COUNTING THE DAYS

Like all middle-aged men I am a pervert. Every night I go to bed thinking to myself "maybe tomorrow I will discover a hot young twenty-eight year brainiac college graduate who will suddenly conceive of the notion to jump my bones because I am good company, and, now that she has her degree and is at loose ends, upon meeting me she realizes that the time for innocence is past, it's time to start living." Which, is, more or less, rather remarkably similar to the thought I wake up with.
It never happens, of course. Because a hot young brainiac has better taste than to go for someone out of her age group, who doesn't work out, and does not look like Kurt Cobain.


Today is the twenty second anniversary plus forty five days since the death of Kurt Cobain.


I still do not feel strangely moved by the event. Possibly because I am heartless, more likely because I am not a very hip dude.


Oh, and because the entire 'Grunge' phenomenon seemed like a bunch of middle-class poseurs being as precious as they could possibly be.


Grunge, Smunge.


John Lennon, Kurt Cobain, Jerry Garcia, Prince. Sure, voices of their generation, if you felt that way. Even Elvis, if you presently have blue hair and arthritis. The loss will be lamented, their deaths were tragedies, and their creative genius will be missed.
The voice of a generation!


Real people lament the loss of John Belushi.

He truly was the voice of a generation.

Hipper, grungier, and wilder.

Thirty fourth anniversary and fifty six days.





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