Eggs and sausage

(Writing about the other.. as the other. of another)

Evening sounds of Tom Waits .. after a dance night. The velocity of moves and skin flirts of the lates after lates do accumulate at some point into the need for de-border-ling – contact your sublayers of flesh trembles with more than just aesthetics. With smells and feels and depths. Delving into the hormonal, yours into another’s.

He accelerated the pulse of life in those latino sequences to the point that keeping track of the rhythms and performing the complete accurate line of shines, with PASSION inevitably.. would eventually build deep into the hormoneural structures of your brain. And then there were the spaniard(s) and the russians, and the french. Kaleidoscope! Getting home, alone, siding with the bed and letting the radio-like tunes invade, one cannot contain the outpour. You decrystallise the dance (inter)action of the hours before into bodily dynamic effluvia, or at list your mind does so.

Didn’t even wait to think too much about it. Instantly downloaded it after the Fip-radio nudge -> “Eggs & sausage” was teasing over and over again, with a lot more than just the connotations. Some subconscious jazzy layers that would collate with some fringe experiences very characteristic of subversive joy, vacation from morals, in a picturesque overstory. America, Kerouac, the jazz-lingers of audio tapes glued to my maembraine. The unintelligible mutters of waits, tricky and the deviant “Short Cuts” of Brain Damage. All of this.

And you have all sorts of similar food cues smuttered about at work. You grow to understand these things, this environment, You appropriate it.

Bangers and mash!

Part of your Friday afternoon. Or Thursday when they invade you back from “a quick one” and the verbalatio debris is more than just background noise. Casual tradefloor entertainment. You get to feel that, and taste the naughtiness. Politically incorrect. Who? waits cares… not. Instead he enjoys and expletes that same background. Trying to be philosophical about it. But in reality all this belongs to that very THICK and pervasive flow of just being, flowing sub, through and above the mediocre, all smudged in the gravy of it. True, but than why would you complace into  it? because there are deep faltering structures and rifts in the consistency of self that are INTERESTING. You watch carefully the whole process like Carver and les autres did. The perverse colouring of it and understand this is more. Much more savoury and resplendently-explicit of things you didn’t believe you’d be part of, but somehow define a very large part of you.

Eggs and sausage, burgers and fries, a tasty tone (sic, Tony and his ebriated boxing demonstration with the lip ripped rugby Doliath from hufrates, or Dee’s and his smiling gimmicky forehead, with his unexpected good french but with an overly engrossing english accent, or Stratham’s elucubrados are all sooo part of it!)  kept playing in an infinite memory imprint today on my desk, next to the keyboard. Regardless of looks or smiles. Or through the trains, and airport hallways. Laughingly eccentric as left the iPod play, simply play it out loud while progressing through another day of trades and hassling, “tyre-kicking” as Jay would have it. Tee resonated, and not just him, they, the desk “they” ’d identify with the leitmotif of just these words. Wouldn’t understand almost anything else apart form the allures of waitresses or rugged voice, all rhyming with the rug the munchies and other plethora of depravations.Then finally went through the lyrics. Had already began to slowly decrypt through it as dozens of replays eventually broke through the unintelligible. And Carver’s america was more and more coming out. Not least because of Tom himself playing the VERY part of it all in an overlay of short stories from Raymond in Bob’s film “Short Cuts” (just coincidence with the above B-Dge album).  One of those stories he’s engaged in a good screen relay of that sequence from “Vitamins”; adding then the scenes from “They’re Not Your Husband”. Hence then my attachment to the song veered to that of melancholy. Outstanding now would be the “now I’m in a melodramatic nocturnal scene” and feel the degradation and subjoys of oniricanism. Synonym to the “refugee from a disconcerted affair”. How this is so little connected to the current social theme of refugees, but more to a souls-sold-out sequence of personal story.

Melancholy with a sense of decomposition.

Browsing the perfume section on HeathT5. For the odd one out. And found it. It smelt like SHT. A sweet sweaty one. Barely kept from explicitly describing to the lady why it had such a shocking effect on me. “Did you like it?” “NO, it’s disgusting! but that’s why I try it, maybe it changes on skin. A man’s shouldn’t be nice. But brutal, revolting!” “Strange! this is our most popular strain of it…” Bought another in the end. Similar. Hours later sitting in the plane this rough one though and layers of others, smokey, leathery, oudy transgressed into something strong, ascetic almost, the stench vanished. With just an open window to high forest crisp smokes.

Eggs & Sausage

(In a Cadillac with Susan Michelson)⁽¹⁾

Nighthawks at the diner⁽²⁾ of Emma’s 49’er
There’s a rendezvous of strangers around the coffee urn tonight
All the gypsy hacks and the insomniacs⁽³⁾
Now the paper’s been read, now the waitress said

Eggs and sausage and a side of toast
Coffee and a roll, hash browns⁽⁴⁾ over easy
Chile in a bowl with burgers and fries
What kind of pie? Yeah…

It’s a graveyard⁽⁵⁾ charade, it’s a late shift masquerade
And it’s two for a quarter, dime for a dance
Woolworth⁽⁶⁾ rhinestone diamond earrings and a sideway’s glance
Now the register rings, now the waitress sings

Eggs and sausage and a side of toast
Coffee and a roll, hash browns over easy
Chile in a bowl with burgers and fries
What kind of pie? Yeah

Now well, the classified section offers no direction
It’s a cold caffeine in a nicotine cloud
Now the touch of your fingers lingers burning in my memory
I’ve been 86’ed⁽⁷⁾ from your scheme
Now I’m in a melodramatic nocturnal scene
Now I’m a refugee from a disconcerted affair
Now the lead pipe morning falls, now the waitress calls

Eggs and sausage, another side of toast
Coffee and a roll, hash browns over easy
Chile in a bowl with burgers and fries
Now what kind of pie?

A la mode if you will⁽⁸⁾
Just come in and join the crowd
Had some time to kill, yeah
You see, I just come in to join the crowd
Had some time to kill
Just come in to join the crowd
Cause I had some time to kill

Written by: Tom Waits
Published by: Fifth Floor Music Inc. (ASCAP), ©1975
Official release:”Nighthawks At The Diner”, Elektra/ Asylum Records, 1975 &
“Bounced Checks”, WEA/ Asylum Records, 1981
Arrangements and lyrics published in “Tom Waits – Anthology” (Amsco Publications, 1988/ Nuova Carisch, 2000)