Remembering Ms. Tina Lane

I guess this is the way I grieve. In a way, it makes sense. I am a writer, after all.

And I am a writer because of a woman named Tina Lane, who passed away on Monday...way too soon. So all I can do to honor and remember Ms. Lane is sit here this morning at my computer... and write.

I was telling an old friend this morning that I believe, 100 percent, that I could've worked my way through the ranks of my profession to my current position as a senior writer at ESPN The Magazine without a day of college. That's no knock on the UNC School of Journalism, which was fine, but more a knock on myself for being a slacker in college.

But it's also a credit to Ms. Lane, who taught journalism in High School.

I cannot name a single college professor who influenced my life. And, though it's 27 years since I graduated from West Essex High School, I can still recite Ms. Lane's aphorisms rapid-fire.

"Show don't tell."

"Maximize content, minimize words."

"If that's all you've got..."

"You've done the reporting. Now do some more."

And, I'm guessing, an expression that was probably more Jeff Bradley-specific.

"You want to put your name on that?"

Let it be known, that I was no prized pupil in Ms. Lane's journalism and creative writing classes. I was way more into playing baseball and soccer (which is funny, considering what a sub-mediocre player I was) than writing, but I was always captivated by Ms. Lane's teaching style.

OK, I confess, I was also captivated by Ms. Lane. She looked like a movie star and carried herself with more pure confidence than any teacher I'd ever laid my eyes on. I know I wasn't alone, having a little boy crush on Ms. Lane. Guys may not talk a lot about these things. But they talk.

It helped that Ms. Lane, back in the early 80s, was dating the coolest (and best) male teacher at West Essex, Mr. Montgomery, who taught history and political science. He was the male equivalent to Ms. Lane. Way cool, full of swagger, not afraid to tell you when you weren't getting the job done. Most of us figured T-Lane and Monty (nicknames you could call them to their faces) would get married some day. They did not.

Ms. Lane had a way of pushing me. At times, she used guilt to motivate me. "Look this over again, please, Jeffrey." Other times, she'd praise me, probably too much. "You have a gift, Jeffrey."

As my senior year was coming to an end, and we put the finishing touches on our final "Wessex Wire" -- I think it was some corny, Salute to Seniors thing that we passed out with everyone's yearbook -- I had the last of many heart-to-heart conversations I'd had with Ms. Lane in three long years at ol' W.E. "Not many people can make a living as a writer," I remember telling her. "Those who do, they're the gifted ones...not me."

While I can't remember exactly what Ms. Lane told me, I do recall she went back to the guilt theme. She said something like, "How dare you not believe me? I'm telling you, Jeffrey, you have the talent..."

To this day, I don't really think the word "talent" applies to me.

But how wonderful to know someone thought of me that way.

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I Wish I Were Blind...Not Really, I Just Wish I Could Write...

Write, like this..., that is...

My old friend Liz Clarke, from the UNC Journalism School...I haven't seen or spoken to her in over 20 years...spins this gem for the Washington Post Magazine.

She is, in my opinion, as real as it gets when you're talking about a Springsteen fan. I disagree with her regarding "Crush on You," a song I consider a decent frat-house rocker, but I happen to agree with almost everything she has to say in this piece, particularly the part about Bruce needing a thesaurus. I told a friend this week, after listening to Queen of the Supermarket that I believe Bruce must have writer's block, and that his pals must all be afraid of him, because a real friend wouldn't have allowed this song out in public.

As for the halftime show, it was fine. It was for all those bubble-gum fans from 1984-on, who scream "Dancing in the Dark!" and "Rosalita" all night long, even when they're at an all-acoustic show on the Boardwalk in Asbury Park and have been told up-front by Bruce himself that it's going to be a night for slower, quiet music...

Call me a snob, but I have little tolerance for those who want to go see an Oldies Act. There's a band called Backstreets, a Beatlemania type act, here at the Shore...go see them.

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To Tillie's Place, Long Run Friday Set LIst

Prove it All Night, Leah, The Rising, Youngstown, Jackson Cage, The Price You Pay, Brilliant Disguise, Sandy, If I Should Fall Behind (Live), We Shall Overcome, One Step Up, You Can Look (But you Better not Touch), Independence Day, Thunder Road, Badlands, Long Time Comin', Mary's Place, Land of Hope and Dreams (Live), Sinaloa Cowboys, Man's Job, The Ties That Bind, Tougher Than The Rest, The E Street Shuffle, Tenth Avenue Freezeout (Live), Surprise Surprise, Incident on 57th Street, Rosalita, New York City Serenade.

