Holding the Fort for Springsteen

I am writing to beg for mercy from Bob Baker (Editorial Pages, Sept. 22) and his terrorist gang, “DEADS (Drive to Eliminate All Dilettante Springsteenites).”

Being called a “trendy leech” is painful, and so is flunking all the questions on Baker’s quiz. I am 54 years old, and confess to reading George F. Will’s columns, although mostly for laughs. But I love “Nebraska” and have tickets for one of the concerts.

Here is my plea: I am from New Jersey, and I’ve had to hide this sordid secret until Bruce Springsteen gave me a reason to be proud. My hometown would make Freehold, N.J., look like Beverly Hills. I know what it means to spend one’s adolescence plotting how to get out. I needed Springsteen back then--forgive me if I still need him.

I promise to do what I can to honor my roots. I still have one of the crummy flannel shirts like I wore in high school. And I’ll be driving a car I’ve saved for the occasion--a dirty brown Pontiac convertible with a 400-cubic-inch engine.


I promise not to call him Boss, but I sure do plan to enjoy myself.


Sherman Oaks