Tag: Bruce Springsteen

The ties that bind

The ties that bind

My boyfriend’s name is Bruce Springsteen, and I saw him last Thursday for the first time in eight years.

Our relationship has lasted for nearly half a century. It was 1978 when I first laid eyes on the man in my hometown of San Jose, California.

But it was his voice that had drawn me in three years earlier, the voice that had made me lose my head. I was driving around town in the late summer of 1975 when the first, raging wall-of-sound chords of “Born to Run” erupted through my radio. My speakers rattled, I was rattled, my adrenaline blew through the roof, and I had to pull over just to catch my breath. Then I heard the voice – that growl, that howl, reaching down into something bottomless, wanting something so desperately.

My parents, of course, never understood the attraction. I wouldn’t say that he was a “bad boy” – he never used drugs, never landed in jail. But he wore a leather jacket and played guitar in a rock and roll band. He had a contentious relationship with his father. He was a troubled student. He hung out on the streets at night.

A bit of an outsider, he was.

And oh, so handsome.

Bruce is six years older than me, but the age difference doesn’t matter. We’re of the same generation. We’ve both grown up, gotten married, had careers, found a home and a sense of place, and settled in.

I know he has his flaws. But in relationships that go on this long, we can easily overlook the smudges.

I’ll admit that we almost broke up when he temporarily lost his mind and jettisoned the E Street Band back in 1989. But I stuck with him, reluctantly, and when he put the band back together 10 years later, I found solid ground again.

Now here we are, almost 50 years later, and I still get to moon over him, as if we were kids again. One last time, baby, one last time.

***

I was in college when I began incessantly playing the Born to Run album. In those days I was sometimes hanging out at the beach, although I didn’t live near the shore, as Bruce did. The ocean was 40 miles away, and on warm nights my friend Ted and I would drive “over the hill” on Highway 17 to the magical mystical Santa Cruz boardwalk. Highway 17 was steep and treacherous, and I remember driving past the roadside corpses of overheated station wagons. Ted and I drank beer and walked barefoot along the dark beach, skirting the tide, with the moon overhead and the future just as brightly distant.

Born to Run was an epic, almost operatic story, part rock and part poetry, about what it was like to be young in the seventies. The band was full and resonant, with a lyrical, echoing sax that always sounded like the mysteries of a city at midnight. Populated with characters right off of the shore, the songs were about nights on the beach, wheels on the highway, the rush of neon, an occasional stolen kiss, and the languorous days of summer, with “barefoot girls sittin’ on the hood of a Dodge, drinking warm beer in the soft summer rain.” Bruce was the poet Everyman for teenagers like me.

God, I loved him.

***

When I first saw Bruce in person, at the San Jose Civic Auditorium in June of 1978, he was even more dreamy than I had expected. His show was about three hours long, and even in front of a fairly small audience, that man and his band spent every last ounce of their energy onstage. The songs themselves were epics; the youthful Bruce leaped onto his amps, onto the piano, and into the crowd; and we were all held fast by what Springsteen calls “the power, the magic, the mystery, and the ministry of rock and roll.” After the last of the drenching encores, I knew that I had just witnessed the greatest live American rock and roll band in history.

(By the way, I recently wrote to Brucebase, the definitive Springsteen stat site, to add to its incomplete setlist of that show because I just realized that my 1978 diary included song references from the night. The site manager corrected the record and asked if I would be comfortable sending him my scanned diary pages [see above]. I agreed reluctantly, embarrassed by my adolescent “review.”)

I’ve now seen 20 Springsteen shows: five in San Jose, eight in Oakland, two in Mountain View, three in San Francisco, one in Berkeley, and one in Cincinnati. All were good, some were excellent, and a few were transcendent.

Springsteen always has said that he loathes the recording process; it’s the live performances that fuel him. And they fuel the audience, too. Every E Street Band show is fervent and rousing – a barn burner that ignites a fever and grabs at your insides. Those surges of adrenaline, everyone roaring in unison . . . how often, during a normal day, are we privileged to feel that?

The E Street Band, 1977

As fans, we’ve also been privileged to immerse ourselves in the beautiful balance of the E Street Band – not just your typical five-piece rock and roll band, but the jazz part, the R&B part, the notes that build so richly from the piano, the horn section, and that sexy, sumptuous sax.

