My gay friend John

I try to be honest. Honest.

But some aspects of life are so boring they simply must be agitated with lies.

I’m talking about things like phone calls with tele-marketers, putting toddlers to sleep, and especially long drives alone with demented mothers.

I find lying in these situations irresistible.

With Mom, it doesn’t start out that way. But after she asks the same question five times in 50 miles, I scratch the itch to fib.

That’s how my old friend John became homosexual.

You’re probably becoming familiar with him. I wrote about him here when he considered how my near death choking incident might help him squeak out of paying the dim sum bill, and here about the recent passing of his wacky father.

We’ve been close ever since we were college roommates.

Because of these key events, I’ve probably written more about him than even Sarah Palin over the last year. And Mom’s the only person I’ve written about more than him.

I tell people she’s demented, which you don’t hear too often. Lots of people have dementia, her included, but those people are said to “have dementia,” which sounds passive and confined.

I like describing her as being demented because it connotes just how much her condition afflicts those who have to spend time with her.

Redundant questions is just the tip of the patience-trying iceberg.

“So how’s John? Is he married?”

He’s good, Mom. He enjoys being single in New York.

(Five miles pass).

“Did your friend John ever get married?”

No, he was engaged, Mom, but it didn’t take.

(Five miles pass)

“Your friend John, he never did get married, did he?”

That is correct, Mom. John never married.

(Five miles pass)

“Is your friend John married?”

No, Mom. John’s not married.

(Five miles pass)

“How’s John these days? Is he married?”

That was enough. I told her John was gay. We had another 20 minutes or so in the car so I told a long, lavish story about John and his gay lover, the extravagant parties they host, their friendship with Anderson Cooper and the pack of poodles upon which they lovingly dote.

What’s fascinating is how she couldn’t recall even the most mundane aspects of John’s personal life and now after one brisk telling remembers gay John in rich detail.

Always a progressive in regards to social movements, she's quick to tell everyone all about her son’s gay friend.

It happened again the other day when I was over for a quick visit. My second cousin -- and the 22-year-old’s really kind of a darling niece -- was there tending to Mom while she looks for work.

Mom asked me about my recent high school reunion. She asked who I’d seen and how everyone was. I skipped the divorces, the suicides and news about old friends who’d sadly become Republicans and said, Mom, everyone of my old classmates is beautiful and happy.

Then right out of the blue she turns to Jessie and says, “Chris’s old college roommate, John, is homosexual and a highly-regarded leader in the gay rights movement. He lives in Soho with his boyfriend, Burt. Burt’s a florist who was estranged from his parents until his mother published a book of poems about the difficulties of raising gay children. John and Burt are taking ice sculpting classes. They’ve lived together for eight years, but say they won’t get married until Brad and Angelina do.”

Jessie was impressed.

She asked me all about John and if it was difficult for him being gay at Ohio University way back in the mid-1980s.

I stammered some quick little lies and began backing out of the room.

I’m uncomfortable lying to normal people. Later, I admitted to Jessie I told Mom John was gay out of sheer boredom. I told her I invented Burt, his once-estranged poetess mother and all the purple-dyed poodles.

I said John was none of the heroic things I ascribed to him, that he was straight and really sort of a dick.

So now I feel a little bad about the big snowballing story. Who knows where it could all lead?

All I know is this: John should really consider becoming gay.

He’s become one hell of a great guy ever since I shoved him out of the closet.

Related . . .

Mom making crazy contagious by a nose

Crazy Mom’s awareness of brands, little else

Confused American (Courtesy the blue, red & white)

The Red, White & Blue. Just mention of the colors kind of puts a patriotic lump in the old throat.

The colors are synonymous with mom, apple pie, Detroit car commercials and the almighty NFL.

Pop flag wavers Lynyrd Skynyrd and Toby Keith have songs with the sequential colors in the title, and they’re the colors political stars of all stripes will wrap themselves in as they seek to convince voters they are the patriots deserving of election.

So just who are they striving to represent? The Netherlands? Luxembourg?

Because flags representing those countries are true red, white and blue.

America most certainly is not.

We’re maybe blue, white and red or the alphabetically proper blue, red & white. If spacial considerations were given we’d likely be the white, red & blue, those being the dominating percentages of the flag colors in descending order.

But if we Americans continue to call ourselves “The Red, White & Blue,” we’re letting the world know we’re a nation of ocular idiots.

Just picture the American flag and let your eye react to it the way it naturally does to words on a page. The eye is conditioned to start at the upper left and move rightward across the top.

With the American flag, the eye sees blue, then white, then red.

