I keep hearing dirty, salacious rumors that Bruce Springsteen is going to play Wrigley Field this summer for his “Wrecking Ball” tour. First of all, I don’t know where these rumors originated, and second, don’t you tease me. If this is happening, I need to know the nanosecond tickets go on sale.
Because he didn’t have Chicago on his touring schedule, I just dropped over $200 to go see him play in Cleveland. Yes, it was a lot of money, but this is the first tour of the post-Clarence Clemmons era, and since I wasn’t alive to see all the legendary performances of the Seventies and early Eighties (stupid parents not getting knocked up fast enough) and wasn’t aware of his music until the mid-90s (stupid parents not taking me to see more concerts instead of making me get an “education”–a fat f***ing lotta good that did me) and didn’t understand the life-affirming brilliance that is his music until the early Oughts, I owe it to myself to see him on each and ever tour that remains.
My point is not that I erred in buying tickets in Cleveland. Nooooo, that was brilliant. Just that if he does come to Wrigley, I really need to be there. It would be like living in the same city as an ice-cream-and-masturbating machine and not going to try out that machine. A couple years back when Paul McCartney played Wrigley, I didn’t get tickets and instead wandered around Addison Street drunk, singing along to “Hey Jude” at the top of my lungs (this did not look strange because it was everyone else in Chicago was doing as well).
So here’s the deal: if Springsteen does play Wrigley, and I do get tickets, I am taking the most beautiful girl I can find in the city and having an impromptu party from sunrise to concert to sunset. You, readers, will either get tickets or we’ll all hang out at the same bar and dance. We will kiss until our brains fall out. We will make love in the bathrooms and tip the attendants in twenties. We will run screaming until our feet bleed and the infrastructure of the world collapses around our balled fists.
Got it? Oh, and if you haven’t seen him play the album’s title track for the first time at Giants Stadium, Clarence at his side, on my birthday, do yourself a goddamn favor and click play above.