Bruce is a superb storyteller, too, and in his younger days he’d often introduce his songs with personal anecdotes that were at times generously honest and at other times, perhaps, crafted partially from folklore. In any event, through these legendary tales over the years we’ve been submerged deeply into his American narrative – the wide-reaching novel of his life, beginning with his difficult blue-collar roots in a fading New Jersey steel town; his raw, often troubled relationship with his father; his spiritual dreams and disappointments; and his mythical first meeting with his big sax-man, Clarence Clemons, who in 1971 blew through the door of a club along the Jersey Shore, tearing it off its hinges on a rainy, windy night.

***

Along the way he also made me laugh. At that summer 1978 show he told us that “San Jose is just a mean town, you know?” [lots of laughter] “I remember I was down here about 8 years ago and I pulled into this gas station and they said, ‘WHATDYA WANT?’ And I had to say ‘Gas!!’ ”

Embed from Getty Images

In Oakland in 1984, Bruce offered us his cute version of love’s inevitable transience. “When you first meet somebody, everything they do is perfect. You tell ’em how beautiful they look every night and that everything they say is so brilliant. I remember I’d meet a new girl and before I’d go over I’d stand in front of the mirror, fix my hair so it looked just right, and I’d always be worried that my nose was too big. But she’d say, ‘Oh, Sweetie, it’s perfect just the way it is.’ But about six months later, I’d ask, ‘Can I get a goodnight kiss?’ and now she’s saying, ‘I would, if I could get around that thing on the front of your face.’ ”

***

Thirty years after my first Springsteen concert, I saw Bruce again for the 16th time. It was April 5, 2008, and he was back in San Jose. We were older then, and life was not as carefree. That very morning, my friend Holly had died of cancer. For much of the day I’d debated whether I should even attend the show, but I finally decided that Holly absolutely wouldn’t have wanted me to stay home. I wasn’t exactly in the mood for revelry, though, and I had a heavy heart as I stood in line waiting to get in. For some reason I’d chosen to get floor tickets for that show, which is definitely not my style; I’m a wimp and would much rather have an assigned seat. But being on the floor gave me a chance, for the first time, to participate in the day-of-concert lottery that would get me into “the pit” – the coveted area right up against the stage. I remember that I actually cast up a silent prayer, telling Holly that I figured she was still hanging around this mortal coil for a bit and could she please intervene and make my wristband number come up. Sure enough my number was chosen, and I got to stand in the front row. An absolute dream come true. Towards the end of his set Bruce sang a quartet of songs about transformation, journeys, death, and immortality, so I felt strongly – like probably many others in the audience – that the whole night was actually directed at me.

My most recent Springsteen show was last Thursday night in San Francisco. Bruce told a story about visiting George Theiss, a guitarist friend from his first band the Castiles, on one of George’s last days before succumbing to lung cancer. Bruce is now the only person from that band still living, so he then performed “Last Man Standing” (with a tear in his eye). At the end of the night, after the band had left the stage for good, Springsteen came out alone onstage with an acoustic guitar for one final song, “I’ll See You in My Dreams.” He was probably thinking about his mother, Adele, who died just two months ago. His face showed it.

***

Bruce and I have grown up together. We don’t care as much about cars and boardwalks and freedom any more; we care about love, community, memory, loyalty, the people we miss. We’ve gone from trying to escape to trying to hold things close. That’s what he seems to write about most these days. His most recent album was a love letter to his family and to his band.

Springsteen’s career has included 21 studio albums, 7 live albums, 17 compilations, more than 100 archival releases, scores of bootlegs, and countless songs still left in the can, unreleased, many of them excellent. No one has ever been as prolific.

Will this tour be his last? I don’t know. Will it be mine? Quite possibly. Who knows what the next few years will bring to an aging performer and his aging band, as well as to aging fans like me.

If I could go back in time to that 1978 show, I would. My first time with Bruce was by far the best. I was so close to him, could hear every word, could feel the fire.

When you’re sitting in a huge stadium, as I was on Thursday, so much is lost in the muddy din. The intimate connection just isn’t there. But the show was still three hours long, without a break. And it was still driven with high-octane energy, no different from every single show he’s ever done – from his time in Jersey bars more than 50 years ago to half-empty auditoriums in San Jose to sold-out arenas. He’s always given it everything he’s got.

Love you always, Bruce. There ain’t nobody, nowhere, nohow, who could ever understand me the way you did.

Embed from Getty Images
Bruce Springsteen and “Miami Steve” Van Zandt, March 2024

***

COMMENTERS, PLEASE NOTE: WordPress is no longer supporting my particular page type and doesn’t seem to be asking commenters for their names, so everyone is identified as “Anonymous.” If you’re commenting (which I love!), please leave your name if you’d like me to know who you are!

