The Eddie Vedder Theory

Oh, my baby, my baby she don't want me no more
Ever since she saw his poster in that record store
She says the way he grinds his molars is really sexy
She thinks he's so darn dysfunctional and "Generation X"y
She likes his brooding angst and his wild-eyed stare
Yeah, he's her very favorite slacker multi-millionaire

Well, my baby's in love with Eddie Vedder
She's all crazy 'bout that Eddie Vedder
Once she was mine, but now I better just forget her
'Cause my baby's in love with Eddie Vedder

-Weird Al Yankovic

Sorry, Sirius Black, my unattainable literary crush. You’ve toppled from first place on The List. I’m in love with unattainable rock star Eddie Vedder. And it seems I’m not alone, if Weird Al’s song is any indication. Luckily for me, though, my husband looks far more like Eddie than Al so peace still reigns in our home.

A crush on EV is difficult to sustain and quite exhausting. Intelligence constantly battles with shallow desire, creating a personal war zone.

Despite eyes that can melt the ice caps, a voice fashioned from caramel at Willy Wonka’s factory, that surfer body and rock star cool, EV seems like a decent chap, a regular guy. He’s a doting father, champion of kindness and decency, hard-working professional, and warrior for the downtrodden. He exemplifies anti-celebrity and all the shallow behavior that accompanies such state.

Lusting after EV is an insult to the man, really, and I don’t think he’d approve of me wasting time and energy plotting ways to capture his attention at his upcoming show at the Opera House. So far, the best I have is the old bra-in-the-face move that is guaranteed to garner his annoyance... and extreme fright, since removing my bra in public could be considered an act of criminal intent.

A theme in George Eliot’s books is how romantic love can help better one’s character or, alternatively, if one chooses poorly, love can ruin one’s life. Now, a person of substance will find inner strength and wisdom to perfect his or her character. Some find inspiration and guidance through religion. I am not such a person.

Falling in love inspires me to be a better person. Since I can’t sustain a crush on my true love (aka husband) ALL the time, I have crushes on unattainables. And when in love with said unattainable, I am kinder, courteous, charitable, inspired, energetic and joy filled. Perhaps this is shallow, but it works. I’ve tried religion, but it doesn’t click for me and while I do not believe you can find a better man’s example to follow than Jesus's, somehow, having a crush on Jesus just seems wrong. Although it did work for Mary Magdalene.

Hence Eddie Vedder. A crush on EV will not only inspire you to wait outside his Boston hotel for hours until he walks out via the back entrance so that he's missed entirely, but you will no doubt volunteer at a soup kitchen to balance out the day. Pick Brett Michaels, on the other hand and all you will end up with is leathery skin and a lifelong supply of cheaply made push-up bras. And possibly lung cancer.

So Eddie, thank you for allowing me to justify my insanity. I’ll see you on August 1. I’ll be in the Dress Circle, first row, dead center. If you say hello, I won’t have to remove my bra.

How Loving EV Improves My Character: It’s so easy to be kind to strangers. Don’t need the man for that. I am, currently, more patient and compassionate to those that are close to me at those times when they most get on my nerves. Now, I don’t pull my hair out when my toddler asks the same why question for two hours straight. I can laugh and shake my head fondly at my husband for wearing that ridiculous red bandana. And my father’s whistling ceases to…well, that still drives me to snarl at him. I’m working on it.

Charity of Choice: There are too many people in need – war veterans, firefighters, disaster casualties, disease victims, battered children…for awhile, I was giving little bits here and little bits there, which only left me more depressed and hopeless, similar as to how one feels after watching Gone, Baby, Gone. Now, I pick one charity and donate to that once a year. It’s not enough, but financially, it’s the best I can do and it's a start.

So I choose The Smile Train. Those poor children, born into pain and ridicule, and there’s an easy and inexpensive fix for it.

Song of the Day: We’ve All Been Beat Up Enough (Bow Thayer, not Eddie Vedder. Really.) Followed by Jabe's Goddam Train. Can't get it out of my head and I don't mind it one bit.

Nightstand Reading: Jhumpa Lahiri's Interpreter of Maladies. Beautiful.

Bittersweet Symphony

So it’s been a bittersweet month in my personal world of arts and entertainment. I’m not complaining because I feel pretty lucky that artistic and literary pangs are my biggest concern in this day and age. What’s the line from Pearl Jam’s “Wishlist?" -- something like: “I wish I were as fortunate, as fortunate as me.”

My insights, then, or lack thereof:

The big show. Pearl Jam. I haven’t seen them since the early nineties when Lollapalooza and Great Woods were both cool and I was able to traipse from lawn to mosh pit just in time to help pass Eddie Vedder over the crowd. I didn’t wash my hands for two days.

Same place fifteen years later. Great Woods is now the Comcast Center and there is barely a lawn to speak of and certainly no mosh pit. My tickets were smack in the middle – too far away to see anything and as the Comcast Center probably has the worst sound stage in history, the music was blurred. Generally, it was an unpleasant experience, surrounded by very drunk ex-frat boys (and one sixty year old, brown leather skinned vodka pickled Vineyard fashion clad woman). And my husband, who wore an I-told-you-so-smirk the entire time.

