She's so intact

When the music fades away and seams begin to show I am magnificently disenchanted with the prospect of seeing your face in another dream tonight. I want a new face, I would be so madly, so desperately, so effortlessly in love with a new face to gaze upon in solemn slumber. I mean listen, 75% of the dreams are just Bruce gigs so your chances are one in four as it is, but that's what makes the difference. Maybe it'll start melting and it'll be a 50/50 split and before you know it you will conquer my waking life and my other life. Who can say tonight, who can say. When I run I see a face. It doesn't have a name, not always, but it has eyes and cheekbones and a conviction evident in the correlation to pursed lips and the height of the eyebrows on the beat of any given syllable. And the running, it comes to, from, for the face. I can't wait to know its name. Wall-E was by far, by FAR the best movie I've seen all year. The middle act was semi-laggy but for the rest of the thing, I was with it to an unbelievable level. Having a memory as bad as mine is a double-edged little whatever, because I keep forgetting how GREAT things are until experiencing them again. I forgot the insanity of my love for the words and music of Aaron Sorkin and his cast of merry men, until I dove headfirst into it again and found the fire where it started. But maybe if I were to retain just one good thing from every great thing I experienced, I would be marginally better at being alive. I'll try.

11/22/1950

11/22/1950
Miami Steve, Little Steven, Silvio, Stevie, whatever, it is in him that the spirit of brotherhood and the pervading sense of community is found on E Street. He is important not for skills but for his efforts, his spirit, and the soul he brings on stage. His harmonies give the melodies the hard rock edge, his voice solo can bring epics down upon our heads, his producing skills brought us The River. There's no one in the world who can share a mic with Bruce better than Steven Van Zandt. Happy birthday, and thanks for the pick.

"I'm a mystery solver"

The reason my favorite class is my favorite class is for all the ways it reminds me of high school. Small community, imagined or not. Clear and unique groups, imagined or not. The archetypes, the symbols. The guys, the girl, the so-so's and pleasantries. These are the familiar anchors I cling to like guns and religion. Repetition, development, the idea of possibility. Not the realization of such possibility, but the simple entertainment of the idea of it. I think two questions that inevitably must cross a young student's mind are 1) How must I matter? and 2) Who must I matter to? The results may shock you. I can't wait to want to want. They say stories fail to move an audience when the audience doesn't buy the stakes. I often doubt the stakes of life, I doubt the reality of conflict and everything just seems...effortless. I don't feel the difference between losing and winning sometimes, and I attribute that to a lack of or lack of perception of legitimate stakes. School always just feels like sandbox, it's good to go home sometimes, and sometimes I don't want to be anywhere but inside somebody's car.

Garry W. Tallent

10/27/1949
Happy 59th, Garry! Garry holds a special place in that he is the only (rather, the first) E Street Band member I've met. He was kind, courteous, and smiling after dropping off his daughter (who sang back-up for Working On The Highway the night before) off with his wife in the E Street lounge. I called him Mr. Tallent for I am, evidently, nine years old. His role in the picture is, as Danny's was, a shadow player, working beyond the spotlight's reach to thrust upon the listener and more perfect soundscape. Thanks Garry.

Who doubts what he's sure of

I want to want, I'm a fatalistic death pursuit to that that is absolute. Shades and grays are the stuff poetry's made of, this life needs a stark contrast of black and white, blacker than black, whiter than white. When there's no wiggle room for qualifiers; maybe, possibly, kinda, sorta. I want YES, NO, GOOD, BAD. I think about a wonderful life when certain ideas and activities are bereft of any semblance of nuance, where it's simple. Of course, this breeds a line of thinking that has us sucking down chicken soup through IVs as pod people. Of course nuance is good, of course we need things to be complicated. But sometimes, some nights, some relationships, some people, some nights, I want to take a gun to nuance and off it execution style and dance on its grave. I want to live in the world where I can do something and not worry about the consequence, with a whole-hearted knowledge that it's what right, it's what's good, it's what's pure. Not often enough, not nearly enough do these fragments of life occur. I'll rejoice upon the day when the spirit that wakes up in the morning and the one that goes to sleep at night are one in the same.

The first time

For some ego-maniacal reason, it would appear that I got a thing for people of my own...color. When I pass them on campus sidewalks I give them the power sign, it doesn't usually work out. Maybe it's just a component of a terribly unhealthy, psycho-sexual hero projection ("Brunettes are fine, and blonds are fun...) or maybe I'm just projecting what I think are the best things about myself onto others in a stunning display of masturbatory arrogance or maybe I really do have that narrow a view of the landscape. I will be graduating from UT in Fall '09 or Spring '10, most likely Fall '09. This makes me feel numb and small, but also large and alive. Paradox is my middle name, and it's also NOT my middle name. I forgot what being nervous felt like (it feels good. It's when I'm most comfortable not being in control). Steve Carell and Amy Ryan WORK. Jim and Pam....no. Stop. You're not real.

"And everything else is crap

I don't care who you are, that is a beautiful man (and a beautiful hat)
Much has happened since last we spoke. There were so many fearing that the Harley Davidson Gig, a move that was viewed by many as unpure to the Springsteen character, aligning oneself with a corporation so explicitly, would be the last hurrah for The E Street Band. But you young and mighty tramps (ha, the only folks genuinely worried were old and quite weak in the legs), no don't you fret, we know the future, and we know what's gonna happen just YET because, it's true, Bruce Springsteen & The E Street Band are playing the NFL's Superbowl Half-Time Show, brought to you by Bridgestone Tires! All is well on E Street™ No one believes more fervently in the power of what this man can do with his band and with his crowd when given the stage, but this is going to be the one to beat: Send your prayers to Nils. He's worn his hips down to literally nothing for us, playing for us, flipping, jumping, and exerting fingers and feet and everything in-between for us, and he's got to fix those hips now. But don't worry, he'll be back as early as February 1st. In news that would come with my grandmother's seal of disapproval, Bruce is also putting on a free show in Philly for Obama. I need to investigate exactly how I feel about this further. I think it mostly has to do with how I like to think of God and, of course, Jesus Christ. There was this book I read part of called "How Would Jesus Vote" and shortly before I set the pages on fire after pooping on them, I thought that I wouldn't want to associate God with a political party. I feel like God is too big to fit inside something as narrow as a box on a ballot. And, similarly to this, I like to think that about Bruce. The American character he speaks of in his music, vivid, complicated, and resilient, seems simply too large for the Democratic party. It seems too large for the Republican party. Nonetheless...

"Detroit muscle"

Every time one comes to a set of stair-steps, there is a choice to be made; be the step-skipper, hustle up and run the risk of minor breathlessness, a small to inconsequential risk if no one's around. This is all dependent on the SIZE of the steps. If they're taller than average and when you skip the steps you look like you're doing lunges with your knees to your chest, not worth it, especially if you plan on going at normal walking pace. Now if you're a Hurried Murray then run it up, you're solid gold. Steps are great things to encounter when having a good day. Even when not, maybe. Crank your thing up to 95%, shuffle up and deal

09/23/1949

Something good happened 59 years ago, and something good's been happening ever since.
God blessed gave me a beautiful family and a tremendous set of friends. And then God created Bruce, and I got to listen to his music and go to his shows and share this love with these people in my life. This man and his friends have informed my life with their noise. It’s a beautiful noise, bursting at the seams with passion and thought, sadness and joy, and a call for more life. The promise is unbroken. Happy birthday, Bruce.

Tomorrow:

Today:

4/14/08

My name is Kevin. I’m 18 years old. It’s been weeks since the show and it still hurts a little to walk.

It’s difficult to put this in context with Danny’s passing. Nothing’s the same now. And with the E Street Band, I never heard instruments. When you listen to music you can usually hear the instruments, the keys and chords and the notes emitting from them, but it was never like that for me. I always heard the people. I heard Clarence soar into the dark night of Jungleland, I heard the glory of Roy Bittan’s fingers on countless epics like Backstreets, and I heard Danny’s heart in everything, even when I couldn’t.

The last report I wrote was titled “Omaha – The Greatest Night Yet.” In the span of a mere month, that title is now out of date.

Dallas was a very good experience marred only by missing the pit by a mere 50 and a scuffle with some seriously obnoxious non-fans who cut their way in front of us during Gypsy Biker. Other than that, we met some great folks in the line and ended up having the time of our lives. My friend was kind enough to drive back the 4 hours after while I struggled to stay alive.

The guys arrive at my house around 3:20 while I was making some signs. Kelsey had made a shirt the night before with iron on letters on the back saying “TRAMPS LIKE US” which drew some questions from her teachers that day and an iron-on graphic of Bruce on the cover of Darkness on the top left corner. She was ready for it. I was told to throw away my LOHAD sign in Dallas but was undeterred from making another. Along with this one, I made two that said “THANK U ROY!” and “MARRY ME SOOZIE” The lettering was blocky and not very pretty looking, but very visible. The consensus was that it was unlikely the signs would get any attention.

We arrived at the arena at about 4:10. We made our way to the front of the Toyota Center to discover that they were on the high 200s for the wristband count, 266 to be precise. For some reason, I just asked and then decided not to get one and delayed. I talked to Gary, the wristband guy, asking how many were gonna be let in, and then I called a friend of mine just to check in with her.

Katie then said “Let’s just get the wristbands, it’s what we’re here for” So we tossed all superstitions and issues and nerves aside and just got the wristbands; 276, 277, 278, and 279. She says she felt God was there and was a guiding hand in this. I can’t say I disagree with her at this point. Let me diverge for a second and tell you about these friends of mine.

Kelsey (17) is girl who’s got music written on her face. If you asked her if she’d rather starve from food or from music for a month, she’d have to think about it awhile before she’d answer. Grant (18) is a guy of character and integrity whose tall stature and deep compassion has made him the implicit patriarch of the group, even though he’s a few months younger than I am. Katie’s (20) the girl straight from New York City who can turn on the attitude and switch to the strong heart of a mother’s care or the goofy fun of a sister on the turn of a dime. We were united, but tonight it was for this, this thing that we loved. I’ve sent them nearly every album through E-mails with small descriptions and the likelihood that he’d play each song. They dug in it deeply and became students of the school of rock and roll and exhibited the ability to know and love and understand and I love them for it. These are my three friends that came this night. And they all wanted to hear Rosie, especially Katie. She was encouraged when he didn’t play it in Dallas.