***

Due to popular demand, I am including, at the end of each blog post, the latest random diary entries that I’ve been posting on Facebook for “Throwback Thursday.” These are all taken absolutely verbatim from the lengthy diaries I kept between 1970 and 1987.

July 25, 1975 [age 19]:

“I’m just so excited about going out of state on my East Coast trip in just a few days. The Rexall gang [where I had just quit working] gave me a soft pink luggage bag thing as a going-away gift, which is great because I hadn’t even thought of luggage! I bought a motorized splicer for my new Super 8 camera because I can’t afford a projector. I also did last-minute things like seeing Egghead [my allergist Dr. Egbert] for a shot, buying Travelers Checks, getting my hair rolled, reading some travel books, and buying some new clothes (I saved $60!). I had dinner tonight with [my friends] Robin and Guy, and it gave me feelings about early last summer when I’d always be running off to San Francisco, to City Lights bookstore and the Wharf, thinking of [my friend] Ted and listening to [Bob Dylan’s] ‘Girl From the North Country.’ It was a beautiful summer. I remember that I lay out on my balcony drinking beer, knowing I was going to leave school for a year and see the country like Kerouac, and the beer would dribble across my thoughts like the frothy fingers left behind by spent and sleepy ocean tides.”

July 30, 1975 [age 19] (staying in Virginia with my friend Jeanne’s family):

“Jeanne and I went to Washington, D.C. today. It’s a beautiful place with lots of trees and monuments. My favorite spot was the Air and Space Museum, where I actually saw the moon rock. I’d expected it to glow or at least look soft or something, but it was merely an ordinary rock.”

July 31, 1975 [age 19] (staying in Virginia with my friend Jeanne’s family):

“I did another ridiculous and stupid thing today. I took a shower and let the curtain hang OUTSIDE the tub rather than inside, and the floor was in inch-deep water when I stepped out. I had to sop it up with towels and wring out the rug on the porch. Jeanne’s mom didn’t look too pleased.”

August 8, 1975 [age 19] (staying in New Jersey with my friend Jeanne’s father):

“Jeanne and I headed out to New York today, bought a bunch of tickets for upcoming plays, walked around the Village, and decided to hit the bars. At the first one, the bartender showed me about putting coffee beans in Sambuca, a new drink I discovered that tastes like licorice. He said that with the three beans it’s called ‘Sambuca Romana con Mosca.’ There we met a girl who told us how to circumvent the cover charge at discos. She said you just say you’re meeting somebody – ‘Sam Bernstein,’ she said – and the person never comes and they feel sorry for you and let you stay in for free. Then we saw ‘Chicago’ with Liza Minelli standing in for the main actress Gwen Vernon [sic], who unfortunately had inhaled some confetti. Liza was good and Chita Rivera was in it also. We waited for Liza for 45 minutes after the show but she never came out. We went to two more bars afterwards and then we crawled onto the PATH [the train back to New Jersey], and we were laughing so hard, and talking and talking so much, that when the PATH reached its destination in Hoboken we never noticed and were oblivious that it was the last stop, so the train started going backwards and we had to go all the way back into New York and then do it all over again!”

August 10, 1975 [age 19] (staying in New Jersey with my friend Jeanne’s father):

“We saw ‘Godspell’ in New York today – it was so happy and joyous that I came out whistling ‘Prepare Ye the Way of the Lord.’ Then we went to the Village to eat supper at Hunan restaurant and Jeanne ordered Tanqueray. I thought maybe that was an exotic Asian drink so I said, ‘Give me the same,’ and it was just gin and tonic, which I totally hate. DUMB!”

August 12, 1975 [age 19] (leaving New Jersey and heading to Maine to join Jeanne’s husband Steve):

“Today was nuts. We were going to go to Woodstock, but then we got a flat tire in the middle of the New York State Thruway! A Thruway man came by, luckily, and he had to call another truck because none of us had the right size lug wrench [Jeanne had a Chevy El Camino]. We had to wait all that time with all these huge trucks whizzing by, and then it started to rain, which I couldn’t believe because there was no warning and it’s August! Also, my lunch had been so big – a HUGE eggplant parmigiana sandwich – that I began busting out of my blouse and had to change it right on the freeway!”

A sloth’s guide to exercise

A sloth’s guide to exercise

When I was talking to my good friend Julie R. last week, she told me with great disappointment that she had a terrible cold and had to scale her cardio exercise session “down” to 30 minutes. Then she and I immediately laughed, because we both know that getting up to 30 minutes of cardio is my never-ending goal.

