04-11-03 - 9:00 p.m.
in lieu of a whiny entry regarding my codger's 50th wedding anniversary and how, for reasons understood only by the immoral, adulterous two of us, we agreed to avoid each other this week, i give you bruce.
it was like the old days; that scrawny bearded kid working his ass off for hours to prove himself, except that his face is craggy and his hair is thinning and he stomps around with the confident bravado of a revival minister and twice he breaks into a run and slides across the stage on his knees, and the second time he hurts something and limps, and beside me, berries, in that faded 25 year old concert jersy, laughs and shouts against my ear; god, what a dork. she waits eagerly for the old stuff, the songs she was raised on, glaring at the born-again fans who cut their springsteen teeth on the rising and have the audacity to leave after the joy of mary's place. bless her radical little heart; she even understands why i cry when i hear the opening strains of soosie tyrell's magical violin for jungleland. and just when you think it's over, when he's tired and dripping and the arena is alive with the sound of bruce-booing, he looks to clarence for that cool shrug of encouragement and asks, what time is it? is it quittin' time? and steve, eyes rolling beneath his trademark scarf like a crazy marx brother, dutifully answers;
it's boss time.