A Florid Tribute to the Working Class Poet of America

I’m going to complain about something that it’s too late to do anything about and that nobody cares about and that the people who actually could do anything about aren’t reading this anyway. Which is the best type of complaint to make. (I dare you to diagram those sentences.)

I have never been to the National Constitution Center but would like to go sometime. But I can’t understand why it has had exhibits on Bon Jovi and Bruce Springsteen. Is it because they … sing about America? If so, we should have an exhibit on every person who sings about America. The short list for this is “everybody.”

I’m not getting it. The National Constitution Center should be a place for unspeakably dorky governmental and historic topics. I’d like to see things like a display of James Monroe’s presidential papers, or the evolution of the Third Amendment or a diorama of famous Supreme Court cases. The National Constitution Center should be a place for that kind of thing, which you can’t get everywhere. It should lay off the pop culture, which you can find pretty much anywhere. I wouldn’t even want to go there to see an exhibit on an artist I care about.

I have nothing against Springsteen but can we lay off the Springsteen = America shorthand? I got it. I’ve been hearing this idea ad nauseam for decades now and it’s time to give it a goddamn rest. I said I got it: Bruce Springsteen is the poet of America.

Oh, was that language not florid enough for you? Here, let me top myself and present my case in language that’s a deep shade of purple, as music and culture writers have been doing about the Boss since 1657:

Bruce Springsteen is the Cowboy Poet of Working Class America. Bruce writes the words and sings the notes that give a poetic quality to our everyday yearning, expressed in language that is evocative as fuck. Bruce’s eyes are the highway down which our rheumy eyes stare and wish for a better life. Bruce’s voice is the unpaid bills and working class troubles before which we sigh wistfully. In Bruce’s verses can we find that magical summer at the Jersey shore when we all chased after that girl in the red dress. In Bruce’s choruses can we hear the rain on abandoned buildings that inspires us to get out of this town and yet keep talking about the town after we leave. Bruce is the bard through which we pour our hopes, dreams and fears, as domestic beer pours through the urethra of a weary longshoreman in an Asbury Park dive bar. Bruce is Working Class America.

To sum up, New Jersey. Convertibles. Boardwalk. Blue collar. Blind dates. State fair. Gambling. Jeans. Colanders. Beer.

Auto mechanics.