I am cursed blessed with a group of friends – none of them spring chickens, mind you – who all seem to be paragons of physical fitness. The aforementioned Julie R. runs marathons. Jill and Barb climbed Mt. Everest and, when that got a bit tedious, trekked around Machu Picchu. Michele works out with kettlebells (or, as I like to call them, “rotator cuff rippers”). Ron hikes the Pacific Crest Trail. Annabelle is a national champion in velodrome cycling. M.L. does triathlons.

It probably goes without saying that none of those things is in my repertoire.

For the most part, I hate exercising, unless it involves playing competitive sports. I used to be a decent athlete, but nowadays my sports endeavors typically end in a torn muscle, a broken bone, or some combination of the two. So I have settled on exercising as an individual, because of course it’s good for your heart and helps keep your bones from disintegrating and blah-dee-dee blah blah blah.

I have a feeling that some of my readers (outside of my close circle of superjock friends) might feel the way I do, so I would like to offer my surefire method of starting an exercise program and sticking with it. My method involves just three components:

  1. Exercising for only 30 seconds;
  2. Getting into a furious lather over newstalk; and
  3. Hoping that Max Weinberg gets food poisoning.

Follow the “30 Seconds” program

The most critical element of the Bocciardi exercise program is exercising for only 30 seconds. Now, I know you’re all assuming that I’m just trying to be funny, but my closest friends and family members can verify that what I am about to say is 100 percent true.

It seems that every year or two something happens that completely derails my exercise program. I shatter a bone, rip a ligament, get sick, experience some kind of life interruption, or just plain get lazy. And as many of you know, it is really, really hard to start up exercising once you have stopped. It is painful. The lungs burn, the legs ache, the heart labors, and it’s simply a boatload of misery. So I have found that the only thing that makes me start up again is knowing that I have to do it for only 30 seconds.

My cardio machine of choice is the elliptical, and what I do is exercise for 30 seconds on my first day back, 60 seconds the next time, and so on. Of course, increasing by only 30 seconds per outing means that it takes 60 outings to work my way up to my 30-minute max, but that’s fine with me. (And if I get on the elliptical three days a week, that means it will take five months to reach my half-hour max – about enough time for me to tear another ligament and have to start all over again.)

Knowing that I have to suffer for only 30 seconds that first day is a sublime motivator. And I really get into it. I pull on my sweats, grab some Gatorade, and even make sure I wear my sports bra.

 

Get infuriated over newstalk

My ideal sports regimen involves using the elliptical on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, I work out for 20–30 minutes on our hybrid weight machine in our downstairs “guest room.”

I discovered many years ago that listening to newstalk radio in the car always makes me furious, which can really make a lengthy trip zip by in seemingly no time at all. If a 22-year-old know-it-all starts ranting about how future Hall of Fame coach Bruce Bochy doesn’t know what he’s doing and should have replaced a pitcher, the time you spend sitting in rush-hour traffic will pass swiftly as your disgust rises. Or if one of those “survivalists” calls in from his bunker to offer his completely uninformed opinion about the Constitution, your three-hour trip will evaporate while you seethe.

So, while I spend time downstairs on the weight machine, injuring myself in small increments (until one day: SPROIIIIIIING!), I watch cable news on television. I can simultaneously do a shoulder press and shriek at the TV, “Why on earth do you still have a job, Wolf??! Is no one else sick to death of your breathless pettifogging?”

Not only does that pass the time, but my blood boils, my heart pumps like a locomotive, and my theory is that it enables me to lift more weight!

 

Imagine Max Weinberg with salmonella

While I’m on the elliptical in the garage, though, I don’t watch television. What I do is put one of my so-last-millennium CDs into my so-last-millennium living room CD player and listen via wireless headphones.

(Of course, as you might imagine, when I’m exercising for only 30 seconds, I don’t get to hear very much of a song.)

Dealing with the pain and misery of cardio exercise, however, requires that I do something more than just listen to music. So I fantasize.

fess_parker_as_daniel_boone
Fess Parker

When I was a little girl, my favorite fantasy was that I was a wide receiver for the Green Bay Packers. As I got a little older, I had a dream (now legendary among my circle of friends) about Fess Parker and me that involved no clothing whatsoever except for coonskin caps. It was rather wonderful, but I digress.