We went back to my car in the parking lot and started playing some stuff I was pretty sure would pop up in the set. We listened to the Nebraska version of Reason to Believe and discussed its true message. We talked about American Land and everything that it meant to uphold the image and perception of America.

We went back and got in line, herded like cattle into lines by the 100s. We made friendly with a man behind us named Adam (who, Kelsey pointed out later, did not raise a Cain. In fact, we didn’t ask him if he had children at all), who told us a nice tale about a man who missed a night launch of a space shuttle to see his 27th Bruce show in Dallas.

Then Gary decided it was time to announce. He did the shtick where he holds the jar too high for anyone to draw out of it. After this, the number was drawn before a hushed crowd

“2……..…6……..8”

I closed my eyes. It was at this point that I clutched my three friends with my arms in a death grip and buried by face in them, knowing what kind of night this was going to be. This was also a position we were to be found in several times later throughout the night. Kelsey said that my facial expression was the happiest she’d ever seen. She said later that it continued to reappear throughout the night. We were the 8th, 9th, 10th, and 11th people let into the pit last night and while we tried to maintain our enthusiasm to keep from gloating over people who weren’t as fortunate, we weren’t as successful as we had hoped. I called my mother and told her what happened and she screamed the loudest scream I’ve ever heard from her. She’s my favorite mother, I love her so. When I told her about Dallas, she was disappointed about 10th Avenue opening because she suspected, knowing that Bruce should shuffle up the set-list, that Houston would most likely not receive 10th Avenue. She thought about trying to sell or give away her ticket.

We made our way in, stuffing my signs in Grant’s jacket and hoping for the best. Then the first bit of drama; the tickets weren’t scanning. There were two scanners set up at the door and we were about to get passed by people NOT in front of us. Somehow we got it and we managed to get down there without running. We managed a brisk walking pace as Jerry reminded us calmly, almost affectionately “There’s no one in front of you” and had us flash the wristbands and tickets as I said “Thank you, Mr. Fox” with all the implicit respect of a grade-schooler to his teacher. After a bit of a gallop, Katie was warned to walk and pointed out to security “But we were born to run!” but complied anyway.

We got down and saw EXACTLY how close we were talking. Seven people had their elbows on the stage, and I was the eighth. The shape of the four of us was a small diamond; myself in front on the stage, the two girls in the middle, and Grant behind. This formation was held successfully for more of the night than not. I asked Kelsey and Katie if they would like to be up on top of the stage, and they insisted, in all their sweetness, that I stay there. The thing about this was that they weren’t being polite or courteous or just plain nice, they wanted me there. That’s where they want me to be and wanted themselves to be. They had a great sight and with one to two people in front of you at most, no one’s getting a bad deal here. When I touched the stage I said “Both nights, I feel like this should be other people. I felt like the ugly confrontation in Dallas just happened to other people, not me. And I thought that this, being HERE tonight, so close, that only happens to other people” For a weekend, I got the two extremes of being other people. I knelt down before God and said a prayer of thanks and praise for this unprecedented fortune of blessing.

So we found ourselves planted roughly six feet from HIS microphone, a position we acquired purely by luck, chance, and a more than a little bit of God’s graces. We acknowledged the latter by saying a prayer before the show started, thanking him and asking a benediction over the night. I think he heard us. Katie asked me in all sincerity which was going to be better, this or my wedding night. I declined to respond in case any of them ever met my future wife, and at the end of the night, Katie would understand this response. Kelsey had a lump in her throat, Katie had Bruce-bumps, and Grant had a hungry stomach. Once again fulfilling his implicit role as benevolent provider, Grant went and got us pretzels and a big cup of water. He left and returned to his spot without a problem.

The guys ask when my mom’s getting there. My mother, whose infinite love and nurture has encouraged me and enabled me to follow this passion around the country, saw us and started waving to us like a high school cheerleader. We called and she screamed some more and waved to us in all of her maternal excitement. She’s a blessing every day, but it’s days like this that help me understand even better that she’s for real.

We attempted to befriend those around us to create a safe and fun pit environment. The man next to me was Bob, who was with his young grandson John. It was John’s first show and he was 2nd in line and secured a place against the stage the entire night, among other things (more on that later). The guys next to us were courteous but not very friendly. Not to suggest they were unpleasant in any fashion, just a little uninterested in, frankly, anything. They asked me to take a picture of them and I did and Katie kept bumping into them as the night proceeded, apologizing when necessary, but to no response. They were a decidedly neutral couple of fellows. Just to the right of these guys was our aforementioned friend Adam, citing Giants #3 as the best night. I think that changed for him too.

Unfortunately, it’s a big tent and with that comes the reality that some people are gonna wander in you wish wouldn’t. One of these people happened to be an intoxicated man right behind Grant. He started the hard liquor drinking outside before the show and throughout the pre-show wait acted in an obnoxious fashion, attempting to usher his “little girl” (who he had just met), who looked like she was in her late 30s to early 40s, further up in the pit. This included courting Katie’s submission, which was met with a firm, polite, concise “No” as it should be. It should be noted that all of this dissolved into nothing once the band took stage, as Grant puts it, “I know, somehow I just know that Bruce’s arrival will wipe away all the drunken tension or potential conflicts. I marvel at the almost Messianic parallels of the moment”

We saw them come out put down the set-list and then, not fifteen minutes later, replace it with a new one. Something was up. Either he saw the crowd or lack of crowd in the side sections or he just got antsy but something was happening backstage. People got pretty excited when the venue turned off the video billboards. There was a roar but I assured my guys that it wouldn’t happen until all the lights went off and we heard some calliope music.

The lights go out.

Grant mistook the Bruucing for booing, and when they came up he mistook Nils for Bruce because of the hair. Katie remembers it so perfectly: “Soozie’s lady-like waltz up the stairway. Max and Nils both made boy-like hops onto the platform. Charles and Roy ambled jauntily to their respective positions. No one had a more confident stride than Stevie though. And then rose the Big Man. Not until you see him (or his silhouette) in person can you fully understand why they call him the Big Man. During his ascent is when you get the first feeling of what you are about to see. The members of the band wait patiently as he does what he needs to do to get situated - a foreshadowing of how they will be behind Bruce all the way later. This was my first moment of realization.”

This is where I was magically transformed, in about 0.5 seconds, from a mildly-mannered, if not slightly bouncy, young gentleman into a simian creature, pounding at the stage and making panting noises like a gorilla, feasting on the life-blood of rock and roll. I turned to my friends and hugged them as one would with the knowledge that we were about to experience one of the greatest nights of our life.

Max gives tempo and I can tell what’s coming from the backbeat. In darkness Bruce is picking out that irrepressible guitar riff. The man lets out an impassioned scream of fun, rebellion, and pure love and the stage explodes in a symphony of light and sound and visual and music. It’s him, I remember a wash of blue and a whole lotta light and him. He plants himself in the classic wide-legged pose, looking over us, all of us, seeing what he’s working with, what he’s created, what he’s going to create, and what’s gonna happen. The band’s giving as good as it gets and that happens to be a good deal tonight. Certainly a more rockin’ version than Philly #2 in October, but that’s far from the point. He’s loose enough to wanna change the lyrics to “Texas night!” and do some cute shtick with Stevie “These gas prices are killin’ me!” and Stevie replies a goofy “Oh no!!”, despite the fact that gas prices haven’t affected either of these men in decades. There is a blessed air in the night tonight, and we feel the beginning wind blowing over us. After this was when another of several group hugs commenced throughout the night.

Then he asked the question I got the privilege of answering for the 5th time in my life, and for my friends, the very first:

“IS THERE ANYBODY ALIIIVE OUT THERE??”

The answer was an undeniable yes. From the very first time I heard it, the very first song I ever heard live from Bruce Springsteen, the song has only got cooked hotter and hotter and hotter. Certain mannerisms become familiar over time. The way he jumps up in the air to signal Clarence’s solo, his guitar attacks between the verse lines. And there’s that one line where he points to some lucky guy or gal in the crowd. In my experience, he’s always gestured to his right for that one, I assume out of habit. So then it comes:

Bopping through the wild blue
Trying to make a connection with YOU

And I see a face and hand directed point blank at ME. This isn’t the crowd-pleasing antic of a slick showman or an empty gesture. He’s deathly serious about making that connection and he’s serious about making that connection tonight with ME, along with 20,000 other brothers and sisters. Right when he pointed at me, I could hear my friends scream in joy and delight at the realization of my heart’s desire. I got to be the one on the other end of the line of Bruce and the band’s mission statement for the night, and for their entire lives. Connection is no longer a symbol or metaphor for anything else. It’s not an idea. It’s an action. It’s real.

For the rock-out coda, Max fills the pocket with as much break-down it can contain. The drum fills are out of my mind and they don’t stop with Radio Nowhere. Lonesome Day follows and the red-hot rhythms charge onto us. Say what you will but there’s no way you can’t believe the gospel refrain when it’s sung right in front of you: “It’s alright, it’s alright, it’s alright, yeah!” I’ve been to some shows and for me the experience is always gonna be inherently physical, but the stage platform gives me a whole new thing to work with. I managed to get a little higher each time for each “yeah” by sustaining the rest of my body on one arm. I was almost scared at how easy it would be for some nut-job to climb on stage. Katie tells me she’s already exhausted and I know that about 20 songs later she’ll begin to completely understand the meaning of that word. Three songs in and Bruce has these four hearts in the palm of his hand.

Atlantic City is the night’s first big curveball. I know just from the back-beat what’s coming. Katie mentioned earlier that she didn’t want me ruining the songs before he played them, tongue-in-cheek of course. So I cup my mouth around Kelsey’s ear and whisper (yell) “ATLANTIC CITY!!” I remember coming down from the air on the instrumental refrain, beating the stage like it was the man who shot my Pa. Then it’s all taken down and we hear that like of desperation, the man begging his lover:

“Meet me tonight, in Atlantic City”

And it just builds….and builds….and builds….and builds….and builds….the man’s not faking it, he’s desperate and mighty and with arms outstretched he is in command of a captive audience who would ask of each other “meet me tonight” We did.

