It is that very mythology and the creation of it that Tom Perrotta, New Jersey native and author of "Bad Haircut," "Joe College" and most recently "Little Children" (which takes place in the Boston suburbs, to which he's since fled), finds so interesting. "I met Junot Diaz [author of 'Drown'] recently," Perrotta told me. "And he was wearing a 'New Jersey: Only the strong survive' T-shirt. It was like some long lost brotherhood for us. There's some conviction that it's a place to be perversely proud of."

Perrotta's "Joe College" directly deals with this inferiority complex and sense of pride. In the novel, the young narrator Danny experiences a tender transition from working-class Jersey (he helps his father out with his lunch truck, serving office parks) to the wealth and sophistication of Yale University. It's a universal class crisis, but in this case, something rooted in Jersey kitsch; the woman he's dating from home is all about blue eye shadow and Springsteen songs (hint, hint). Somehow the trendier styles of perfect vintage dresses, as seen on the Yale girls, never made their way to the Jersey suburbs. And yet it's hard not to find Danny's success utterly gratifying. After all, look where Danny came from! Look what fashion horrors he endured! And he made it to Yale!

Ultimately, "The Sopranos" mines these same conflicts -- it's unclear just where Tony is more comfortable, sitting by the pool in his manicured backyard, or at his seedy strip club. The tensions between Carmela and the sophisticated Meadow, off to school at Columbia, referencing literary critics her mother never heard of, beautifully showed how little class differences sometimes have to do with money. In the last few episodes, with Johnny Sack wielding his New York boss status like a bloody club, it's difficult not to feel the slight from the "big city" once again. At least this time we know fans of the show are feeling it for the first time, too. But what's clear, from the accents to the clothing, is that Chase intended in "The Sopranos" an unabashed portrayal of the richness of these characters and the New Jersey landscape. The Jersey jokes exist in a more humanized Technicolor, one big, brilliantly fleshed-out stereotype -- the guidos eat at crummy roadside diners, they go to therapy, get colitis, drive their cars all the time, wear truly amazing outfits and tell the New York boss, perhaps foolishly, "Fuck you."

These aren't new stereotypes. They're the people who invade New York and Philadelphia via bridge or tunnel, or the hicks down south who wear "Welcome to the Jersey Shore. Now go home!" T-shirts. It's hard not to get a tad defensive about the whole enterprise, or want to pick and choose which stereotypes are rooted in reality. It's a challenge for New Jersey writers to find the complexity in a place that is usually glossed over with broad, dismissive strokes. But it's also possible that in that endeavor, writers have lovingly pushed along the Jersey stereotypes, because in fact, there's something within them that they hold dear.

Which brings us, inevitably, back to Springsteen. I always assumed that Bruce was New Jersey's one untouchable -- if anyone was on our side, it was he. Everyone loves Bruce, we think, and that makes his home state a lovable place too. Yet, according to my completely random and unofficial survey, Springsteen has a lot to do with both the state's grungy image and, conversely, Jersey folks' proud, somewhat beleaguered, gravely voiced perception of who they are.

"People from New Jersey create this Springsteen myth about themselves," said Sam Lipsyte, author of "Venus Drive," "The Subject Steve" and the forthcoming "Home Land," which is about a down-and-out New Jersey high school graduate preparing to attend his reunion. "And then they pray that they don't run into someone actually from New Jersey."

Our mythology about New Jersey comes as much from Springsteen as it does from Roth, as it will, for a new generation, come from "The Sopranos" and the rest of the crop of young artists skewering and eulogizing their state. And even if, heaven forfend, the Jersey jokes disappear, it's possible that our half-proud, half-ironic idea of New Jersey will remain strong. Springsteen is crucial to this idea of New Jersey's blue-collar roots, its masculinity and authenticity, its us-against-the-world mentality, its rebelliousness -- and also to the idea of youth, hard work, dreaming of a world beyond home and the bittersweetness of going back. In many ways, perhaps, as Junot Diaz's T-shirt bragged, Springsteen is about a sense of small-state survival that Jersey folks cling to, even if where they grew up wasn't so bad. Springsteen provides New Jersey natives with one thing the jokes and stereotypes never suggest it had a shred of: Romance.

We all stake our claim to the Springsteen myth. These days, when people ask where I'm from, I usually say, "A small town in New Jersey, just south of Asbury Park." That's true: Wall is a few towns down the shore from Asbury, though the two places -- one white and middle class, the other racially mixed and somewhat rundown -- have virtually nothing in common. Claiming I grew up near Asbury Park says very little about me. But I guess I want in on the Springsteen myth, too. I'm proud of the boardwalks and tussles with the cops and summer love and factories and badlands and blue-collar boys with hot cars -- even if I never experienced any of it. And, besides, my mother did. She was born in Asbury Park. Close enough.

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