For the last two years I’ve slowly been going through my entire Springsteen CD collection, which includes studio recordings, EPs, and a raft of bootlegs. My objective is to catalog all of them in a detailed database and to rate each studio and live performance according to the Bocciardi ratings system. This means hundreds of hours listening to Bruce while I work out on the elliptical.

What I do for the entire 30 minutes – or seconds, as the case may be – is fantasize that I am playing drums in the E Street Band behind Bruce at a live concert. In my scenario, I’ve been conscripted to play, on the spur of the moment, because regular drummer Max Weinberg is suddenly stricken and unable to take the stage.

Rock fans, this is where we absolutely must discuss the fact that this did happen to the world’s luckiest teenager. And it occurred right here in Daly City.

On November 20, 1973, the Who – one of the greatest bands of all time – were (or is it “was”?) in the middle of a show at the Cow Palace when drummer Keith Moon passed out cold, allegedly from a combination of tranquilizers and brandy. After being revived offstage with a shower and a cortisone injection, he came back out and continued drumming, seemingly back to normal. But during the very next song he passed out again, and this time he meant it.

Miraculously, some of this was filmed and has been posted on YouTube. You can see Keith slumped over at about 8:22, right after “Magic Bus” ends.

https://youtu.be/aIjH9OU2JKw

Guitarist Pete Townshend then looked up into the crowd and asked whether there were any good drummers who could come down and help them out. Holy nirvana! This doesn’t even happen in the movies!

Nineteen-year-old Thomas Scot Halpin, a fan who’d arrived 13 hours early with a friend to see the legendary band, was standing on the floor off to the side of the stage. When Townshend made his plea, the friend dragged Scot over to a security guard and insisted that he knew all the material and would be the perfect person for the job. Concert promoter Bill Graham came over to check out what he thought was a security issue, but he ended up recruiting Scot for the job. So Halpin found himself onstage, where someone gave him a shot of brandy to calm his nerves and he proceeded to spend the next few minutes of his life living out a dream that afterwards he could barely remember because of the adrenaline and the unreality of it all.

The band did three more songs, two of which were classic blues numbers. The third song was a Who tune called “Naked Eye” that had been played live but had not been released on a studio album, so I don’t know whether Halpin had even heard it before.

Although he had not touched a drumstick in a year, and Townshend sometimes had to help him through the tempo changes, I think the teenage drummer did a great job:

https://youtu.be/X5ZGlVY5rg4

At the end, Halpin takes a bow with the band and looks like the happiest man alive.

It gives me chills to watch it.

scot-halpin

My fantasy, as I mentioned, is similar. But there is no way Max Weinberg would ever be under the influence at a concert (or probably anywhere). For a long time my scenario involved his having a heart attack, but after many months it occurred to me that if Max had a coronary before a show, Springsteen would not blithely carry on with the concert as if nothing had happened! So I decided that he needed to suddenly get a raging case of food poisoning. Nothing too serious, of course, but enough to keep him indisposed for a few hours. Meanwhile, I would be dragged up on stage to finish the show.

My appearance would be, of course, triumphant.

And that’s how you can get through your new exercise plan for 2017.

You’re welcome.

paula-exercising

It’s all Springsteen’s fault

It’s all Springsteen’s fault

The terrible shootings in Florida have taken a toll on many of us these last couple of weeks, and I haven’t been able to figure out what to do with the heartache. June 23 was Julie’s and my 8th (official) wedding anniversary and, more importantly, in a few weeks we’ll commemorate 20 years together. It should be a time of celebration, but I just can’t shake the news about Orlando (not to mention Sandy Hook, and San Bernardino, and Charleston). So I’ve decided to display my defiance by simply telling my story. And along the way, I want to explain how Bruce Springsteen made me gay.

***

I first heard the ferocious wall-of-sound chords of Springsteen’s “Born to Run” through my FM converter as I was driving to San Jose State on a scorching day in 1975. I actually pulled the car over and stopped on the side of the road, breathless. The song was a revelation. It was the anthemic answer to the insipid music dominating radio during that time. There was a lot of disco and very, very little rock and roll. That year spawned an anemic swarm of hits that represented the nadir of once-great artists. Glen Campbell sold out with “Rhinestone Cowboy.” The underrated folk-rock singer Johnny Rivers covered “Help Me, Rhonda.” Cat Stevens recorded the forgettable “Two Fine People.” Paul McCartney released – gag me – “Listen to What the Man Said.”