I called Vince Vaise, park ranger and chief of interpretation at Fort McHenry, where the American flag inspired Francis Scott Key to write “The Star-Spangled Banner,” incidentally a much more accurate and zesty description of the American flag.

He said he knew of no history of how the colors came to be sequenced the way they did.

“Whenever anyone uses bunting, the order is blue, white and red,” he says. “So it goes against that custom. It sounds better, I guess.”

True, but that may only be out of habit. Since children we’ve been indoctrinated to say it in specific sequence -- red, white and blue.

But how did that get started?

I’m going to investigate. I’m going to try and put together a story idea that will inspire some history magazine to assign me to find out the truth.

But more than that, I think it simply needs to be done and, by God, I’ll not rest until I do it.

I’ll do it for mom, country and the good ol’ red, white and blue.

That’s right.

I’m doing it for the Dutch.

Culling the happy hat herd

I admire mothers because the primary motivation for much of their existence is the love of a child. Truly, a mother’s love is one of the most awesome forces in nature.

Sure, many fathers feel that way, too. We’re rah-rah for nurturing, bonding and all the rest of that blahbidy, blahbidy, blah crap.

But it’s dawned on me that men might be superior to women in one regard: we’re imbued with a selflessness that gives us the capacity to love more than just our children.

And I, of course, mean in addition to loving ourselves.

We love our ball caps.

I can tell you exactly where I was and what I was feeling the moment I decided to pull the trigger on a ball cap purchase. I can tell you what I shot golfing the scorching day that white saline line started creeping up the bill.

Unlike my daughters, my hats have never told their friends I’m weird, smell bad, or done anything to make me look stupid -- other than resting atop atop my head and that’s an entirely passive act so I don’t begrudge the hat for that.

I understand women enjoy shoes, purses and dresses, but I think it’s deeper with men and hats. Go ahead and assume it’s only seems deeper because we’re more shallow.

I became stuck on this hats-as-children analogy when I began to realize I was becoming the Octomom of hats.

Hats have been spilling out of closets, from under car seats and off shelves whenever my head went.

I counted and, damn, if I didn’t have one hat for every day of the month: 31 hats.

I figured I needed to ditch a bunch of hats or brainstorm a controversial medical procedure that would leave me with 30 additional heads.

And think for a moment what I’d be like with 31 heads. If done properly, I could wind up 31 times more intelligent than I am now. Or else my current brain power would be divvied up among the number leaving me intellectually diminished, besides really freaky.

Either way, the development would probably thrill my barber.

But I took the easy way out and cut the herd in half. I spent the morning strolling down memory lane and conducting what amounted to the Sophie’s Choice of headgear.

I started with the beige brigade: I had nine beige hats and always keep a couple in the car. They’re good because they’re very neutral and don’t draw attention to my face when it’s suffering from the effects of hangover.

But nine? Five had to go.

Getting rid of one of my late father’s Olde Stonewall golf hats seemed like such a betrayal. But I have to be honest: it looked stupid on the old man and I’m sure it looks stupid on me. It has way too much of what an old friend of mine used to call “Fuddage,” the gap between the head and the inner hat ceiling. Plus, it’s all sweat stained. To hell with it.

I ditched a Rolling Stones tongue logo hat that’s always been special to me because it reminds me of a fun prank. I had the hat sent to my 8-year-old Josie and in the personalized message part had them write: “Dear Josie, Me and the band want your Dad to have this rockin’ hat for Father’s Day. Be sure to tell him we all love his blog! Rock on, kid! From Mick Jagger and The Rolling Stones.” The hat gift from a band she’d seen perform at the Super Bowl seemed to impress her and had her looking at me more reverentially. Lasted about 20 minutes.

Took me two hours this morning to cut the hat count in half. Then I spent the whole afternoon giving pep talks to each hat like the career councilors do with employees moments before security shoves them out the door.

Now it’s off to the Salvation Army with the whole bunch.

The task was emotionally grueling, but gives me confidence that one day I’ll be capable of taking on some of life’s other challenges.

But it’ll be years from now before I’m ready to tackle the T-shirts.

Mr. Fancy's 30th high school reunion

My daughter, 5, complains full-day kindergarten is a drag. She wondered if there was anything she could do to make it less boring?

I nearly blurted out the perfect solution:

Grow breasts.

Because that’s when it all gets really, really interesting.

The Mt. Lebanon High School class of ’81 had its 30th reunion Saturday night at PNC Park in Pittsburgh. That meant nearly 200 of us were tingling with recollections of the emotional crucible from when boys and girls become biologically capable of conceiving children while still acting like them.

