Tom Jones

I dreamed I was lost. I was somewhere in a neighboring neighborhood walking towards my wonderful girlfriend's wonderful house, and was looking at the corner street signs with my head tilted like an inquisitive Labrador. Alongside me pulled up none other than Tom Jones in a sporty, Lexus-like vehicle. He insisted that I step in. I stepped in. He drove me a few blocks and we arrived at his unassuming middle class house. It was made of pale stonework, with bushes lining a walkway that led to an arched entrance. He invited me in to visit with his family.

At first, it was just him and a few of his early teenage kids, 3 or 4 of them, simply hanging out on the sofa, sitting on the floor, and playing old school Nintendo and laughing in the family room. I was impressed with how functional it seemed. Everyone was in such good spirits. Tom was happy in his sofa chair.

Then 3 or 4 more teenagers showed entered the living room. They were older, say 16 through 19 years of age. They were also Tom's kids. It felt like a Stove Top or Sunny Delight commercial. They were bursting with energy, pouring drinks in the kitchen and making sandwiches. It was so festive.

How could a man who's had so many pairs of panties thrust at him for so many years have such a wonderful and functional household?

It was a wonderful dream, and I hit the snooze on my alarm to see if I could spend just a few more moments with Tom and his family, but alas the dream was over.

I was compelled to visit Grimey's record store and purchase Tom's new album, "24 hours", from which I have learned the following things:

1. You have got to get dirty when your digging a ditch
2. You don't send a boy to do a man's job
3. A man who knows how to make baby making music knows how to make babies, too.

When Tom Jones sings, it gives me that rare experience of feeling like my own soul is surfing in the deep amplitudes of his vibrato. This may sound like dry comedy, but its not. You just have to try it for yourself to understand. Pop in "I (Who Have Nothing)" from one of his many greatest hits albums at loud volume in your grandpa's big stereo, and just see if it doesn't compare with one of the most messianic experiences of your auditory life. Then try to match his performance on your own.

My first Tom Jones experience was at a club in the Patpong district in Bangkok, Thailand. While there exist plenty of unwholesome venues in the area where you might observe unimaginable tricks being performed with ping pong balls, there was a place where one could attend without having to follow up with a requisite confessional visitation. It was called Radio City.

The headline act at Radio City was a Filipino fellow who dressed like Elvis and sang Elvis songs. There just happened to be an opener for Elvis, and it was a Filipino fellow who sang Tom Jones songs, accompanied by 5 other Filipino fellows with 2 horns, guitar, bass, and drums. Before that time, I thought that Elvis was the King, but after seeing that Filipino fellow perform the Tom Jones canon, I cannot passively agree any longer with the idea the Elvis should stand atop his throne alone. What Tom Jones can do with a belly full of air stands head and shoulders above anything that Elvis was able to achieve during his Vegas years, and matches the likes of the four Tenors.

Yes, I may come to be greatly hated for making this daring argument. The time has come for truth to shine, however.

I have met Tom Jones, in my dreams at least, and I have seen the Filipino version of Tom Jones perform. I can therefore say with certainty that he is a fine man to whom one might only appropriately react by thrusting panties just as you might be compelled to photograph a beautiful sunset or bow before an bright, white-winged angel.