Kurt Cobain Lives – Part 3

This is part 3 of an ongoing serial fiction. Part 1 can be found here and part 2 here.

In 1994 Kurt Cobain faked his own suicide. 22 years later he’s ending his self-imposed exile.

USA - Nirvana in Swimming Pool
10 Oct 1991, Los Angeles, California, USA — Kurt Cobain of the band Nirvana takes a nap with his guitar at his side at North Hollywood pool. — Image by © Kirk Weddle/Corbis

An hour after walking in, Martin and I exit the lobby of the building. It has stopped raining.

Kurt left the office first, along with his bodyguard, riding down in the elevator having affixed a ski hat and fake okie-beard onto his face. The beard looked truly ridiculous. Mostly he just looked like a crazy person. But then I suppose it’s an effective enough disguise as it’s not like any paparazzi are on the lookout for a dead dude.

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Kurt Cobain Lives – Part 2

This is part 2 in an ongoing serial fiction. Read part 1 and learn how the narrator came to be sitting in an office with the long-dead front-man of Nirvana.

In 1994 Kurt Cobain faked his own suicide. 22 years later he’s ending his self-imposed exile.

“Allow me to introduce my client, Mr. Kurt Cobain. Contrary to popular belief, alive and in the flesh,” Consuelo says.

“No… fucking… way…” is all I can manage.

In 1993 I saw Nirvana play live at the San Francisco Cow Palace, which is basically a stadium. I recall thinking Kurt looked very small on the huge, distant stage. At the time I attributed it to the enormity of the venue and perhaps Krist Noveselich’s absurd height at stage right, but here, the figure on the couch, thin as a rail, was a man of similarly small stature.

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Kurt Cobain Lives


In 1994 Kurt Cobain faked his own suicide. 22 years later he’s come back to “get” Dave Grohl.

“Wait, this doesn’t make sense. Do you know what he wants? Why in the world would this dude want to talk to me? To us?” I ask Martin.

I have Martin on speaker while I Google the lawyer he’s just mentioned on my aging MacBook Pro. The lawyer’s name, the guy who wants us to come see him, is Vincent Consuelo. I’ve heard the name before I think, but I can’t place it.

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Fuck You! You and your fucking Batman

It’s September 1989 and the Irish punk band the Pogues is touring America. They play to a capacity crowd of 1300 people at the Power Center for the Arts at the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. This night it’s immediately clear that lead singer Shane MacGowan isn’t up to snuff. Even while gripping the solidity of the mic-stand, the infamously testy and oft-drunken singer can barely stand. He’s off-tune, off-time and nearly doesn’t make it through the opening number.

The Pogues

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Books I Read in 2015

I’ve gone back and forth internally about posting my reading list for 2015. The most persuasive argument thus far being “Who the fuck cares what I read?” That, however is the central dilemma, native to all writing having to do with one’s self. Where do you get the nerve to think that’s worth writing down? I’ve worked hard to ignore that thought though, because in the end, all writing is an act of narcissistic courage. Look what I have to say! I exist!

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That Time I Took LSD and Got Kicked in the Head at a Butthole Surfers Show

A personal recounting of the psycho-pharmacological experience that was a 1987 Butthole Surfers show.

The Butthole Surfers

When people asked me as a teenager what I wanted to do when I grew up I, at some point developed a stock answer. “I’d like to be one of three things,” I’d say. “A Butthole Surfer, A Beastie Boy or a Pogue.”

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You Gun People Are Idiots

You people that get your jollies, your reason for living via the use and veneration of a gun are mentally feeble. A gun is a tool, nothing more. It’s a low preoccupation. Further, it’s sad that you worship these things and your “constitutional right” to own such a tool above all else, most notably an innocent person’s life. Can you think of nothing better to do? Why not worship a hammer or perhaps a lawn mower instead? Surely we’d all be better off. Especially you.

Such a condescending statement sounds awful, doesn’t it? But it’s how I feel. I’ve tried to be respectful and hold my tongue, but enough is enough. You people are feebs and I’m tired of you encroaching on my mental space.

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