Spring In My Step

September 2, 1981.

The first major mistake of my life.

Not the only mistake.

Not by far.

Just the first.

That was the night I turned down a chance to see Bruce Springsteen in concert at the San Diego Sports Arena.

I was 14 years old.

And I had never seen a Bruce show before.

He was on the last leg of the tour that was promoting The River 8-track tape.

I was at a friend’s house that afternoon, about ten minutes from the arena.

Unfortunately the rest of the details are a little fuzzy.

But the bottom line is part of our group went to the concert.

And the rest of us stayed at home.

I’m sure we did something really fun.

Like watch Laverne & Shirley.

Or play Pong.

But what I didn’t do is see Bruce.

Or the E Street Band.

It took me three years, one month and 29 days to realize what a giant mistake that was.

But thankfully on the night of October 31, 1984, I lost my Springsteen virginity.

That night my friend Phil and I had front row seats in the loge section at the L.A. Sports Arena.

And for four plus hours we were hypnotized.

I don’t know if that specific concert is in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

But to Phil and I, it is THE best concert of all-time.

According to the trusty internet, the show started with High School Confidential, a cover of the Jerry Lee Lewis song.

And it ended several hours later with a cover of Santa Claus is Coming to Town.

Somewhere in the middle Bruce actually played some of his own songs.

Now by 1984 I had already been to a bunch of concerts.

Everything from Stevie Wonder to Poco.

Heart to Styx.

But it wasn’t until that night that I found out I had never seen a show before.

By that point I was familiar with some of Bruce’s music.

But after that show I became a SUPER fan.

28 years later I own pretty much everything he has done.

And pathetically I know most of the words to most of the songs.

I can’t count on both hands the number of Bruce concerts I have since attended.

I would guess it is somewhere in the high teens.

And I don’t plan on stopping there.

My most recent trip into the swamps of Jersey took place last Sunday.

In New Orleans.

For only the second time ever the 62-year-old Bruce was performing at the 43-year-old New Orleans Jazz Festival.

The first time was in 2006.

That year Bruce put on a heart-wrenching post-Katrina performance that they are still talking about today.

Now Bruce wasn’t the only reason I decided to go to the Big Easy last weekend.

But it sure was some nice icing on the cake.

At Jazz Fest, they have like ten stages.

Playing music all day, from 11a-7p.

My friend Mark and I dabbled in the little stages, but by Sunday afternoon at 4:30 there was only one place to be.

50,000 others had the same idea.

The main stage venue was absolutely packed.

90% Bruce fans.

10% others, who didn’t have the strength to leave the fairgrounds after a day of drinking in the hot sun.

But when Bruce took the stage, everybody was paying attention.

Even people that weren’t there.

And to help those who couldn’t make it, I decided to push my limits of technology.

Tweeting out the list of songs.

Live.

As they happened.

Two nights earlier I learned of this new phenomenon, as I monitored the show from Los Angeles.

Courtesy of @Variety_StuartL.

Like any good promoter, I notified the twitter world that afternoon that I would be doing this.

And within minutes I had a whole bunch of new followers.

I mean friends.

Like @girltrueheart.

And @nancpl.

And @stephensurefire.

And at least a dozen more.

Not Ashton Kutcher territory, but not bad for a mom-and-pop blogger with a funny moniker.

My friend Mark didn’t share in my enthusiasm.

Harassing me every time I tweeted during the concert.

Saying I should be focused on the show, instead of these people I didn’t even know.

But to me, it was just a way of paying it forward.

From the first note of Badlands at 4:42pm.

To the last note of Tenth Avenue Freeze Out.

Two hours and 32 minutes later.

I tweeted.

31 times.  Posting 605 words.

And loving every second of it.

By the end of the show, my iPhone was out of battery.

And so was I.

Just like every Bruce show I had ever attended.

All That Jazz

If you ever get a chance to go to New Orleans... GO!!!

Or is it GEAUX?

Either way, everything you have heard about the place is true.

Well, the good things.

I can’t speak for the bad.

