Smells Like Somebody Got Screwed

Admittedly, I’ve never been a huge fan of Kurt Cobain. That’s not to say I didn’t like him or Nirvana- it simply means that I never made a big deal out of him the way all of my generation did. When “Smells Like Teen Spirit” hit the airwaves in 1991, I wasn’t overly impressed. Hell, I couldn’t understand a damned word Cobain was singing.

As far as my musical tastes went, my first love was hard rock. Motley Crue, Def Leppard, Bon Jovi, Poison…. That kinda stuff. I was all about hanging out, meeting girls, and having fun. Next thing you know, a power trio from Seattle suddenly hits it big and everyone I know wants to dress in flannel, be depressed, and whine about how their daddy never really loved them. I think the phrase, “What the fuck is wrong with you people?” must have been stuck in a nightmare loop in my mind. It was like the world was suddenly given a prescription of Prozac when I wasn’t looking.

Now that I’m older and wiser, (cue laughter here) I find that I’ve gained a healthier respect for Kurt Cobain and what he was conveying through his music. He was speaking to the inner demons within all of us- the things we keep hidden from the world, and all the pain and fear we keep veiled under a mask of feigned content. I suppose that would have appealed to me in my twenties, but who could understand a guy who sings like he’s got a mouth full of marbles? Either that, or maybe I just wasn’t as fucked up as the rest of my friends. Who knows? I certainly don’t.

Being that this is the twentieth anniversary of his death, I thought I’d share this little tale with you.

Two decades ago, I was attending Oxford University on a student abroad program. I made two good friends- Joe, a nerdy astrophysics major taking a working break from Caltech, and Ted, a geology major who was of Thai decent and kind of a good-natured doofus who had a way with women like Lindsay Lohan has with sobriety. Early on in the semester, Ted had taken a day off of class and had seemingly vanished. When we saw him again the next day, he proudly flashed two slips of paper in front of us.

He had two tickets to see Nirvana play in London. Joe and I were pissed.

“You dick!” I snapped. “Why didn’t you tell us you were getting tickets?”

Ted shrugged and his bowl-cut hair shook from side to side. He said, “Ummm…. I didn’t know you wanted to go!”

Joe shot back, “You could’ve asked us!”

“Umm… I guess I could have, yeah. But it was a last-minute thing and I didn’t think about it.”

Ted was not a dumb guy by any means, but he wasn’t exactly the quickest on his feet, either. As Foghorn Leghorn would’ve said, “That boy is about as sharp as a sack of wet mice!”

A couple of months later, we were on a class trip when we heard the news that Cobain had shot himself. It was as though the world had come to a sudden stop. I was only eight years old when Mark David Chapman killed John Lennon in 1980, but even then, it felt as though I had lost a beloved member of the family. When Kurt Cobain died? Not so much.

Don’t get me wrong- I’m not trying to be a callus asshole. Okay…. I’m trying hard to be a sympathetic asshole. And failing miserably, it seems. My attitude towards Cobain’s suicide has always been, “Dude, you’re a successful musician with millions in the bank and you have the world at your feet. What the fuck are you whining about?”

Our bus had stopped in a forest park, and nearly everyone was in tears, crying over Kurt Cobain’s loss. I wasn’t among them. That was when I noticed Ted off by himself, flushed with anger. “You all right, Bub?” I asked.

“No! I’m pissed that Kurt Cobain committed suicide!” Ted snapped.

I put my arm around him. “Yeah… I’m sorry. Makes you wonder what could have been so horrible in his life that he felt the need to end it, huh?”

Which was when Ted bitterly shot back, “I DON’T GIIVE A FUCK ABOUT THAT! COULDN’T THAT FUCKING ASSHOLE WAIT TO BLOW HIS BRAINS OUT UNTIL AFTER THE SHOW?!”

Yeah, some people can be totally inconsiderate.

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