The People of Steel

Sometimes I’m embarrassed that I live in Pittsburgh and don’t like football. It’s awkward, really. People ask me if I watched the game and I have to bluff my way through an answer. If I tell the truth and say no, well bad things just happen. So for the most part, I live in the Steeler nation, but I certainly don’t deserve my citizenship. Football? Eh. If it’s a matter of taking or leaving it, I’ll usually leave it.

But despite my football apathy, I have a soft spot in my heart for the Steelers and what they mean to this city and the people who’ve built it. In so many ways, the Steelers represent every Pittsburgher. They work hard, they never stop fighting; they hit hard when they have to and smile big when it’s time to celebrate. When you watch the Steelers, you witness the story of a city that has been built up, threatened with destruction, and resurrected and recreated from the ashes of dying industry. You watch a city, a people, that never stops fighting and always –- always –- finds the strength to surge through to the end knowing that it has fought with every fiber of its frame to walk away from the battle victorious.

It’s no secret that this town loves its team –- maybe more so than any other place in the nation. But what many people outside Western Pennsylvania don’t realize, those scoffers who wonder why we place so much stake in a sport where men throw a ball and hit each other for sixty minutes, is that this town needs its Steelers like most people need air. When times are hard, jobs are lost and the future is uncertain, the Steelers can lift you up. When life kicks you in the ass and knocks the wind out of you, you can count on the Steelers to pick you up and dust you off. And just when you feel like you can’t go on, Franco or Santonio makes an impossible play to remind you that maybe, just maybe, you can keep putting one foot in front of the other.

On my way home tonight, working my way from Squirrel Hill to the eastern suburbs, I saw kids and parents and grandparents standing on street corners waving flags and screaming for their team. I saw strangers stopped at red lights, talking through open windows and honking horns.

I saw Pittsburgh. And I will never, ever be embarrassed by that.

Thanks Steelers, for everything you mean to this city.

Was Ever Lady in This Humor Wooed?

No. And let me tell you why.

Let's say you're a single thirtysomething guy and you've developed what seems like a fondness for a certain thirtysomething girl, who, by the way, is cute, clever, smart and witty. Here are 10 ways to turn her off real quick.

1. Emote eloquently on the most recent international summit in your favorite online videogame and the invasion that everyone tuned in for, thereby slowing the summit to a crawl. Spend some time talking about the server specs and how they're incapable of supporting the game's traffic. Talk about the people you play with online as your "friends you've never met." She won't be freaked out or anything!

2. React with what could only be called appalled horror when Cute Girl says, "So there were lots of fake people on the screen?" regarding said videogame summit. (Silly Susie! These are real people in ANIMATED form.)

3. When walking on a sidewalk back in the real world and people are coming in the opposite direction, make the Cute Girl drop back. To make things interesting, keep talking to her and don't slow down, even though she had to basically stop to let the other people pass. When she catches up, keep on talking. She's smart, she'll figure out what she missed.

4. On that same note, continuously talk to her about your complex research on scientific whosimawhatsits, despite the glazed eyes staring at you from across the table. Ignore Cute Girl's attempts to make conversation about more mundane topics, like the weather or how dating sucks.

5. Berate her for expressing an opinion about some music you asked her to listen to. Spend countless minutes of life that can't be returned to Cute Girl outlining all the reasons she SHOULD like the scary band.

6. Find reasons to lean in really close to Cute Girl. Possibly to point something out on her computer screen. Touch her if you can. Don't worry...she won't freak out later or anything.

7. Open doors. Then let them slam in Cute Girl's face.

8. When parting ways with Cute Girl, don't really say goodbye or anything. Just head back in your direction while she crosses the street without you. She's smart. She'll understand the implied goodbye.

9. Ignore her and treat her with craptastic contempt when she has to postpone plans for a legitimate prior engagement. In fact, don't even take your iPod off while she's trying to talk to you.

