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.

Don't Even Try to Argue with Me: Bruce Springsteen is God

I have post-Springsteen depression. It’s that feeling that follows an amazing Bruce Springsteen concert. Which is to say, it happens after almost every Springsteen show.

I guess you could say I’m a fan. And have been since, oh, Greetings from Asbury Park. Which came out 1973. When I was still very, very young.

It isn’t so easy being a Springsteen fan anymore. It’s considered uncool. The Boss hasn’t been hip since before the Republican party tried to co-opt “Born in the USA,” which they not only didn’t understand, but didn’t ask permission to use. It ended badly for GOP, but also left a bad taste in the mouths of the arbiters of cool.

I don’t care. I adore Springsteen. I love his songs, which are often short stories. They create entire worlds. In three minutes. I dream of writing screenplays based them.

All of this is why, in early February when I heard that he was doing a series of New England shows  in smallish venues, I decided to go. The shows were all somewhat near where my mom lives and it was a good excuse to visit.  This involved some preparation.

First on the agenda was getting tickets.  This is not nearly as easy as it was when I was almost somebody. In the good old days I could call someone who owed me a favor or just plain liked me, and they’d hook me up. Those days are long gone. Now, like the rest of the 99%, I’m screwed.

I called my friend Randi, who decided that she and Bill wanted to go to the Connecticut shows too and we put an plan in place. We’d both get online shortly before the on-sale time and sign up to the Ticketmaster website.  Surely between the two of us, we could get four tickets.

With military precision we began our assault on Ticketmaster’s site. And the tickets were sold out literally a minute after the on-sale time. Before we could get through. This was a frustrating on several fronts. How could 36,000 seats sell in less than a minute? Even if a couple of thousand tickets per show were being held for friends, family and radio stations, that should have left a hell of a lot of tickets for poor slobs with cash. But no.

Then there was the fact that the day before tickets were officially on sale, dozens of brokers were advertising ducats at triple face value. They had specific seats which meant they already had the tickets in their possession. Which explains how 36,000 tickets were gone in 30 seconds. They were sold before we even had a chance.

This left Randi and I sputtering with fury. And more importantly, plotting. How could we get

into the show without succumbing to the scalpers? We were flummoxed.  And furious.

Instant messages and texts sprinkled with curse words flew across the country. Then Bill, who is nothing if not practical, decided to go to one of the ticket outlets, just on the off chance that they might still have seats.  I thought he was dreaming.

He wasn’t.  He went to a Wal-Mart, a store I’ve never set foot in for political reasons, which had a Ticketmaster outlet. He handed them money and they gave him four seats in back of the stage. We took them gratefully.

Which is how, after practically begging someone to housesit the menagerie and a fight with Delta airlines about frequent flier mileage, I ended up sitting in a car in Albany with Bill, Randi and my nephew, Peter,  and his girlfriend. Peter is a HUGE fan. So are many of his 20-something friends. Pete had somehow finagled his own seats, so we split up at the show with a plan to meet afterwords.

Yes, we were in back of the stage, but we were low enough to read the little sign that read ‘Albany’ on the stairs going to the stage. And there was an awesome video screen just above us.

Bruce is a force of nature. At nearly 65 he looks better than 90% of my friends, and some of them are in their 20s. He plays to the entire crowd – front, sides and back, and acts like he couldn’t imagine anything better to do with his time. He probably can’t. Lord knows, he’s not performing because he needs the money. He probably has more money than he can spend (even if one of his daughters is an Olympic show jumping hopeful). Nope, he plays because he loves it.

It’s contagious.  From the little ‘tweeners’ that he pulled onstage to dance with him, to the grandma he waltzed with, to the man in near us in a wheelchair, the crowd was joyous. For all three hours and 27 songs.

But now I have that inevitable let-down that happens after a Bruce show. But it’s worth it