The 30th reunion is where a bunch of 48 year olds stand around congratulating one another on how fabulous we all look secretly relieved there are no honest 18 year olds to rebut the compliments.

High school memories are indelible. If you’re kind to someone they remember it forever. If you’ve ever been mean to someone, it’s a nasty grudge they’ll forever bear.

Truth of the latter was slammed home to me at the last reunion I attended.

I was sitting at the bar by myself when a muscular gear head with cut-off sleeves got in my face and said, “I remember you. You always thought you were better than me. Well, what about now, Mr. Fancy? Still think you’re better than me?”

I gave him a good long look and thought, yeah, I am better than you.

Because this wasn’t my reunion and I’d never seen the guy before in my life.

It was my wife’s reunion. She wanted me to attend to show all the mean girls she’d married a presentable guy who didn’t eat things like salad and pasta with his fingers (practiced for weeks).

Once that mission was accomplished, she immediately ditched me to flirt with old flames and I retired to the cocoon-like comfort of the bar.

Even after the guy’s nervous wife persuaded him I was innocent, I’m sure the guy still wanted to kill me. He was one of those misanthropes who instinctively hate handsome men like me with nice smiles like mine, but calculated that was insufficient reason to assault a stranger.

The episode convinced me bringing a spouse to a reunion was a bad idea.

I wouldn’t want Val to go through what she made me go through -- and I’m referring to confrontations with stupid bullies and not being abandoned in a bar, my natural habitat.

Plus, there’s this:

I didn’t want my darling wife there in case one of the 300 or so girls I spent puberty dreaming about came up to me and said she’d always had a crush on me and, hey, would I mind sneaking away to behind the Pirate dugout so we could make out?

Sadly, this didn’t happen and I blame a flaw of the reunion dynamic.

There’s no forced mingling. Some of the girls who may have been eager to make out with me might have been ensnared in long bouts of glibberish.

Glibberish is my word for pointless party chatter between two people who’d rather be talking to anyone else.

The reunion’s first hour should be like speed dating. Everyone in two long lines has to say hello to one another. A bell rings after four minutes and you move on to the next old classmate.

Then after an hour of this you can decide which people have evolved into worthwhile adults and which ones must be avoided like algebra.

I was fortunate to have had about five really soulful conversations and they were like Christmas ornaments, something to cherish.

There was some glibberish, but I had a ball.

I’ve been so fortunate with friendships throughout my life. I guess it’s because so much of what happens after high school is so repressive and serious and I’m not.

People seem drawn to that, at least all the people I’ve always liked.

It for me became the perfect reunion in the early morning as I was walking through downtown Pittsburgh back to my car and two beautiful women came up and proposed something more illicit than bleacher kisses.

Sure, they were hookers. I had the cash and with proper motivation can be a savvy haggler. But I declined because their proposition had already given my night a happy ending.

Thanks to them, I’ll be forever able to remember my 30th high school reunion as the night everyone said I looked great and two girls pestered me for sex.

All-in-all a damn good night for Mr. Fancy.

For Boss fans only: A Springsteen career retrospective (from 2009)

Sirius/XM's E Street Radio spent the week commemorating the 31st anniversary of the release of Springsteen's album "The River." Funny, but I don't remember them making a big deal of the 30th anniversary. Maybe Bruce was angry and told them to make up for the oversight. I guess you can do that when they name a station for you. But I spent the week listening to a lot of Springsteen and thought I'd re-run this 2009 album-by-album career retrospective in case any Boss fans are looking for something to argue over.

Have a great weekend!

While many other writers are triumphantly engaged in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), in which they try to in 30 days write 50,000-word novels, I will write about what it’s like to listen to 318 consecutive Bruce Springsteen songs in chronological order over 23.5 hours.

I’m not like other writers.

And Springsteen, 60, is not like other artists.

He’s in the midst of an historic run of shows that will play to more than two million fans. What’s stirring a lot of fan interest is how he’s including entire albums in each concert. So fans in Philly one night may see a set that includes “Born to Run,” while fans the next night might hear “Darkness on the Edge of Town.”

It got me to thinking which album of his I’d most like to hear. So last month I decided I was going to listen to every Springsteen song in order.

It was so much fun I might do it every six months.

He’s that interesting. Even when he sucks -- and suck he does -- it’s still a worthy effort.

So for hardcore Springsteen fans, and I know you’re out there, here’s a career critique from a fan who’s been there since near the beginning. Feel free to scan or skip.

