I had brought with me to the gig a copy of Flann O'Brien's collected/selected journalism - "The Best of Myles." [Flann O'Brien was actually one of several nom-de-plumes of writer Brian O'Nolan. "Myles na gCopaleen" was another - that of his journalistic self]. My thinking was that I'd present it to Tom as a gift (if I happened to meet him that is; if I happened to stalk him well enough, that is). Anyway. So when I went up to him in this pub, I dug the book (not wrapped, you understand, and a little dog-eared, too, if truth be told) out of my bag, and made to offer it to him. He took it from me long enough to examine it front and back, and then he handed it back to me. He already had it, he said. He had all this guy's stuff.

I think, I'm sure, I was red-faced by this stage. I mumbled a few inanities about Flann O'Brien. Tom listened, or pretended to, and mumbled himself a bit. I have no idea what he said.

In any event, I wouldn't for a moment term it a conversation. The whole thing was over in like 30 seconds. That said, throughout, Tom was polite and patient. I did ask him, though, to sign my programme from the concert to which he replied "Whaddia want that for?" (the signature, not the programme). Of course, I had no intelligent or sensible response. I shrugged my shoulders and smiled (winningly, I guess I thought): I just wanted it. He did sign the programme though, despite his reservations, albeit making a point of signing the back of it so as "not to ruin it." Like, yeah, Tom.

Anyway, redfaced, excited and curiously sheepish, I went back to my own seat and when Tom and his party were leaving - about half-an-hour later - he came over, said goodbye, and, while shaking my hand, put four English pound coins into it.

That's it. That's my story.

True story. --John

-My friend's friend (uh-huh) was a production shlump on a film Tom was in, and she was riding in the back of a limo with Tom and his young son. Tom is showing his cardigan to his kid; "Feel that. Feel that. Know what that is? Feel it. CASHMERE. Say it: CASHMERE. Cashmere. Best fabric there is." He turns to the friend and says "Never too young to learn about fine fabrics." I have a couple of other friend-of-a-friend stories, but I'm starting to feel like some kind of weirdo...I think I'd laugh my head off at human silliness if there was a newsgroup devoted to MY bad self...

The man is very professional and in control. A giant in our time. I'll never forget: Janice was signin a woman's chest backstage as TW observed from beneath a metel, circular stairway ...eery.

i was backstage watching a tribe called quest, and i turned around to leave and tom waits was standing behind me with his youngest kid on his shoulders. i thought to myself, "oh my god, that's tom waits."

i walked over to him and said something like,

mr. waits, i just wanted to tell you that i think that you are one of the most legitimate and influential musicians of our time.

he thanked me, shaked my hand, and gave me one of the most genuine smiles that i've ever seen. as i walked away i turned back and he was still smiling at me.

it was a good day.

Wil :-(|)

p.s. i never realized how small he is.

I would've gone up and said something to him, but the mall was crowded and he looked like he was in a hurry. Plus, I don't know what the hell I'd have said that wouldn't have made me look and feel like a dork. Maybe next time...- Billy

I was just as cool as cheese. "Hey Tom," I said, "Love Raindogs!" (It was fairly new at the time.) He nodded, smiled and kept on keepin' on. The second time he was with his wife, Kathleen. Unfortunately I wasn't nearly as cool. Kinda did the rabid fan thing. "Hey Tom! Tom! Wow! I'm like your biggest fan! Got all your albums! Could I have your autograph . . . etc." Not my most shining moment in front of a god. He was cool. Introduced his wife to me as if he and I were old friends. She seemed to be slightly annoyed. Probably goes through this kind of stuff all the time. Who can blame her? Tom's a pretty cool guy.