My dream 70s boyfriends, appropriately under-dressed. (Jonathan Richman is the obvious third contender, but I'm running with the half-nakedness theme here) Sam beat me to the punch in singing the praises of the Boss, but I guess a little extra adulation can't hurt any. When I was working in a convenience store a friend referred to it as the Springsteen Dreaming period of my life, which made it seem exciting and even enviable. It wasn't. But that's the great charm of Bruce, he makes shitty things appear romantic. Like hokey amusement park rides and sleazy gambling cities by the sea. He understands desperation and restlessness and dead-end towns. He's sympathetic to the secret hearts of girls.
Plus - he can actually pull off double denim, which is like some kind of superpower. He's not called the Boss for nothing.
Then there's Richard Hell. When he and Tom Verlaine were choosing their new names, Tom went for the homage and he went entirely as his own creation. He's kind of my role model, which may be cause for concern, and his list of achievements is both impressive and highly underrated: he accidentally invented some of the most enduring iconography of punk, indirectly influenced the forming (and fashions) of the Sex Pistols, and was the founding member of two of New York's most notorious bands of the 70s (Television and The Heartbreakers) both of which he quit before they recorded their debut albums. He wrote the anthem Blank Generation and had a hand in Chinese Rocks. He starred as a version of himself in Susan Seidelman's first film Smithereens and was Madonna's doomed Atlantic City date in her follow-up, Desperately Seeking Susan. Lester Bangs loved him and thought he was full of shit.
My love for him is equal parts hero-worship and lust. He's a dubious object of admiration, for sure. And he was more dangerously attractive and drug-addicted than I'll ever be.
