Act 1: Greetings From Freehold
Act 2: Bruce and Me
Act 3: Howling at the Moon
Now that I've written this homage to Bruce, and posted my masked and smiling face at the Monmouth County Historical Association, I'm going to take a moment, put aside the photos, and howl at the moon in a block of text few might ever read.
I want to consider this: is Springsteen a poet for the rich?
We've all grown up now, and it seems we can afford the starting price of $600 a ticket* for a few hours of entertainment.
Does that make it worth it? Does that make it right?
As homelessness continues to sprawl on the streets off Broadway, the harsher realities of our world become harder to ignore.
It's not how much people earn. Few people seem concerned with Bruce's wealth. Not in a world where Jeff Bezos earns more than $2 million every 15 minutes, every day. It's not just Bruce, after all. Many people will benefit from New York City's revival, in many ways.
What concerns me is, how much we will pay? And for what?
A song? A story? Free shipping?
We are desperate for something of value.
The more time passes, the more money I might pay to try to recapture the past.
Bruce, the poet of the rich, knows this about me.
What he may not know is that the better me, the me I'm still trying to become, walks the streets off Broadway with more desperation each day, longing for words of hope from the poet of the poor.
I believe there's something of more value to be found in a town full of losers when we're not inspired to pull out of there to win.