March 10, 2004
Finishing.
It's not that I'm slack. I submit all of my stuff for my MA on Friday. That's why I haven't updated since last week. That will all change this weekend. I swear. It has been a manic week - and by Saturday, I will have unwound and found inner peace. Expect usual idiocy to resume as of Saturday.
February 08, 2004
The Springshrine.
So, I'm around at my friend's place last year, and - as is the norm - they are mocking me for my love of Bruce Springsteen. I can hear the sniggers from you oh-so-hip cats, who have convinced yourselves that The Boss is nothing but a butt-shimmying, jingoistic bastard who sings overproduced crosses between synth-pop and roots rock. You are wrong, and you are cretins. 'Nebraska' is one of the greatest albums ever made, and if you claim otherwise, the devil has stolen your soul - and you are beyond help.
Which brings me neatly back to The Springshrine. I'm standing in the kitchen, and after the customary round of taunts regarding blue denim, puffy white shirts, and 'That fucking Philadelphia song', I was lead into the back yard.
There it stood. Leaning against the house. A block mounted photo of the man... the voice... The Boss. Rocking out in true E-Street fashion, as only a mechanic from Jersey can. Denim jacket. Denim pants. Headband. A look that screams.. 'I am the voice of the proletariat! I AM the working class! And I'm here to rock!'.
Because I attract people with no taste, I was informed that they were seriously contemplating glueing a giant dildo to the crotch of Mr. Springsteen - but I told them that if they did that, I would kill them all with a single roundhouse kick delivered from mid-air, snapping their necks sequentially - and without even breaking a sweat. Then, I seized my Springsteen, and loaded into the back of the Torana.
I wasn't sure what to do with it at first. Bruce sat in the back room, occasionally trying to convince me that it was time to rock. He was right, of course, but sometimes I simply have to refrain - and I realised that the lure of the E-Street Band was going to seriously have a negative impact on my work.
My bed - my single bed with the spring that jabs me in the back, was pressed against a barren expanse of Mylanta-green wall. I knew what I had to do.
I hung him on my wall, over my head where I sleep - and he became the Springshrine. Bruce towers over me as I sleep, trapped in an endless frenzy of pure rock fury. Sometimes I wake up, and I see him looming over me, as he gives voice to those without one - and I fall asleep, usually wondering if Bruce is awake - and if so - is he busy rocking, or is he in a more contemplative frame of mind, dreaming new and more potent ways to connect with the underclasses.
And sometimes, I get scared by how truly creepy I can be.