10. Keep talking about those videogames. That look on her face--it doesn't mean "you're weirding me out." It totally means, "I'm enthralled! Tell me more and more about it so my face can freeze into this ridiculous smile and my neck can ache from nodding."

And that, folks, is why I'm still single.

Why People Leave Churches...

Hello readers! (Any readers who are left, that is. I haven't posted in ages. Bad Susie!)

As most of you know, I've been regularly attending a nearby church for more than a year now. Not just attending, really. I'm in the choir, I taught Bible School this summer, I was part of a ladies' Bible study group, and I'm in the church's young adult group. But yesterday, I had the kind of day that made me realize why people just walk away from churches they've generally been happy in.

They walk away, for the most part, because people are assholes.

Not very Christian of me, I know, but I can't believe the way people act toward each other in a place where we're all supposed to be treated as children of God. My nephews were with me yesterday, which was pretty stressful for Aunt Susie. They had to sit and behave during choir practice (which is before church). Then, they had to sit during part of church without me (because I'm in the choir and the ladies in my section made fun of me when I went to sit with the kids until they left for Sunday School). So I'm freaking out that they're going to get into trouble while I'm about 15 feet away with the choir. (They didn't.) But apparently other people in the church thought they were alone, because someone came up and showed them what hymn we were singing--even though I had already marked their pages with pieces of paper before the service started. So we get through the first hymn and make it to the "passing of the peace," when everyone greets their neighbor and says good morning. Well, as I'm making my way to my nephews to tell them where to go for the children's message and to point out the woman who they'd follow for Sunday School (which is during church), some crazy old woman snagged me and insisted on talking to me about some shit she wants to put in the newsletter. (Have I mentioned that I'm the newsletter editor, because I am. And it sucks.)

I finally get away from crazy old lady, but it's too late. I have to sing something and can't make it to my nephews. The minister has approached them by this time, though, and asked them who they belonged to. (Me, you doofus! And I could take care of them if crazy people would stop making fun of me or interrupting me as I try to get to them.) So the boys make it safely to the kid's message and then head to Sunday school. I breathe easy for about 45 minutes, knowing they're safe and sound with good teachers.

Then church ends, and the shit starts all over again.

As I'm taking off my choir robe and putting my stuff away, my youngest nephew comes barreling into the choir room talking about cookies, so I grab my purse and we head out to find his brother. That mission accomplished, we had for the social room, where they have cookies and juice. My nephews start loading up some napkins with what I don't think of as an unreasonable amount of food. They each have about two cookies (small ones--a little bigger than quarters) and some fudge, which is also cut in small pieces and is only about 1/4 of an inch thick. As my youngest nephew reaches for a strawberry, a hand comes out from nowhere and stops him. "There are lots of people here who have to eat, and you've taken enough. Come back for seconds if you're so hungry." Then she just kind of stared at me.

My poor youngest nephew just stared at me, like "Aunt Susie, what did I do wrong?" So I grabbed him and his brother, glared at the woman and said, "Let's go eat our cookies by the window. I don't like the way that lady is talking to you." I wish like crazy that I were one of those people who can get mad when something happens, but I didn't have the sense to get really, truly pissed about it until about 15 minutes later. Then I wanted to rip this lady's eyes out. Who does she think she is? There were PLENTY of cookies and he did not have an unreasonable amount on his plate. I know that I'm not their mom--I'm just a second-rate stand in--but I honestly thought I did a pretty good job keeping these kids in line for 48 hours this weekend. They didn't starve. They didn't hurt themselves or anyone else. They went to bed before 11 pm and I remembered to give them their medicine. I never let the youngest out of the house without his motion sickness bands. I made sure they were buckled in before I even put the car in gear. And I didn't lose anyone! Then here I am in church, among people who should be all nice and christiany, and the kids are getting yelled at and people are looking at me like it's a gift from God that I spend 98 percent of my time alone with my empty womb.