And if this winds up being, gadzooks, in excess of 50,000 words (and it might), I’m going to slap a title on it, call it a novel and try submitting it to some beleaguered agent for publication.

• Greetings from Asbury Park, 1972 -- His first words on his first album are gibberish: “Madman, bummers, drummers and Indians in the summer with a teenage diplomat . . .” But it has a catchiness that pays off with the euphoric touchstone line about Mama telling him never to look straight into the sights of the sun, “Whoa! But, mama, that’s where the fun is!” Even better is the defiance of “Growing Up” and the shocked menace of “Lost in the Flood.” It’s surprising what a nifty little roadmap to his career this 9-song, 37-minute album hints at. It has the highs -- some of these songs (“Growing Up,” “Blinded by the Light” and “For You”) are still concert staples. And there are the puzzling lows (“Mary Queen of Arkansas,” “The Angel”) that leave fans scratching their heads. I’d like to listen to this with the now 60-year-old Springsteen and hear what he thinks of what the 22-year-old kid did. I think he’d like it. He should.

• The Wild, The Innocent & The E Street Shuffle, 1973 -- He’s playing this in its entirely at Madison Square Garden on Saturday. I’d give a limb to be there. When fans talk about his greatest albums, this one’s rarely mentioned. It should be. It starts out with the now solidified E Street Band braying like stallions eager to bust out of the corral. From there it’s an almost Sgt. Pepper like performance of exuberance. It may be a sacrilege to legions of frat boy fans, but the least interesting song of the bunch might be concert staple “Rosalita.” And it’s a meaty bunch. The shortest song, the title cut is 4:31 with “New York City Serenade” clocking in at 9:36. It’s such a rich, jazzy joy. The best here are “Incident on 57th Street” and the aforementioned “NYC Serenade.”

• Born to Run, 1975 -- I keep needing to be reminded that “Born to Run” precedes “Darkness on the Edge of Town.” As great as they are, there is nothing in either of the two previous albums to suggest that this glorious sort of crescendo would happen so quickly. It would be like the Rolling Stones releasing, “Between the Buttons” and “Out of Our Heads,” then -- Boom! -- “Sticky Fingers.” “Born to Run” is one of the greatest albums ever recorded. “Thunder Road” plays like an opera and even the lesser tracks (“Night,” “Meeting Across the River”) are gems. The masterpieces (“Backstreets,” “Jungleland”) are legendary. The title cut never feels old. It’s still as fresh and remarkable as the first time we heard it. They could have all quit after this. Bruce could have gone all bald and paunchy and none of it would have mattered. These eight songs ensured immortality. The album ends with the audacious crescendo of “Jungleland.” Springsteen knew he’d made a masterpiece and he punctuated it thusly.

• Darkness on the Edge of Town, 1978 -- I was flattered to be asked to contribute a blurb to a“The Light in Darkness,” the fine new book commemorating the release of this album. Here’s what I wrote:

“Listening to “Darkness on the Edge of Town” for the first time in 1978 did more to accelerate my 15-year-old adolescence than any human biological factors. Like Bob Dylan once said about the first time he heard Elvis, this record “felt like busting out of jail.”

The songs had a tethered fury, a striving that made me want to run away to an adult world where I wasn’t even sure I could survive. But it was a promised land I knew anyone with a spark of spirit or adventure was destined to enter and have his character forged. There would be dangers, illicit pleasures, cowards and heroes and these songs made me want to test myself to see where I’d land.

How so many songs of grim despair can still sound like triumph is a puzzle I’ve yet to unravel.

The same songs that had me wishing as a boy I was older, today, more than 30 years later, make me feel forever young.”
My favorites? “Racing in the Streets” and “The Promised Land.”


• The River, 1980 -- Bruce and the band find their groove here and cling to it a bit to tightly. “Ramrod,” “Cadillac Ranch,” “You Can Look . . .,” “Crush on You”) all, despite their fury, are a bit redundant. They come across as caveman stomps and concert fillers that do little to move the ball up the field. The hit single, “Hungry Heart,” is joyful, and happy romp that features lyrics about the sin of a man who abandons his family, an odd pairing. He for the first time indulges a country bent on songs like “Wreck on the Highway” that he’ll thread throughout his career, much to the consternation of fans who want his music to cling to the Jersey beaches and highways. The best songs here are “Sherry Darling,” the title cut and the sublime and mesmerizing, “Point Blank.” This 20-song collection also marks the last time he engages audiences with a long form song, the 8:33 and somewhat forgettable “Drive All Night.” It is the last time he includes a real stretcher until the ill-conceived “Outlaw Pete” from earlier this year. This has always been one of my favorites, but it doesn’t hold up as well as I thought it would.