And he’s right. We are spoiled here in Boston. So many clubs, so many really talented bands who go on to fame and fortune. And we just walk in and fully experience the music. Sure there are drunk guys ambling around making general nuisances of themselves somehow believing that you are there to see them and not the band, but these are mere gnats, easy to tune out. Instead, you can see and feel the passion of the music, the synergy of bands, the intricacies of fingers dancing along guitar strings.

So stadium shows just don’t cut it at all unless you are of the mentality that you are one with the crowd, one with your idol up there on stage, voices mimicking, arms waving. Blech. This is mob mentality, not creativity, not community. It feels dangerous and creepy.

Community is sitting in a circle at my son’s toddler playgroup singing songs and dancing. It is humbling and bonding and promises burgeoning creativity. A beginning. I can’t explain it. The Pearl Jam crowd felt like mass failure – armchair athletes. An end. We left early.

That said, here’s the sweet. Pearl Jam was incredible. The performance, the music, the energy – they give the audience back what they paid in tickets and gas and then some. And no-one can create a feeling of community like Eddie Vedder. In fact, in those fleeting moments between songs, when he spoke to the crowd, I felt truly part of a community of hope, as if we were sitting around the fire taking turns telling stories.

Now, the members of Pearl Jam are heavy on the activism and support many charities. This is easy to do when you have power and money, right? Many fans won’t argue what their rock gods utter, never bothering to reason to discover their own opinions. And charity? The rest of us can barely afford tickets to their shows so how are we supposed to give money or time to charity, right?

Wrong.

You don’t need money to be kind, to train yourself to think outside of yourself, to find ways to improve the lot of those around you, even if it’s just bestowing a smile. And hurray! Pearl Jam exemplifies this, which was evident by its frontman’s converstion. He wished us well – not the “Hey, how y’all doing in [fill in city of choice]?” banter that most bands spout in an attempt to show that they care about their fans, and if you ask me how Mr. Vedder was any different, I can’t pinpoint it. He just was.

Part of it was his choice of topics such as the one about the little local boy who, learning to play guitar, had just figured out his first chords to a Pearl Jam tune. The band dedicated a song to him, even bothered to remember his name. They took the time to give hope to one kid. An average kid, not a gifted one, not one dying of cancer. Just a plain ole kid. Doesn’t take money or time to do that. Just kindness.

The Big Screen. Indiana Jones and the Crystal Skull. Left the theater with a smile on my face, mainly because I wanted to like the movie so I did, even though it boasted some lazy writing: a clichéd plot that seemed to steal from a plethora of other movies, including its own ancestors. But Harrison Ford slips into Indiana as if no time has passed, the glimpses of old characters and quarry pleased the palate, and Marion is front and center in Indy’s life, as she should be. Best is Mutt, Indy’s son in every way, but not yet quite ready to fill the old man’s shoes. Don’t expect the high quality of writing that distinguished Raiders and you’ll leave with more sweets on your brain than bitters.

The book. Alice Hoffman’s Third Angel. I borrowed this from the library on a speed-read loan so I caught the gist but really didn’t take the time to delve into symbolism and themes as the book deserves. So I might be wrong in my interpretation.

As usual, Hoffman doesn’t disappoint, although this novel drags the reader into hopelessness most of the way through, leaving one melancholy at the close of each chapter. There are no villians or heroes – just humans.

The characters, despite their privileged social standing, suffer so much sadness, especially Lucy, who, at the start of the novel, is the mother of two daughters. Lucy’s cancer left them motherless for a time and the repercussions of her disease infect their adult lives.

Later in the book, we read about Lucy’s childhood. Life really should not have thrown her cancer in her adult life. It’s really not fair at all. But isn’t that the nature of earthly living?

Yet Hoffman, at the last, saves her reader from despair. She gives us hope via a character that has no hope (although, he too, later finds it), Lucy’s third angel. Hoffman, as the author, is ours.

THE book. Finally finished the Harry Potter series and I’m bummed that it’s over, but what a perfect little symphony JK Rowling has created. I cheered (Mrs. Weasley, Luna, Neville, and, what ho, Kreacher!), was bummed by all the losses, and was surprised by the lasting sadness for Severus Snape. He was cheated. He did not get his due.

The last book completed the first, and proves that character is fate. Upon further reflection of Snape, he probably did get the justice he deserved. His character certainly wasn’t stellar, despite his bravery and loyalty.

I do agree, however, with some critics who believe the epilogue was not necessary. The last sentence of the last chapter was as good as it gets. Still, the epilogue offered the romance novel ending that’s packed with peanuts and more shows that Harry paid public homage to one of the truest heroes of the tales.

On the horizon: The entertainment gods have heard my woes. Eddie Vedder, solo, small stage (so the Opera House isn’t exactly Toad, but it far beats the Comcast Center), providing an intimate evening with banjos, mandolin, and his lovely baritone. I'm selling my husband for tickets. He's pretty hot and he cooks. Anyone, anyone?

On the iPod: Do you really need a hint?