FORTY-FIVE MINUTES INTO THE FIRST presidential debate, Bruce Springsteen wandered into the craft services room of the Wachovia Center in Philadelphia where two dozen roadies and a few members of his E Street Band were silently gathered around a TV. "How we doin'?," he asked, pointing to the screen. There was no response. Next he tried a few inquisitive gestures. Thumbs up? Way up? Down? No one shifted his or her gaze. Finally, smiling wryly in recognition of his relative unimportance, Springsteen pulled up a chair and watched with the others.
He may be the Boss, but even Springsteen cannot compete...
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