Breaking News: Kurt Cobain has died.
That little weasel Kurt Loder then interrupted whatever music video I was watching at that moment.
Before facebook, twitter and the internet, celebrity news, deaths, gossip, and scandals were something you'd hear about from MTV. Then, if you wanted to be some pop culture Paul Revere, you'd have to pick up your telephone to share the news with a friend.
"It's raining in Seattle and thousands of mourners have gathered in the park to honor Kurt".
I leaned over to Buddy, my black lab, and said, "Did you hear that? It's raining in Seattle. No shit, Kurt Loder. It's a Tuesday".
I was moderately indifferent over this devastating news for my generation.
I was 22 years old. I wasn't reckless, relatively speaking. There was really nothing for me to reflect upon after hearing that the lead singer of one of my favorite bands was now gone. Forever. No lessons to lean upon, nothing... Really, my only thought was well, this sucks. No more Nirvana albums or music. I guess it's a lifetime of Smells like Teen Spirit now. I feel stupid and contagious. Here we are now, entertain us.
Something about those nonsensical lyrics resonated with a generation. Or maybe, it was just the rage behind Kurt's vocals.
The MTV cameras then panned to the faces of hundreds of crying faces huddled together in this Seattle park. Kids. High Schoolers. Whatever.
Look, Buddy. Everyone is crying. Let's watch something else.
Just about every channel, at that moment, was reporting on Cobain's suicide. It was heavy, man.
I threw on my favorite green flannel shirt unaffected by the mere irony of my chosen wardrobe and met up with some friends. Cobain was barely a topic of conversation.
A few beers later... Okay, at 22, surrounded by friends, we think it's a circle that will never be broken. You don't really focus on death or mortality. That happens around 15 years old. Stops at 18. Returns around 40 years old.
I don't remember much else about that day: Just a few beers. Cobain is dead. It's raining in Seattle. I will live forever.
Last week, I watched I am Chris Farley. A moving documentary on the late comedian's life. My attention span is limited so the mere fact, I watched all two hours of this without being distracted says something.
He would be 51 years old if he was still around. Out of everything mentioned during this tribute, that meaningless number resonated most with me.
My circle of friends; long fractured. Death, love, time. Whatever. None of us speak anymore.
Buddy, that great dog, long gone.
Man, Buddy, I am getting old. Chris Farley would be 51. Imaginary conversations are a respectable remedy for moments of reflection and loneliness.
I was fixated on this documentary. You know why people loved Farley and Cobain? It was their vulnerability. Their humanity. Reflect on those people who impacted you most in life and vulnerability is and will always be a common factor. Arrogance, being unapproachable, being self-absorbed, narcissism, they are repellants. They are traits that make us forgettable.
I am indifferent when most celebrities die because I don't see myself in them. I see caricatures, cut out versions draped in superficiality. I don't see human beings. That's my fault. Empathy has limits. Mine stops where vulnerabilty ends.
Here I am, early to mid 40's with more regrets than I can possibly count, finding myself missing so many faces, wishing for a simpler time and cringing at the very thought that my 22 year old self would be disappointed in me now.
Scott Weiland was found dead tonight. Lead singer of Stone Temple Pilots. A lesser iconic figure than Cobain but equally as talented. Slightly older than me. Could be an older brother. Or an old drinking buddy. His face is 20 other familiar faces morphed together as one. His battle with addiction is something I can relate with...
Vulnerability, man. It makes martyrs out of the self loathing and humans out of celebrities.
Look, Buddy. Scott Weiland is dead. One last walk with you would be appreciated.
It's raining in Seattle.
