Kurt Cobain would’ve turned fifty years old over the weekend if he hadn’t shot himself twenty-three year earlier. That’s not a small disclaimer. It’s questionable for any grown man to celebrate his birthday. Even more so for a dead man. There’s an obsessive media desire to denote the theoretical age of famous people who died young as their successive birthdays pass.
Lazy journalists quit this nonsense once the person reaches an age that seems abnormally high. Nobody noted this past week that Abraham Lincoln would’ve turned 208 if he hadn’t been assassinated in Ford’s Theater. JFK would’ve been 100 this coming May. He did a ton of drugs and even more ladies. For now, hold off on that Amazon gift card.
Like most counterculture poets, Cobain was an insufferable anus of a man. If you spent any time with Cobain, you would’ve loaded the gun and helped him aim. You’d be hard pressed to find the other guys from Nirvana tearing up when remembering Kurt. His lyrics were Dylan-esque, but there’s a reason why Dylan’s still touring at seventy-five and worth north of a fortune. He kicked the junk at the same age Cobain chose to triple his order.
Also, Dylan was fucking Joan Baez in his early 20’s. Nobody stood a chance with Courtney Love on their tip. Cobain’s lack of domestic murder-suicide ambition is his most resonating legacy.
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