Upsetting
Wednesday, February 11, 2004
 
At work, you are paid while you sit at your disk and contemplate all the good band names that could be plucked from the lyrics of Bruce Springsteen’s Greetings From Asbury Park, N.J.

The Silicon Sisters

Some Lucky Young Matador

The Jukebox Graduates

Springsteen continues on, and he was one of the few people who supported the Texas Dixie Chicks when they were critical of the Texas President of the United States of America. Springsteen said that the Texas women should be able to say what they want, that dissent is healthy.

Then the radio stations in the South refused to play their records because they colored outside the color-blind lines. Southern women are supposed to know their place. That’s what they say.

A Bastard’s Love

The Lonely Acrobats

Woman Enough For Kissin’

Born To Live To Die

Contacts Deep In Mexico

The Texas women stunned many by not capitulating and recanting their words. In fact, the advertising machine failed to observe was that it was only one of the Texas Dixie Chicks who spoke out against the Texas president. The other Chicks were forced to have an opinion, a sometimes difficult proposition for a woman of the South. You, too, hope Neil Young will remember. He, after all, started out Canadian.

White Skin Is Deceiving

Keep the Change

The Dope’s That There’s Still Hope

A Beautiful Thud

Hunchback Children

The Springsteen faithful fell out when he married the actress no one’d heard of until he married her. But he quickly remedied that by hooking up the backup singer from the Garden State and making babies. His fans tolerate her, and it’s almost acceptance. If anyone has to marry him, it might as well be the Jersey girl. That song Springsteen played, but Tom Waits wrote it.

Everybody’s Wrecked On Main Street

Lost In The Flood

Jimmy The Saint

That Cat From The Bronx

At work where you are paid while you consider all the great band names you could pull out of Greetings From Asbury Park, N.J., there is the room with the time clock and vending machines. Where all the parents lay out their kids’ fundraising crap. It’s all garbage, gifts you’d be embarrassed to give, but you throw down a few dollars anyway.

The psychologists might call you an observer-participant.

In that room with the Girl Scout cookies and herbal teas and OSHA disclosure statements, there is a little black box with a golden lock on it. There is a white piece of paper above the box with an icon of a dove, some black-lettered writing beneath. You bend a little, and you see that the writing says GIVE YOUR IDEAS WINGS: SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS.

You think the box would be hard pressed to hold four business cards, but the idea of the idea-sharing strikes you. You wonder if the Texas Dixie Chicks thought they were giving their ideas wings, unaware of the rifle scopes trained on their feathers.

Doesn’t matter to you, you think, and there’s that freedom of not caring again. You close your eyes as you crawl into your ambulance.

Madison Avenue’s Claim To Fame

I Came For You
 
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