Magic is next. Bruce says Patti sends her love, to applause from us. He then mentions Danny, which receives a beautiful reception of cheers. Houston, Omaha, it doesn’t matter. The love is all the same and we’ll cheer for this man and his fight against illness until we can’t cheer anymore. He starts up and the song is hauntingly desolate and beautiful in its emptiness. Soozie makes the song, she MAKES it. I hold up the sign and I think they both see it but they don’t really acknowledge it. It was a mistake on my part, and one I would not repeat.

I’m expecting Reason to Believe next, of course. We listened to it in the car, surely he’ll be playing it next. But…oh yes…I see now. He’s running around the stage and telling the boys what to do. Roy starts the piano, I haven’t heard this, no one’s heard this on the tour. The intro is staggeringly beautiful and intimate in ways my brain can’t process. I start shaking and crying without tears. Katie and Kelsey suspect the same thing I do; New York City Serenade. Stevie starts making his guitar weep before the throne of Roy’s glorious keys and whatever it is, we’re enraptured in this. Then it falls down…Because the Night! I turn around to my guys and just scream “YEEEEAAAAAHHHHH!!!” We saw right before the song started, we saw Bruce walk up to Nils and whisper something into his ear; either to take the solo or not take the solo. After he whispered it, he went over to his mike and launched the crowd into this dark love’s drama. After the key change, it turns out, he told Nils to take the solo. I’ve never seen a hotter solo in my life, I thought the strings were going to catch fire. But the one thing that put the gas on my fire was watching Nils take it to the skies, and then turn to look at me, take a few steps toward me with locked eye contact, nod quick, then launch away. This is a very physical performance and in these few seconds of a moment we got what we gave, which is everything. It’s everything, we were burning. For Grant, this marks the beginning of the spiritual dimension the concert took for him. He describes it “It seemed that I wasn’t listening to the song from without, but it was being pulled up from within me by the artists.” I say to this, welcome to a Bruce show.

The band slams into Candy’s Room, Max’s cymbal hat is the ticking time-bomb of a wrecking crew about to strike. We were talking about this one in the car, how Max thinks the cymbal intro is laughably basic. Katie locked her eyes on him the whole song and he was AT IT for three minutes straight. I turn to Kelsey and whisper (yell) “CANDY’S ROOM!!” even though I’m pretty sure she knew exactly what the thing was as soon as Max started going. I remember being as goofily enthralled by the thing that I actually mimed knocking with my right hand when he sang “When I come knocking” I’m kind of an idiot for this stuff. We can’t recall but this may have been the first time Bruce locked down and graced us with his solos. Grant can’t recall the song, but can recall the feeling: “The crowd swelled around me, not shoving me forward, but lifting me forward in a natural crest-of-wave sort of way. They didn’t literally lift me up, but it’s the best way I can describe it.”

Out in the Street? For real now? This is a joke, right? In a lifetime spanning all of 18 years, there’s no way I’m getting this blessed, right? Not so, says Bruce and his 8 partners in crime. After living with this one for the longest time, I see it crystallize before my eyes as reality. Kelsey said I actually made motions of a box when he sang “Loading crates down on the dock” Again, I’m pretty stupid for this thing. When he sings “I’ll be waiting for you!” he points out the middle of our boisterous shed. We all got to meet each other tonight. I was a little disappointed Soozie didn’t join in for the “Meet me out in the street” section. I saw Steve, Nils, and Clarence take turns at the microphone around Bruce and after two years of driving in my car and put my steering wheel through the ringer while aping Max and listening to this song, I got the blessing of seeing it come alive before my eyes. Bruce was clearly loving this one, egging us for the “whoa-oh” parts with a smile on his face.

She’s the One cranked into gear. I think even Gary was on the maracas, which is always fun to see. I turned around to make sure my comrades got the “Ohhhh-ohhh she’s the one!” and nodded towards them. I think it was at this point that I couldn’t bounce both feet at the same time anymore and had to alternate left and right and then occasionally together. I don’t think Bruce noticed this slight dip in energy level on my part. Soozie’s rock and roll, strumming her black acoustic direct to the Bo Diddley beat. One of the best parts of the song was, obviously, when he took his guitar and grinded it against his mic stand and tossed it back to Kevin, who never fails to catch it but appeared a little pained to in this particular instance. He’s going nuts on the harmonica, I think this might be one of the several times he beckons us three feet away on the upper platform and looks right at me again for the “Hey!”

Right after, we see him reshuffling and getting the band in place and Clarence pulls his sax out for, yep, Livin’ in the Future. Bruce leans against the mic stand and reads his bit. At this point I can yell out with him, like a song “Rendition, illegal wiretapping, suppression of voter rights, suspension of habeas corpus” and when he says the mighty E Street Bad is there to sing about it, he is, again, not messing around (even though he is). He makes a joke; “Somebody’s been f*ckin’ with my passport!” much to the eventual dismay of my mother. I later reassure her, one F-bomb is a small price to pay for 26 songs of EVERYTHING. “A letter come blowin’ in” and he starts swinging wistfully around his mic stand like a kid dying to tell everyone he knows a secret he just found out. In comparison to the first leg, this is downright fun, despite darkness in the lyrics. At the end of it I’m looking at Soozie and she’s looking at me and I make a goofy gesture towards my tongue when he sings “Like when we kiss, that taste of blood on your tongue” He comes down to the platform for the 3rd verse and he’s singing “I’m rolling through town. Lost cowboy at sun-down” standing right over us, gesturing not unlike a hip hop star. We make eye contact again and he can tell that we know this one. He’s right over me for “My faith’s been torn asunder” and I make a tearing motion right beneath him. He then completes the hip-hop motif by crouching down to the camera with all the black attitude a 58 year old white man can summon, which turns out to be a bit. The song ends on a note unresolved and Bruce says “We need a new wind!” and I think the rest of us can feel it.

The Promised Land comes and I know it’s the Promised Land because I can see the shiny little weapon in his right hand before he counts “1, 2” and Max’s drums confidently stride the band into the horizon. I think this is where I grab Kelsey and Grant and Grant gives me a brother’s sweet kiss on the forehead. He needs to play this song at every E Street show, I never want it to leave because while I wasn’t quite so familiar with it less than a year ago, it’s now been ingrained into the very core of my being as a statement of purpose. I almost felt bad because I was very conscious of his harmonica and the kind of mood he was in and, yeah, he ended up tossing it to some lucky soul over on the right side of the pit. I was fixated on that for a little bit, but for the most part I just loved calling out the solos as if they were playing them at my command “Roy!!” “Big Maaaaaan!!!” Obviously that wasn’t the case, but still. The third verse is where it all comes together for me and all the piss and spit and vinegar of a man’s rage and frustration at dreams dead is embodied by Bruce, telling us to BLOW AWAY everything, all the lies. Kelsey’s got Bruce-bumps. For some reason, on the second “Blow away” I find myself singing a different melody, almost like harmony. Grant didn’t know the song in and out but by the end of it he was shouting the chorus with the rest of us, even if he did confuse for the night as “Throw away!” The details don’t matter, the meaning does. This night could be a snapshot of us, four young kids, in our youth sweating and panting for this promise not to be broken. We will spend the rest of our lives blowing away the lies. He tosses his harmonica to a kid in the front row on the right side of the stage.

The impossibly lovely sounding Girls in Their Summer Clothes followed the show’s first climax. When he said “This is for all the Texas girls” I turned around and pointed to Katie and Kelsey, making sure they knew he was talking about them. Stupid, I know, but it was fun seeing the joy in their faces. He came down and took a woman’s hand but made deliberate and prolonged eye contact with Kelsey throughout. I think I might’ve brushed by his hand during this one, which I felt a little guilty for because, after all, it’s for the Texas GIRLS. I like that he combined the “La la la las” with Clarence’s solo for a sweet little duet. I don’t know when it happened but there was a brief exchange with Nils. We saw each other and I clutched my hand over my heart and said “THANK YOU” to him and he just smiled big and waved at me, playing his guitar. Grant marveled at the level of intimacy within the connection Bruce made during this song. “He connected so much, clasping the hand for an eternity of the girl next to me. Going around, singling ladies out and SINGING TO THEM. How does he decide? I feel almost as if its beyond a superficial choice, as if there is some perceptive magic he has gained from the years and years of upturned lady faces; hopeful, joyous, awed faces” It was at this point that, probably for the first time in our lives, both Grant and I wished that we were a girl in our summer clothes.

And now Bruce is playing fast and loose and no one really quite knows what’s going on. He goes over to a young man named Quentin over on the right side of the pit. Quentin’s holding up a sign and we can’t make it out until Bruce turns it around for us. It’s bright and pink and we’re not sure what’s gonna happen. What, a Ramrod audible or Glory Days? That’s perfectly acceptable, of course. Who among us would complain? But no. No no. Whoever this little guy was, his taste leaned more towards the, you know, awesome side of the catalogue. This little pink sign had written upon it “The E Street Shuffle Please” Because of our proximity, our hysteria was launched before the rest of the arena joined in. He makes a comment that this song was written before Quentin’s grandfather was born, gives a shout out to Liberty Hall and talked about how it couldn’t have fit more than a hundred people in there. Everyone laughed and the master of mass connection, the guy making the arena feel like a living room, was in front of us. He asks the band if they remember it. I’m not quite sure that it’s happening to us. Texas? Us? We’re getting THE E Street Shuffle? Surely not because….oh, there he goes. Yeah, it’s happening. We got the E Street Shuffle and we’re dancing around like little angels in the pit. It’s getting a little squishy on the stage, trying to make some ground, which prevented me from turning to my friend as much as I would’ve liked to. He props the sign up against the mic stand and gives it back to him promptly after the song is done.