I would have left church angry enough if Cookie Bitch* had been the only incident, but as I stopped by the choir room to toss my cider cup in the garbage I ran into the minister, who immediately began talking about the next issue of the newsletter. Something really important to remember here is that I HATE doing the newsletter. What they told me would take about seven hours takes me at least 15. And to me, those are like 15 hours of more work. Just because I write for a living and have a publications background does not mean that I want to do it when I get home at night. I usually want to read, workout, make dinner, or nap. Because I spend nine or so hours a day in the throes of editing madness, I don't want to do it at home. (Really, I don't mind helping friends and family out from time to time, or taking paid gigs. But I'm having a hard time fitting this newsletter into my schedule.) Anyway, he said he owed me something for it and I said, "As far as I know, I haven't gotten any copy yet. When do you want this to mail?" His answer? WEDNESDAY or THURSDAY!!! I tried to convey to him that I've got a lot of obligations this week (writing a grant for my mom on Monday, music club on Tuesday, possibly going to my parents on Wednesday to see my nephews in their trick-or-treat costumes. I need to get a new driver's license before the end of the month...there aren't enough hours in the day) and he just stared at me. I think I committed to Thursday morning, but I can tell you right now that it's not going to happen. They'll be lucky if I have it done by Friday. Because it's Monday morning now and still no copy.

This is getting really long, but suffice it to say that I'm pretty upset by this point. The kids were humiliated by Cookie Bitch and so was I, minister is being all demanding on my ass for something I do voluntarily. (Hello, Minister? If I charged you for this it would cost about $600.) Then he says, "Susie, I love the way the newsletter looks. It's great. It's clean. It reads well." (Can you hear the "but" coming, because I saw it from the first clause.) "But the point size is too small." Seeing as how I was already in such a great mood, this was like the straw that broke the camel's back. I explained that the point size I was using was industry standard for publications, and that the printing parameters they've given me dictate that the newsletter be either eight or 12 pages. There's no in-between possible and I have to make the copy fit somehow. He just stares at me. "Well, what size are you using?" he asks. I tell him. "It cannot be that point size. Make it bigger. Just take it up a point size."

That's when I realize it. Church is no longer a place where I voluntarily go to hear the word of God proclaimed and to fellowship with other Christians. It's an obligation. It's a job, and people expect me to do what they tell me, even though I'm a volunteer who took the gig out of guilt because people kept hounding me about it. Guess what? Guilt is not a good reason to do anything.

Church leaders the world over wonder why attendance is dwindling, and I can tell you that Sundays like the one I just had are part of the problem. People try to be part of a church family, but they're either viewed as a commodity as soon as they walk through the door or they take so much abuse that they eventually wonder "What the heck am I doing here?" Then they don't come back.

It's not because they don't love God and believe in the gospel. It's because of the blatant assholery taking place within the church walls. And frankly, I have enough assholery in the rest of my life.

I can tell you this--if I do go back, I'm eating a ton of cookies just to spite Cookie Bitch.

* Yes, I understand the hypocrisy of saying that I go to church and then calling someone a Cookie Bitch. I'm working on the cursing problem.

Quick Update

Hello Defying Gravity readers! (If any of you are still left out there, that is.)

Sitting around this evening, twiddling my thumbs and waiting for the dryer to finish its thing so I can have clean washcloths in the morning, I realized that it's been nearly six months since my last post.

Six months? Can that possibly be right?!?!

Indeed, though, the time has passed and I have been anything but diligent about posting. I'm not making any promises here, or vowing to post once a week or anything, but I would like to get back to this with something resembling regularity. I have a bunch of things on my mind that would make good blogging topics (why, for instance, people insist on talking on their cell phones at the top of their lungs on the bus! Geez! I don't NEED to know what you want Henry to pick up at Wal-Mart on his way home from work, and I certainly don't need to know your dinner menu. Text message, please, or just friggin' save it for when you get home!), but here's a quick update on Susie's Life Since January:

