No Better Man Still Alive

This post starts with a confession. Tonight it was thunderstorming, and I sat on the couch drinking bourbon by myself and watching the Pearl Jam 20th anniversary documentary.

OK, there's more to it. In high school, I loved Eddie Vedder so much I wanted to be him *and* fuck him. Remind me to find you a photo of myself with long, straggly curls, cutoff Army pants, and Doc Martens--my sophomore year uniform.

Probably because of shame (and/or Netflix), it's taken me a few years to get around to watching 20. Also, I was nervous. Maybe like meeting up with a crush 20 years later and having to take a good look at them--and yourself--in the light of day, as it were.

But then the opening scene has Eddie on MTV wearing eye makeup and an outfit he'd borrowed from D'Arcy Wretzky of the Smashing Pumpkins, and I knew I was going to fall all over again. And I felt better about my continued appreciation for Ten seeing him perform those early shows in his Cramps and Sugarcubes t-shirts, or seeing "Fugazi" Sharpied on his arm for the Headbanger's Ball interview. Plus, there's the epic Vedder-Cornell bromance to warm one's heart.

Temple of the Dog fan fiction, anyone?

So it seems I've unearthed another root, one of those early experiences that shape your identity and inform your boners for decades to come.

To be fair (to me), I couldn't follow the last half of the movie (I vaguely remember Neil Young? Ticketmaster?) and don't talk to me about any Pearl Jam albums since Vitology. But somewhere in my heart (slash pants) it will always be 1991.

Poem for Two Decades of Flannels

"Don't call me daughter"
Eddie Vedder in a bra
Grunge is my gender

What a (Lot of) Feeling(s)

I did that thing again where I watched an old favorite 80s movie and was slightly horrified. Last time, I was disturbed by Danny Zuko and friends' misogyny (while still enamored of their cars and greaser fashion). This time, I was really excited to show my roommate a movie that had both of her favorite things in it--dancing and feminism--and ended up feeling like I should apologize.

Alex, the main character, still comes across as badass and empowered, the way I remembered her--a teenage steel worker and nightclub dancer with her own warehouse apartment, pit bull, and gracefully aging mentor--except when it comes to the romantic interest. He's a patron of the club where she works, who turns out to be the owner of the steel mill where she also works. He essentially stalks her, even jokingly "firing" her, until she goes out with him. In one scene, she declines his offer of a ride, so he follows behind her in his Porsche as she rides home on her bicycle. The image of her grim face, even as she is back-lit by his headlights, will not leave my mind.

The dancing was okay but, because it was the 80s, marred by surreal MTV-esque sets and waaaay high-cut leotards. Also, you know, uncredited dancing by Marine Jahan as Jennifer Beals' double.

Poem for Flashdance

She's a maniac,
Dancing like never before.
What's that even mean?

Alex fucks with a traffic cop "in a world made of steel" (Pittsburgh).

Also I'm just going to pretend it hasn't been almost a month since my last "daily" blog post, because even thinking about how far out of my groove I've gotten makes me want to procrastinate more.