There’s some on-stage shuffling, and we’re about to witness a transcendent moment in Bruce history. I know it’s not Devil’s Arcade because he doesn’t play acoustic guitar for that one. We see him go get the harmonica contraption and put it on for whatever’s coming next. And we get a feeling for what it might be when he says it’s for a friend who passed away. He then says something about the Cox boys we understand later. I take Katie’s hand and clutch it tightly, we’re about to see a song he’s never played before a concert audience, an E Street, world premiere. And we know what it is. All we need for confirmation is Roy’s fingers falling onto keys. It’s Terry’s Song. This is a moment. The arena was as quiet as I’ve ever heard one. Nils comes from out of the darkness and provides Bruce with worthy backing vocals. His posture before is absolutely perfect, walking slowly to the mic with his hand over his face, quite a difference from the guitar god of a mere seven songs ago. His contribution is reminiscent of the contribution made by all the band members during the Reunion Tour performances of If I Should Fall Behind, delicate power. The song ends and we’ve witnessed so much beauty before us, a man’s song for a friend fallen.

Silence in the arena. Devil’s Arcade kicks off the five pack in its entirety. Bruce kneels down at his mic. Charlie begins the intro, like a drizzling pour of soft rain. It’s almost like rubbing the edges of wine glasses with a damp finger’s edge in a sanctuary, that holy, ringing sound. Bruce kneels down in front of his mic holding his guitar mighty in the air in the most reverential pose we’ve seen him in. A prayerful stance open to interpretation; to Danny, to the fallen and wounded heroes, to the soldier in the song. He stands and in the most controlled passion I’ve ever heard in a voice speaks to the band “1…2…3…4…” as they enter into this sonic landscape set by Charlie. I’ll come clean and let it be known that I’m a Christian, all four of us are (Well, Katie’s Catholic. Good enough), so the perspective is undeniably colored from this way of life. I don’t intend to shove it down anyone’s throat, but it’s the only way to explain entirely what follows. Grant realizes what I’ve known for years, and he witnesses the five pack:

“I’ve been going to Church all my life and this matched the holy sincerity of most religious bands, and beats quite a few of them, a lot, actually. I know that I’m walking a fine line, and warn myself not to slip into Bruce-worship. But this ties into worship so much. In watching any human try, strive, and put forth themselves we can see God in them. And that’s a way to worship. The energy and commitment and honesty for the band had already induced this, but these songs – flowing in and out of each other – were a moment of release and surrender. I didn’t know them but that didn’t matter. If anything it freed me more so I could drink in this new thing, surrender and allow myself to be guided through the music.”

Devil’s Arcade is the best song on the Magic album, the live performance has only convinced me of this more. Here’s one of the millions of pictures I take away from the night; when Bruce took hold of his guitar and wailed out the voice of desire on six strings, there was a moment where I looked up and I saw his body completely take my field of view. The only light I could make out was behind him and he was showered in it, a soft halo enveloping his frame. O Holy Night. He turns around and Max pounds away, a military marching drum heart-beat. Bruce and the band stand in silence looking at Max for a lasting moment. Bruce motions softly, below his waist, a small wave. Max knows to end.

Now the heavens part. The Rising takes us through the valley of the shadow of death, but we fear no evil. Bruce’s voice remains immaculate on this and all songs throughout the night, I’m astounded by him. This is when Bob, the man to my left, came alive and became as physically active as I was and the arbitrary walls like age and time evaporated for a few stolen minutes. We were brothers, completely united in release and in spirit. The “Li li li” refrain begins and Kelsey gets Bruce-bumps all over. For the first time ever, I can hear Soozie’s violin in the mix and it’s a wonder. My ears are still ringing, but I feel like this is the price to pay for what we get, and for what we get, it’s a steal.

Last to Die is when we start getting the whole picture. Bruce is going at it on his guitar like he wants to shatter it into pieces. This one’s all about the intensity. He’s closing in on the message and he wants to make sure every last person gets it. His penchant for unrelenting drama is displayed magnificently. The cute crowd stuff is out for the moment, now he’s taking hold of us and pointing us towards the light…

It’s gonna be a Long Walk Home. This and Devil’s Arcade are gonna be the pantheon tracks from Magic. Ever since seeing it in Omaha and discovering Steven’s voice on this song, this has been an EPIC anthem, EPIC. Bruce crouches down next to Clarence and goes for it during C’s solo. No, Clarence isn’t doing the splits or dancing around anymore, but after his solo when Bruce sings “Everybody has a neighbor” and Clarence stands there pumping his fist, mouthing “Yeah!” to Bruce, there’s not a truer gesture of support and love and friendship between two men. When Steven’s about to take over, I turn to my friends and yell “Watch this!” but I’m and idiot and it’s not time yet. Bruce just stands there in absolute reflection of this music’s glory and message and calls upon us to sing it “Hey pretty darling don’t wait up for me. Gonna be a long walk home.” You can’t interpret this mic to the audience move as anything but a servant’s act. More clearly now than ever before, we know that we’re here to serve the band and the band is here to serve us and we become subject to one another just long enough to serve a higher spirit at work here. Nothing gold can stay, but for 26 songs this moment remains as golden as anything on this earth. He urges us to keep going as Steve steps to the mic and brings it to the ceiling of heaven. Steve’s voice trumpets it. He makes a hard and heavy climb up from the shadow of darkness and into redemption’s light. He takes the song and crying for mercy he gives it a soul. We press on. The duet of all these voices crying out for the same hope and redemption on this Houston night brings us to the light. We hear the resistance and the hard journey to get to that place and we get there and right when we do…

BADLANDS. Has there been a more perfect back-to-back set-list stapling? Thirty years come together before our eyes so effortlessly. They’ve gotta be hitting the high 900s playing this and yet the band turns on fire. Steven and Bruce take the mic in one of the most wonderful tableaus in rock and roll “For the ones who had a notion, a notion deep inside. That it aint so sin to be glad you’re alive” Kelsey’s crying and we’re all on fire. Katie says she’s never seen a man more enraptured in faith before then Bruce on this song. “He sang Terry’s song for Terry. He sang Badlands for Bruce” He believes in the faith that can save him, he’s not performing. There’s nothing hazy about it, he’s here for it. I swear he’s gonna kill his guitar.

Something is happening. He slams down the song and Max goes into one of the most intense drum fills I’ve ever seen and heard and Max is LIVING through this song. Bruce goes to the drum kit stand and takes a mouthful of water. Bruce spits in the face of these Badlands and showers himself in his own water as the song starts again. Then it has to end. Bruce takes a guitar pick and throws it down the stage entrance, a cue to Kevin Buell for something. What’s happening? The song slams down and the lights go out. They’re not taking any bows. I see a shiny weapon in his hand again, Katie and I trade glances trying to guess what’s next. The time I put it together is the time the first note eludes his lips. Katie and Kelsey stand behind me and say a perfectly simultaneous “OH. MY. GOD.” to the delighted laughter of those behind them. I turn around and hug my three friends with all the love my arms could give with the frenzied grip of someone who will never want to forget this night. I saw Thunder Road in Omaha, but marred by the substance induced shenanigans of Conor Oberst. This one was for real, this was it. When he sings the song, it’s not requisite or from the depths of twang-hell or a crowd-pleaser; he wants to sing it and he wants to sing it for us. I had hoped for so long to be able to hear it at least once, but I never imagined this moment in time would be mine for the taking.

The song is over, the set is a close. The band gathers and Kelsey assists me in getting my signs out and they are soon noticed. I wave them up, trying not to block anyone’s view, criss-crossing back and forth with them. Soozie sees it and is ADORABLE, laughing huge and making a big surprised expression when she sees it. I clutch my hand over my chest once more and gesture towards her, she blushes and laughs. Bruce has his arm around Nils and Charlie nudges them both to check it out, he’s laughing like crazy. My friends tell me this about Bruce and the guys, I don’t see, ‘cause I’m so intent on engaging with Soozie and Roy. Roy is laughing big and the dialogue started in Omaha continues. Garry’s laughing, Max sees it and starts laughing. There’s too much happening on this stage, I need this moment to stay forever. It can’t, and the band exits.

After seeing the heavy attention my signs got, Katie says to me “Why didn’t you make a sign that said ‘ROSIE COME OUT’?” I don’t think she was too worried about it a little bit later. Bob told us before the show that he thought Joe Ely would come and he apparently got it confirmed by a friend. We see them set up the guest spot mic and our suspicions are being confirmed. Or are they? Alejandro who? I won’t lie when I say that I was a little disappointed that the band started the encore with a song none of us knew. That disappointment soon faded away into happy. Apparently you couldn’t see it from other parts of the arena, but the way Bruce was moving around on this one was downright stupid CUTE. He was snapping his fingers back and forth and shaking his hips with all the abandon of a blissfully ignorant middle-school talent show contestant, and I mean this in the best possible sense. There was a true sense of release evident in his joy. You can’t see it on the videos because it’s way too close or hear it on the boot but this was too much fun. Think of the Dancing in the Dark video, now think if that was for real. He crooned these words to us so sweet, “Always a friend to you!” and you could tell he wasn’t doing anything but loving this.

Bruce says “Well I think we have another Texas friend. I love Texas songwriters!” and sure enough, Bob called it. He was even singing along to All Just To Get To You, confirming that in body maybe the man isn’t so young anymore but in spirit he’s right with us. I was a little embarrassed not being as familiar with it as I should’ve been. Bruce and Joe were going head to head in the best possible way. It’s almost a good thing that we were all unfamiliar with these songs. We enjoyed them immensely, but we were allowed a brief break to cool the jets on our night of Texas madness.

