For whatever reason this morning I woke up in a blue funk. Possibly it was my dreams, although I don't remember anything that would have been depressing in them. Possibly it was the undercurrent of worry I'm living with these days (Mummy has Alzheimer's and Daddy has just been diagnosed with a chronic form of leukemia, and they are both 85 and live hours away from me). It could just be a post-beach depression, as the tan begins to fade and the job regains its hold on my soul.

Whatever. Blue fucking funk. So I did the only thing I could do: I got to the office, booted up the old green i-mac that sits on the desk next to where I really work and loaded up the mp3s. All the Springsteen boots that I could cram on that old hard drive. And I cranked it up and clamped on the headphones. A couple repeats of Badlands ("It ain't no sin to be glad you're alive"), a lost and live accoustic version of Bobby Jean, and an extended Rosalita and Sandy, and you know what? I'm ready to face the world again.

In fact, I'm ready to call my rocker girlfriend and ask if there's room on the tour for me. Just a long weekend, pledged to the church of rock and roll.

And on Friday, I'll do the thing I've done every Fourth of July since 1976: I'll put on Greetings from Asbury Park, lay on the floor and turn the volume up to 11. And listen one more time to Sandy.

I recommend it for you, too.