• Nebraska, 1982 -- He misses in his effort to channel Woodie Guthrie, but winds up nailing Johnny Cash. Still, this isn’t the Bruce any of us pay to see. Conversely, the title song, “Johnny 99” and “Seeds” a B-side from the same sessions have really stood up in concert over the years. But the unwelcome coyote howl of “State Trooper” had us wishing for the old Bruce. We were about to get him in spades.

• Born in the U.S.A., 1984 -- Even then, perhaps in reaction to the subdued reception of “Nebraska,” this seemed like it was Springsteen’s attempt to be gargantuan. Here he makes writing gigantic and enduring hit singles seem effortless. “Glory Days,” “I’m Going Down,” and the title song remain fan favorites. But I’d love to hear the decision-making process and band input about why they included “Dancing in the Dark,” to this day the worst Springsteen single ever released. The song’s an oddball on this album -- on any non 90’s album, really -- and a betrayal of any fan who caught the E Street fever with “Born to Run.” The colossus is “Born in the U.S.A.” It’s a great song dulled by now a bit by repetition. With a lesser artist, this often misunderstood song could have become his “Achy-Breaky Heart,” his defining song. Not Springsteen. But he proved here how commercial he could be. So, congratulations, you’re gargantuan. Let’s move on.

• Live Box Set, 1986 -- This massive nearly four-hour three-disc set loses some coherence in that it spans 12 years and the venues run from clubs to stadiums. I love “Fire,” a Springsteen song made famous by, yikes, the Pointer Sisters. The oddly subdued “Thunder Road” kicks off the bunch that goes on to include all the usual suspects. “Growing Up” live shows why it is the ultimate Springsteen concert experience, and hearing the moving soliloquy preceding “The River” remains among the most moving experiences in rock listening. The collection is best as an archive, rather than a true concert experience. Best left in the time capsule for long stretches.

• Tunnel of Love, 1987 -- His second curveball to fans in five years, but this one dazzles. It remains among the top two or three of Springsteen “solo” experiences. It has a snappy start with “Ain’t Got You” and leads into a string of country-tinged songs that tasteful Nashville artists are still covering. “Spare Parts” is a haunting rocker -- I’d take this over a couple dozen songs like “Ramrod.” “Brilliant Disguise” and the title song are great evocative numbers, but the gem here is “One Step Up.” A musical and lyrical waltz, it’s so beautiful it shimmers.

• Human Touch/Lucky Town, 1992 -- I’ve argued that Tom Petty is a better song writer than Bruce Springsteen because Petty’s had one really bad song (“A Wasted Life” from 1982’s “Long After Dark”) while Springsteen’s had one really bad decade. It was the 1990s and this simultaneously released pair starts all the stinkin’. This is the best he could do after seven years on the sidelines? They’re terrible. What was he thinking? Were Clarence, Little Steven and the rest of the E Streeters busy? These two include 24 songs with 16 throw aways. The title songs are good, as are “Cross My Heart,” “I Wish I Were Blind” and the lovely “If I Should Fall Behind," but the rest is dreck.

• In Concert MTV, 1993 -- A county fair bingo-playing chicken could have selected a better set list. After being away for so long, he’s really trying to shove the new stuff down our throats. It says something about the goodwill he’d earned that this period didn’t cause legions of fans to desert him for good. Best here is a surprise ass-kicking version of “Light of Day.” The rest sound like they were performed by a Bruce Springsteen tribute band at some highway Holiday Inn.

• Greatest Hits, 1995 -- Normally, I’d be infuriated by a greatest hits album arriving amidst the creative desert through which he’d been leading us. But here he includes four unreleased, unheard songs, three of which instantly earned “greatest” status. They are “Murder Incorporated,” “Blood Brothers,” and the epic “This Hard Land,” a song I’d include among his best ever.

• The Ghost of Tom Joad, 1995 -- It would be really cool to be sitting in Springsteen’s basement and hear him play these songs for just you and maybe four of your friends. Instead, it was another major release that demanded fans shell out the bucks just to see what he was up to. It’s another sleep walk that lacks any mystique. There are no best songs. No standouts. No compelling tales behind the bleak music. No pulse. This is his worst.

