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