The songs on the Born to Run album pulverized the mold. None of them followed the standard verse-verse-chorus of pop music. They were, instead, long poetic stories about what it was like to be young in the seventies, populated with characters right off of the Jersey shore. The band was full and resonant, with guitars and piano and organ and a lyrical, echoing sax that always sounded like the mysteries of a city at midnight. The songs were about nights on the beach, wheels on the highway, the rush of the city, and the languorous days of summer, with “barefoot girls sittin’ on the hood of a Dodge, drinking warm beer in the soft summer rain.” Bruce was the poet Everyman for teenagers like me who didn’t do drugs and didn’t mess up our lives but still lived slightly recklessly because we had no responsibilities and everything was magic. It didn’t hurt, either, that Springsteen’s voice was growly, howling, and provocative. It was almost choked with desire.

I know it’s heresy to some people, but I really prefer men’s voices in rock and roll. My vision of hell is being trapped in a room where I am forced to eat nothing but couscous and listen to piped-in Joni Mitchell music.

***

It took nearly three years for me to see Springsteen in person. In late June of 1978 I went with my brother to see his concert at a half-empty San Jose Civic Auditorium. We practically frothed with anticipation. We had heard rumors, after all, that his shows were nearly four hours long, and it all proved to be true. Even in front of a fairly small audience, that man and his band spent every last ounce of their energy on that stage. The songs became epics; the youthful Bruce leaped onto his amps, onto the piano, and into the crowd; and we all were held fast by what Springsteen calls “the power, the magic, the mystery, and the ministry of rock and roll.” The show is among the very few for which there is no fully recorded bootleg and no complete setlist. I remember, though, that after the last of the drenching encores, I knew that I had just seen the greatest live American rock and roll band in history.

***

In those days, I thought I wanted to be a police officer. But when I graduated from San Jose State with my law enforcement degree, I was still too young to apply to the force. So I decided to move up to San Francisco, a city I dearly loved, and get a second degree in English. That was a fortuitous decision. I would have made a terrible police officer, for two reasons:

  1. I am not brave; and
  2. I can’t make a quick decision to save my life.

***

So in the fall of 1978 I moved into the SF State dorms, and on a Sunday morning in November I was reading the Chronicle’s pink section when an ad sent me rocketing out of my chair. Springsteen was coming to Winterland the next month and the tickets were going on sale at 10 a.m. that very morning. My diary actually says that the ad “shot me into the realm of ecstasy.” (I was a bit dramatic in those days.)  I hurriedly picked up the phone and called BASS (the local ticket supplier) multiple times but never got through. Panic set in. Certain that tickets would be sold out within minutes, I grabbed my credit card and screeched off in my Corolla to the closest ticket outlet, which was inside Bullock’s department store in the Stonestown Shopping Center. There was a fair-sized line, and when I got to the counter, the woman casually told me that it was cash-only. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Two tickets would cost me $15. I didn’t have that kind of dough!! I had only five bucks and some change to my name. I noticed a phone hanging on the wall and I shakily dialed my roommate for help, but she said she had only two dollars. Then the phone ate all my change. What a nightmare!

It was, according to my diary, the coldest November 12 in San Francisco history. But I flew so fast getting back to my car, and then from my car to the dorm, that I was pouring sweat. I bolted down the hallway, pounding on doors and begging for money, but no one had cash to spare. Then, as I sped past the glass-enclosed study room on our floor, I glanced inside and saw a young woman I had not seen before, studying peacefully. I skidded to a halt, threw open the doors like a SWAT officer, and bellowed, “I know you don’t know me, but in the name of God, do you have $10 I can borrow?” She didn’t say a word. She got up quietly, said “follow me,” and led me to her room, where she slowly opened up a little wooden box that she had brought with her to school. Inside one of those “secret” compartments was her emergency savings: a $10 bill. What I didn’t know at the time was that she had grown up with very little money, was the first in her family to go to college, and was dependent on that money. I snatched the bill out of her hand, threw an “I promise to pay you back!” over my shoulder, and raced back down the hall. I ended up with two tickets. And that Winterland show is now universally acknowledged to be one of the greatest that Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band have ever done.

As life goes, that encounter was my destiny. It was not the concert. It was Cynthia.  It was the beautiful 19-year-old girl with the $10 bill.

***

I had dated a few men – well, boys, really – but it had never been quite right. It’s not that I didn’t find them to be attractive, but the way I explain it is that there always felt like there was a wall between us. Like a clear Plexiglas wall that I couldn’t break through. I couldn’t feel the euphoria of young love that others felt. It was being withheld from me.