1. I once again developed a ridiculous crush on someone I had absolutely no hope of attaining, mainly because there's like a 95 percent chance that he's gay. And tonight that crush officially (and somewhat sadly) came to a close when I realized that, regardless of whether or not he digs dudes or chicks, he's an ass. Ass ass ass. I can't even interest this person in conversation with me, let alone the possibility of friendship. So tonight I've decided that this is over. I am not wasting any more time or effort on this man. I have tried--and haven't even been all googly-eyed "I'm smitten with you please notice me before I die from love" about it--and he barely speaks to me unless he has to. So while at this picnic where Possibly Gay Crush of Susie basically ignored Susie, I remembered the wise counsel once given to me by a former trombone player from my alma mater. "Screw him, Susie. If you being you isn't enough, it's his loss." And you know what, he's right! This is Possibly Gay Crush of Susie's loss. Dude, I didn't want to have your babies--I just wanted to ask you out for coffee. Now that will never happen because YOU WON'T EVEN TALK TO ME!

2. Work is still work, but the scary yelling dude from my previous post (see below) kicked back into action after a two-month hiatus. It got so bad about a month ago that I had to talk with my boss about it, which led to talks with his boss, HR, and lots of other stuff. Basically, he's off my project and I don't have to work with him anymore. But he's slandering me in the office, telling my boss that I don't know how to do my job and that all of the problems he had (which extended to other folks in the office, believe me, and lots of people have come out of the woodwork since I went to HR) are because I'm impossible to communicate with. The only way to reach me, apparently, is by yelling violently. Nice. This is all kind of depressing, because I had been settling into the job pretty well over the past few months. Sure, it wasn't ideal, but I was getting used to it and coping pretty well. Now I'm ready to get out again. Even though our office has a new swanky address downtown with a fittingly swanky view of the city, I'm ready for something different, which leads me to...

3. Has anyone else out there ever just realized the professional path they were pursuing was just about the most boring thing in the universe? I mean, I spend each day of my life doing roughly the same old crap, and nothing I do makes any difference in the universe at all. In fact, a recent communication survey of employees shows that hardly anyone reads the publication I devote 90 percent of my time to. Lovely. This, combined with the fact that arguably the most influential teacher I ever had died this spring, makes me wonder just what I'm doing with my life. Some say that work is just work, and it's what you do outside that matters. But since I've yet to find the man with whom I can make children to pass along my legacy, I wonder about how I'll leave my little mark on the world. I've always regretting not getting my teaching certificate while I was in college, and the more I think about it, the more I'm convinced that something is leading me in that direction. Is a change in store? Maybe it is. Will it be hard? Sure. But then again, most things that are worthwhile in the end are hard. So maybe it's time I make the leap (I just need a job that will give me the time to go back to school...again!)

4. At a doctor's appointment on Friday, I realized that I weigh less now than I have in at least six years. Possibly more, but that's as far as my records stretched into the past. I haven't lost a pound since I started my new job. I just gain a few pounds and lose them, gain them again and lose them. But I'm going to start trying for the next 25 lbs. That'll put me at a weight I haven't seen since 1999, probably. And after that I'll have another 25 to go until I'm "healthy." By next year's doctor's appointment, I hope to have lost at least that first 25. If I can lose this next 50, I'll have lost 80 pounds total. Wow. Let's hope I can do it. If anything, though, I've lost enough that my blood pressure--always something crazy like 145/90 when I was at the doctor's office--has dropped to a healthy 120/80. Yay! Not bad for a chubby girl!

5. The dryer is done. My clothes are clean. That's it for tonight!

The View From Hell

If you close you eyes and listen carefully to the rat-a-tat-tat of fingers on keyboards and the brusque phone conversations in the cube farm that is my new employer, you can almost hear the pieces of your soul sliding into Satan’s sticky grip. Sure, from the outside it appears like any other “open office plan” in Corporate America, but between the mouse-clicking and phone ringing, flames nip at the feet of the minions as they begin their slow descent into Hell. I know, because I’m one of them. And my toes are getting hot.

