Letter to Eddie Vedder
by Karin Falcone
 
 
Dear Eddie,
I tried to make you happy by getting you the shit on Friday, and, FYI, it cost me an hour stuck on I-5 listening to REM. It is stupid to expect you to want to try to make me happy. I just want to have sex with you again. Then I wonder why you don't want it, or why you want it but can't show up for it, and I already know the answer. I feel sad. It is a sad day when a loser like you can get to me. You have disappeared before into the no-sex place you go, the drunk and drug place, the girls place. I know it is not about me. Sex is my drug of choice and your stuff was just pinnacle. You get off on keeping it in your pocket.

I don't hold out for you but when Eddie can show up enough to enjoy a good fuck it makes me happy. It is fucking delicious. There are no strings, no promises, but a certain expectation arises out of habit. I can't be anyone's girlfriend right now. You can't be my boyfriend, either. I respect it. I am not here for that. But that this has worked for so long has meaning for me. Years pass people come and go and the circle brings us back around to where I get a whiff of you again and I am somewhere I know is real, the familiar realm of the unavailable man. Fatherless fuckers all, I find you and find you.

Knowing you was always a danger, you pretending and me pretending heart hot under my flak jacket shooting you and shooting you and of course shooting you with one bulimic it girl after another. How happy was I to be there at all, I kept thinking. I wasn't a groupie or a huge fan. I had a plum gig and a job to do: Years of me and my Nikon, shows parties people weekly rags editors pre-internet mind you driving Olympia Seattle and sometimes SF for love and now finally I'm really getting paid. But you knew me from before and I knew you from before… and the sex. Then it got to be more. I liked talking to you. I liked what you were doing with the stage. Like the summer you murdered the president every night, you wore the creepy Dubya mask and held the knife, a murder-suicide catharsis. While the red-wine blood was spilling the confused Republican frat boys were all clearing out of stadium after stadium. What was not to love? So when we did the Rock the Vote tour movie for Sundance Channel, why did you leave that part out? You just said a lot of blah blah blah.

And by the way, thanks a lot for congratulating me on getting a production credit on that. Michael Stipe at least sent me one of his funny drawings. All you did was Text me: "A quick BJ?" Sure I was up for it. So? And that means what?

Well, I'm drinking again, and it's not pretty. When I drink I can almost understand you, understand why it is fucking beside the point to understand you, and why fucking is beside the point, too. I can touch my own numb skin and it is you, slipping under the radar, painless. Didn't you once say I don't need drugs to live a tragic life?

You think you are real because you once stood in my kitchen. You think you are real because we smoke pot together. You think you are real because you write songs without computers.

Everyone else thinks you're real because of Ticketmaster. And Ok maybe Ten.

All these weeks, months of brushing past each other dry. The phone out of the blue.

"Lisa, Lisa. Had fun at the party." A question with no inflection.

"What's on your mind? Sex, drugs or rock and roll?"

"The first," you say.

"I'm taking a break at a shoot, can't just come now."

"You wanted a day"

"A gay?

"A day session."

"A gay session? What's going on over there?"

"Day-time."

"Oh! Day session! I would love a day session, but not today. Tonight?"

"Maybe."

I finish work, and your phone is off the rest of the day and the rest of the night, of course. You get to me and get to me. I'm drinking again.

We love predictability and comfort from our stadium rock, and, trust me, I've seen a lot of it--Like the guys you knowingly set me up with when we run into each other at some party. Many times it worked out pretty good, you twisted fuck, but in a very real way, I am grateful, too. I don't need to mention names here, do I? What is that gratitude? It is just about how I look at the world in general. We could have been born one of the tsunami people, or the Katrina People, or the Paki earthquake people, but instead we got to be young and white and free in America, and that is a pretty good thing. But like all leftists, you are on a downer predictably, and that is the comfort food for the Gore people, right? Ancient history, so few of us Xers exist, we cling to shit like that, even as it is spinning around the bowl, the turd that won't go down…

So yes, I am a whore, just as u suspected.

The safety is predictable, leftist separatist atheist comfy cozy. Kurt's death put a lot on your shoulders, but Stipe had to sing about it for you. Atheists all, posing as humanists, posing as losers.

The god's honest truth I never even heard most of your shit. The soundtrack to Singles on the tape deck in my car. My car only has a tape deck, so I have this 90's nostalgia trip assortment of thrift shop cassettes, truck stop cassettes, Money for Nothin' the Dire Straits greatest hits, U2 the Unforgettable Fire, Chili Peppers Blood Sugar Sex Magic, and the Soundtrack to Singles. And then there is Fables of the Reconstruction. A beautiful recording, and you know the story of how the band despised each other and the horrible London Weather. And the gloom all around the whole thing that made it work so perfectly, it captured something outside of itself. Listening to Fables, it is raining on the Five going to meet you with that bag of the good shit in my hand. And you thank me for it and say goodnight.

All I can do is wait until you take that rough little kitty-cat tongue of yours and lick my clit, then really fuck me for a long time with your nice hard cock, turn me over, leg over shoulder the way you used to like that makes me cum and cum. Then I will ride you and taste your mouth and finally I will suck your cock and feel the tip in my throat while you pull my hair to see my lips around you. I want to hear your clear tenor shout standing over me when you drip white, hot cum all over my tits and face. And I'll sing back up. Mmmmmm, Aaaahh, mmmm.

My clit is so hard from writing this and my slit is so slippery...

Oh my God, that was so fucking good! Licking my fingers. This one's for you, Eddie.

Lisa
(Photog chick? Remember?)