I'm The High Priestess of Springsteenism

In general I try to keep my thoughts about religion to myself. I believe that a fundamentalist of any stripe – Muslim, Christian, Jew, etc, -  is dangerous. With one exception.

Bruce Springsteen is God. And. As the founding member of Springsteenism, I have proof and I’m not just counting the 20 or so times I’ve seen him play live.

Back in the day there were a lot of people who claimed that Eric Clapton was God, but if his last studio album, “Old Sock,” is any indication, his light has dimmed a bit. Anyhow in the ever-expanding universe of music goddom, there is room for a few divinities. David Bowie, John Lennon and Kendrick Lamar all have their acolytes and they’re not wrong.

But back to Springsteen.  I’ve met the Boss a couple of times, and neither was in a professional capacity.  Which is a good thing, because both times I was in full-on dufus mode. I mean even worse than usual.

My first Springsteen encounter was years ago, when he was married to model/actress Julianne Phillips. They were living in Los Angeles, presumably so she could continue her acting career, since it certainly didn’t enhance his music. (I call those his searching years.)

Anyway, I was in the Laurel Canyon dog park, with my dog Keeper. Keeper was a black shepherd mix with white points and a winning smile. Okay, she was a complete Heinz 57 special. Somewhere in her ancestry lurked a purebred, but it was hidden deep.  Keeper was really well-behaved, thanks to my college roommate, who did most of the training.

After Keeper and I had played play ball for a while, a guy with a baseball hat pulled down low over his sunglasses came over to chat. As is typical in a dog park, the discussion centered on dogs. Specifically his two German Shepherds who tended to ignore everything he said to them. As well talked they ran whizzing past him every time he called their names in the doggie equivalent of giving him the finger. I gave him the name of a dog trainer and we talked some more.

The whole time we spoke I had the nagging feeling that I knew him from somewhere. The gym? Clubs? Who knew? After about a half hour, Keeper was bored and ready to go home, so we did.

Then I got in the car and turned the radio and I heard “Dancing in the Dark.” Oops.

The next dozen or so times I saw Bruce, he was onstage and I was in the company of about 20,000 fans. He never failed to inspire me, and though I always regretted not recognizing him in the dog park, he was probably thrilled.

I ran into him again last year. Literally. His daughter Jessica is an absolutely brilliant show jumper and has ridden for the U.S. Equestrian Team, with an eye towards the Olympics. She’ll probably make it too: she is a great rider and has the horse power. As Bruce has said, he literally works for horse feed. (He’s not kidding, Olympic horses aren’t cheap.)

Like most good parents, Bruce and Patti Scalfia, his second wife, bandmember and Jessica’s mom, come to the big horse shows to cheer Jessica on when they can. They’re kind of fun to watch, because they are so damn normal. Like most show parents, they look slightly ill when the see the size of the jumps Jessica is going to take and seem relieved every time she walks out of the competition on her horse.

Hey, as my father once said, ‘Every time you leave the ring with six working legs, it’s a win.” Dad paid more than his share of vet bills in his day. Thanks dad!

Anyway, at a huge show jumping event last year, I was busy texting (I know, I know. Don’t walk and text), and crashed directly into Bruce. 

Thankfully I was so surprised I didn’t to say anything totally fangirlish such as, “Wow! You changed my life!’ Instead I apologized and moved on.

From those two close encounters, it’s obvious that I am in a position to assess and verify Bruce’s godliness.  You could also include his amazing catalog of music, the thousands of hours of live performances and his habit of being on the correct and moral side of world and regional issues, but you have my word, so it's not really necessary.

I’m not alone in my worship. At a recent show at the venerable LA Sports Arena, which Bruce long ago dubbed, “The Dump that Jumps,” an older woman collapsed before the show. As the paramedics were wheeling her away on a gurney she was pleading with them to wait to let her hear at least one song. They were young (possibly even Iggy Azalea fans, ew….) and ignored her..