Because I didn’t see any.

Like any big city -- and New Orleans is a big city -- there are problems.

And the hurricane of seven years past has still left a crippling impact.

But based on where we went.

And what we saw.

And what we eat.

I can’t wait to go back.

I had always heard that New Orleans is one of the most dangerous cities in the country.

“Keep your wallet in your front pocket.”

“Don’t cross that street.”

I heard all that stuff.... and more.

And I’m sure there are plenty of horror stories that would justify those concerns.

But fortunately I was not one of them.

The people we met were among the nicest I have ever encountered.

Ever!

I went on the trip with my friend, who is originally from New York.

And the Southern hospitality really pissed him off.

“It makes me want to be nice,” he said.  “And that makes me very uncomfortable.”

But he eventually got over it.

And started to feel right at home.

I was actually surprised how much the French Quarter reminded me of New York City.

A ton of restaurants.

Bars.

Shops.

It had everything a tourist would ever need.

Except a Starbucks.

Or McDonalds.

But plenty of bars.

PLENTY.

Our first night was spent at Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop.

The corner of Bourbon and St. Philip.

They claim to be “the oldest structure used as a bar in the United States.” 

At a quick glance it doesn’t seem like anything special.

But make sure you walk inside.

All the way to the dark room in the back, where the piano is located.

Before I knew it, it was 1:00am.

A guy who looked like Jack Sparrow and sounded like Dr. John was banging on the keys, belting out the tunes.

That was definitely the high point of the famed Bourbon Street for me.

The rest of the street was quite disgusting.

Way too many people.

Way too many strip bars.

(Did I just say that?)

Way too much... yuck.

But travel one block to the south and you’re on Royal Street.

A much more civilized way to spend the night.

Two more blocks to the south and you’re on Decatur.

The home of the beignet.

Cafe du Monde.

We made our obligatory trip there for our first breakfast.

Because that’s what you do.

But I gotta be honest, it didn’t make my mouth go AMAZING, as I hoped that it would.

As far as donuts go, it was fine.

But I’d rather have one of them “Hot Doughnuts Now” at Krispy Kreme.

Any day of the week.

Fortunately right up the street from Cafe du Monde was a place to wash it all down.

Evangeline.

The home of the Bacon Bloody Mary.

Bacon-infused Vodka with a slice of the real stuff inside.

It definitely tested my theory that bacon makes everything better.

But this was actually quite tasty.

Especially at 11 in the AM.

There is no shortage of culture in New Orleans.

No shortage of quirky either.

Take Jackson Square.

That’s between Royal and Decatur.

We walked by the square around midnight and saw no fewer than 25 palm readers.

Just sitting at their card table.

Under candlelight.

Waiting to read your palm.

We stared, but didn’t stop.

One of the readers had a sign that said -- “Do you know what I am thinking now?”

No.

But what I was thinking was ... this is really weird!

During the day at Jackson Square, the palm readers were replaced by a different group of quirk.

“Cemetery Tours.”

The horse and carriages were lined up on Decatur, trying to sell me on seeing the dead.

We passed on that as well.

But that was not the end of the street experience.

Not by far.

Night and day the area is overflowing with people.

Artists showing off their work.

“Poets for hire” sitting at their typewriter.

And more musicians than the LSU marching band.

The instrument of choice in New Orleans usually involves something brass.

And these guys can really blow.

Down and around the bend from Bourbon Street is Frenchmen Street.

That’s where the locals hang out.

Well, where they used to hang out.

Before us tourists found out how cool it is.

Tons of bars.

Duh!

A bunch of music clubs.

Impromptu bands on the street corner.

On the steps of a building.

Courtesy my iPhone

Everywhere you go, there is music.

Up until last week I really thought I loved music.

Then I went to New Orleans.

Let me tell you, that city LOVES music.

People spend eight hours a day at the Jazz Festival listening to music.

Then they go grab something quick to eat.

Probably fried and with crawfish in it.

Then it’s off to a local club to see another show.