This is part of my Springsteen Stimulus Package...an all Bruce set list for my run to Convention Hall and back today, 18 miles with the wind in my face all the way home. Mind over matter...

It's been a bad week for me and Bruce. You're probably all too aware. But this is how I bury the hatchet on our differences, by celebrating the songs that have been the soundtrack to my life (I even threw in one from the new CD). A lot of my friends think I worship Bruce. Nah. In the business I've been in for the last 20 years, sitting and talking to so many people who've been worshiped by so many, I know better. He's just a guy who fell in love with the guitar and poetry and had the ambition to be great. If he wasn't recongized at the right time, he might be playing at O'Neill's tonight, or reading poetry in some coffee shop, or better yet, looking to kick his feet up on a Friday night after a long week of work.

An Aside: Here's what I mean. I covered Don Mattingly for four years and most of my friends thought Donnie was a god. They'd ask me all the time, "What's he like? What's he like? Good guy? Bad Guy?" My answer was stock. If he didn't hit and field quite as well as he does, he could've been your gym teacher, putting a mark in a book if you forgot your locker combination or weren't wearing a jock. Just a dude. Hits better than you. But just a dude.

But no, Bruce is playing the Super Bowl. Speaking of which...earlier in the week, I said I was undecided how I felt about Bruce doing half-time. Upon further review...

I'm down on it. I'll watch, but I'm down on it. I dunno, part of me still rebels against the whole idea that Bruce plays concerts in football stadiums at all. Brings back memories of him pumping iron and wearing tight jeans and kinda deserting his old self, the skinny hippy dude who lived above the surfboard repair shop in Asbury Park. Stadium rocker? Blech. Have fun, Bruce.

Time for me to move on. I was just genuinely excited for this album drop because, well, because I loved The Wrestler and I figured when I heard that, Bruce was in a good writing place. Man, was I wrong. Seriously, I had a poetry professor at Carolina, Jim Seay (I think it was Jim). Dude wore an eye patch like a pirate (I have no idea why, but I think he chose the patch over a glass eye, or at least that was the legend). I think what Seay would've done with Queen of the Supermarket and, man, it wouldn't have been pretty. Seay would've spit it out.

And, remember, Seay was teaching poetry to a bunch of hungover college kids.

PS: I could not care less about the Super Bowl. Unless it involved the Giants, which excites my dad and my brother, I don't get into it. Like the halftime show, I'll watch it...

But I doubt I'll enjoy it. Hope ya'll do.

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An Open Letter to the President of the United States

Dear Barack,

I'm going to keep this informal, because it's about Rock and Roll, okay? First off, I'm going to call you out, 'cause I read in Rolling Stone where you said your favorite Bob Dylan song was "Maggie's Farm" and, well, no one's favorite Dylan song is "Maggie's Farm." I mean, I'm not sure it makes anyone's Top 10. Mr. Tambourine Man. Blowin' in the Wind. A Simple Twist of Fate. The Times They Are A-Changing, Forever Young. Do I need to go further? Ballad of a Thin Man (now THAT would've been a good call, Barack). Knockin' on Heaven's Door. So, I'm calling BS on Maggie's Farm, ok? You just should've said, "I wasn't into Dylan."

Instead you went "Maggie's Farm." Please.

But I'm willing to forgive and forget.

If...if...if you can sit down with your buddy Bruce Springsteen and bring him back to earth. Listen, I voted for you, but do not worship you. The way I look at it, you're just another dude with a chance to run the show for a while. I wish you luck. But, in the process of winning this election, you befriended a bunch of stars, who backed you and, somehow, somewhere, I'm not sure why, but we lost the Bruce Springsteen we all have known and loved for the last 30-plus years. I need no more evidence than the disaster of an album he released yesterday.

I'm blaming you, Barack, for Working on a Dream. Probably not 100 percent fair, but you're the new man in charge and sometimes it's tough in the Big Chair. I bet it was you who convinced him that whistling, not a Clarence Clemons solo, was the way to go on the title track.

Am I right?

While Bruce was out working for you, playing The Rising acoustic (that was good, by the way) and We Shall Overcome (tears in my eyes), you should've been reminding him, "Bruce, I'm way ahead in this race, bud, you better get back to work on that album of yours, bro. 'Cause, honestly, that Queen of the Supermarket deal? I mean, you couldn't have pulled that crap off when you were young and singing about Crazy Janey putting her fingers in the cake."

