Girl, if you want to know if love is wild, want to know if love is real, then look no further than yesterday’s Super Bowl performance by one Bruce Joseph Frederick Springsteen. Some may argue that the “Boss Time” ref intro, crotch shots & pole dancing was cheesy. And to you people I say, nothing, NOTHING can negate the power of “Born to Run.” NOTHING.
Needless to say, this was the only portion of the Super Bowl I watched. Though I applaud all those Steelers fans and their victory (Buxy 3:16, hollaaaa!!!), I kind of just…don’t really care about the Super Bowl. But, I’m writing this because I don’t have a movie to review (and god knows I am not about to take on the task about writing about the 5,000 hour long Che movie), and because I just wanted to share a little bit about my undying love for The Boss.
Anyway, I attended a Super Bowl viewing party at my local Irish Bar, which actually , isn’t a very big “football” bar, as it is mostly real football (“soccer”) they show there. There was homemade chocolate bundt whiskey cake, chili, and chocolate stout a-plenty. All in all, it was a great time. I think I might have glanced at the TV a couple of times, and didn’t even watch any commercials that people inexplicably love to do on Super Bowl…..until it was BOSS TIME. Unfortunately, I can’t post a good video clip, because the NFL copywright people suck.
But, I will tell you this: his performance totally made me want to wrap my legs around those velvet rims and strap my hands across those engines. I don’t care how much a of a cheesy pervert that makes me. Though Stella is doing a more extensive piece on the pros & cons of The Boss, I can’t help but elaborate on where my love of The Bruce (I like that better than “The Boss”) originated.
Picture it: Florence, 2005. I was a young, impressionable girl fresh out of college, in a strange, old land missing all the little nuances of home on the fourth of July.– the service standards we all take for granted (24 hour copy places! Stores that are open for more than 2 hours! Good waitresses that don’t clearly want to murder you!), the relative repression of Southern Californian men (in comparison with many Italian male attitudes towards American women), decent Mexican or Thai food (FUCK YEAH!), and all day beach bbqs with fireworks, etc.
That night of a very anti-climatic July 4th (my roommates & I spent it at a wine bar drinking Pina Coladas like pathetic stereotypes of women over 30), I had a dream. In this dream, I was lamenting my homesickness at a grocery store to the American cashier…..a cashier that turned out to be none other than Mr. Bruce Springsteen. He told me everything was going to be alright, because feeling more American than I have ever felt in my life shouldn’t necessarily be a source of shame. Rather, I should embrace the good things about it and be proud of the culture that produced me (at least the rad parts). Because though, let’s face it, the bad far outweighs the good, there are some pretty cool things about American culture also, and I feel like I needed to stop continuing this fantasy that I was somehow innately European at heart. I came to realize that I am indeed American, and there’s really nothing I can do about that…..and that that is, well, perfectly fine.
Bruce told me that if I still wasn’t convinced, or to see more of what he was talking about, that I should come to his concert that night. For some reason, it was at a giant stadium (one that I’m not aware exists in Florence), and it was everything you’d think it would be….actually it kind of resembled the Super Bowl performance. As I woke up, “Born to Run” was swimming around in my head, and I felt totally at peace with myself and my decision to complete my Art History program in Italy.
What’s funny about this story is that I never even LIKED Spingsteen before this dream. So that, my friends, is how I came to realize that I was born to love the Bruce.
Also, this article from the AV club was pretty amusing.