Tipitina’s

Preservation Hall.

House of Blues.

Take your pick.

This city has more clubs than ten decks of cards.

The hot show while we were there was a band called Galactic.

Friday night at Rock N’ Bowl.

Actually make that Saturday morning.

2:00AM.

Don’t these people sleep?

Apparently not, the cover charge was $25 and the place was sold out.

My last night there we went to one of them late night/early morning shows.

This one at the Maple Leaf Bar.

Three bands, $20.

We made it in time for the 11:30 show.

11:30PM!

And that was the warm-up band for the 2:30 show.

This bar is no bigger than a basketball court.

A high school basketball court.

But these guys were cranking out music like we were at Madison Square Garden.

It was incredible.

I was arms distance away from some world class musicians who took me to a place I had never been.

For two hours.

By the end of the show, I was ready for a nap.

Which is all I had time for since I had to leave for the airport just three hours later.

Head Games

Sean Pamphilon and I are friends.

Ok, facebook friends.

But we worked for the same company.

In the same department.

Twice.

And while we were never quite BFFs, we always got along.

And I always respected his work.

But I never respected him more than I did a few weeks ago.

That’s when Sean did something most people would never even consider.

He did the right thing.

Oh, there are many people who would disagree.

Including a close friend of mine.

When I asked this friend what he thought of Sean Pamphilon.

He said “who?”

“You know, the guy who released the audio tape.”

The audio tape of New Orleans Saints assistant coach Gregg Williams threatening every bone in the 49ers body.

“Oh that guy,” he said.  “He just did it for the attention.”

“Have you heard the tape?” I asked, with a protective miff in my voice.

“No.”

“Well I think you should.”

That’s when I paraphrased some of the things I heard on the tape.

Exact quotes have never been my thing.

I told him that this was not your typical rah-rah, go get ‘em football speech.

No Gipper here.

This was Gregg Williams going for the throat.

Actually the head.

• "We've got to do everything in the world to make sure we kill Frank Gore's head. We want him running sideways. We want his head sideways."
• "Kill the head and the body will die. Kill the head and the body will die."
• "Every single one of you, before you get off the pile, affect the head. Early, affect the head. Continue to touch and affect the head."
• "We need to find out in the first two series of the game, the little wide receiver, No. 10, about his concussion. We need to f****n put a lick on him."

Those are exact quotes.  The cleanest ones.

There were so many F bombs on that tape, I thought I was listening to a voice mail from Alec Baldwin.

At the time of this meeting, Sean Pamphilon was directing a documentary on former Saints player Steve Gleason.

Gleason is dealing with a disease called ALS (perhaps better known as Lou Gehrig’s Disease).

As part of that documentary, Pamphilon was recording that Saints team meeting.

A meeting that took place the night before their January 2012 playoff game in San Francisco.

Williams knew the cameras were there.

But I guess he didn’t care.

I’m sure he does now.

You see Gregg Williams is done.

Done as a football coach.

At least for now.

And hopefully forever.

Like Happy Days is for Henry Winkler.

Gregg Williams is BountyGate.

A role that he will never outlive.

You see Gregg Williams was the ring-leader in a big bucks bounty program.

A program that paid Saints players cold hard cash to physically harm the players on the other team.

Knock Brett Favre out of the game.

Pick up your 10 grand.

Amputate his leg.

That’s worth 20.

When the NFL learned of this practice they approached the Saints.

And the like an eight-year-old with his hand stuck in the cookie jar, the Saints lied.

“Who dat?”  

“Me?”  

“I would never deliver such opprobrious conduct.”

Ok, that’s me paraphrasing again.

But upon further investigation, the NFL found more smoking guns than an NRA convention.

Guilty!

Guilty as could be.

And within a few weeks the NFL marched seven Saints (and former Saints) off the field.

Head Coach Sean Payton was suspended for the entire 2012 season.

Without pay.

As was linebacker Jonathan Vilma.

The team got fined $500 grand.   And lost a draft pick.

As for Williams.