As the high Priestess of Springsteenism I pretty much do what I’ve always done. I go around proselytizing and spreading the word of the Boss, trying and get people to think WWBSD(What Would Bruce Springsteen Do), before they do stupid shit. It doesn’t always work (do you hear me Chris Christie!!!) but I’ll keep on trying.

So what do you think, am I eligible for a religious tax break? I’ll settle for decent seats at his shows for the rest of both of our lives.

I'm So Not a Girly- Girl

I’m not very good at being a girly girl. I just didn't get that gene.

For instance, no matter how many times I’ve had my hair stylist show me how to fix my hair, when I try – usually the very next day – it becomes apparent that I can barely hold a hair drier.

I also don’t know how to put on make-up. I try to pay attention to the ladies at the make-up counter, but it is never the same when I do it. I end up looking like The Cure’s Robert Smith,  Or Raggedy Ann.

My friend Annie, has her own, very successful line of make-up (Katherine Cosmetics, it’s fantastic), has even given up on me. Actually, that’s not true – she tossed some mascara and lipstick my way and muttered “Good luck,” while she walked away, shaking her head sadly.

My mom  was never a role model in this department. Sure she, could toss on some pearls, lipstick and look pretty good, but she rarely did and certainly never taught me. In my defense, I don’t own any pearls, and if I did, I’d probably hock them to pay for my vet bills.

The horses may be another excuse for my lack of style. It’s hard to look even vaguely glamorous, after spending the morning mucking stalls and de-shedding the wooliest horses in the West. Honestly, the temperature barely dropped below 20 degrees all winter, and my herd grew enough fur to keep them warm in the Arctic. Now that it’s spring, the hair is all falling out, and most of it is falling on me.

Even when I’m freshly showered and sporting clean, de-linted clothing, the tell-tale signs of the slob life follow me. Recently I was at the racetrack very early in the morning. I was feeling pretty good – I was clean, freshly pressed and had even slapped on some of Annie’s mascara. I was feeling confident enough to chat with Bob Baffert about American Pharoah.

I had fed my horses before I left the house, and when I reached into my pocket for something, a mound of hay fell on the ground. There was a moment of silence while we both watched the stalks of alfalfa gently float to the ground. He was polite, but slowly started backing away from me mid-sentence. Sigh.

I have managed to get it together a few times in my life. Usually it’s for a wedding I’m bridesmaiding in, and the bride provided a friend to do hair and makeup. Once for a wedding in Hawaii I even had a mani-pedi. I was in my 40s and it was my first. Seriously.

I rarely bother with my nails because, well, with horses and dogs, long nails don’t last. For some reason, the other day I decided to try again. I had to choose among the three nail salons in a four block radius of my house. I picked the one on my corner since it was closest. The lady was very nice, and my nails looked terrific, though she recoiled in horror when I reached into my purse for my keys.

She was right. By the time I had walked the half block from the nail salon to my house, I had somehow chipped and smudged the polish on all ten fingers.

Many of the women I ride with have perfect fake nails.  They never seem to break or chip or look like they were digging holes by hand. These same ladies – all lovely and good friends - also discuss shopping. Which they like to do. A lot.

Shopping is another thing I’m not particularly good at. I’m pretty much a Target/Gap girl. I zip in and out and I’m done. If I’m really feeling fancy I’ll go to Nordstrom Rack. For ten minutes max. 

Not my barn friends. They talk about stores and boutiques and designers that I’ve never heard of, but they all nod knowingly when someone mentions them. They buy La Perla underwear. I had to look that one up. 

It’s just as well. With five horses and three dogs, I don’t have the money or time to be a girly-girl. But if anyone ever needs a model for the ‘don’t give a fuck’ look (which in my life immediately followed the ‘grunge’ look), I’m your gal. I have it down.

Other Than That, My Winter Vacation Was Okay...

You know the old joke where someone says, ‘But Mrs. Lincoln, other than that, how did your enjoy the play?’ That was my winter vacation.

My elderly, handicapped mom lives in the Berkshire Mountains of Massachusetts. Alone. This is obviously not the best idea during the winter.