Make it right, Barack. Talk to Bruce and tell him to get back in the freaking studio and write some songs around the immense talents of the E Street Band. Rock songs. Guitars and drums, sax and, for god's sake, put Roy Bittan back to work on the piano! Danny Federici has already died, which broke our hearts, and no one in the band's getting any younger. An Obama Presidency was supposed to make Bruce happy, not turn him into some late 50s perv hanging out in the Rumson Shop-Rite (thanks, Bob F) ogling the checkout girls. So while we don't expect Darkness on the Edge of Town, is it too much to ask for some songs like Sherry Darling, Cadillac Ranch, You Can Look...sheez, I'd take Mary's Place...anything. I'm begging.

Bruce lives around the corner from me. I'm on the other side of the trestles, but you know what I mean. He and his kid surf at our beach and we leave him alone to enjoy the time. That's the way we like it. Just a normal guy ("There I was, one night, just a normal guy...") Most of us wish we were his friend. But we respect him and leave him alone.

But you are his friend, right? Or is that more Maggie's Farm bull-junk? No, no, I'm not going to call you out again. Just bring back our old Bruce, because real Bruce fans, we don't want to join the idiots at the live shows calling out for all the old stuff.

We just want some new stuff that rocks.

Thanks dude, your fellow American,

Brads

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The Worst Springsteen Song EVER

Hey, Jeff Bradley here.

That's me, at a Bruce show last summer at Giants Stadium. I've been to over 100 in my lifetime, starting back in 1980 at MSG. I consider myself a worthy judge of all things Springsteen...and like most zealots I've cut Bruce much slack through the years. For example, I kept Devils and Dust in my car's CD player for a good month before finally telling a friend (privately), "it kinda sucks, except for maybe four songs."

Anyway, I'm taking off the gloves today. And here's what I'm sayin'...

See ya, Cover Me. Adios, 57 Channels and Nothing On.

You're now safe, Big Muddy, Last to Die and Gypsy Biker.

You're off the hook boys...as of January 27th, there's a new worst Bruce song.

Here it is, folks.

Queen of the Supermarket

There's a wonderful world where all you desire
And everything you've longed for is at your fingertips
Where the bittersweet taste of life is at your lips
Where aisles and aisles of dreams await you
And the cool promise of ecstasy fills the air
At the end of each working day she's waiting there

I'm in love with the Queen of the Supermarket
As the evening sky turns blue
A dream awaits in aisle number two

With my shopping cart I move through the heart
Of a sea of fools so blissfully unaware
That they're in the presence of something wonderful and rare
The way she moves behind the counter
Beneath her white apron her secret remains hers
As she bags the groceries her eyes so bored
And sure she's unobserved

I'm in love with the Queen of the Supermarket
There's nothing I can say
Each night I take my groceries and I drift away
And I drift away

Guidance from the gods above
At night I pray for the strength to tell her
When I love I love I love I love her so
Take my place in the check-out line
For one moment her eyes meet mine
I'm lifted up, lifted up, lifted up, lifted up

I'm in love with the Queen of the Supermarket
Though her company cap covers her hair
Nothing can hide the beauty waiting there
The beauty waiting there

I'm in love with the Queen of the Supermarket
I'm in love with the Queen of the Supermarket

As I lift my groceries in to my car
I turn back for a moment and catch a smile
That blows this whole fucking place apart

I'm in love with the Queen of the Supermarket
I'm in love with the Queen of the Supermarket
I'm in love with the Queen of the Supermarket
I'm in love with the Queen of the Supermarket

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Working on 3 or 4 Songs worth Listening To

There is no bigger Bruce Springsteen fan than Jeff Bradley (referring to myself in third person, suh-weet). Go ahead, ask around, if you don't believe me. I once took a week off from classes at UNC to follow Bruce around the Southeast, with no tickets.

A girl named Liz Clarke (now a fantastic sportswriter for the Washington Post) and I would walk around various arenas until showtime, searching for bargains and, if all else failed, Liz had a trick that almost always seemed to work. She knew when and where the band's unused tickets would be released. It was genius, pure genius. Liz was cool...a bigger junky than I was (and talks to Joe Posnanski about it here), if that's possible, and she knew bigger junkies than both of us combined. Fun times.

Why did we want to go to so many shows? Simple. Because it seemed (I'm not sure anymore if it's reality) that every Bruce show was different.

