Bossy

Bruce Springsteen sings lyrics that have a different meaning for everyone. For some, his anthem will always be "Born in the U.S.A." For others, it will be "Burn with the Esse." And a few will always insist "Vern, What Did You Say?" is his signature. Of course, these are all the same song. But whether you love "Tunnel of Love" or "Tongue on Your Glove," there's no question that Bruce is as American original, despite having a last name that sounds like he's a useless foreigner. LostBrain was supposed to sit down with The Boss, but unfortunately, like his album "The Rising," Bruce felt the previous evening's chicken pot pie doing the same thing. The Boss started puking. And, at press time, he's still puking. His publicist told us he puked red, white and blue. His publicist also told us that that isn't normal. So since Springsteen is unable to do the interview, we felt there was only one thing to do—do another fake interview. Too bad. We really wanted to interview him. We really did.

When I entered the New Jersey turnpike I instantly smelled something in the air. I smelled Bruce. Bruce smelled super sweet. Like a chrysanthemum just before being picked, a beautiful yet untamed chrysanthemum, that's what Bruce is. We met up at Nelly's Bar in Asbury Park, a town featured in the title of his debut album, which was bought by two hundred people, zoo keepers, who used them to help lackadaisical sterile baboons mate. Nothing worse than lackadaisical sterile baboons.

"Is this table cool?" Bruce asked.

I wanted to shriek like a little schoolgirl and say, "As soon as you sit down in front of it it will be." Instead I just shrugged and said, "Whatev." Bruce was wearing Levi's jeans, streaked chalky black ones, along with white tennies and a T-shirt that harnessed extremely veiny biceps.

"Those must be good for shooting smack," I said.

"What?" Bruce asked.

"You have great veins," I said.

"Thanks," Bruce replied.

"Bruce?" I asked.

"Yes?"

"I can't do smack with you. You know that, right? You know I'm ten months clean of 'riding the snake', right?"

Bruce looked at me for what seemed like an endless time. Bruce had that kind of gaze. The one that could win a staring contest. A really tough one. One involving that kid with the two glass eyes who never had to blink. Lucky fucker, that kid was. I think his name was Rajib. Or possibly Billy.

"Look," Bruce said. "I have an album and I'd like to talk about it."

"Let's."

I couldn't believe I had just said "Let's." It sounded so bourgeoisie. So Harlequin Romance. So 1982. And I began to hear lyrics in my head. Sinful and sanctimonious. Her Hair Is Harlow Gold, Her Lips Sweet Surprise

"My album is about nine-eleven," Bruce said, snapping his slender, thick fingers at my twitching corneas.

"So it's a concept album?" I said, coming to.

"You could say that."

"Oh, thanks for permission. Thanks for letting me say what I want. You really think you're 'the boss,' don't you? It's just a nickname, dude. I'm a journalist. Don't condescend me. I could fry your hairy balls if I wanted to. I could order you the Hairy Ball special. How do you think that would taste? Huh? 'Cause I'm thinking salty."

Bruce sighed. Bruce was annoyed.

"Do you have a question then?" he asked, chomping into the chimichonga he ordered, making me recall how much I love saying the word "chimichonga."

I quieted, fixated on his chiseled chin and receding scalp. Despite my earlier "you really think you're the boss?" barb, this was truly like God letting me have a question answered. Is there a heaven? Are we, as human beings, serving our purpose? When did justice become an ideal, instead of an idea? I stared down at my list of questions. I had to choose wisely. I had to.

"Do you have hairy balls?" I asked.

Bruce stared off into the fading Jersey sun, disappearing under a bridge named after someone who was no longer living and was to be remembered. Bruce sipped his Sanka and I watched as his thick, curled eyelashes flickered intensely, densely.

"Yes," The Boss said. "Yes, I do."

And the jukebox could have been playing. Couples could have been fighting. A siren could have wailed. But all would have fallen silent to these ears. I knew something I wasn't supposed to know. I was on the inside. I was inside Bruce Springsteen. It was warm there. But the kind of warm where you still need a sweater. But in lieu of one I found his arm around my shaking shoulder. Though heterosexually male, I couldn't be unmoved by this one glowing fact: Bruce wasn't making me his bitch, he was making he his friend.

We took our mango smoothies to go, hand in hand, his palms sweaty, mine dryer, the kind where you can scratch out the letters D-R-Y with your fingernail, like that commercial from long ago. So long ago.

"Yeah," Bruce said, "I remember that commercial. It was good."

Bruce strangely talked quite clearly, unlike when he sang. I asked him why that was.

"I want people to draw their own conclusions," he said, ordering two waffles cones for us, double scoops, minty-flavored. "They should see what they see, rather than what I do. If they can make out me saying 'this is my hometown' then it will all be about me. But if they hear 'this is a fly hoedown,' then it might mean something to them. And it might bring in the black demographic. Blacks like the word 'fly.' It's the black version of the word 'cool.'"

When I informed Bruce that 'cool' was originally said by black people also, he got defensive. Bruce gets defensive a lot. It's only because he's been under so much stress. His chakras are suffering.

"Maybe they said it first," said Bruce. "But we made it cool to say."

And I noticed the sky was black now, too, and it made me wonder if the sky got Affirmative Action once the sun went down. And I knew it was time to go. Bruce relinquished his hold of my tiny, tender waist and breathed deep.

"What will you say about my album?" he wondered.

"Bruce," I said, working my tongue over the groove that held the hint of old candy corn, "it's a masterwork about a particular time."

"Thank you."

"But why nine-eleven?"

He eyed me, confused, betrayed, maybe both. He walked away. And watching those toned buttocks wiggle on, I compared it with the one on the cover of "Bored from this Essay." It was tighter, but less true. He had lost his true ass. I found the bus for nowhere and everywhere and knew both could now be my destination. As the NJ Transit doors closed, followed by my eyes, I remembered a question I unfortunately forgot: Was it 9:11am or pm that held such significance?