In retrospect, I should have known this was no average corporation, but Hell on Earth. The signs were all there. When I told people about my new job, I wasn’t overwhelmed with congratulations from my peers and former co-workers. Most of them, smiles not reaching their eyes, told me what a great opportunity it was, to be a manager for the megamart of healthcare. But I didn’t hear many wows, many whoops. Just good lucks and “you can always come back if it doesn’t work out.” Someone from the company I was joining virtually catapulted into my old job. The chair wasn’t even cold.

But the true sign came on my second day of work. Sitting in my first editorial meeting, someone actually spoke the words, “Let’s discuss the anti-smiley policy that’s in the works.”

And then I knew it. I was in Hell. What company doesn’t allow people to use smileys in email? Satan’s company, that’s what. From that day forward, he surreptitiously started stealing Susie’s soul.

(Excellent alliteration, there, huh? At least Satan hasn’t stolen my style!)

In the 17 weeks and three days I’ve been a member of Hell’s staff, my professional life has morphed into something between The Office and Office Space. I don’t understand the language they speak (lots of “leveraging” and “synergies” going on) and I can’t understand their writing style (which is to avoid the active voice at all costs). But above all, I don’t understand my co-workers or the culture in the office. I could go on forever about different things that have happened, but you’d get bored, maybe, or just stop scrolling. There are a few classic vignettes, though, that can’t go untold. For posterity--and anyone desperate enough to think about working at Hell on Earth for even one day--such stories must be shared.

Circling Around My Mistakes: In my first week on the job, my boss asked me to proofread one of the numerous publications coming out of our office. I did, taking way longer than I’ve ever taken before because I had to look everything up in Hell’s insane style guide. So the newspaper went to print and I put it out of my mind. The next week I walked into the office to find a wonderful present from the biggest asshole in the office (who is in no way above me on the totem pole): a copy of the newspaper on which he’d circled all the mistakes I missed, capping it all with a Post-It note that read “FYI.” This happened twice.

Don’t Make That Face: More recently, I was having a conversation with a woman in the office about the process for submitting stories. I had changed part of the process--after all, I am the editor of the publication, brought in to change and streamline operations. She expressed concern over the change and launched into a lengthy monologue about why it’s done the way it’s done. I listened, not upset but mentally disagreeing with her. Then she told me, in her best I’ve-been-here-forever-and-you’re-just-a-shit-kid tone, “Don’t MAKE that face. I’m telling you how it is!” Heck, I wasn’t even trying to make a face. She should see me when I make an effort. I’m scary.

No Pain, No Gain: Two weeks ago, I sprained my ankle pretty badly on the way to work, but because I was up against a tight deadline, I still hobbled to the bus stop, thinking I could work through the pain. When I tried to get off the bus, I couldn’t support my weight on that ankle and it was all swollen. Long story short, I made it to the office and realized I needed to get off the foot and to the doctor or I was going to do more damage. I went into my boss’s office and told her, and she just glared at me. I said I was going to check with another person in my office about backing me up on the project due that day, which I did. That girl was also pissed. No one cared that my ankle was green and worsening rapidly. Nope. I had to work until noon, then I was allowed to go. And I don’t know how many times someone in the damn office made me get up and walk to get something from them.

Designer Attitude: Just today, I asked our designer to print pages of the newspaper for our boss to review. I mentioned--nicely--that I thought we had forgotten to do so last time (“we” even, not him), and he said, “I didn’t forget.” I said something like, “OK, well, I just don’t remember getting her a copy last time.” He said, “If you don’t remember, it was because you left early and didn’t tell me.” That’s when I lost my temper. He was referring to the sprained ankle incident from above, so I retorted, “The only day I left early last week was Friday, when my ankle was green and swollen so much it barely fit in my shoe.” This guy just didn’t know when to quit. He kept going on about how he’s been doing this for a long time and has never forgotten to print out the pages on Wednesday, blah, blah, blah. I finally cut him off and said, “Fine, just print them today. Thanks.” And walked away.