I've remained loyal. When Bruce releases a new CD (yeah, I still call them "albums"), I am there to buy it (or download it), on Day One. Even when it's one of those somber, mostly acoustic deals like the Ghost of Tom Joad or Devils and Dust, I buy it soon as it hits the shelves...or soon as the link shows up at the Itunes Store.

So here I sit today, listening to Working on a Dream, Bruce's latest...which is being released just prior to his appearance at the Super Bowl. Going on a tangent here, I don't know how I feel about Bruce doing halftime...I mean, we used to applaud when Bruce turned down the big bucks Chrysler was offering him to use Born in the USA as a jingle. We even used to cheer Bruce for not "selling out" by doing music videos...or appearing in music videos after he did Atlantic City...then came the Dancing in the Dark and Courteney Cox...and, well, we accepted it. Not sure we liked it, but we accepted it. It actually got bad for a while with a cheezy vid for I'm on Fire (where Bruce attempted to act), but, hey, it was Bruce...so you put up with it, I guess.

Back to Working on a Dream. Seems Bruce has gotten all into altering his voice with electronics (I'm no sound tech, but it's clearly nothing like the raw stuff back in the The River era), and a lot of heavy production. Whatever, I'm down with it. It's cool. It's the songs that leave me begging.

The first song, Outlaw Pete, is a "Western Ballad" (at least that's what I'm calling it) that, at eight minutes, seems to last too long. And this criticism from a guy who gets ticked off when I hear Incident on 57th Street and Rosalita does not immediately follow it, providing me with the full 12-minute experience. I'm all about the 15-minute version of Racing in the Street that Bruce used to do on the '78 Darkness Tour...Love Prove it All Night with a four-minute piano intro...etc. Outlaw Pete, however...I kinda wanted it to end at four minutes. Drone, drone, Outlaw Pete, Outlaw Pete...Can You Hear Me?...Can You Hear Me? Unfortunately, yes.

The next two songs you've heard already. My Lucky Day and Working on a Dream. I have to say, My Lucky Day is a good rocker, and I really like the Miss Soozie Tyrell violin...no complaints. Working on a Dream lost me with the whistling part. Is it too much to ask for a Clarence Clemons solo here, or maybe some harmonica? OK, it's a decent little pop song, obviously linked to Bruce's man crush on Barack Obama, but a Bruce Classic it's not. It's a B-minus song.

At this point, Bruce throws at you perhaps the most ridiculous song I've ever heard from the man. Queen of the Supermarket. Just brutal. It's a song about some dude obsessing over the checkout girl at the local A&P. And at the end, Bruce throws in his second-recorded F-bomb. And it basically comes out of nowhere. This, I don't get. I mean, Bruce had 1,000 times the raw emotion when he sang Streets of Fire or Adam Raised a Cain...and never needed an F-bomb.

The next few songs -- What Love Can Do, This Life and Good Eye -- just nothing I'll want to continue listening to. I'm hitting the skip button in my car and the FF button on my ipod. Sorry. Come to think of it, I'm deleting it from my ipod. It's going the way of Spare Parts and 57 Channels and Nothing On and Last to Die...see ya.

It gets better with a 2-minute 17-second ditty, Tomorrow Never Knows, which I like a lot. Just a good little Bruce tune, an album tune, not a tune people will clamor for live...but a good tune. Let me see if I can type the word "tune" one more time. Tune.

Skip Life Itself. It's been getting play on E Street Radio..and it's just not good. Kingdom of Days sounds like an outtake from Magic, which is not a bad thing. I'll call it a keeper. I also like Surprise, Surprise, which also reminds me of a Magic song...think Girls in Their Summer Clothes..and has nice 60s, Byrds-like, harmonies. Good, solid stuff.

The Last Carnival...hey, it ain't Wild Billy's Circus Story, but it's a nice song. This one I'll keep on the ipod and add to some of my chill mixes. Have a feeling this one will grow on me, the same way Drive All Night and Something in the Night and Further On Up The Road evolved from songs I liked to songs I loved over the course of time.

And, of course, the best track on the whole CD is the title-song Bruce wrote for the Mickey Rourke movie, The Wrestler. It's quite simply a song that helps me keep the faith that Bruce can produce music worth listening to as he nears 60 years... This song actually put a lump in my throat similar to the lump I used to get hearing Bruce dedicate No Surrender to Steve Van Zandt back on the Born In the USA Tour...and then he'd play No Surrender solo acoustic.