Last fall I cooked up a brilliant plan.  Every year my stable goes to the desert to compete at the winter horse show circuit in Thermal, CA.  This year I’d compete for three weeks, and rent a house for four. Mom loves the desert and for reasons that escape me, the Salton Sea. The weather would be good for her arthritis and I’d get to show. Win, win.

I thought my biggest problem would be finding a handicapped accessible house that would allow four dogs (mom was bringing her Silky Terrier,

Monte).  But after a few phone calls, a huge hunk of money for the rent and a dog/cleaning deposit exchanged hands and we had a lovely place.

We didn’t exactly travel light. Among the stuff cramming my SUV were two enormous dog beds, two crates of dog food, a dog crate, mom’s walker, sundry other objects, the two males dogs and finally, mom.

It took some maneuvering to get mom into the vehicle-  it’s too tall for her to enter easily, which is why I actually rented a small SUV for her three months in California – but with some shoving and pushing, she was in and we were on our way.

The idea was for me to drop off mom and the stuff, and return to Los Angeles to exchange cars and pick up the girl dogs. Just a simple six hour round trip. And then three more hours back. I’ve done worse.

It went like clockwork. We arrived at the house by noon. I quickly unpacked and dropped off mom and the two dogs and left. I forgot to close the garage, but I’d get it when I returned for the night.

I’d forgotten that moving day was Friday and got stuck in traffic on the way back to the desert.  By 8pm the girls and I were hungry, cranky and we all had to pee, but I kept driving.

We were almost there when Mom called. Apparently the neighborhood security patrol spotted the open garage and sprang into action. They entered the unlocked house and found her happily watching tv with both dogs snoring at her feet. After the guards gave mom a stern warning about safety, they locked the gate, doors and windows and closed the garage before leaving. Lesson learned.

Sunday we packed up all the dogs into the little SUV, and looking like a canine clown car we drove to Joshua Tree National Park. It had rained a bit and was beautiful in the way that deserts are after a rain. Everything was on the verge of blooming and it was fresh and clean. This was going to be a great trip.

My horse, the fabulous Wes, had arrived and was, as always perfect. We’d been a bit worried because he’d gotten cast in his stall a week earlier and tweaked his back, but there didn’t seem to be any lasting effects. My trainer showed him on Wednesday and he was amazing. Thursday I had a brief lesson and he was awesome.

Friday was my first day showing. I was nervous because, well, I’m always nervous. Also, I hadn’t jumped in three weeks because of his back and I hadn’t showed since July when I’d broken my foot. Other than that, we were ready.

I was truly terrible in my first class, but we got around, which was the goal. When I came out of the ring my hand ached, but I ignored it. The second and third classes we rocked, but by the fourth my hand was really hurting.

After I finished and picked up a second place ribbon, I decided to stop by the paramedics and have them look at my now swollen hand. I figured that they’d laugh and send me on my way. They didn’t.

“I’ve broken my hand six times,” drawled one of them, which raised a lot of questions, none of them medical. “That’s broken.”

“How? I never left the horse? I just twisted my hand while we were jumping!” He just sadly nodded his head while his partner Googled the closest urgent care.

The doctor  confirmed that my hand was indeed broken. They thought it was insane when I begged them to splint it so I could ride, but they did it.

I was there to show, and I was going to show, damn it. Did I mention it was my left hand, and I'm left handed?

The next day I arrived at the show early enough to con one of the grooms into taping my hand so I could shove it in a riding glove. “It’s just like bandaging a horse,” I begged him. He finally gave in. 

I got on Wes and warmed up. He felt great and we were clicking. When we’re like that we are truly unbeatable; the pile of blue and championship ribbons in my office are proof.

We entered the ring and the first six jumps were great. We entered the last line and he looked into the stands, which is bizarre since Wes never did things like that. Then he spooked and ran to the right. 

 I couldn’t hold him straight. I turned him back to the jump and he was worse. There was nothing I could do, so I left the ring.

