ジョシュ・ブローリンのインスタグラム(joshbrolin) - 4月13日 23時38分

Tom Waits wrote to me once: “You are the man!”. That is when my ego’s fingerprint touched what I imagine heaven would be. My hero wrote something to me: wow. When I was in my twenties I printed out his lyrics because they read to me like a early morning walk down skid row while everyone was having their one peaceful moment inside a dust devil of a day, and those were walks I wanted to take at that time. Then came my kids, my daughter crying at his concert at the Wiltern as he stomped on an anthill of dust and was brought a glass of water on a silver tray by a tux wearing butler while he spit bullfrogs and cat fights into a microphone. Or when my son and I, under a lien-to in Colorado Springs sat in the dark in my truck listening to “Ruby’s Arms”, both with tears in our eyes as we held hands. Or my kids recording in our basement three renditions of his songs through their talents, on my birthday: their gift to me. Always there - Tom - working magic in my life again and again. So this is just one of those mornings, in a nice house, imagining Tom taking his kids to school up in Marin, an SUV maybe, knowing most of the junkie front is for show: a dad, a husband, who can’t help that from the recesses of his imaginings, those little electric rooms inside his mind, but run and skid along broken streets, stormy interiors, and crabby cannery rows until they arrive at the drop off point and his kids say: “See ya this afternoon, Pop!”, and he waves his wave and pulls away always using a practical left hand directional warning, just for fun. Just for his own amusement.

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