Yesterday, the crowded field of Democrats grew by one. This morning, the pundits had more energy than I’ve seen in months. Amazingly, they were talking about someone other than Mayor Pete (still having trouble with “Boot-edge-edge”).
American culture is strewn with the iconic. In terms of popular culture—especially music and rock and roll—there are few icons bigger than Bruce Springsteen. Everyone knows what you’re talking about when you say, “The Boss.”
On our Easter Sunday drive into Maine’s western mountains, I had Springsteen on Spotify shuffle. I was holding court with Mary about why his music mattered and how we need to make a point of seeing him before he hangs up his Telecaster.
Yesterday, I had some late afternoon time to fill. Like I’ve done countless times before in my life with unstructured time, I ended up at a library looking for books.
Sitting on the shelf, calling my name was Peter Ames Carlin’s, Bruce. Not the only bio of The Boss, but one of the better ones, I’ve already read nearly 200 pages in less than 24 hours. Students at tutoring wanted to know what book I was toting around with me last night and I got to give them my own Springsteen story, of “Glory Days,” and what that song means in terms of my own smoldering baseball embers.
Bruce bio by Peter Ames Carlin (2012)