• Tracks, 1998 -- After the long hard slog of the ‘90s, this seems like a bit of a valedictory, a reminder of why he’s so indelible to our musical DNA. Early gems include “Thundercrack,” “Santa Ana,” and “Zero & Blind Terry.” How songs this stellar went unreleased for so long is a mystery. It includes some great B-sides like “Be True,” and “Wanna Be With You,” and the ragged beauty of “Hearts of Stone.” “The Wish” is so lovely it always makes me smile and feel like coming home. It becomes less and less interesting as it meanders into, yep, the 90s with keyboard-driven songs like “Janey Don’t You Lose Heart” and “Sad Eyes.” Still, a great way to enjoy this is put all four discs on random and have a party. It’s like walking into a friendly bar with a really great juke box.

• 18 Tracks/Chimes of Freedom, 1999 and 2000 -- Two lesser collections, mostly rehashes. Chimes includes a great live version of “Be True” and the Dylan song that rings with a righteousness the way the title hints it ought to.

• The Rising, 2002 -- This was a disappointment to me when it came out because I believed it was destined to seem like the product of a time capsule that would not resonate within 10 years. Listening to it nearly 10 years later and I see I was wrong. It sounds like a great rock album. Released in response to 9/11, songs like “You’re Missing,” “Waiting on a Sunny Day” and “Into the Fire” still stir a raw visceral feeling in my gut. But if I were an 18-year-old kid just getting into The Boss and unaware of its poignant inspirations, I think I’d love this album. Tragedy is laced into the lyrics, but many of them could today seem to apply to a busted romance as much as a national tragedy. Plus, perhaps out of a sense of national obligation, this album marked the first time Springsteen’d reunited with The E Street Band in 18 confounding years. It was such a tough time for the country and having them back together making music was more comforting to me than all the tough “Dead or Alive” talk coming out of the White House.

• The Essential Bruce Springsteen, 2003 -- That’s a pretty audacious title for someone with a backlog as deep as Springsteen. But it’s appropriate if for no other reason than one stunning song: “American Skin (41 Shots).” Originally included on a live album (one I didn’t purchase out of “live” fatigue), this raw song examines the true life/death story of West African immigrant Amadou Diallo who was gunned down by New York police in a tragic misunderstanding. The police were furious with Springsteen for his contention “that you can get killed just for living in your American skin.” The mother’s lament to her son that he understand the need to be polite, never run, and will keep his hands in sight is devastating. It’s hard to listen to this without a hanky handy. The haunting refrain “41 Shots” is repeated 41 times throughout the song.

• Devils & Dust, 2005 -- Like the sublime “Tunnel of Love,” he again figures out how to do minimal with muscle. This is a lushly produced collection with all the bells ‘n’ whistles, not to mention the cellos, fiddles and trumpets. The title song’s great as is the lovely guitar/organ interplay on “Maria’s Bed.” But as “solo” projects go, this one’s just a warm up to the joy that was to come just 12 months later.

• We Shall Overcome: The Seeger Sessions, 2006 -- Just watching the video of “Jacob’s Ladder” made me want to drop everything I’ve been doing these past few decades and go out and learn how to play a tuba. I showed it to my young daughters and said, “This is why you want to play music in a band.” It is utterly joyful, as is the rest of this landmark album. Amazingly, this slapdash collection of bar tunes is among his very best. It’s the one to play at parties. It’s one of our greatest American musicians leading a band in some of our best American songs. Like the companion DVD done live in Dublin, he’s done something here that is completely separate and distinctly Springsteen. It’s so rich, so celtic, yet so utterly American.

• Magic, 2007 -- This kicks off with a quartet of songs with a Jersey vibe that feels more like home than any Springsteen album since “The River.” After so many detours, this is a welcome band effort and reaffirmation of what drew us to Springsteen in the first place. On the surface, it all feels like good scrappy fun. The happy music, again, decoys lyrics that show how fearful he is for America that’s engaged in a misguided war being fought under a man for whom he cannot conceal his contempt. Mixed in with darkly critical songs like “Living in the Future” and “Your Own Worst Enemy,” are happy ditties like “I’ll Work for Your Love” and “Girls In Their Summer Clothes” -- and I just love the latter. It’s pure sunny magic.

• Working On A Dream, 2009 -- If the 20-something Bruce Springsteen knew the 50-something Bruce Springsteen was going to write something as awful and hokey as “Outlaw Pete” in 2008, he’d have killed himself to spare his legacy the shame. At 8:01, it’s the longest song he’s released in 20 years and one of his worst. But what do I know? I enjoy the equally hokey, “Queen of the Supermarket.” The title song has a euphoric joy he clearly felt at the outcome of the 2008 presidential election. There’s a string of happy and optimistic songs led by “This Life,” “Kingdom of Days” and “Surprise, Surprise,” -- and wouldn’t it be fun to hear Gomer Pyle sing that one? The best news about this collection, his fourth in five years, proves he’s riding a creative crest that doesn’t look like it’ll be soon spent. This is his fourth album in five years and they’re all keepers.

