Fun fact: he, as of 2016, smelled like spearmint gum and humility.
I saw Bruce for the fourth time on Sunday and thank god I did, because he just announced this week that his September shows will be postponed as he receives treatment for an ulcer. (Get well soon, Dad!!)1
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The show was almost perfect (he didn’t do “I’m Goin’ Down,” which I have seen him do in the past, but I forgive him). BUT: he did “Jersey Girl,” as I specifically asked for last week in this here newsletter and I did cry. I also cried during “The Rising,” because you have to by law when your dad, a now-retired fire chief, was summoned to Ground Zero in the days following 9/11.2I cried a lot. It was nice. And thank you to the very nice woman who let me park for free because my wallet fell out of my car making a return. I will never forget you!3
I don’t even use TikTok. I’m still surprised I filmed myself crying in public. I did it for you guys, though, so it’s permissible.4
(If you saw the above video on my Instagram story and liked it: congratulations, you are in love with me in all my radiant whimsy and I am happy to offer you this safe space to work through that acceptance.)
I don’t make grand efforts to proselytize where Bruce is concerned. My mother, for example, had a “no Bruce Springsteen” mandate towards the DJ at my parents’ wedding. It’s, like everything with my mother, a lost cause! But when I do extol the wonders of Bruce and the E Street Band to others, one of the first selling points I share is the saxophonist: the late, great Clarence Clemons, the Big Man. I think you have to be from New Jersey to GET it, to understand what moved through that man when he picked up that instrument, I really do, but I’m going to leave these comments here and you can tell me if they stirred your soul:
Bruce and Clarence had the most humbling, devoted relationship and I have never once seen Bruce without feeling his heartbreak at one of his great loves not being up there with him. I’m not saying this is a Larry Stylinson situation, but I’m only not looking up fanfiction because it will lead me down a treacherous little road and you know, I’m getting laid off next week and I have job interviews and unemployment to take care of and I can not lose that time.
Clarence on Bruce: “Bruce and I looked at each other and didn’t say anything, we just knew. We knew we were the missing links in each other’s lives. He was what I’d been searching for.”
“He looked at me, and I looked at him, and we fell in love.”
Bruce on Clarence: “He was elemental in my life, and losing him was like losing the rain.”
With how minty I told y’all Bruce is, I don’t blame the Big Man.
To which I ask: me and who?
Now here the additional tears come in: when Clarence passed in 2011, Bruce needed a new saxophonist. Enter Clarence’s protegé and GODDAMN NEPHEW:
I’m sorry, but sometimes nepotism fucking whips ass. When they cast Michael Gandolfini to play his dad in The Many Saints of Newark? I got emo! I got emo as hell! (They should not cast James Gandolfini’s nephew in anything, though. He asked me out on a date once and then got pissy with me when I canceled because I found racist Obama memes on his Facebook.)
Jake Clemons now plays with Bruce, inexplicably but impressively wears long sleeves and often a scarf at every show even in August???, and does his uncle proud.
In other news from the swamps of Jersey, I’m seeing Danzig tomorrow. I can’t believe I’m seeing Danzig tomorrow. As a fellow 5’3” Italian from Bergen County, we are fated to be in this room together and I can not wait to throw an obnoxious amount of devil horns into the air. I can’t help but think of The Fucking Drummer who got me into Glenn in the first place but at the same time:
We used to be a real country…men were MEN…they tapdanced and held hands and drink Bud Light and knew how to kiss a girl. I wither at the thought of what we USED to be. But yeah, this is great.
Two queens maximizing their joint slay. Two of our great nation’s hottest men.
I went to see the original Attack of the 50 Foot Woman with Jonathan5, at a MST3K-style screening hosted by the drag queen Hedda Lettuce. I loved this movie, which is about women getting their own in the face of their lying, scheming, deadbeat husbands. The unintentional sweded effects and set pieces moved me, to my surprise. I sat there watching this potent and relatable story and found myself moved at the resolve these creatives found to tell it with little budget with which to innovate. The bald cap the alien dons choked me up as someone who prefers her Frankensteins creation to look like thieved organs cobbled by spit. And the nascent greenscreenage lends itself to some frames that I would mount on my wall. Accidental collage art. The movie is 65 minutes long. I highly recommend.
