Reclusive Rocker Roller

After I got my TV writing break with VH1 Classic on America’s Hard 100, I gave my producer boss who hired me a Bruce Springsteen mix to express my appreciation. Then I say, “This doesn’t mean I have a crush on you boss.”

I think too highly of my former TV producer boss to make him a volume 2 mix since Bruce Springsteen decided to nod in submissive agreement with Obama Be Good during an interview with CBS while promoting their new book together, Experimenting With Biological Warfare, after the fake news uniting one branded the E-Street band’s white boy fanbase as a bunch of easily triggered Michael Richard types minus the SAG cards, who who launch into N bomb dropping tirades at the local pub off Broadway, Screaming Nazi’s Are Us, after a couple of Jack and Coke’s with no Clarence Clemons clones in sight. As if another operatic, soul tingly sax solo by the late great Clarence Clemons of the E Street Band on Jungleland would easily trigger an Irish MTA subway token operator in the eighties after a couple of Black and Tan’s in his system after the eighties jukebox replays, Westside Story meets The Outsiders in Washington Heights on Jungleland, after blowing 200 bones to hear the song performed live prior at MSG. MTA subway token operator says, “You know bro, I don’t normally, use the n word, unless it’s a term of affection, because I grew up around more black guys in Bed-Stuy than Seal. But that n word can blow the bug out of Spike Lee’s ass.”

But seriously, what are these other so called confessional, racist bomb acapella asides being dropped by Bruce’s closeted racist fan base after E-Street show’s past?

Dock Worker says to his girl on his way back home from an E-Street Band show at the Stone Pony in Ashbury Park, “Saints of Newark my ass, The E-Street Band, can blow that soul glow sound out of their jungle fever loving assholes. I could’ve been the Grand Dragon, but instead I’m a gun shy, closeted racist and that’s all I’ll ever be.”

Sanitation Worker back on the truck again says, “Affirmative Action gave me you Leroy and I’m happier for it. What did you think of the E Street Band show at the Garden last night? Leroy says, “I felt whiter than white man’s disease Lorenzo, if you really need to know.”

Aspiring American Short Story scribe janitor mutters to himself while mopping up some spilled Sloppy Second Joe brain slop, “Charles Bukowski didn’t think Bob Dylan was anything to write home about either.”

Short Order Cook just out of Rikers for drug possession of cocaine at a Dead show in Nassau Coliseum in the eighties says, “I thought coke would make Bruce Springsteen sound like less generic white boy music, it didn’t.”

Plumber under the sink at work again says, “That Clarence Clemons can play a Nickle back defense if Leonard Marshall on the Giants ever goes down. But he can still drop a fire hose load on top of my sister’s back to mark the time he came there anytime.”

A sleep deprived, hungover, Welder burns his hand on the job the following morning after a 4 hour Bruce show the previous night, combined with the 2 hours it took him to get out parking lot at Giant Stadium and screams out loud, with flabbergasted disgust, “Fuck you Clarence. I was born with 0.0 talent. I was born to do jack shit but get fired on the job again.”

Jersey Mechanic get’s oil in his eye under the hood of a Pink Cadillac and bemoans, “Clarence Clemmons is pounding away champagne and crab legs after shows yet this little greasy monkey can’t even change a spark plug right. You can’t get out of New Jersey without a creative spark like Clarence either Bruce. I’m stuck in the Swamp Thing state permanently and it’s not because of alluring tax breaks on my organic farm growing pesticide free Jersey tomatoes for Grandma’s Sunday sauce. But you’re not guilty of cultural appropriation Bruce, you Obama Be Good siding, no matter what, sell out mook.”

I recall Bruce Springsteen addressing the E-Street Band after someone was caught violating their no drug policy by stating, “All of you are replaceable. The Big Man would take a bit to replace. Michael Clarke Duncan is a little bit green and not method enough to go that extra mile the way Denzel did in Mo Better Blues.”

Also, the E Street Band boasts the most Jewish sounding drummer of all time, Max Weinberg, who looks like he’d be playing the Bar Mitzvah circuit if Bruce didn’t shimmer up and exploit Bob Dylan’s working man’s blues, country rock pop motif with a one man horn section in the form of Clarence Clemons for all it was worth. So how racist could Bruce’s alleged screaming Nazi fans be if they could stomach Bruce who looked liked like a plague carrying, scuzzier version of Neil Diamond, otherwise known as the Jewish Elvis, on the Born to Run Album tour, combined with the larger than life big man blowing him off the stage with one soul man and a half sax bellow blast after another in addition to the four eyed, all together, ultra studious Jewy teen drummer Max Weinberg in his leftover Bar Mitzvah suit pounding away on the drums at the Stone Pony in Ashbury Park back to earn some extra sheckles to afford a Sandy Kofax rookie card, because his weekly allowance wasn’t cutting it. Did Tony the Plumber and his buddy wait till the Stone Pony was practically empty, and do one last bump of shitty coke that tastes like AJAX, only hearing last call from the bathroom stall to get more stone cold sober for the ride home only to be unmasked as Axl’s Rose’s alter ego on GNR Lies in the making? Tony the Plumber blurts, “Police and N Bombs get out of my way.” Plumber bud says, “Get out of whose way? We got 2 lines left bro. I’m here to do some coke Tony, not blow my last minutes of freedom before I drive home to my fat slob wife, to hear you rehearse your lines for dumb mook number 3 in Raging Bull.”

Bruce Springsteen fans are racists, yeah, the elitist ones on Broadway, who don’t think Kyrie Irving is smart enough to make his own his health care decisions. Don’t get it twisted Obama Be Good, we all know you’ve done less for black empowerment than school boards trying to cock block the creation of more Charter Schools, which make those blame game hack, lazy brain teachers less inspired role models than Courtney Love failing to teach her 9 -year- old to read, while belting out lyrics, “I shat my bed on more heroin and I’ll die in it. Because I’m not clear headed enough yet to practice forging Kurt Cobain’s handwriting on his subsequent suicide note after he decides to dump my junkie ass for good.” Hey, don’t kill the innocuous messenger insurrectionist. And you thought Alanis Morissette was a longwinded jaded little bitch. Look at it this way, if Kurt Cobain killed himself at the height of his popularity, after coming out as a professed proud Dad, who discussed quitting the music biz to focus on his painting, his guitar and playing dad like a bleached out junky version of William Burroughs into his old age. Then, Woody Allen still stands a shot at winning Father of the Year while shooting the shit with Oprah about his new book on hands off parenting, Crimes and Misdemeanors, The Early Years.

I also thought Kurt Cobain detested cliched rock stereotypes. And what’s more stereotypical rock god behavior than self-imposed, fatal ruin, from drugs or a shot gun marriage to Courtney Love? Kurt Cobain actually predicted that an outsider, not controlled by outside moneyed interests like Trump could become President one day. Google it, if they haven’t scrubbed that quote yet, which wouldn’t be Pearl Jam sell out shocking, by endorsing Mr. Groper on the campaign tour just as Kurt had labeled Eddie Vedder ions ago. Because if Google doesn’t manipulate search results, then why is it harder to find positive mentions of alternative treatments for COVID such as hydroxychloroquine than it is to find a film blogger on Rotten Tomatoes who called the Irishman, “underrated”?

What would Kurt Cobain have to say about the Foo Fighters playing the 1st concert post pandemic at the world’s most woke arena at Madison Square Garden, with a proof of vax to get into the door? Anyone who attended that show is on the side of generic gunky goo, throughout their everlong, edgeless lives. Reclusive Rocker shredding again, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

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