That’s just the tip of the iceberg (if iceberg’s can exist in Hell). There was the way my boss acknowledged the homemade truffles I gave her for Christmas (she didn’t. Not in person anyway—just an impersonal thank-you note); the way the boss took the last of the coffee from the pot when my friend at work had briefly put it on the counter so she could put cream in her mug; the way everyone says “must be nice” when I leave at 4:30, despite the fact that I’m there by 8:15 and never take a lunch; the way the boss thrusts newspaper pages back at me and says “I don’t like it,” but doesn’t give me any reason why--yet she has no problem listing her concerns for the designer. There’s the fact that I had no training, have been given no tools that will actually allow me to succeed in Hell.

Maybe it’s better this way. Who wants to say they were a knockout superstar in Hell? But it’s taking its toll. Satan’s tight grip holds me at the office for long hours. I’m getting dark circles under my eyes and have to take anxiety meds to keep the panic attacks at bay. I carry Maalox in my work bag now, and live on ibuprofen for the constant tension headache that follows me wherever I go. Today the coffee shop accidentally gave me regular coffee and I felt like I was having a heart attack for four hours. I don’t recognize the face in the mirror anymore, the tired one with sad eyes who looks like she’s defeated, sad and alone. My hair has stopped curling, my skin is one big zit. And just when I think I’ve run out of tears, a new batch comes through and proves me wrong.

Am I losing my soul? I sure feel like it. But I wonder about all the other people in the office with the same empty, lost looks on their faces. Why do they stay? I’m trying like mad to get out--trying harder to get out, maybe, than I am to stay. But these people come in day after day, year after year, to bury their heads in their cubes and slave away for a company that doesn’t give a damn about who they are or what they want. Just as long as they do the work--the mind-numbing, relentless overabundance of work--Hell is happy. Satan sees the slaving heads bent over the next new way to sell overpriced health care and rubs his sticky hands together with glee.

I have one thing to say: Fuck you Satan. You can’t have me.

And Who Can Forget About Harry?

This post is just so Bill won't think I've recovered from Harry Potter mania:

Holy crap! Two weeks from right now, I will have my copy of "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows," and I will be on my way to figuring out how this all ends. I'm rereading the series now and I just wrapped up Goblet of Fire last night. Cried like a baby for some reason...I don't remember crying the first three times I read it. But it got to me this time around.

I can't say I'm excited for the OOTP movie. I loved the book and no two-hour film could do that ginormous tome justice. It's the one book I've been looking forward to rereading the most, though. And I think that's because you start to learn answers to questions, and the new questions Rowling raises are so interesting. I'm also anxious to go through Half-Blood Prince again, since I read it so quickly the first time. I hardly remember it.

For more Harry Mania, you can check out the questions I posed a few summers ago here.

I Write the Songs

Today’s Post-Gazette featured an interesting article on memorable songs and what they mean to people. At first I thought it was kind of a dorky article. I mean, is this really news? But it caught my attention, because listed among some readers’ favorites was Pink Floyd’s classic "Comfortably Numb," from the even more classic album "The Wall."

"Hmmm," I thought. "It’s been a long time since I dusted off the ol' Floyd."

So before I left work today I made a CD from some Pink Floyd songs I had once burned into iTunes. And you know what, that article had a point. Some of these lyrics stay with you forever and just don’t go away. Some of them, like "Comfortably Numb," make me feel a certain way, while others, like "Whot’s Uh the Deal" (from "Obscured by Clouds") make me recall certain times in my life that were good or sad or scary.

It's amazing how universal music is, and how everyone in every culture is somehow influenced or affected by it. Amazing how a few words set to a tune can make you recall one specific moment in time -- the first kiss from your high school boyfriend, your first dance as husband and wife, the day your child was born, the day you bought your first house. And while I appreciate a good tune, it really is the words that get me and stay lodged in my brain forever. (For example, I still somehow know all the words to "Baby Got Back" from my junior high days. Why, I don’t know. It's a curse. But it comes in handy at weddings.)

