Monday, April 05, 2004

Cobain

I'll be really glad when the clock strikes 12 tonight and the date rolls from April 5 to April 6.

And not just because April 6 is the wife and my 2nd anniversary.

I'll just be glad to be done with the dead-hero worship that's been all over the media today to mark the 10th anniversary of Kurt Cobain blowing a hole in his head with a 20-guage.

Sure, Kurt was a talented guy. He wrote some good stuff, and - thanks to David Geffen - changed the face of rock and roll in the 1990s. But today marks the 10th anniversary of me not feeling one little ounce of pity for a 27-year-old multi-millionaire not being able to cope with life.

Kurt would still be almost exactly one month older than me (he was born Feb. 20, 1967; I came along March 19, 1967) if he hadn't offed himself in the greenhouse of his Lake Washington mansion a decade ago.

And maybe because we were just about the same age, I have very, very, very little sympathy for a man who had all of the means and ability to get himself help but instead chose to leave his wife and baby daughter alone in the world.

Kurt, of course, complained about the pressure of being a rock star. I believe Courtney Love's response to that in her weeping recitation of his suicide note was something to the effect of "well, just stop f*cking being one!".

Wealthy young fathers like Kurt have no excuse for suicide.

He could have gotten himself clean. He could have cared more about the future of his wife and daughter than ridding himself of his fame-induced agony.

But he didn't.

And I still can't pull together an ounce of sympathy for him.

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