Waits on Tom Waits’ Doesn’t So Much Pull Its Subject in from the Shadows as Follow Him There (Review) (popmatters.com)