When Cynthia’s dogged pursuit ultimately wore down my resistance, the wall cracked and then disappeared. We had no money, yet we lived an exuberant life in the City and drove around the country in her VW bus between jobs. I was as happy as it was possible to be while living in secret. I hid my entire life away – from family, friends, co-workers, everyone. I know it became a burden for her, and I lost her, with much heartbreak, after five years. In retrospect I see now that it was primarily because I was crouched with fright in the closet.

And it took me forever to realize what a burden it was for me, too. I mean, when she left, I spent the weekend at my parents’ house in Clearlake wearing nothing but a trenchcoat.

And no one had any idea what on earth had gotten into me.

***

Decades later, I now firmly believe that I owe it to myself, my family, my friends, and the community at large to be honest about my life. But it can be a terrifying step to take, and for some people, the consequences can be disastrous. So I understand the need for people to be revelatory at their own pace.

I had it fairly easy. When I finally told my family, they were terrific. My father, I believe, already knew. “Is there something you would like to tell me?” he had asked when I was parading around in the trenchcoat.

My mother needed more time and didn’t speak to me for a few months, but the thaw happened fairly quickly. The younger folks, like my friends and siblings, didn’t seem to give a gnat’s ass. And my sister tells me that she and a friend were riding in her car one day, speaking about me in hushed tones, when my 9-year-old niece piped up from the back seat, “Oh, for goodness’ sakes, Mom, I’ve known about Auntie Paula for years!”

But whether it was because I was old-fashioned, religious, ashamed, or just plain scared, I really wasn’t able to speak openly about myself to everyone until this millennium. I learned from watching a good friend of mine at work speak naturally and easily about his partner. He never really “came out.” But when someone would ask what he had done over the weekend, he didn’t circumnavigate the question, the way I often did. “Oh, you know Paul; he made me chauffeur him all around town,” he would say and roll his eyes. Everyone loved him and would laugh. It was as easy as that. A name and a pronoun.

***

Julie and I got married on June 23, 2008, one of the happiest days of my life. Just a few weeks earlier, Chief Justice Ronald M. George of the California Supreme Court had authored the state high court’s opinion that granted gay people the right to marry in California. I don’t think I have ever been able to adequately describe what that decision meant to me. It was more than just the sudden, exhilarating right to get married. It was, for me, a sense that I could enter the mainstream that I always wanted to enter. I was being accorded respect and dignity – not by a politician or an activist or a celebrity, but by an authority figure with solid integrity and conservative credentials.

“In light of the fundamental nature of the substantive rights embodied in the right to marry — and their central importance to an individual’s opportunity to live a happy, meaningful, and satisfying life as a full member of society — the California Constitution properly must be interpreted to guarantee this basic civil right to all individuals and couples,” the Chief Justice wrote.

My sister had come down to my workplace the day that the decision was announced. She and I and some colleagues gathered in my director’s office to await the news. When the decision was read, most of us erupted in cheers. I was tearfully weak with amazement and emotional fatigue. But I do remember that a colleague from a different group had a stricken look on her face and turned away in disgust. It hurts me to this day. It’s too bad that that’s something I’ll always remember.

But I called Julie, demanding that she leave work and meet me at the county clerk’s office, and we were the first in line to get our marriage licenses. Our picture was in the New York Times.

***

Paula, Julie, and Mom (with copyright)As strange as it is for me to recall now, I was hesitant to tell my mother that I was getting married, even though she loved Julie with every fiber of her being. She was a devoted Catholic, and I was afraid of putting her in an awkward position. But I finally called her, and it turns out that she was full of joy and couldn’t wait to be a part of the festivities. She later told me that she “talked” about it with God for a few days and that after those conversations, she felt that He kept asking her, “Why not, Beverly? Why not?”

***

I know that I have a handful of dear friends and family members, including some of my blog readers, who have heartfelt religious convictions preventing them from supporting gay marriage. (Oh, yes, I know who you are!) I’m deeply happy that you continue to share your friendship with me anyway. And I firmly believe that some of you, at some point, will come to ask yourselves, “Why not?”

***

I have read the entire Bible, cover to cover, word for word – including the “begats.” When I finished the last page, I was thoroughly intoxicated with the rhythm and beauty of the writing and the power of the message. The Bible never gave me doubts. It is the interpreters who have bred the doubt.

I take comfort in knowing with absolute certainty that no one could ever condemn my sweet Julie to eternal damnation. But what about me? What if I am a different story? I’m a religious person, I still say prayers every night, and to be 100 percent honest, I occasionally worry and obsess over whether I will end up rotting in hell with Joni Mitchell and all that couscous.

