An Exercise in Ecstatic Optimism

If last night went as planned/hoped, right about now as this pops up on the Interwebz my son and I are on Route 2, just beyond where the Road to Nowhere (Connecticut Route 11) starts, on our way home. I wrote this before we ever started out because I knew I couldn't if I didn't.

Patrick got us tickets to see Bruce Springsteen Wednesday night in Hartford at what is now called the XL Center (though having been in it before, it's not even an "L" (copyright National Football League?)) but I've seen Bruce and the band in stranger places, like The Ledge, the commuter lounge on the New Brunswick campus of Rutgers College in the early seventies.

We've all come a long way but since I don't have roadies setting up my desk for work tomorrow (I lie; I took the day off), I'm thinking Bruce made out better. Except I have Sigrid, Patrick and Michelle in my life and he doesn't.

I think, maybe in terms of The River, mine is the better boat. And after a show that clocks in at over three and half hours with the 'heart-breaking, love-making, Viagra-taking, legendary E Street Band', shouting myself hoarse to, well, Shout and almost three dozen other songs, I can only steal from Paul Simon when I tell you I'm dappled and drowsy and ready to sleep.

We had ourselves a time and what a time it was.
-bill kenny