• Wrecking Ball, 2009 -- A surprise gem that has me hungering for Boss v. 2010. He’s singing about the demolition of Giants Stadium in the Meadowlands, but it’s clear to me he’s also singing about himself.

“I was raised out of steel here in the swamps of Jersey, some misty years ago

Through the mud and the beer and the blood and the cheers, I’ve seen champions come and go

So if you’ve got the guts, Mister, yeah, if you got the balls, if you think it’s your time then step to the line and bring on yer wrecking ball!

Bring on yer wrecking ball! Come on and take your best shot, let me see what you got and bring on yer wrecking ball!

America’s been through some difficult times. So has Bruce and his music. But with this song, America’s most articulate musical chronicler shows he’s not going down without a fight.

With him leading the way and back on track, neither will the rest of us.

So, there. That’s about 3,100 words to kick of my NaNoWriMo. Only 46,900 to go!

When Sultans get "Occupied"

I suspect one of the reasons I can’t land my opinion pieces in more prominent media is I’m not emphatic enough.

To my critical detriment, I usually see both sides of every issue and base my decision on the opinion on whatever the last person I hear had to say.

So a guy like me is going to struggle to comprehend the Occupy Wall Street movement that started in New York and is sweeping the country, which will certainly need swept when it’s done.

I need issues brought into stark relief for me to figure out what the commotion’s all about.

Happily, Thursday gave me an edifying professional opportunity to understand.

This one pits 250 laid off hotel service employees against the Sultan of Brunei.

The latter’s one of those names I’ve never really delved into, but just instinctively understood meant vast wealth.

How vast? He’s worth 36 times more than the Queen of England. He’s the recipient of the inherited riches of 600-years of unbroken monarchy of the Southeast Asian nation on the island of Borneo.

His official name is General Haji Sir Hassan al-Bolkiah Mu’zzaddin Waddaulah, and if you think he has a lot of names you should see his garage.

Wikipedia says he owns 531 Mercedes-Benzes, 367 Ferraris, 362 Bentleys, 185 BMSs, 177 Jaguars, 160 Porsches, 130 Rolls-Royces, and 20 Lamborghinis for a total of 1,932 cars.

The numbers are precise, I guess, because he owns the Brunei Department of Motor Vehicles, too. He’s listed as the nation’s prime minister, its minister of finance and defense, its armed forces supreme commander, and police inspector general.

He’s to Brunei what Jerry Jones is to the Dallas Cowboys. He runs the whole shebang.

His opulent existence is instructive in today’s Occupy debate. He’s the kind of guy that 99 percent of the lordly 1 percent resent because he’s just got so much dough.

Life always figures out a way to give even guys like Trump someone to envy.

He came into my sphere of knowledge yesterday while I was doing this travel story that just popped up on msnbc.com.

It’s about the reopening of the historic Hotel Bel-Air, the luxurious enclave of Hollywood A-listers from Marilyn Monroe to Angelina Jolie. Oprah had her 50th birthday party there.

The hotel owner is Mr. Hassan al-Bolkiah Mu’zz-, oh, hell -- the sultan owns it.

Understand, my whole motivation for writing a story like this is to have it done on deadline, be pleasing to editors and readers and to have hotel PR folks say, gee, you seem like a friendly fellow. Why don’t you come and stay with us and see the place for yourself?

Now, for ethical reasons, I’d have to decline the offer, but it’s a comfort to know if Val ever changes the locks I could spend a night or two at one of America’s finest hotels and perhaps play footsie with the likes of Lindsay Lohan until Val cools off.

During my research I learned the hotel fired 250 union workers and timed the renovation to the expiration of the union contract in 2009.

The old employees are hoping today’s stars and other prospective guests act like Claude Rains in the 1933 classic, “The Invisible Man.”

They don’t want to see anybody there.

“We’re asking that no one eats, meets or sleeps at the Hotel Bel-Air until these employees are rehired,” says Leigh Shelton of Unite Here Local 11, representing 20,000 Southern California hospitality workers. Aligned with Occupy L.A., they’re expecting 500 protesters.

The newly renovated boutique hotel has 113 rooms.

The sultan lives in 2,152,782 square-foot palace with 290 bathrooms. If I lived there I’d have a party, would invite precisely 290 friends and assign them each their own bathroom. I think guests would enjoy that.