With that in mind, I share some of my favorite lyrics. I’d love to hear yours.

From Pink Floyd’s "Time"
... And you run and you run
To catch up with the sun
But it’s sinking.
Racing around to come up behind you again.
The sun is the same in a relative way,
But you're older.
Shorter of breath, one day closer to death.
Every year is getting shorter,
Can never seem to find the time.
Friends that either come to naught,
Or half a page of scribbled lines.
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way.
The time has gone, the song is over.
Thought I'd something more to say.

from The Killers' "All These Things That I've Done"
Another head aches, another heart breaks,
I'm so much older than I can take.
And my affection, well it comes and goes.
I need direction to perfection, oh oh oh oh
Help me out.

from Bill Deasy's "Blue Sky Gray"
You make poetry from lies 'til it almost sounds like the truth.
I wouldn't be surprised if she's finally on to you.
Where did you go last night, while she slept in sheets of white,
Dreaming of you?

Why do you turn the blue sky gray?
She's the best thing ever.
Try to tell yourself that it's OK.
But we both know better.
'Cause it’s never gonna change
Until you look into the mirror,
And get honest with yourself.
Is the message getting clearer?
Oh why do you always have to paint
The blue sky gray?

from Dar Williams' "Iowa"
Way back where I come from,
We never mean to bother,
We don't like to make our passions other people's concerns.
And we walk in the world of safe people.
And at night we walk into our houses and burn.

from Faith Hill's "Fireflies"
I believe in fairy tales
And dreamers' dreams like bed-sheet sails.
And I believe in Peter Pan and miracles,
Anything I can to get by.
And fireflies.

from Springsteen's "Thunder Road"
(Actually, this is the whole thing. It deserves to be written in its entirety.)
Well the screen door slams; Mary's dress sways.
Like a vision she dances across the porch as the radio plays,
Roy Orbison singing for the lonely.
Hey that's me and I want you only.
Don’t turn me home again,
I just can't face myself alone.

Don't run back inside, darling,
You know just what I'm here for.
So you're scared and you're thinking that
Maybe we ain't that young anymore.
Show a little faith -- there's magic in the night.
You ain't a beauty, but hey, you're all right.
Oh and that's all right with me.

You can hide 'neath your covers
Study your pain.
Make crosses from old lovers,
Throw roses in the rain.
Waste your summer praying in vain
For a savior to rise from these streets.

Well, now, I'm no hero
That's understood.
All the redemption I can offer is beneath this dirty hood.
With a chance to make it good somehow,
Hey what else can we do now
Except roll down the window and let the wind blow back your hair?
Well the night's busted open
These two lanes will take us anywhere.
We've got one last chance to make it real.
To trade in these wings on some wheels.
Climb in back -- heaven’s waiting down on the tracks.

Oh, come take my hand.
We're riding out tonight to case the promised land.
Whoa Thunder Road. Oh Thunder Road, Thunder Road.

Lying out there like a killer in the sun.
Hey I know it's late, but we can make it if we run.
Whoa, Thunder Road. Sit tight, take hold.
Thunder Road.

Well I got this guitar and I learned how to make it talk.
And my car's out back if you're ready to take
That long walk
From your front porch to my front seat.
The door's open, but the ride ain't free.
Yeah I know you're lonely.
There's words that I ain't spoken.
But tonight we'll be free.
All the promises will be broken.

There were ghosts in the eyes
Of all the boys you sent away.
They haunt this dusty beach road
In skeleton frames of burned-out Chevrolets.
They scream your name at night in the street.
Your graduation gown lies in rags at their feet.
And in the lonely cool before dawn,
You hear their engines roaring on.
But when you get to the porch they're gone
On the wind.

So Mary climb in.

It's a town full of losers
And we're pulling out of here to win.