When Caitlin told people she was leaving New York City for the night to head to Philadelphia for the Bruce Springsteen concert, people were all what are you, 45 years old? When I told people in Philadelphia that I was going to the Springsteen concert that night, they were all you lucky little betch.
Why does Philadelphia love Bruce Springsteen so much?
Because at heart, Philadelphia is the city of the blue collar worker. Of the young mom. Of the unemployed dad. Philadelphia used to work nights at Westinghouse. And spends sticky summer weekends down the shore. Philadelphia looks best in a white t-shirt and work jeans. And knows how to swing a hammer. Philadelphia knows what wanderlust tastes like. And disappointment. And victory. And nostalgia. And soft pretzels at midnight. Philadelphia sits on the front stoop and says hello to all the neighbors. Philadelphia relates.
When you grow up in Philadelphia, you grow up listening to Bruce Springsteen from your parents' speakers at backyard barbecues. You sneak "Thunder Road" in to your driving to the shore mixes amidst the usual My Morning Jacket and Kings of Leon, and you roll down the window and let the wind roll back your hair exactly when you're supposed to.
And when you're standing next to your mom and one of your Forever Friends, watching Bruce rock on stage at one of the very last Spectrum concerts before they tear her down, you mull around the idea that that 50-something man might possibly be the sexiest dude alive right now because HELLOOO, BRUCE.
And when Bruce plays his little ode to Harry Kalas and then explodes into "Thunder Road" you, and every single person packed inside the sold out show, have no choice but to scream along. It's in your blood. You're from Philadelphia.
So mock me if you will. But remember, Philadelphia knows how to punch you in the face.