Sean showed me Commando, a movie in which Alyssa Milano gets kidnapped but the real abduction is Rae Dawn Chong hijacking an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie from Arnold Schwarzenegger. It’s Cindy’s movie. The less said about Dan Hedaya in that Maybelline Dream Matte mousse6 the better. Commando is concise, funny, very stupid, and Jerry Horne from Twin Peaks is in it. I ask for very little else of my moviegoing experiences. I also got to visit Art Machine, the shop where Sean’s apprenticing!
Just wanted to shout out Yani and Ivy especially, whose station is a How Did This Get Made fan’s wet dream. There are at least three portraits of Harris Wittels. Several Gremlins masks. Two different Fleabag prints on the wall. Some pennants by one of my favorite artists and new pals Matt Lineham. Good people! Go check them out if you’re in the Philly area.
What if I got a tattoo of Patrick Swayze skydiving in Point Break?
To listen:
My buddies in Soul Glo dropped a new single this week, and I immediately listened to it 19 times in a row, moshing in the bathroom to not wake Matt up. I love the contrast between Pierce’s ambitiously ticked off vocals and Pierce the person, who I always mentally picture sitting at home, popping out one of his many grills to enjoy a delectable charcuterie board and mellifluously rolling joints while watching Frasier.
“But I am my father's daughter / so maybe I could fix him” My hand flew up to my neck and I gasped like a consumptive cousin of Edgar Allen Poe.
The new Olivia Rodrigo album is relatable in a way that makes me want to start booking biweekly sessions with my therapist. Biweekly as in twice a week, not as in once every two.
I have been listening to this song in the heaviest rotation for the last two weeks:
It is the sonic equivalent of this moment from Curb7:
’s piece on Gaylore, the convention for “Gaylor” Swift fans (Gaylor is the belief that Taylor is gay and has alluded to her relationships with Dianna Agron and Karlie Kloss in her lyrics) (I definitely believe something happened with Dianna Agron because I also want something to happen between ME and Dianna Agron so it gives me hope).
recommendation: this Cultured Magazineprofile on designer and writer Emmanuel Olunkwa, who speaks about his fashion choices being made in conversation with specific others: aestheticists whether designers or Timothée Chalamet. His comments made sense to me, as someone who doesn’t own a bucket hat.
’s Dirt essay on Imagine Dragons8 and “rocktimism” made me listen to Imagine Dragons for the first time since they were an iTunes Single of the Week and I have to admit…”It’s Time”….affecting!
’s Song Exploder featuring singer Dan Reynolds (who I once spotted on Raya and yeah would have totally gone on a date with let’s be real he’s a giant hot man who probably tastes like the light blue - but NOT the pastel blue - Gatorade) is also worth a listen. Reynolds has apparently written nearly a song a date since he was twelve. Did you know that one of their albums was produced by RICK RUBIN?!
Anything you want, if you’re in Hoboken! My city9 voted unanimously to inuct itself as a book sanctuary city, which means that some small contingent of helicopter parents who don’t know how to love their kids any other way than by violently controlling them can’t get books about gay people removed from our library!
Matt and I got into a fight because I think I should be Corn Bread’s mother:
.We do, obviously:
The world’s smallest woman, Simone.
But then we could have TWO! I relayed this to Sean who looked at me IN MY FACE and said it’s for the best that I don’t have “three cats and no job.” In my sweet little face. He maintains he only said no job, as if this is better??!!!
Please go visit Philly PAWS and adopt this baby so I can be her godmother.
Thank you for reading xoxo Gossip Giancaspro! You can find me on Instagram and Twitter and stream my music released as Sweaty Lamarr on all major platforms. It would make me so happy if you subscribed.
Also, my literal dad is getting his gallbladder out on the 11th. Everyone send some love and well wishes to Bob Hoskins’ living doppelgänger, please! I like my dad!
I did in fact get my wallet back thanks to the Guttenberg Police Department, which sadly for all of us is not named after Police Academy star and one of my time-travel Fucket List entries, Steve Guttenberg.
Anyone who has ever worn this has committed brownface. I don’t need to explain further if you were a teenaged woman in the 2000’s. Dan Hedaya is still cleaning the cultural appropriation out of his pores.
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Nice! Love me some Bruce!
Very nice, prayers for your dad 🙏🙏