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there were no glory days

Bruce Springsteen is in the midst of some shows in the area.

I hate Bruce Springsteen.

Now, let it be said here and now that there was a time I liked him. I've seen him several times, had all the albums, knew all the words, etc. Mr. Working Man, Mr. Here's To The Little People, Mr. New Jersey.

There are several things that can turn your opinion on an artist you like. One could be just a simple change in taste. You grow up, you move on, you enter a different phase of your life and suddenly you are craving double bass and curse words.

Then there's the change in attitude on the part of the artist. Maybe he discovered that he's really not meant for rock and roll and he runs for Senate, or his lyrics change to the point of being unrecognizable to his former self or he shaves his beard and head and decides he'd rather hand out Hare Krishna pamphlets in the desert than sing into a microphone again and you throw out all his records because the past is gone, baby.

And then there's the relationship factor. Songs are invasive that way. They creep into your heart and soul and stick there like crunchy peanut butter so when you hear them again, some years into the future, all that crunch and peanuts loosens itself from your insides and you regurgitate your past until the bitter taste in your throat has you reaching for the tequila.

My ex-husband was a bit obsessed with Bruce. Still is. In fact, he's over in Jersey tonight or wherever The Boss is playing, and I'm sure he's in his own little heaven right now, being in the same space as his idol.

I can't hear a Springsteen song without cringing. Somehow, between all the years, all the collected CDs and vinyl and concert stubs, I forgot where Springsteen ends and my ex begins. They've become synonymous with each other.

It actually started before I was separated. The entwining of the two entities started a year or two before, when I was contemplating the end of my marriage and in my effort to bring myself out of funk, I took out all the CDs I never listened to because he forbade me to play them in the house and I rocked out and banged my head and all that, and none of it was Bruce.

I can't stand his strained voice. I can't stand his underbite and the way he grimaces when he sings. I realize now that all his songs were the same thing with different chords. And with every note and lyric that emits from any stereo playing Springsteen within hearing distance, all I can hear now is my ex husband's voice, his words overriding whatever the boss guy is going on about.

It's not Bruce singing about Rosalita, it's the ex yelling how much he hates my family. The bleak, funeral chords of Nebraska become a depressing dirge to which seven plus years march by, led by the ex's unsmiling face.

Oh, there's more reasons I can't stand Springsteen and his working man posturing. But isn't the reminder of all the failures, the depressing moments and the mistakes enough?

I broke and burned the records he didn't take with him. All that bland crap he liked - all the Springsteen and Billy Joel and jesushchrist, he had Huey Lewis records - they all went in a pile and became melted, twisted chars of hate and regret, along with some wedding pictures.

I hope he's having a grand old time at the concert tonight. And I hope that when Springsteen breaks out Glory Days, as he most certainly will at some point, the ex remembers that one specific moment like I do, so his stomach lurches like he has some god awful flu and he has that twinge of regret and sadness that comes with the once-in-a-while realization that he blew it.

Pass the tequila, please.


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Some World, Huh

So, where do we stand in the big scheme of things:

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I'm glad you're with someone better now.

Gosh. Me, too.

Remind me to never be one of your ex-es, M! Damn!


I find Springsteen's working class drag act a bit tiresome, although its not as campy and puke inducing as Michael Moore's.

Bruce is merely Jackie Curtis to Mikey's Ru Paul.

Anyone who goes out of their way to appear proletarian only does so because average, modest and of limited resources is precisely what they are not. Put it this way; Ozzy Osbourne is a true working class rock star as he enjoys his wealth not Springsteen.

Im actually working class and I wish I owned 50 Saville Row suits instead of my holed shoes, 22 year old car and blue jeans.

Once, in a break-up conversation ending a relationship of two years, my ex said that all he could say about his feelings for me were that "I still haven't found what I'm looking for."

I can't listen to that U2 song without cringing.

Oh come on! Everyone knows Springsteen is popular because of his awesome drummer, Max Weinberg.... for me to poop on!

I may be reading the post wrong, but I get the feeling you don't like Bruce.?
And I thought Da Goddess harbored a strong hatred for Springspleen..oy.
There are a few songs and bands that bring up bile-icious memories of my ex-wife, too.

You know the relationship is over when he no longer cares what you think. Perhaps one too many dreams you told him about, or some final mood nuance.

You have to hold up your end of the deal. I wonder if there's a copy of Tate's Blue Booby up, there usually is. New Window - Google - yes...

http://eeksypeeksy.blogspot.com/ scroll down to Tate

I think I must have missed the memo. You know, the one that explains to everyone why Springsteen is now a culteral icon. One minute he was Mr. Blue Collar Jersey Working Dude and then the next he was suddenly Mr. Sensitive Movie Theme Voice of Caring. How did that happen?

The icon thing happened with Streisand, too. I gotta pay more attention to my memos, evidently.

Oops. Cultural. Bleh.

I had a soft spot for the Born in the USA era Bruce, they he firmed crawled up his creative backside and stayed there. Max is one cool dude, one of the drumming greats of rock music.

Yeah, one of my ex-boyfriends totally ruined Peter Gabriel for me.

It was years before I could so much as not turn the radio station the second a Gabriel song came on, and I used to love Gabriel.

I met this girl in Paris during the war, and she thought her husband was dead. After a torrid affair, it turned out he was still alive. I don't like to complain but when the two of them turned up in my bar, and she played our song ... I found that I could listen to it if she could. I ended up giving up the bar and running guns until the war was finished. Never saw her again, and never listened to our song again, But no one gives a hill of beans about that.

When I think of Springsteen, I am reminded of a little incident from my college years.
My roommate, who was from New Jersey, was a big Bruce fan. On the dorm wall he had a Bruce poster which he wrote the following: "Rick, thanks for playing lead guitar on my winter tour. Love, Bruce." A lady I knew saw it, and got all excited:

"He knows BRUCE!!!!!!!!!!"

"Of course. You can read the autograph, can't you?"

She starts running down the hallway:

"Where's Rick? Where's Rick? He knows BRUCE!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Worship of Springsteen is a form of madness.