March 28, 2012
Bruce Springsteen, for me, is my gringot: a storyteller that took the ugliest parts of New Jersey, and made them beautiful in song; a historian of sorts whose commentary is solely painted with romance and escape for kids of the ’70s and ’80s who are now parents themselves; a patron saint that seemed to watch over me wherever I went as I experienced shitty summer jobs, high school hierarchies and Jersey shore romances that constituted of catching footballs and Frisbees in front of girls on the beach.