Did you see him? Twelve minutes with Bruce Springsteen at halftime. He was so dazzled by that 12 minutes that he would mention the 12 minutes whenever he was interviewed - and also at the start of his halftime performance.
Whenever he comes on, I look for 3 things: his earring (I like to glimpse its sparkle); his facial hair treatment (tonite a tiny fuzz on the chin) and Patti Scialfa, his wife & mother of their three children. They live in Rumson, NJ, arguably the wealthiest city in the U.S.
Two years ago my family traveled to that very city for a family reunion of the richest person I've ever met, a second cousin by marriage. Dyou know I can't even remember his name? They had a brick circular driveway, a swimming pool w/cabana and blue lace-cap hydrangeas.
I brought my strapless blue bathing suit and swam laps. I used the towels they supplied in the cabana and also the hair dryer. All the while I asked myself, How can I get some of their money? I'm too old to be adopted and too lazy to work for the money.
The man was a financier. He took the ferry every morning to Wall Street for a quick walk to his brokerage firm. His wife stayed home to take care of the kids. Their house was spectacularly furnished with 75 percent thrift shop buys. These were creative people.
The financier's mother was an odious woman, many years deceased, with manic depression. The financier himself was quiet, moody and shy. I remember him quite vividly going around the room asking if he could get people drinks. It was a very hot day. I asked for some lemonade, please, with ice. About 15 different times.
Their kitchen had industrial appliances; you know, those shiny stainless steel stoves and fridges that look like they belong in an army kitchen. But, hey, we have to keep up with the Madoffs!
Look, I'm insanely jealous, so bear with my mean-spiritedness.
I thought I might dance when Springsteen came on but I couldn't take my eyes off him. At 59 he was acrobatting all across the stage. Touch me! Touch me! Love me! Love me! they all seemed to say.
Ding! My timer went off the moment he announced his 12 minutes were up. My, he was fascinated with the time frame, said it "freed him up" in a way. That's called "form" - that's why we have sonnets or symphonies or novels or short stories. We all need form to contain our spillover endeavors, much like the universe needs its orbits to keep the planets and moons from colliding with one another.
To listen to a 2005 radio interview with Bruce on Fresh Air click here. My friend Helene and I were discussing our opinions of Fresh Air host Terry Gross. Two major annoyances with our Terry. For some of her questions, Terry goes into a long wind-up like a pitcher on the mound. Stopping and starting, looking forward and looking backward. Get that question out of your mouth, dammit! Helene and I think she does it for pure dramatic effect, histrionics. We do not like it one bit as it draws attention to Terry Gross when attention should indeed go to Ruth Deming - whoops! Freudian slip! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean it - attention should go to the person being interviewed.
And then there's that laugh of hers. It goes on and on and on. For godssakes, Terry, gag yourself and get on with the interview.
I went to Helene's to help her celebrate her 80th birthday. She made us her birthday breakfast of French toast with Zomick's whole wheat challah. We ate and talked. Whenever you visit, you are required to look at all her rooms to see how neat she's gotten them just in case she doesn't wake up in the morning. She is an 80-year-old uncompromising woman and no one is gonna tell her what to do.
"Most of my books are going to end up in here," she said from her sitting room where she was standing. I swiveled around to see rows upon rows of art books. One particular book caught my eye. In serious black letters along the bookspine, it read "John Berger Way of Seeing."
You know my philosophy. Pick out ANY page. A good book proclaims itself in every single sentence. I open it up: "The art of any culture will show a wide differential of talent. But in no other culture is the difference beween 'masterpiece' and average work so large as in the tradition of the oil painting."
Mindpopper!
I sign out the book on a Post-It and promise to return it in a timely fashion. In fact, something about me cannot STAND to have other people's things in my house. Unless I've purposely stolen them. You know, like Jay Nachman's sweat shirt, or the typing stand I stole from The Record when I used to work there.
I've confessed in prior blogs.
It is entirely sad that I can't go straight home and just read the book end to end. Responsibilities intervene. But at last I'm able to read great gulps of the Pelican classic - it IS a classic, ain't it? - and then I come to a part where Mr. Berger writes: Many of the ideas in the preceding essay were wrin over 40 years ago by the German critic and philosopher Walter Benjamin.
Walter Benjamin, I ponder. A philosopher I have never heard of. Then..... wait a minute! Benjamin is a Jewish name. Let's goggle the man and see. Something tells me the results will not be a happy one.
Sure enough, one Walter Benjamin from a wealthy Jewish family in Berlin, is a prolific writer and thinker who is chased like a rabbit by the Nazis. He ends his life in Spain when he is about to be apprehended by Spanish police, taking a draught of morphine rather than fall into enemy hands.
When I read that, I was again seized by the horrific wonder of a civilized and intelligent people - the Germans - racing all over the continent in pursuit of people called the Jews, ferreting them out from every square inch of land as if they were the cancer virus incarnate.
Senseless! Like the Cherokee, we simply do not die.