Joe leaves the stage and I hear him call it out: “ROSIE!” He’s calling it to the band. I turn around and look at Katie, assuming she heard what I heard. She didn’t, but she smiles at me. He says “Are you ready to dance?” We say “Yes!” and I don’t turn around for a second. I keep my eyes on Katie and he plays it on his guitar, F to B flat to F to C. Katie’s face goes from 0 to 400 in 1 second flat and I pull her up to where I am and we hug and dance with one in frenzy. This is one of my favorite images from the entire night and it is the realization of a promise never broken. Kelsey says this is the best sound her ears have ever heard. He does the samba back to the mic just in time to sing “Jack the Rabbit!” He swings around his stand and asks us what we’re gonna do “Play some pool! Skip some school!” It occurs to me now that, for this show, Katie and I did skip some school on Monday. This coincidence was, of course, the furthest thing from my mind. Have you ever tried to do hand motions for “Windows are for cheaters, chimney’s for the poor” while dancing in front of the best band in the world? Not as easy as it looks, and it looks pretty stupid anyway. Katie has the grace to push Kelsey up to the front midway through the song to let her have her own piece of the cross. There was a section of the song where we all hugged each other but kept dancing and looking up at the stage and this is where, once more, Bruce acknowledged the fervor by pointing and laughing to us. Katie swears she hears him yell “Come on, kids!” multiple times on the boot and that he’s referring to us and I’ll choose to believe that lofty theory. If you would’ve told me 6 months ago that I’d be on the lip of the stage in Houston with three of my best friends hearing this band play Rosalita I would’ve taken you for stupid. “Rosie in Texas?! Naww!” I would’ve said. I’m clearly not smart and thank God for that. The band goes stage left ‘cause Bruce shows love for all sections of the place and that classic stance is assumed; the band a mini-army line of rock and roll shooting notes and chords at a captive audience. Clarence breaks it down and Max goes crazy with his fills again. They come back and our guy yells defiantly “Now I know your mama she don’t like me, ’cause I play in a rock and roll band!” and grinds his guitar against mic stand so hard I can FEEL (and later heard about) the girls’ knees going bum at the sight of a beautiful man and his beautiful guitar. Clarence comes over and sings a line and Kelsey remembers how so wonderfully big his eyes got when he told us “Someday we’ll look back on this and it will all seem funny” When Bruce sings “Little café, they play guitars all night and day” he puts his arms to his side in a little hula dancer gesture. He WANTS to play this song. Then it comes, the big build up. It just won’t stop, it just keeps gettin’ bigger and bigger and bigger. Bruce is a man possessed and begins barking like a wild dog or Curly the Stooge. It doesn’t matter, it’s just too much, it’s too hot, it’s…it’s…WOOO!!! The bridge climaxes and we’re drenched in the spirit. Where else is there to go?

And then the big one, Born to Run. There’s still not a more holy feeling in the rock and roll universe than all those lights going on and joining in communion with 20,000 brothers and sisters around you, crying out the same mission, the same purpose, the same love. And that’s what you get when you walk into this arena. No matter what level the fervor, you can look to each and every soul around you and know that you understand the same thing. You understand IT. Born to Run remains the altar call when we all lift our hearts to the throne not to, but with the man and his band TO the music. I know the vets will roll eyes when it hits in the set but this is just my fifth time and I can still hear it the way a virgin feels a tender kiss. I’m baptized by it. We got to take part in the absolute personification of this idea as during the break-down portion of the bridge Bruce locks onto me and plants directly in front of US once again. There is an inevitable push, not rough but a gentle sway of unbridled energy towards the man and his guitar. I strummed it tentatively, almost not knowing if it would break if I touched it. I eventually grabbed hold and clutched the neck of it for about a second. It was during this mass string-strumming that I see Bruce take his pick and slip it into John’s hand next to me with a knowing smile. During the “Whoa-oh!” portions I bring back my Lonesome Day maneuver and project myself higher using the stage platform. It’s notable that throughout the encores Soozie would look over to me with a certain frequency. One these times happened to be during the second verse as I sang “Wendy let me in I wanna be your friend. I wanna guard your dreams in visions” directly to her and she gazed so intently and lovingly towards me with all the love and generosity an artist can have with an audience. I realized what the implications of me singing “Just wrap your legs ‘round these velvet rims…” to her would be so I quickly switched focus to Bruce for the sake of decency.

So what’s gonna be next? Surely not Glory Days. Ramrod for its “yee-haw!” factor? No, Houston just has to be a little bit more special than those standards. The drum beat falls with the keys, that familiar rhythm so dangerously flirting with disco but coming out on the winning end of that battle. Bruce starts making his food bank speech and I assume that this is the closer. On the edge of exhaustion, my body rejoices while everything else protests. And he’s coming down and working the crowd like putty. “Give me some more. No no, some more!” pacing the platform like a general Patton commanding his army. He returns to his station and then come the best two numbers in the world “One twooo!!!” The man slams his body down on his knees and continues to defy everything we were taught about the relationship between age and rock and roll. He’s bent back, and I don’t mean he’s hanging around the microphone stand funny, I mean HE’S BENT BACK. He’s got one hand around his stand, one lying down and two knees pointing up to us, using his entire body as a middle finger to anybody who counted us out or down or not good enough and it is a wicked laugh to those that would say that rock and roll isn’t a man’s game. He’s down so long I almost fear something’s gone wrong, but he pops right up and launches into his myth of Scooter and the Big Man. He’s breathing hard but this isn’t a problem. Big Man hits his solo, we raise our hands, and the interracial high-five signifies friendship to the sea of white faces. The song ends and it’s still coming down while Bruce stands center stage and soaks up the night. He conducts his arms to the multi-chord gospel coda and Max rides right into American Land. He yells “We love you Texas!” and I got reason to believe it. Garry’s feeling peppy enough to take backing vocals for this one at Soozie’s regular mic. Grant pointed at Bruce and was rewarded with “a decisive twinkle, chuckle, smile, and nod”

The one moment of the night that will never leave my soul is this; the first key change in American Land Bruce makes his way over to Soozie. He’s crouching down like a hunter, ripping through his guitar and wielding the thing like an unholy shotgun, and he’s right directly in front of me. I see him, he sees me. I point to him, he sees me. I give him the gesture “come on” with my hands and mouth the words to him. He sees me. He locks in on the target. When the key changes back, he leaps into us and is playing directly above me. I feel the sweat and the weight of his body hit and I know that he’s playing for me. I could see his face looking at me through the tiny space between the guitar strings and body and I could see a legend who turned out to be the real thing. And in this moment, these few fleeting seconds of a song, a jump from the stage to me, I saw the meaning and definition and the history of everything that is rock and roll and Bruce Springsteen. Thanks, God.

The song continues and he’s sure to jump to another point for the second key change after the band intros, the last during which all members of the band were with us on this earth, and the show’s over. The band lines up and I pull out my signs again for Roy and Soozie, but I apparently I caught someone else’s attention too. Kelsey says when Max descended to the crowd he had a look on his face that was as exhausted as it was emotional, open to interpretation. No matter, he came down right in front of me with a smile on his face with his drumsticks in his hands. Through a cluster of hands he zig-zagged and swirled around until he found the two that belonged to me. He took them, and placed his instruments into my hands. I was humbled by the look on his face and this gesture of gratitude. I felt a tug on them and I saw a hand on them that didn’t belong to any of my guys. Some drunk lady was trying to get my sticks away. I pulled them from her hands quickly enough and held them close to my body. I made sure I was okay, I asked Max twice if they were for me and he nodded “Yes, yes” smiling at me. I hope I said thank you, and I know I should’ve said happy birthday. Katie warded off drunk lady as Soozie Tyrell locked eyes with me once more and threw me two of her guitar picks. There was too much happening in this moment, I needed more time than I was given, but I made out alright. I tried to make connection with everyone in the band as they left but there just wasn’t enough time. Our life is but a second on this earth as it is, and if one night is less than that than imagine how much desire I had for these guys to stay on this stage and play their music until we couldn’t stand any longer. Of course, I was close enough as it was, so maybe they left just in time.

We made our way to the back of the pit. Katie said I turned around and had a face white as a sheep and was shaking something terrible. My mom came down from her seated section and took pictures of us, all of which feature me with an identical, frozen expression upon my face. On our way out I remember trying to dodge drunk lady for any further confrontation and putting a dollar in the Houston food bank box. We took pictures outside, as if a couple of images could sufficiently express what our night was.

We entered the car, all of us, with something changed within us. I popped the trunk to get the ice-chest full of bottles of water that had been cooling for the past five hours. I gave Kelsey the ice chest and in the front seat she passed them out to everyone. We drank as we sat in silence, sweaty, disheveled, and beaten like mules. I lay my head against the steering wheel, still panting, on the edge of weeping, shook by the glory of a stolen April night's fleeting splendor. We remained in the car, wordless. Grant looked out the window and began to tear up. The traffic began filing out and I turned the key and started our way back home, making a sound that lay somewhere in the spectrum between laughing and crying. I gave my drumsticks to Kelsey and she held them like a four star general with nuclear codes; protective, cautious, and with honor. Katie said she felt like she just had sex with 20,000 people. She says she doesn’t know what she did in her life to deserve what we experienced that night. The three of us tried meekly to discuss the night in terms of a set-list, but even this is inadequate. Grant sat in solemn silence throughout, he couldn’t really say anything. And as he would put it later, in this car on highway 59, the four of us were shining.

We came home to my mother’s house and ate the food she prepared for us at midnight, egg burritos and waffles. We were trying to remember it all, all of it, an impossible feat even now. At around 1:00, we parted ways in our driveway, our hearts busted open and bleeding all over one another.

I can tell you with full confidence and in conviction and truth that this was our show. This was our show. This may have been your show too, but this was Grant’s show, it was Kelsey’s show, it was Katie’s show, and it was my show. It wasn’t great for a buncha guys in their 50s or for where he is in his career or for what it was or for the view. Keep your qualifiers and, quite frankly, shove ‘em, because this was a holy night for rock and roll. Even now we can’t fathom the significance of our night, as we took witness to the last show with each and every member of the mighty, mighty E Street Band with us on this earth. The show marks the end of a chapter, but for three young tramps it’s the first verse of a new book. I just had the pleasure of shining the light towards it.

A hundred million words would be inadequate to capture a piece of blessed life, so these ten thousand will have to suffice. My first show was in October. I was 17 years old and jumping up and down with Dave, Matt, and Howard in Philadelphia was a night I won’t forget. Six months and four shows later, I’m 18 years old and I’ve reached what I believe is the spiritual climax of my journey this tour. What more is there to ask for? What more is there to want? I’m left with nothing but thirst for more life, more love. I’m embarrassed in my excess of blessings. God blessed gave me a beautiful family and a tremendous set of friends. And then God created Bruce, and I got to listen to his music and go to his shows and share this love with these people in my life. I have nothing but gratitude for my experiences. I thank my mother, I thank Lisa for her kindness and encouragement. I thank my dear Grant, my lovely Kelsey, and my incomparable Katie. I thank a crowd that helped us push this band to their outermost limits. Even in her absence, I thank Patti for filling the man’s life with a love so fine to give him the strength to do exactly what he does. And I thank Roy, Max, Charlie, Nils, Soozie, Garry, Steven, Clarence, and Danny. And I thank Bruce for all of it. This man and his friends have informed my life with their noise. It’s a beautiful noise, bursting at the seams with passion and thought, sadness and joy, and a call for more life. We carry this fire in our hearts until the end. My name is Kevin. I’m 18 years old. Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band are alive, and the promise is unbroken.

