June 30, 2000

Yogurt for breakfast. Woo-hoo. I’m trying to get excited about it, but I’m not having much luck. Yogurt. For breakfast. No chocolate chip pancakes. No lox an’ cream cheese on an H&H bagel with little lemon (yes, lemon). And not one goddamn strip of bacon. God, I do so love bacon. I have tried, without success, to get various friends and loved ones to wrap me in strips of bacon, papier mache-like, and then fry me up on a skillet (or griddle -- that’s really up to them). Then I would eat my way out, and be really happy and up and in a good mood when I was done, thus benefiting my friends and loved ones as well as allowing me to consume copious strips of bacon. Added bonus: I bet my skin would feel silky soft.

I am having yogurt for breakfast, at my desk, because I overslept in a really impressive way, and therefore did not have time to fortify myself with real food. I overslept, because I was out late, not seeing Springsteen for the second time, because we did not get tickets. The ex and I. We did not get tickets like we got tickets last Tuesday, which is when I did, in fact, see Springsteen. Oh, god. I’m a little embarrassed. Let’s back up.

I went to see Springsteen. I am not a big Springsteen fan. I know the “Born to Run.” I know the “Dancing in the Dark.” I know the “Glory Days.” That is about 90% of my Springsteen knowledge. But, I also know that he puts on one hell of a show. A show of epic proportions. Four-hour long shows. Bruuuuuuuuuuuuuuuce. Big-ass shows.

So, when the ex, who had seen two other shows in the 10-show run at the Garden, which ends Saturday, called me up and said that he had an extra ticket, and would I like to go, I said hell yes. This, after I’d called him Bruce Springsteen’s bitch. This, after I made jokes about whether Bruce would come out in a wheelchair or a stretcher -- or perhaps hooked up to one of those oxygen tanks. This, after I did my little mocking and derisive rendition of the Bruce Dance, circa 1984, with a then unknown Courtney Cox.

We went, and it was amazing. Not “wow, I am gonna run out and buy all of Bruce’s records” amazing, but “wow, this is a completely different culture -- will you look at all these people in their bandanas and their bermuda shorts and their big hair and their Jersey accents and their beer in cups and their sunburned faces and their unkempt mustaches and their wifebeaters and they know all the words and they love this man like he was their lord and savior, Jesus Christ, and, god, there is no, I mean no, I mean not one drop of irony in this sea of 20,000 people (except maybe me) and I think this might approximate what it might have been like to see Elvis, before he got all old and fat and dead and stuff.” That kind of amazing.

And the ex -- he was all kinds of into it. It was really fun to watch. He was just so happy to be there, and he was drinking in the crowd as much as I was, and he felt just as out of place as I did, I think, which is why he asked me to go with him, I think, so that we could feel out of place together. Yeah, that’s what the sniveling little romantic side of me would like to believe. Gah. That is a whole nother deal. The whole “after the concert we went to Mustang Harry’s and had $6 Heinekins and $20 buffalo wings and made jokes that originated when we were together, when we were in Amsterdam for New Year’s, and it was a very odd vibe and I was just kinda wondering ‘um, am I going home with you tonight?’ which, of course, I didn’t, but I really was wondering” deal.

Yeah, so, we tried to go again last night, but we didn’t get tickets, so we had dinner instead. I was pleased with the arrangement, as I really just kind of wanted to see him, just because it has been nice as of late. We have been okay. He does not make me cry. These are all good things. But it was weird, because we went to some French-y place (-y, because I had pasta, and I’m thinkin’ that’s not so much French) and we got a bottle of wine and there were candles and we shared a chocolate souffle (!) and, my god, was it the dateiest nondate I’ve ever had. I mean, we rarely had dinners as datey as that when we were together. And he asked if I wanted to taste his salmon, and I did, so he fed me a piece with his fork, and I asked if he wanted to taste my fusilli, and he did, so I fed him a piece with my fork, and -- do you see how this is weird? -- we left, and he was gonna take a cab, and I was gonna take the subway, but there was a bus going my way right in front of the restaurant, so I figured I’d just take that, and we hugged goodbye, and he kissed me goodbye, and...and...

So I got home late and was up late and therefore I had yogurt for breakfast.

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