So this is where my understanding of the Occupy Wall Street movement achieves clarity.

It’s all just so unfair.

To his credit, the sultan bestows free health care to each of his 401,000 subjects, lousy socialist.

The union workers are asking they be given priority rehiring opportunities and fair compensation for their lost wages. The sultan could erase this public relations fiasco with what he probably considers walking around money.

Here’s what I’d do as arbitrator:

I’d order the sultan to allow each of the 250 unjustly fired employees to live for free in his bathrooms until they can find other work.

I’m sure they’re all very commodious and he’d still have 40 bathrooms all for himself.

A rooting fan's guide to baseball playoffs

This, my favorite sports season of the year, is being sullied by love. The four remaining baseball teams representing four cities are each appealing in their own ways.

I have no one to hate.

Despite signs of promise, the The Pittsburgh Pirates for the 19th year in a row have failed to make the playoffs (nostalgia note: it was 51 years ago today that Bucco Bill Mazeroski hit the most famous home run in baseball history to beat the N.Y. Yankees in the World Series!).

So without a home team to root for, I need an artificial reason to cheer for a city that is deserving of riotous celebrations and property damage.

It would be simpler for me if the Boston Red Sox and the Chicago Cubs were contending because I could reflexively root for their opponents.

I hate the Red Sox because their fans raced from lovable losers to obnoxious winners in near record time. And I hate the Chicago Cubs for reasons detailed in this 2008 post I deftly titled “I hate the Chicago Cubs.”

The baseball playoffs are down to the St. Louis Cardinals vs. the Milwaukee Brewers, and the Detroit Tigers vs. the Texas Rangers. Let’s break ‘em down:

One of my favorite literary characters, Capt. Augustus McCrae was a Texas Ranger in "Lonesome Dove," so they have that going for them. Plus, most of my favorite music has Texas roots. Joe Ely, Steve Earle, Delbert McClinton, Robert Earl Keen, Ray Wylie Hubbard are all Texas true. But despite his preppy upbringings that always makes me suspect he’s a closet Red Sox fan, so is George W. Bush. If Texas wins, it’ll make Bush happy, so they’re out.

They’re playing the Detroit Tigers. What American doesn’t root for Detroit? Detroit welcomed my fellow Steeler fans with open arms when it hosted our 2006 Super Bowl victory. The retro ballpark, which I’ve been to, is a dandy. If they beat the Rangers, it’s likely they’ll have Bob Seger sing the national anthem and I love Seger. Plus, them winning keeps alive my opportunity to tell the story about how Detroit used represent the USA in the world’s only international tug of war. In what should inspire an Olympic competition, they used to string a stout mile-long rope across the Detroit River between the city and neighboring Windsor. If Detroit wins I promise to share my promotional efforts to organize a trans-Atlantic tug-of-war between America and Europe. Go Detroit!

St. Louis is one of the few great American cities I’ve never been to. But my very good friend, Angelo Cammerata has. He’s the world’s longest serving bartender and the folks at Anheuser-Busch rolled out the red carpet for him 2007. They gave him box seats at a Cardinal game and introduced him to the roaring crowd on the Jumbotron. I like it when a city showers the people I care about with cheer and warmth.

But I like it even better when they do that with me. And that’s what happened in Milwaukee. In the fall of 2008, the whole state of Wisconsin treated me like I was Big Cheese -- and that’s something that really matters there. I was there on a travel story (recap here). Over six nights I played golf at all the state’s finest courses (Whistling Straits and Erin Hills) and was wined and dined at all their top restaurants. On my own, I found an outstanding Milwaukee bar that treated me so well I actually considered relocating my family just to be within stumbling distance. It’s Sobelmans. They didn’t even know I was a travel writer and thus felt no unnatural obligation to shower me with warmth and freebies. They were just naturally nice. If I’m ever within 250 miles of Sobelmans I’m automatically going back. Milwaukee also has one of my favorite offbeat tourist attractions, the Bronz Fonz. So I want Milwaukee to beat the Cardinals.

That pits Milwaukee vs. Detroit in my World Series.

This upsets my friends who hate the Brewers for beating up on the Pirates, but I have to root for Milwaukee to win it all. I just met so many friendly people in Wisconsin and had so much free, fine fun. Everyone was just so nice.

So take note, Boston: I can be bought. Prepare the finest hotels, alert the golf courses and start the lobster pots a boilin’.

Chicago, don’t even bother. I think we all need to hang onto at least a little hate.

I wouldn’t want people to start confusing me with Wisconsin.