"Not really, but my love for her knows no bounds"

In this moment, I love Charlie, and it knows no bounds. I love him in most other moments, but this is one that demonstrates what the man is, what the man does. In the face of such adversity as the unresponsive woman in question and, you know, French royalty, Charlie is happy. He's happy, suggesting glee and a certain amount of giddiness at the thought of the fight, love's war. His fire burns, his smile bright, and he joins the other guys out in the street, his coat off, throwing snowballs at a broken woman's window, his love for her knows no bounds. There's some joy that I wouldn't mind getting a piece of sometime. Sam said something six years ago, he said it's not the girl she is but the girl you might shape her to be. Well, I don't know if his orientation makes his particular brand of advice more or less credible. Shucks, who's to say, right? Who really knows anything about anything. Sweet fancy Moses, it's now, yes, it's September. I don't even remember what I did on September the 1st 2007. I feel like it wasn't as good as what I'm doing now.

"Game face"

The pedal got away from me on multiple occasions. I'd find myself search for it on the ground and not finding it within reach. That's one of the funnier things, the funnier little things of the day. I don't want to go back to Kingwood, but I have actual reasons to. It's nice to live a life full of reasons and needs and appointments. It's in between we find our joy and when that joy is found within these things, then that too is something worthy of tremendous celebration.

"It's incredibly complicated"

Who gets there first? Woman or man? Girl becomes woman and boy becomes man but in which order? What's most common, what's usual? It's, of course, it's not the same for each and every soul but I'm just wondering, generally, from a bird's eye view, who gets there first more often than not?

Dear Diary, I was offered the opportunity to serve God and serve others doing something I love, actually love, and I try to conceive of the level of blessing showered down upon my small and unworthy, dinky little head. And I think to myself what a wonderful world....or God. Godworld...money.

I want to write like him:

"I was... thinking of this thing from...this thing that just happened...with the DEFICIT!"

Year 2 - Day 4: Spaghetti at Ashlee's along with my very first bus ride (I think they wrote a children's book about it) to campus. That separation between campus and home feels really quite nice. There is a strong divide, like that thing you hear about, that you're not supposed to do anything in your bedroom but sleep because it makes it more difficult to sleep when you try? It's like that. Oh bus stop, bus brakes, how sweet thy sound. It's the sound of not having to use your car, not having to WORRY about it even just for a portion of the day. These sidewalks feel good to walk on now. These classroom aromas just smell a little bit better. Why? I don't live here anymore. I live somewhere else. Heh heh, so much joy to be found in the pleasures of off-campus housing. So far so good. Not so much for me with the negativity now.

"There's the door"

Day 3 in the apartment of magic and wonder: I can't seem to escape this mystic cloud, this aura around that shouts to people "I want to move furniture! Let me move your furniture!" And as such the things I joked about this summer aren't quite as funny when the release punchline never quite gets here if you know what I'm talking about. This is a place, I have a place now. My car is not a football field away and I don't know who's gonna walk through my door in the next eight months. Who's it gonna be and what are they gonna do in my life, what are they gonna play? Why don't I make more things? I guess I have to chalk it up to laziness. There's an inherent thrill that takes me over when I see the results, the work of something out of nothing. There needs to be more. There's not enough, not nearly enough. I can do better. It can get bigger than this. I'll tell you what, ideas infect my mind with a certain yeasty quality. It only takes a little yeast to make the whole dough rise to epic proportions, so goes with the inkling of a thought in my imagination. All it takes a little bit of this, a little bit of that, and I'm just out to sea, I'm off the earth. For example (and this is the most current example of many, many examples) you know how easy it would be to serenade my last thing? I could just take the first letter off many a song character and I'd have it, not to mention that heart-wrenching ode to cunnilingus (of course I'd change the lyric for her). Yeah, this year will be SOMETHING

"Madras research project"

I never had a soft infested summer. I never had one of those. I dreamed of one, I imagined hundreds, and I could, if you would allow, paint a Vistavision frame for you of what I would've done, in gorgeous Technicolor I'd let you know the dream. But it wasn't in the cards. And from what I understand about the world, the part of life where such a summer could take place is gone now. It's lost. I'm trying to remember where time went, where I thought good places to put my time would be, and good portion of the ones I do remember don't seem like very good places to put time at all now. The rest, I don't know where they went. I don't know where the time went. So, you know, that was a mistake, one of those grave sins of idleness. I'm with Mr. Finn. We can all be something bigger. We can all be something bigger. There is no sin in smallness. The sin is in the people who remain small when they don't have to. That's wickedness. And the scene now is the scene near the end of Schindler's List where Schindler, outside the getaway car, breaks down in front of all the men and women he saved from the concentration camps saying over. He starts to take inventory of all his earthly possessions and looks at them in terms of Jews he could've saved with the money it took to buy them. I have no idea, no idea what my equivalent is in the drawn out analogy, and that's exactly the problem. It strikes me now how much that scene is truly Aaron Sorkin.

"Respectfully, no"

Smitten is the exact right word. That's all. I always spend the summer looking. There is a park at the very back of Kingwood Dr., East End Park. I had never seen nor heard of this park and it was like a revelation, like tasting strawberries for the first time. There was this thing, this grand, secret landscape a few blocks away from where I live and I had not the foggiest, not the foggiest clue. This could've been a garden for all summer long, this could've been a tender spot. It's places like these that make the difference. Things got a little mixed up this summer. I forgot a lot of things. For example, I forgot that it's okay to find more than three people wonderful at the same time. That's allowed and sometimes encouraged. It's good to create, it's good to take charge. Next time, if there is, I'm gonna try and reach for the whole thing and not just the crumbs. I don't want to accept less. I am finding less to be unacceptable, most likely because it is. It certainly is when standing right there, right next to more. I still want more. And we were in the field, and my guys were doing that thing sparked up in a long car ride months and months ago with an old friend, and now it was living before my lens. There were a few seconds there when I was gliding around, racing the rain, desperate to catch the boundless joy that can't live in a frame, when everyone was perfect. Everyone was beautiful. It's hard to say where the best parts of these days live after they're gone. In the middle of a field somewhere, there was a shining gift for the taking. I took it and I like to think everyone else did too.

"Those stories would make me like you"

It occurs to me now that I never regarded "Long Walk Home" as a actual song. I always just thought of in the most natural way in the world; it's what happens in the story. It takes me to the edge of the scene and compels me to ask one the best questions in the world: what's next? Too often I feel like I don't know what my life is but I know what it is. I can view the timeline of a life in terms of negative space. Well that's not so cute, that's not so funny. There's hundreds of people out there and there's a few more words than that. There's crazy opportunity around seven different corners that I haven't even turned. Imagine my shock when I actually DO. My friend jet-set his handsome self from Texas to Florida to watch a guy play a show. My work here is NOT done, not even close, but this is as great a start as any. Tonight I'm the father at the little league game and my champ just hit a double. I like wanting new things. I like wanting different things. I'm the last person you need to inform that we cannot, we may not, we should not afford all the things we wish and I will be the first to nod my head in agreement. At this point (certainly at THIS point), it doesn't make a difference to me. I'm near bewitched with the feeling, call it falling in love with falling in love. It is not the result, but the process by which those results are attempted. Chasing the chase, you may say. I feel, I don't know, perversely noble. I shouldn't and I'm not, but I'm gonna feel like that going to bed tonight because I got beat by, you know, God's odds and I am not bitter. I am discouraged and I am deterred, but I carry with me no shred of resentment. I look forward to dating my page August 18, 2008. At night I lay and stare at the ceiling, stare at the sheets, dreaming of something epic. And there is fire in the dream, and in the dream deferred the fire grows stronger, burns brighter from a God who would allow. And the fire carries me to the next day and the day after that, and the day after that, and the day after that.. My heart is full of faith and friends and family and....well, maybe you. We'll see what happens next.

Where It Happens

When I walk into an arena, and most recently a stadium, I am entering a ring match. In this corner, the body. In this corner, the spirit. Lights out, crowd up, game on. In this life, in this world there are too many days where we know the eventual outcome to the thing. Daily, flesh takes throne and is head of the winner's circle where our demons and better angels are concerned. So often this is the case, so often is the sad match when Spirit was never even in it, a stunning display of apathy. It's just what happens. The fights are never hard nor the battles epic, it's just the course of events in a day. Let's check the scoreboard and...yes, Flesh 28, Spirit 2. There is a sweet thing buried in my heart. It is the promise that there's a place I can go and see these two lifelong adversaries show each other what they're made of. There's a place to go where the two can show each other what they're made of, limping off the floor or walking strong. There's a place to go to see a proverbial hell of a fight and to see the good guy take it. I walk in, three hours later, I walk out. I know the fight, I know the score. Spirit wins.

The Language

There is a deep and blue mystery to the music of Thomas Newman. His melodies are something unsolved. I actually dreamed something from the song "Here I Am", a number from "Dirty Rotten Scoundrels", a musical not many people have heard or heard of at all. All non Joanna Gleason fanboys back off. She's mine. When one meets a person, there are expectations and the meeting, failing, and transcending of those expectations. There is a improvised dance and within the hasty steps the two dancers must act quickly and cling to the nearest thing, holding on for their lives so as not to disrupt the requisite melody. They must find and seize the commonalities and comfort zones or they shall be forced to fumble in darkness until they do so. This is the meeting. And after this meeting or several meetings akin to it have taken place, a language is formed. The vocabulary might be limited or expansive, the grammar confounding or absolute sense-making, but once established this is the tongue that the two must speak in upon each encounter. Some folks never see reason to broaden the scope of their language, keeping the familiar rhythm clicking for years and years without concern. Others can't wait to have enough knowledge of the new tongue to write a book about the other, or about the other and himself, or on himself as the other sees him. And then, of course, the dreaded and age-old conflict arises; the dueling wills. One contents oneself with being the underachieving student in this class of language. The other develops a restless heart for more. More words, more knowledge, more discovery. And so it is, and so it has been, and evermore shall be. My thing is that I want to speak it all. I want to know it and speak it and be able to zig zag through the life with an unparalleled fluency. I want to be able to dazzle my opposite with masterful command of what the language means and is and should be and can be and I want to do that with two languages in the same breath. I want that. I may not do those things, but I'd like to be able to get to the place where I am, at the least, able to.

