January 31, 2012

Trivia Blog: Boss-tastrophe

These Trivia Blog posts come from the emails I send out as Quizmaster of the Gael Pub Trivia Night every Tuesday.  But seeing as how they comprise most of the writing I seem to do these days, I thought it fitting to include them on the Pale Writer blog as well.  I won't include things like info about categories or drink specials, but will keep the bulk of the rest.  Hopefully you enjoy, so much so that you come out some Tuesday at 8:30 (3rd Ave. b/t 82nd and 83rd)...


Last Friday, some friends and I gathered together on the interwebs for a noble and wonderful purpose.  Tickets for the upcoming Bruce Springsteen concert tour were about to go on sale via Ticketmaster (and ONLY Ticketmaster... hmmm....) at noon, and we were poised, communicating via a giddy and hopeful Facebook group chat, ready to buy our tickets and fulfill a months-long, booze-fueled series of bar conversations about finally seeing the Boss again at MSG.  As the minutes ticked down ever closer to the noontime hour, we sat at our computers (shout out to Eric, Rachel, Deb, and Nkasi), waiting for that magical time to arrive, like kids awaiting the arrival of Santa Claus.  Or Amy Winehouse waiting for the liquor store owner to open shop, her nose pressed against the makeup-smeared glass door.  (Too soon...?)

Ticket prices were going to be in the $100-$130 range, which is a bit pricey, but this was definitely one of those "I am perfectly fine paying an absurdly high price for this special concert in New York" concerts.  When 12:00:01 came, we all clicked on the "Buy Tickets" button, entered the weird verification code, and waited.  And waited.  And waited.  A 3-minute wait became 6 minutes.  Then 9.  Then 15.  The dread that had been lingering over us soon became a palpable sense of defeat, and we were all eventually denied our chance at tickets.  Many times over.  No Bruce for us.  There were, of course, a bevy of tickets already available on StubHub for anywhere from $250-$1,000.  Gee.  Thanks.

I won't go on about how the Ticketmaster/secondary ticket market price mark-up situation is a fucking sham and is completely ruining the concert-/game-going experience for fans because that vein in the middle of my forehead might rupture, causing my eyeballs to shoot out onto the computer screen and my head to explode, and then you'd have no Quizmaster for tonight.  Also, I'd die.  So there's that.

Instead, I'll lament the loss of what would have been one of my greatest ideas ever: "Bruce-nch."

See, as part of our pre-concert preparations, we were going to take the day of the show off and do a day-long tailgate in preparation for some Bruce-y goodness, the start of which would be a brunch variant I'd dubbed "Bruce-nch."  We all love Bruce, and we all love brunch...  How is it that no one has thought to combine the two before??

Bruce-nch. A place where blue collar guys and gals with a Hungry Heart can come together early in the day and have a hearty meal and a tall, frosty mimosa.  A place where you can enjoy a menu full of Bruce-inspired dishes like:

  • "Born in the U.S.Eggs"
  • "Jungleland-cakes"
  • "Dancing in the Dark Chocolate Muffins"
  • "Streets of Philadelphi-eggs Benedict"
  • And, of course, "The River (of Mimosas)"
Bruce-nch.  A place where before bringing over your order, your waiter stops and digresses into a long, rambling, increasingly off-the-point, Boss-esque story before putting the plate down in front of you:

"This next dish... This next dish reminds me of growing up in Long Branch, New Jersey.  [Someone yells, "Woooo! Jerseeey!"]  Heh.  I'd just come home from a 35-hour shift at the auto shop, covered in the grease and the grime of workin' man's life.  I went to the kitchen, sometime, I don't know, I guess around breakfast.  And All.  I.  Could.  Think.  Of.  Was.  Pancakes.  So I reach up, pull open the creaky cupboard door, lookin' for that Bisquick.  But all I see starin' back at me was an empty, Bisquick box-sized space in the dust.  Yeah.  And I yell, "Hey Dad!  Where's the Bisquick?"  And my old man yells back, "I ate all the damned Bisquick!"  And I yell back, "Well go to hell, Dad!", and I hit him full in the face with a sock full of quarters.  [Someone yells, "Bruuuuuuuuuce! ... It's time for your break."]  Thank you, thank you. I love you, too... This dish is called Blueberry Pancakes.  Two! Three! Four!"

Bruce-nch.  It's gonna be a thing.

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