***

I met Julie Scearce 22 years ago – where else but on a softball field. Duh! It’s how we all meet! She was visiting from Kentucky and filling a temporary vacant spot on our team during a tournament in Tahoe. That girl could throw a baserunner out from far right field. Dreamy.

Julie denies it to this day, but she was actually repulsed by me when we first met. Lucky for me, I eventually won her over with my endless charm, and she moved out west and into my house 20 years ago. She left her family, her friends, her job, and her home to be with me. I think she knew it would kill me to leave my beloved San Francisco, so she made the sacrifice. Those who know Julie would not find that surprising. The woman never thinks about herself.

***

People say that marriage is hard work, but in my case it’s been very easy. I can remember only two major arguments between Julie and me. One happened when she didn’t like a piece of furniture that I had suggested buying, and in the middle of the Ikea aisle I loudly accused her of not loving me. (I believe some hormone issues may have come into play when I pulled that one.)

Our second major argument was on June 13, 2012. It was about baseball. I don’t want to point fingers, so let’s just say this: We were both watching the Giants on television. One of us fell asleep in the middle of the game. Matt Cain went on to pitch the first perfect game in Giants history. The awake one did not want to rouse the asleep one. The next morning, the asleep one found out what she had missed and went bananas. Absolutely bananas. I won’t say who was who, but the argument raged for days.

***

Without Julie, I would never be able to follow the plot of a movie. I just never know what is going on. Thank goodness we now have DVDs and streaming videos and I can pause every five minutes to ask Julie what the heck just happened. Why are they whispering? Is he a bad guy or a good guy? Is that Brian Dennehy or Charles Durning? Is the dark-haired guy Luke Wilson, or one of those innumerable Arquette siblings? What does “money laundering” mean? Why is that guy hiding in the shrubs? Is there a conspiracy I don’t know about? For crying out loud, what’s the connection????!!

(I think I have a hard time telling people apart. Back in the 1990s, when a lot of my friends followed Stanford women’s basketball, I went to one game and realized that I couldn’t distinguish one player from another. I just collectively called them “The Blond Ponytails.” They all looked alike. And to make matters worse, their names were all some version of “Kate”: Kate Starbird, Katy Steding . . . . Oh, and then for God’s sake, there was also Kate Paye!!! I mean, COME ON!!!)

***

Without Julie, there would be no smoky smell of southern barbecue floating into my kitchen window on weekend nights. She lovingly tends to her marinated meats and veggies out on our center patio while I wait inside, drinking my glass of wine like the Queen of Sheba.

Without Julie, I would not understand what baseball’s “double switch” is. She patiently explains it to me over and over, every season.

Without Julie there would be no one in the house to install light switches, set up wireless networks, pound mollies into lathe-and-plaster walls.

Without Julie, I would not know the burnt-oak taste of a good bourbon.

Without Julie, no one in my house would joyfully drive over the speed limit.

Without Julie, no one would do “the Tom Jones dance” down our hallway.

Without Julie, I would not have the unqualified love of my second family in Louisville, and I would not know the natural beauty of Kentucky’s forests and lush green hills, the exhilarating crash of a cleansing thunderstorm, or the flash of fireflies on warm summer nights.

Without Julie, I would not know how to pronounce “Lou-ah-vul.”

Without Julie, there would be no humor in my home.

Without Julie, I might still be encased in Plexiglas.

Without Julie I would be a roiling cauldron of anxiety.

***

I have dragged Julie with me to many of the 15 Springsteen shows I’ve seen. This last time, in March, she had been up nearly 72 hours straight working on a critical project for her employer. Her exhaustion was almost beyond measure. And we had tickets for a Springsteen show in Oakland. I asked her repeatedly whether she should just stay home, but she said that she knew it meant a lot to me and that she would insist on attending. I have no idea how she stayed awake for those four hours and the BART ride home. And it turns out that the next day she came down with viral meningitis, a serious illness that would sideline her for a month. The doctor said it happened because the virus opportunistically raided her exhausted body. She should have been home sleeping that night. But she went out of love for me.

When it comes to our relationship, Julie definitely ended up with the short end of the stick. I can be moody, nervous, impractical, distant, hypersensitive, and juvenile. She, on the other hand, is steadfastly perfect. Always kind, always empathic, always mature. She is good-natured, even-keeled, strong, capable, and selfless. She encourages my passions for drums and train travel. She likes my blog. She calms my nerves. She steadies me.

Happy anniversary, Sweetie. I love you with all the madness in my soul.