I remember a night in late 1984, in a downtown pub populated entirely by the kind of men inclined to be hanging out in a bar at 2 a.m. Men started singing. This gun's for hire, even if we're just dancing in the dark. This gun's for hire. It was sad, and desperate, and kind of thrilling.
Lonely men do stupid things.
Springsteen gave us permission to do them. I was working on a factory bottling line, packing industrial strength mayonnaise in downtown Los Angeles. I didn't like it. Wrap your legs round these velvet rims and strap your hands cross my engines. It was an old high school compatriot who turned me around, forcing me to listen to the song again, headphones tight against my head, lyric-sheet open on my lap.