The Cure for the Summertime Blues

Some people--mostly in my family--think I am obsessed with running, almost to a bizarre degree. But I am not obsessed with running. I am obsessed with Bruce Springsteen. Running is a habit, something I do, like making the bed (only more often). Bruce, on the other hand, is a fixation that Brian is beginning to think might need intervention.

So Saturday consisted of both my habit and my obsession taken to the nth degree. I woke up at 5 a.m. to do my long run--12 miles--with a friend. It was a tough slog, and we both felt like we were dragging. We blamed the humidity, because it was pretty cool and cloudy, but the dampness was as miserable as ever. We finished up feeling like it was a lackluster performance. Later I looked at the Garmin and found we'd averaged 8:30 for the run, which is much faster than we usually do (9:00s). No wonder we felt exhausted.

I sat around for the afternoon, napped, and watched a torrential thunder storm, worrying that it would interfere with my plans to go to church.

Church? She isn't Catholic.

Nope, I'm a heathen. I went to the nondemoninational house of worship known as the E Street Temple, a mobile unit where Clarence Clemens invokes the holy ghost power on his saxophone while the preacher slides across the stage on his knees.

The show started almost two hours late due to storms, so that I was just standing up to holler like a 12-year-old seeing Hannah Montana when I'd usually be drooling on my pillow on any other night. Instead I was drooling over a particularly handsome gentleman from Jersey who is old enough to be my father.

I went with a friend who agreed to come when I asked at the last minute (my boys went camping), and now I know why she did. She is even more into Bruce than I am. We actually didn't know each other very well beforehand and didn't get home until 2 a.m., but the whole thing was the kind of fun I haven't had for, um, three years maybe. For a few hours we weren't folding laundry or giving shampoos or making "vroom" noises with trucks. I can't speak for her, but there was nowhere else in the world I wanted to be (definitely not a drippy tent with my husband and son).

My Bruceaphilia may be a bit extreme, but it feeds me. It's why I can consistently run much faster when listening to any of his songs than anything else. It's like a cadence to my running and my soul. Insane, right? Maybe so, but I don't care.

The set list couldn't have been drafted any better, frankly. I was desperate to hear "Glory Days" because he didn't sing it when I saw him in San Francisco in 2003. Not only did I get my "Glory Days," but they played all of the old treasures I love, plus some quirky covers. Here's the set list:

Summertime Blues
Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out
Radio Nowhere
Lonesome Day
The Promised Land
Spirit In The Night
Tunnel Of Love
Light Of Day
Little Latin Lupe Lu [first time with E Street Band since 1977!]
Does This Bus Stop At 82nd Street?
Hungry Heart
Who'll Stop The Rain [Tour Premiere]
Youngstown
Murder Incorporated
She's The One
Livin' In The Future
Mary's Place
The Rising
Last To Die
Long Walk Home
Badlands
Encore:
I'm Going Down
Jungleland
Born To Run
Glory Days
Dancing In The Dark
American Land
Rosalita

Today the whole family walked around in a fog. Henry and Brian were zonked from a night in a tent (some day I hope to understand why people like camping), and I was in a lingering reverie as a result of 4 hours of sleep and a wistful longing for just one more song.

I miss Bruce. It's the only reason I am at all looking forward to my run tomorrow.