Staff Infection

SPRINGSTEEN’S GUY GROUPIES — JUST CALL ‘EM WENDY’S

Dave WielengaMon. October 29
 

The traveling aerobics class known as a Bruce Springsteen concert tour opened a two-night stand at the Los Angeles Sports Arena on Monday, and I would have loved to have been there — clocking the show’s elapsed time and calculating its cardiovascular value — but I couldn’t stand the idea of another evening among the Wendys.

See, I like Springsteen–have since paying $7.50 for a ticket to his Sept. 30, 1976, show at the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium.

But over the past quarter century his shows have become increasingly intolerable, thanks to the Wendys — those 40-to-60-year-old guys with their denim outfits, their jutting lower lips and their certainty that Bruce alone understands them, and vice-versa. Like silly little man-girls they dissect his every word and swoon as they not-so-secretly yearn to wrap their legs around his velvet rims and strap their hands across his engines, like little E Street tramps. They want big Bruce to take them into his leather-clad arms, coo about New Jersey, then throw them over a burned-out Chevrolet and repeatedly take it to their backstreets. They want to be his girlfriend. And what bugs me about that, of course, is that he’s married.

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