My trainer got on him and Wes pitched a fit: running out of jumps, leaping around and bolting. Totally un-Wes-like behavior. It only got worse.  She rode him for an hour before he calmed down.

Wes was the perfect amateur horse. Lazy to a fault, he was also predictable. Once every three months he’d be wild, Crystal would get on him and fifteen minutes later he’d get over it and be perfect again. This was definitely unusual.

After another week of him veering between perfection and insanity, I had two vets check him from head to hoof. They found nothing.

I decided to send him to a clinic that specializes in equine orthopedics and neurology in San Marcos.  The night before he left Crystal called me. Apparently one of the grooms had been handwalking Wes and he bolted and nearly ran into a tractor. For the first time ever, we were going to drug him to put him on the trailer. We didn’t want him to hurt himself.

I don’t know why, but I knew then that he wasn’t coming home.

Still, I kept hoping that the vets would find something that we could fix. Wes had all the standard neuro and soundness tests on Monday. The vets found nothing.  On Tuesday they did full body scan, looking to see if anything would light up. It didn’t. The doctors were perplexed.

The next morning, a world-famous neuro specialist, took another look. He repeated the test from Monday, but it was as if it was a completely different horse. Wes was wildly, dangerously neurological and it was terrifying him.

My vet called to break the news that night. I don’t remember much of the conversation. Mostly I heard the noise the adults make in the Peanuts cartoons: “Waaa waaa waaaa!”

I made the horrible decision to put him down.

But I had to say goodbye. I packed up mom and the dogs and drove from La Quinta to San Marcos.  It doesn’t look very far on the map, but believe me, it’s an eternity. The closer we got, the slower I drove.

Eventually, despite my efforts, we got to the clinic. I wandered around the barn calling him, but Wes didn’t reply; a bad sign. I found him, and entered the stall clutching ten pounds of carrots and a pocketful of peppermints. He spooked and cowered at the back of the stall. After a moment or two he recognized me and bustled over to give me a push and beg for a peppermint.

He had never looked better. He was glossy, fat and appeared to be the picture of health. I patted him, and said goodbye. He whinnied at me when I left. We drove back to La Quinta pretty quietly.

I wanted mom to have a little fun. Up till now it had been doctor and vet appointments almost every day. So few days later we drove (with all the dogs) to the Salton Sea. It is an inland, man-made ocean in the middle of the desert and it’s pretty spectacular. As long as you stay in the car.

Because of the drought, and some other issues, the Sea has near-constant, massive fish die-offs. The beaches are littered with dead fish. Naturally, it stinks. Badly.

But the dogs still needed to pee, I took them for a short walk. As I was loading them back in the car, Rocky made a break for it. He smelled the fish and had a plan. He’s an old dog, with a touch of dementia, but when he decides to move, he’s gone. With a glint in his eye, he bolted toward a pile of rotting fish. Just as he started to fling himself in down, I tackled him. I’m not proud of it, but it had to be done. I did carry him back to the car.

A few days before we were scheduled to leave La Quinta, at 4am, the smoke detector started going off. I stumbled around and found the faulty one, but with my broken hand, I couldn’t get the little battery out. For the next six hours, every 45 seconds or so - just long enough to think it had stopped – a loud metallic beep went off.

I called the rental firm and left a message, and then went back to sleep with a pillow over my head. At 7 I got a phone call.” Did I own an orange and white dog named Poppy?” I did. “Well, she was running up and down the street and had nearly been hit by a car.”

One of the selling points of this house was that it had a lovely front and back yard surrounded by an eight foot brick wall. Poppy is a medium sized dog.  I pondered that as I jumped into some clothing and went to fetch her.

As soon as we got back into the house and she heard the alarm, Poppy went berserk. She leaped on top of a grill beside the fence and nimbly hopped into the neighbor’s yard and ran down the street. After 45 minutes of chasing, l packed her and Dalai into the car in the quiet, cool garage and called the rental agent again.

It was time to go home.

That was how I spent my winter vacation.