"The Francis Scott Key key"

All the best stuff, the best books, the best portraits and movies, the best episodes of the best television shows, the best articles in the best magazines, they all aspire to the unequivocal wonder that is the sound of music. And so goes conversation, so goes relationship, so go the people, so goes life. Here's where the train goes off the tracks for me: signals. I am signal blind, signal deaf, signal dumb, and I am most certainly signal SMELL-BLIND. I see them where none exist and I don't when they're basically humping my leg. Yes, the reason I would never be a good baseball, all physical acumen aside, is the fact that when the third base coach would do that thing with his hands I wouldn't know if I was supposed to steal 2nd or tackle the pitcher. Yes, it's that bad. This is me, I'm sure we've met. What I want/wish/can't wait for; the thing. The thing I used to see weekly a few sanctuaries ago. The thing I saw dancing down the street in Westfield, in glory of wrinkled joy. The thing, the one that's gonna be burning coals underneath my feet, a wolf snapping at my heels. My knack for teetering right on the edge of great things has equally remarkable and disgusting consistency. I'll jump now, and I'll tell you why, Gidget. Beneath the precipice, life is waiting. This includes heart-wrenching failures, thousands of disappointments, and enough pies in the face to make a grown clown cry. I keep thinking about it, and I think it's time to pony up. Life is waiting.

Threading the needle

People get ready.....there's a train coming....you don't need no ticket....just thank the Lord. Something went terribly right and here I am, thinking that it's other people, not me, who should be experiencing such tremendous joy, such richness of life, such wonder of the minute and lovely. It should be other people who should be so easily conned into accepting life as it is, and having the privilege to know a week in which Bruce and Stephen Colbert are a breath away. There is a consistent feeling in each step, in each press of a button, that I'm not exploiting the fullness of life to the extent it deserves to be. I'm gonna build a house too. In my house the walls will be full of color and joyful noise. There will be doors and windows as a striking invitation to light and the world's beauty. Let it invade the home and let it shine so silently in the afternoon. Let it cast shadows on the scuffs and scrapes of the floor sustained while engaging in music, in each other, in our own feet. The bedroom's a palace and the kitchen's a garden. Let it be these things. In this house, let no darkness in save for the seed of betrayal forever ingrained in the crooked timbre of humanity and even then let those things be torn apart by the merciless fury of a love shared. We'll see.

"Special Agent Sunshine"

At night I lie awake in bed staring aimlessly at ceilings, at walls, at sheets, dreaming of an epic romance, a beautiful love that engulfs me in its scope and drive and fire. I dream of falling into such a story. I think things these because...well, I don't know, the movie pictures? Those guys and gals just look so swell high kickin' in gay Paris. No it's not the movie pictures, but you can't be too sure of anything now. And the most fervent believer can never pray for things they can't see without feeling the slightest tinge of doubt in their words. Which makes it all the more ridiculous when, hey, the falling and the story isn't an entitlement. It's not earned, it's not paid for. Which begs the question what exactly the cost would be. How much and how do I pay? Eh, reality is reality. Meanwhile, I'm gonna concern myself with the love stories here and now. I don't believe this is slumming it, quite the opposite. In the past two nights I have seen the full force of love on one of the grandest scales of human achievement. I am virtually mobbed by blessing and good will by those around me. Tomorrow is not a promise, it's a wish. I'll hold onto that for the time being. He flipped into a somersault, right in the middle of the solo. This is love's work.

"Well you can't have that"

What is it about post 3:00 AM? Why is that when all the good work gets done? I swear to you, David Letterman can add the word "the" to literally ANYTHING. Evidently, The Hold Steady's latest album is entitled "The Stay Positive" I don't know if Dave was deprived of the word "the" when he was a young child, if his mother insisted that he say a or an at all times and it's only now in his edge-teetering senility that he's getting all his pent-up "the" frustration, like when an over-disciplined schoolgirl goes to college and the wheels fall off the wagon (as does the girl in most cases) I don't know what his muffin is on this, but in the sentence "The kids, they love the Oprah" there's about two to three words in there that don't need to be. What's frustrating about Allison Janney is that she got mega-hott right when Aaron Benjamin left the palace. So now I equate hott C.J. with non-Sorkin C.J., two diametrically opposed qualities, to be sure. I saw this and the caption read: GROW UP, NETFLIX

"I was in the room"

Welcome to ten minutes ago. How's the weather back then? I want someone to talk to about the supreme irony of Aaron Sorkin's two verses and a chorus on the fortune-cookie candidacy. That'll get me from morning to night. Sometimes the fun is getting night to morning. That's where the real things happen sometimes. Verba movent, Exempla trahunt There was a girl named Shannon, and we were friends for a brief time and when she told me about Kristin Chenoweth joining the West Wing in Season 6, I thought to myself "Some Asian chick is joining the West Wing?" Little did I know...

"No, but that's funny, J"

I need to be good at things. I don't desire to master all there is to master nor do I desire flaunt such mastery should it occur incidentally. But I just need to have a basic, core level of skill at things which would require it. I don't need to pen a heartbreaking trilogy of novels but I need to make her smile at something I wrote down. I don't need to be able to benchpress an SUV but I need to look presentable in summer clothes. I don't need to be able to Mad Max my way across the country but I want to find a highway in a single try. Something's gone wrong. And in this moment I am filled with the only sense of disappointment I am entitled to, the disappoint of self. I had a very detailed dream about Mary-Louise Parker last night.

"I'm Toby Ziegler. I work at the White House"

I just watched one of the saddest, most tragic things I've ever seen in my life. I just watched 7A WF 83429, the 5th Season premiere of The West Wing. The abysmal gap between greatness and hackery of the highest order was just one episode. The 4th Season ends on Commencement and 25 and opens on 7A WF 82429. All these years I've known and loved these episodes, the Sorkin episodes, 86 episodes of near unmitigated triumph of drama and comedy and humanity, art at its highest caliber. And then it committed an irrevocable sin. In the course of an episode, it transformed itself from all those things I just said into a television show. All I could see on the screen was waste. These actors, that set, those stakes, this beautifully rendered stew that was missing the one ingredient that elevated it from service to sublime. One time, a group of uncommonly talented people came together. There was a meeting of the minds and for four years these people were led to unprecedented levels of achievement by two men blessed with inspiration. One day, the men left, and the people were lost. The tragedy isn't in lack of quality but rather the chilling absence of the extraordinary.

"Fiddler"

"I don't take it personally" would be an excellent mantra to adopt. Also, I think the internet is wonderful in ways. I think it's the ultimate leveling of the playing field and I think it is, from time to time, an instrument of absolute democracy. Just look at it, it is the triumph of the information. And it is a just system. You can find most anything on the spectrum of human capacity on the internet, including the golden nuggets one would spend a lifetime in a library looking for and 10 times as many pieces written by people who pride themselves writers and read by people who are then forced to expand our definition of a writer to one who can spell, and sometimes not even that. Haha, I'm rotten selfish about the craziest things. That's changed, still changing, but it's gotta just go away. How do you flee from the crooked timber of humanity? How does one not embrace Look, I'm not saying our league is an all-star lineup by any means or measures whatsoever, but you if you wanna play you gotta play in our league. We measure that, we measure the capacity to do THAT. And sometimes we don't and sure, come out with us and sit there, just sit there and be there and say nothing that would suggest a mind worth loving. Give us your heart, we'll take your heart, but check whatever's in your head at the door and we're all better off.

"They don't want us to put up our map, Charlie"

People don't know you. They don't and if you go to bed comforted by the fact that there are people that really "get you" that aren't related to you or the Creator of the Universe, then I'd suggest reversing your position as soon as possible. I don't mean to be negative and I'm not trying to be pessimistic about the nature of human relationships, but people don't know you. People know as much as they know about you, but they don't know you. They can understand fractions. Some understand larger fractions than others. Some are getting 1/3 and others settle at 2/9 or 1/10. It's never gonna be a whole number, it's never gonna be more than you know yourself or the whole number that only God could know. The mysteries of our souls and our identities remain in that fraction, the ones that spouses of the closest kind long a lifetime to know and never can. The piece that no one can get to and never will. But we keep our company and we content ourselves with people amongst us. Sometimes having many people understand many different fractions helps. We can take those fractions and add up to something resembling an entire human experience among a group. This person understands the part of me that thinks about spirituality and this person understands how the world works the way I do. This person understands my cynicism with this and that person over there can relate to my undying idealism for that. We can add fractions together, we can spread a bunch of small portions or concentrate on making larger pieces of pie, and we understand that it'll never be the whole, but we can try and add as high as possible. Now wouldn't be a bad time to start praying for a Medea to my Jackass.

"Maybe maybe maybe"

Where are they? If this is less then where are the ones worth focusing on? Where are the hearts and minds worth loving? It's a trick question of course because of course they're all worth loving. My brother's got a mind that any good woman could love and a heart that everyone SHOULD love. My sister's heart, strength, and perserverance are an example. My father's got a compassion two sizes to large to know how to communicate. And my mother's got all of the above. Your family's your family but wouldn't it be wonderful to create a family of friends that functioned similarly? I'm given ceaseless loyalty and kindness from mine. And Jordan, Cory, Grant, Kelsey, and Katie now understand the thing about me that I thought was gonna make an individual. But it's not rock stars and TV shows that make us people. It is Bruce, it is Sorkin that can inform a life but may NOT have the jurisdiction to dictate what it is, what a person is. God is the higher power here. It is God that sets a spirit free. It is not homogenized, it is not a boring thing, it is not a straight laced Sunday school teacher. The spirit is free through God and is the most beautiful. We are an ugly people and we find our beauty not through music but through a God that would allow it.

