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October 10, 2002

All right, people pipe down! I'm back, I'm back.

So, maybe you don't know. I have ManHands. It's no secret. They flap around with me, paw-like, and it's hard to conceal them. Unless, of course, you're slick and you oh-so-casually drape them behind the shoulder of the person you're being photographed with.

Unfortunately, I didn't get the ManHand far enough behind Ericka's shoulder in this shot, so I ended up looking like a puppet or perhaps as if someone propped my useless arm up on a stake of some sort for me.

Strangely enough, my brother Dennis seems to be embarrassed of his own ManHand, as evidenced in this photo I took of him with our niece Kaitlin.

You can try to fold it up, Den, but it's still there! We see it!

I'm a little rusty after 2 months off.

Mmm hmm. Anyway.

I'm going to make a list of people I don't care for:

• Janel Maloney (the gutteral Donna on West Wing)
• Debra Messing (the unfunny Grace on Will & Grace)
• George W. Bush

OK. This is getting painful.

Still with me? I have more pictures. Not now though. Later.

So Dennis and his posse of hardcore Springsteen fans went to St. Louis to see Bruce play a few weeks ago. I vaguely knew he was going, but had forgotten about it so when the phone rang at about 11:00 that night, it scared the crap out of me.

"Hello?"

Garbled yelling. Wild applause in the background.

"Hello?"

More yelling, and some laughing. A piano.

"HELLO???"

Then I realized that it was Dennis, calling from the concert. So I just listened...and eventually I recognized the opening of "Thunder Road."

People...do you remember what I went through with that song last year? Oh man. I had goosebumps on my geeselumps. I got to hear about half the song, but then Dennis abruptly hung up. But that was OK, because I was going to be joining his posse to see the show in Milwaukee a few weeks later.

The morning after he saw Bruce play in Chicago, Dennis called me to tell me that he hadn't played "Thunder Road."

"I don't think you're going to get to hear it," he said.

"Shut up," I told him.

"Amy, I'm just telling you..."

"SHUT UP!"

"Amy, I'm just TELLING YOU..."

"DENNIS!"

"...that IT'S GONE!"

"GOD!!!"

I considered hanging up on him, but decided that when Bruce played it the next night, he'd eat his words.

The next evening, I met up with Dennis and his Springsteen-stalking posse. I'd corresponded with Kathy and Mary Ann before, as they both read my journal, but I hadn't spent any quality time with them. On the car ride to Milwaukee, the rules for attending a Springsteen concert were outlined for me. By the time they were done, I was a little nervous and began to develop some performance anxiety.

The rules included:

• No sitting during the show. However...
• If Kathy sits, you may sit
• If Mary Ann sits, do not follow suit...always look to Kathy for your cues
• After the show, say nothing negative. Everything is kept "postive positive."

There were more, I'm sure of it. I've forgotten them. I probably broke them all.

When we found our seats (excellent!) and the concert began (oh my god) I forgot all about the rules anyway.

I've seen about a million concerts, but I don't think I've seen anyone perform with as much joy and enthusiasm as Bruce Springsteen. I had an excellent view of my best friend Clarence, and when they started "Born to Run" I thought I was going to throw up from excitement.

"Is your sister crying?" one of them asked Dennis at some point during the show.

"Yes," he answered without even looking at me.

So did he play "Thunder Road"?

Nah. But it didn't even matter. I've never, ever seen a concert like that. It was kind of a religious experience.

Aleta did a blow-by-blow of the whole scene here, so I'm just going to show you some pictures and tell you that it is possible to walk into an apartment full of strangers and feel welcome, comfortable, and completely entertained. These people are the stuff. They went out of their way to amuse Quinn, and I laughed so hard that I snorted SEVERAL TIMES which no one seemed to notice. I can't even imagine what family parties must be like with even more of them...unreal.

One more thing about Aleta before we go: I am simply horrified that the girl has never been a winner, or even a finalist, in the Diarist Awards. She has been a constant presence in the community since 1997, she is a captivating and intelligent writer, I nominate her ALL THE DAMN TIME, and still she goes unrewarded for her efforts. It's really frustrating for me...I can only imagine how she feels.

Well, that's just fine, Ed Coughlin of the Metiri Group. I'm sure no one will stumble across this picture and realize it's you holding a baby and smiling. Heavens!!!

All right, it's time to put this entry to bed. I still have more to say, so I'll be back...but probably not until after Quinn's big first birthday party. My feet are cold. There are cows on my pants. Goodnight.