He skipped out on New Orleans like he was George Bush.

Taking a new job with the St. Louis Rams.

But the NFL hunted him down and promptly suspended him too.

Indefinitely.

According to dictionary.com, indefinitely means unlimited.

In the NFL, indefinitely means forever.

As it should.

Williams was suspended on March 21.

Two weeks later Sean Pamphilon released the tape.

Pamphilon said his conscience would no longer allow him to sit on the sideline without the world knowing what he knew.

You see Pamphilon didn’t technically own the tape.

The Gleason family did.

And they wanted no part of this.

You know, what happens in the locker room where guys are being paid to end the career of other players.

Stays in the locker room where guys are being paid to end the career of other players.

Fortunately Pamphilon didn’t feel the same.

In a 5,735 word blog he posted on April 4th, Pamphilon explained why he did it.

If it weren’t for the fact I feel deeply that parents of children playing football MUST pay attention to the influence of men who will sacrifice their kids for W’s, I would not have written this.

Ok, that’s only 36 of those 5,735 words, but it pretty much sums up how Pamphilon was feeling.

He did it for the kids.

He did it for the parents.

He did it for the good of a game that he has been “a religious fan for 35 years.”

Pamphilon touched on a series of subjects in that blog.

Including Gregg Williams.

He was ordering his players to maim in as many ways possible.  Plain and simple.  He was the only one in the room willing to go into his pocket to reward it.

He spoke about Jonathan Vilma.

Vilma couldn’t have been classier.  If Jonathan Vilma ever paid a man $10,000 to hurt another man, I need a cancelled check or a verified cash payment by two witnesses.  If the Jonathan Vilma I met did what whoever leaked this crap says he did, you could cut his jersey in tiny pieces, put it in a cereal bowl and feed it to me slowly, while selling it on pay-per-view. 

Pamphilon also spoke about Dave Duerson.

Who?

Dave Duerson.

A guy who never played for the Saints.

But he did play in the NFL.

For 11 years.

He went to the Pro Bowl four times.

And won two Super Bowls.

Dave Duerson was a very good NFL player.

Was.

He died on February 17, 2011.

A self-inflicted gunshot wound.

Suicide.

Before he pulled the trigger, the 50-year-old sent a text.

To his family.

He told them he wanted his brain used for research.

Research of Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy.

CTE.

The “progressive degenerative disease of the brain found in athletes (and others) with a history of brain trauma.”

A disease linked to depression.

In order to preserve his brain, Duerson shot himself in the chest.

Two months later, neurologists at Boston University confirmed what Duerson had thought all along.

He had in fact suffered from this disease which had been linked to concussions.

Duerson wasn’t the first.

And he certainly won’t be the last.

The list of NFL players who have suffered concussions is too long for this blog.

It’s even too long for Sean Pamphilon’s blog.

In just the last two seasons, there have been nearly 400 concussions in NFL games.

That’s more than one every two games.

Odds of seeing Tim Tebow complete a pass are lower than that.

Now there has never been a football player alive who hasn’t been aware of the dangers of the game.

And there has never been a parent in the crowd who didn’t fear for the safety of their child.

And there has never been a paycheck uncashed because the game was too risky.

Junior Seau cashed a paycheck for 20 years.

Unheard of for an NFL player.

A quick google search will show that other than those wussy kickers, the average life of an NFL player is like three years.

Seau destroyed those odds.

Like he destroyed quarterbacks.

Playing in 12 consecutive Pro Bowls.

But it came with a price.

When asked if Junior ever played through concussions his ex-wife Gina said, “of course he had.”

“He always bounced back and kept on playing.  He’s a warrior.  That didn’t stop him.”

“I don’t know what football player hasn’t.  It’s not ballet.”

We will never know for sure what was going through the head of Junior Seau when he fired the gun on Wednesday.

But we do know it wasn’t a bullet.

That's because Seau shot himself in the chest.

Just like Dave Duerson.

Adding to a problem that may change the NFL forever.

A much bigger problem than anything Sean Pamphilon ever did.