Honestly, E Street Radio has probably made "new" Bruce music a harder sell for me. When I get random live shows like Live From St. Rose of Lima School in Freehold, and random jolts of The Price You Pay and Independence Day and Atlantic City live...man, Bruce, you set the bar high. Now, I feel compelled to type the word "random" again. Random.

I'll buy the next album, I'm sure...but the days of dropping the needle (or hitting play) and just rolling with it for 45 minutes to two hours...I guess they're gone.

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To the Bridge (Long Run Friday Set List)

I'm a day late with my Long Run Friday song-list, but here 'tis. This week, I relied on the "Party Shuffle" mechanism on Itunes. After hitting refresh a good dozen times, I was satisifed that these songs would get me through a 15 mile run to the Mantoloking Bridge and Back.

Training is getting better. As I glanced at my reflection in the Martell's Tiki Bar windows on the Point Pleasant boardwalk, I thought I looked a lot more like a runner than I looked three weeks ago. Better stride, less jiggle.

The home stretch was difficult, as always, and the thought of tacking another 11 miles onto this distance, right now, seems ridiculous. From doing this five times before, I know that will change if I stick to the program. A month from now, as I begin to stretch long runs to 20 miles and beyond, it won't seem this bad.

During my two-hour, 10-minute journey today I thought a lot about baseball and how I'm starting to fall back in love with the game. I openly admit, the steroid mess hit me hard, probably because I (and many of my colleagues) knew perfectly well what was going on, and beat my head against the wall trying to figure out the best way to tell the story to America. In 2000, two years after the Mac and Sammy Freak Show Tour, I got this story published in ESPN The Magazine and it barely caused a ripple. At that point, even though I knew there'd come a day when this was the biggest story in baseball, I threw in the towel and basically became disgusted with the game.

But, finally, I'm getting over it. I have to credit having two sons who love baseball with the re-kindling that's going on. Working with them on the skills of the game, talking about our favorite players (this guy is the current guy in our house), basically, re-living my childhood, when the game was EVERYTHING, is helping me move on. I am really looking forward to spring training this year. And I haven't said that in a number of years.

Anyway, here's the music that moved me (and a few comments)...

Cigarette Eyes, Matt Costa...if you don't know Matt Costa, you must check him out.
If We Can Land A Man On The Moon, Surely I Can Win Your Heart, Beulah
Pretty Pink Rose, Ashton Allen
The Road, Jackson Browne...memories of Al Bartello singing this in the West Essex Talent Show.
Born To Run (live), Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band...far from my favorite Bruce tune.
The First Time, U2
The Harder They Come, Jimmy Cliff...the first song on a sublime mix tape I made in college, called Old, New, Borrowed and Blue...could've been called, "Music to Beer Pong To."
Hello It's Late, Stone Temple Pilots
Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head, Ben Folds...Ben does Burt Bacharach, really good stuff.
Leah, Bruce Springsteen...wish I could play this on my acoustic, dammit.
Airlift, The Connells
House Of Sand, Simon Lynge
Los Angeles, Counting Crows...beware, my party shuffle is about to go into Adam Duritz Overload.
Minutes To Memories, John Mellencamp...the only Cougar song on my ipod.
Far Far Away From My Heart, BoDeans
I Need Direction, Teenage Fanclub...Love this band and everything they sing.
Mr. Jones (acoustic, live), Counting Crows...ok, this CC song, I can listen to every day.
Soon We'll Be Found, Sia...weird for a running mix, but what a voice.
No Surrender (live acoustic), Bruce Springsteen...this song once made me cry.
It's Different For Girls (Live), Joe Jackson...sixth and Seventh grade memories, how's that possible?
Somebody's Baby (Live acoustic), Jackson Browne...Fast Times scene, anyone?
Usually, Traschan Sinatras...a 90s MetroSexual band introduced to me by A's GM Billy Beane.
When I Dream of Michelangelo, Counting Crows...ok, enough.
He Said, She Said, Bell X1
Listen to Me Girl, Smithereens...like baseball, I'm rekindling with the Smithereens lately.
Shooting Star, Elliott Smith...this dude died too soon, great songwriter, guitarist.
What If We Give It Away?, REM...anyone who went to college in the South in the 80s loves REM, or they do not hang with me.
I Can't Stand Up For Falling Down, Elvis Costello
Love Needs A Heart, Jackson Browne
Daring Night, Van Morrison...sing it, Van, bring me home.
Used To Love Her, Guns N Roses...a smile to my face at the end of a looooooooooong run.

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