Our boy

Thunder Road, Backstreets, Meeting Across the River, Jungeland, Because the Night, New York City Serenade, The Ties That Bind, The Promised Land, Don't Look Back, Loose Ends, Be True, Rosalita, Kitty's Back, I'll Work For Your Love, and now Sandy. One of the pillars of the sonic foundation of E Street has crumbled under the weight of the world. The other has stood steady and strong. 59 years ago today. THANK U ROY!

"Mortal lock"

I was having a misguided conversation with a friend the other day. They weren't misguided, I was. I said, in effect, that I despise seeing the seams. I don't wanna see the quirky girl with the big headphones try to be Natalie Portman in Garden State. I don't like it when guys ceaselessly quote cartoons and pass it off as wit. I said we're looking at the wrong things. And then I bemoaned anyone who would model themselves off of anybody. That's where the misguided comes in. That's such an idiotic thought. Of course we're gonna model ourselves out of people we want to be. There are people worth modeling ourselves after, we just have to find them and trust their goodness. Christ, for example. If I see you and I can see the seams of your efforts to model yourself after Jesus Christ, I'm not gonna mind. John Spencer's voice is crisp. That's the word I was looking for. It's not gravelly or hazy, it's crisp like autumn leaves. I sincerely wish for him to tell me a story sometime.

"Can I have this muffin?"

My mom was a George Carlin fan. I didn't know anybody's mom was a George Carlin fan. Irregardless of the 10-page behemoth that lay before me, I'm at a very good place in my life right now. Just days ago I found out that my apartment number is #135. Building 1, floor 3. I won't have anyone above me, but those two days moving in and moving out will most assuredly be a pain in the hindquarters. Now this is just one of those things where I pretend that people care to read "Dear diary, today I woke up and had a bagel. It was good. I like bagels. Then I went to school. I was bored during class and my mind drifted" Out of the thirty some books on my bookshelf, I've completely read less than five of them. This is nothing but shameful on my part. I kinda want to read "The Audacity of Hope" to gear up for what the next eight years is gonna look like. The Presidential campaign of Barack Obama is the most brilliantly run campaign in the last 25 years of American politics. He'll win, but I would rather he not. Not because he's a secret Muslim negro or because he didn't put his hand over his heart one time or because his wife hates white people or because he doesn't wear a flag lapel pin or because he didn't serve in the military. I'd rather him not because I, along with several other people, like money and would like to keep the money I earn and spend it, save it, tithe it, and donate it as I see fit. Barack Obama thinks me having more money than somebody else is bad. Barack Obama wants the guy who doesn't have as much money as I do to have as much as I do. This will be another Presidency of gross imcompetence but this time it's gonna be bathed in the sheen of mass media skeet-juice and the reflexive racial gestapo and ther American public, ill-informed as they are, will buy into the idea that a ham sandwich would be a more worthy successor to the office than Cowboy George. I say the last eight years and the next eight years are gonna be neck and neck.

"You bought their love"

I don't get couples who watch movies together. I mean I get it, but I don't really get it. I think it's just the easiest segway between "You look nice tonight" and "Let's get on a couch get our limbs and legs entangled with one another in the dark" It's the effortless reason to turn the lights off and have no obligation to talk. You don't want the entree, the movie, you just want the dessert. And for the movie's duration, you don't have to look at your other, but you can certainly touch them. That's what the movie's for. Paul Thomas Anderson who? Die Hard which? No honey, let my hands talk to your's for 120 minutes because this is the peak of our communication abilities. And this, friends, is physicality at its meekest. Cheap and pitiable. I was watching a thing last night and the mom was mad at the father for giving the children sweets against her wishes. They weren't young but they were flirtacious and peppy, a real banterful couple. The mom said "You bought their love" and the father replied "Well, it was for sale and I wanted it" I wonder how many writers spend their entire lives trying to write an exchange like that. I watched Dan in Real Life last night. It was pretty bleak for a mainstream thing. His kids hate him, he's a whiny loser, his family's fun and great but he's not. My favorite scene is that, after some amount of time in the movie with unrequited love for this woman, Dan and Marie sneak off and go bowling together. The old lady working the desk sees the lovely couple and switches off the house lights and switches on the party lights. So it's kinda cheap but beautiful in a way. You can see their silhouettes as light dances on the walls above the lanes. After kidding around for a while they hug each other and then, so very naturally, start kissing. Then it turns into a big one and it's a beautiful frame. Juliette Binoche is beautiful and Carell, well, he can be beautiful too. So it's a great little mini-fantasy moment. Then Dan's family comes in and starts yelling at them. That was my favorite scene in the movie.

"I mind you doing it out loud"

I want a Joey Lucas. Or maybe skip the "A" part, maybe I actually just want a hearing-impaired pollster cutie. We certainly won't talk each other's ears off, but there's other parts of the body that speak more articulately than those often painful noises that come out of one's mouth anyway. We'd make it alright. I don't who she is or where she is or the color of her hair. Maybe I'll just shack up with Kenny. I've been comparing a lot of things in life to getting aroused, which is not for the sake of vulgarity but for the sake of comparison. You get an idea or an impetus for something that might be worth talking about you better get it down and get it done before it eludes you. They don't make pills that warn to call your doctor if you have an idea that lasts four hours or longer. Maybe that pill is actually LSD. I should try it sometime. A huge tree fell in a neighbor's yard, so all day long you can look out our living room window and see cars going in reverse, pulling into our driveway and going the other way, forced to change direction. I wonder what everyone's inital reactions are. Is it annoyance, like a mosquito bite you didn't know you had? Is it anger at not being able to go the way you imagined? It's easy to make a person cry for the wrong reasons but I deeply cover the rare moments when you can do it for the right ones.

"Front row, on your right"

I am humbled by the ceaseless grace that seems to find me. I am floored by the magnificent beauty all around. I laugh and I weep when confronted with the inarguable evidence of God's face. I just don't see how it's possible sometimes. I don't see who saw fit to give a person like me all the things I've been allowed to know in this life. One of my favorite convictions is conviction of greatness, of the near-perfection of a moment. And in that moment is when I surrender to the truth of truth, self-evident in all that heaven will allow, I can feel God's hand in this life. I touch it. And in that moment my praise is his. I think this is how I worship.

"My show is on"

YES YES YES YES YES!!

From Home Media Magazine:

Shout! Factory will release Sports Night: The Complete Series — 10th Anniversary Edition, a new eight-DVD collection of the Emmy-winning 1998-2000 comedy-drama series created by Aaron Sorkin (screenwriter of the recent Charlie Wilson’s War). The set is slated to hit shelves Sept. 30

It's important to understand this. Comedy Central got syndication rights, I chuckled at a few jokes at 2 AM and after spotting a now laughably fat DVD package of the whole series at the now non-existent Suncoast at the Deerbrook Mall, expressed interest in it to my mother on a whim. And on a similar and well-intentioned whim, I recieved the set for Christmas '02. This was the beginning of my romance. Sports Night quickly stole the keys to a special compartment of my heart, unlocked by an extraordinary truth held by words. They attacked, they penetrated, they delighted, they moved, they lived. These words came from the hands of Aaron Benjamin Sorkin. To get a more complete picture of my mind, Aaron Sorkin was Bruce before Bruce was Bruce. He held the same place. So if The West Wing was his Born to Run then Sports Night was his The Wild, The Innocent, and the E Street Shuffle; loose, rambunctious, thrilling, imperfect, over-reaching, stunning, falling beauty. And before he would make his Human Touch in Studio 60, he wrote the words that soared higher than they had any right to. Good music is nothing without the right players, so luck would have that he and Tommy got blessed with television's best little garage band of a cast around. Dana, Casey, Dan, Natalie, Jeremy, Issac, they lived. They lived because of Felicity Huffman, Peter Krause, Josh Charles, Sabrina Lloyd, Joshua Malina, and Robert Guillame, conducted under the mastery of Tommy Schlamme. These are the ones responsible for the moments, the nuggets you can't put a price on. They're responsible for Jeremy telling many many people, for Casey's decision to turn around, for Eli's Coming, for Natalie's outrage not concerning a videotape, for Dan's unsinkable pursuit of Rebecca, for Issac's singing, for Dana's everything. They loved, they gave, and I was full of their grace. I am. All in all, not a bad show.

"A fair fight"

How do we bridge the gap? How do we bridge the gap between a reality and a dream. When is actual life and ideal life ever aligned? Seldom to none, is how much. So how do we achieve what all the most lovely fairy tales encouraged us to do, how must we proceed to make our dreams and our reality one in the same? One must shift from its current position. One must rise or one must fall. I understand the way it goes, make no mistake. I know of no princes or princesses. I know my friends, my family, the people with hearts and minds of certain conviction that try their best to live the way they see fit. I'll take it.

How many times I've wasted time this year

1.02.08 - Shoot 'Em Up C-
1.03.08 - Once B+
1.06.08 - Edward Scissorhands w/ Kelsey B-
1.07.08 - Blade Runner w/ Cory & Jordan C+
1.08.08 - Paris Je 'Taime w/ Kelsey B-
1.09.08 - There Will Be Blood w/ Jared B+
1.16.08 - Almost Famous A
1.20.08 - Cloverfield w/ Jordan and Kelsey B
1.23.08 - Imitation of Heaven B+
3.12.08 - Gangs of New York C+
3.19.08 - American History X C
5.09.08 - The Negotiator B
5.11.08 - Before the Devil Knows You're Dead A-
5.12.08 - Philadelphia B+
5.13.08 - Ratatouille (R) A- w/ mom
5.14.08 - Boogie Nights (R) B
5.15.08 - Transformers C
5.16.08 - Southland Tales C+
6.10.08 - Dan in Real Life B+
6.19.08 - In The Land of Women C
6.21.08 - Walk Hard A
6.28.08 - WALL-E with Katie and Jill A
6.30.08 - Nine to Five C-
7.03.08 - Walk Hard with Mom and & Dad A
7.11.08 - Kill Bill: Volume 1 with Kelsey B
7.12.08 - Kill Bill: Volume 2 with Kelsey B
7.17.08 - The Dark Knight with Jordan, Nicole, Cory, Grant, Kelsey, and Katie A-
8.15.08 - Tropic Thunder with Mom & Dad B-
8.26.08 - Hard Candy (R) with Megan & Ashlee A
8.27.08 - Hamlet 2 with Sarah, Hannah, Katie, Megan & Ashlee C+