I'm still alive (or, Nedrock 3)

A few years ago, as my various diseases began to pile up, my aunt—my dad's sister—asked if I would text her every morning to let her know that I was still alive. I said no. A few months later she asked again. I reminded her that I had already said no, and she said, "You could change your mind." Shortly thereafter I did change my mind. I figured, what could it cost me? Plus, I've come to learn in this world that when someone offers you their love, you consider yourself lucky and accept it.

I recently turned 60. I can't believe it; I still feel like a kid. Maybe it's because I never had children or owned a house. But my body is definitely aging. I have to constantly remind myself that people don't see a child when they see me. I have to be particularly careful around the sketch group, where all the ladies look like mother figures to me before I remind myself that we're all basically the same age.

Still, whenever I start to feel old, I remind myself that Brad Pitt and I are the same age. That Johnny Depp and I are the same age. That Eddie Vedder and I are the same age.

I've seen Pearl Jam twice. The first time, I only caught one song. We were going to Lollapalooza in the summer of '92, which featured Soundgarden, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Ministry, The Jesus and Mary Chain, and Pearl Jam. One asshole who went with us made us wait in the car for nearly an hour while he got ready. Then when we got to Charlotte we had to check into our hotel rooms. We figured there was no way a band as big as Pearl Jam would be the opening act. Well, they were. We got there as they were playing their final encore: Neil Young's "Rockin' in the Free World." 

Some ten years later I got atonement of a sort when a friend in Charlotte called to see if I wanted to see Pearl Jam. It was actually at the same outdoor venue and it was awesome. We got high and sang along to every song. I learned later that Pearl Jam didn't play "Jeremy" at every show. They played "Alive," "Black," "Even Flow," "Better Man" at pretty much every show, but "Jeremy" was special. They hadn't played it in Raleigh, but they played it for us. Eddie implored us to sing with him, and when we got to the "aye aye aye aye aye aye aye aye aye aye aye aye" part I got goose bumps, as twenty thousand souls all hit it right on cue. It was a communal, cathartic experience, and I still get goose bumps just thinking about it. They also closed this show with "Rockin' in the Free World," which I'd seen Young, another of my heroes, premiere live on SNL years before. 

This was around the time that I got my first computer, and when I got home I purchased my first download: the soundboard recording of the show, the show I'd just seen a couple of nights before, from Pearl Jam's website. I still have it on both my iPods. 

As I've written before, "Alive" was the song that convinced me we were listening to the wrong radio station at the sports bar. It was all happening—Nirvana, Pearl Jam, grunge, alternative rock—but we were listening to the "classic rock" station. This morning a live video recording of Pearl Jam performing recently in a Seattle arena came up on my YouTube feed, and there were Eddie and Stone and Mike and Jeff and Matt still rocking. It was "Alive," and I cried a little as I watched and listened. Cried for time gone by, cried for memories of those magical days in the Nineties, cried for these old compatriots still bringing down the house.

And I texted my aunt the same three words I send to her every morning: "I'm still alive."

Nedrock, Pitt Street, Charleston, 1994