Aaaahhh...
Eventually I'm hit by a dreamlike realization: Eddie Vedder is drunk, and I am drunk, and we are throwing axes at a tree stump in the dark. By now we've gone through at least a case. Empty bottles litter the ground; Vedder is on his second pack of smokes. "Let's take a seventh-inning stretch," he suggests. We walk over to the western side of the lot, looking out over the sound and the islands and the mountains beyond. The late evening sun is a deep crimson, shimmery on the black water. Vedder tosses a tennis ball to Hank, then takes a swig of beer. "I don't know why anyone would want to live facing east."
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