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It was a Friday*, sometime between 3 pm and 4 pm - school was over for the day and the dinner rush hadn’t begun yet. Between the kitchen and the restaurant area of the country club where I worked as a busboy was a preparation area or station, a place to prepare little bowls of butter, fold napkins, sort silverware, unload racks of drinking glasses. I was in there, doing one of those things probably. The layout of that room and the various adjoining entrances are very clear even now: the stainless steel industrial counters and refrigerator, the ice machine, the coffee makers, the cinderblock walls painted a shade of yellow so pale it was nearly white. If you turned to the right of where I stood you’d cross a hallway and enter the kitchen. If you turned to the left of where I stood you’d have four choices, two of them leading to well stocked bars, one leading to the main dining room, another leading to the room used to stage the weddings and special events featuring unimaginative DJs. Whatever I was doing had to be done and as I was doing it I talked to an older waiter, mid-20s, who is probably a middle aged banker now - he looked like a middle aged banker then. I was 17, about to wrap up junior year. It wasn’t the ideal job, but what job is? Getting that one had to do with connections but, certainly, I took the work seriously. The waiter projected an air of empathy but that was probably a mask; he was nice enough. He wandered around singing the chorus of Pearl Jam’s “Daughter” to himself as though it were the whole song. We worked with worse people. Like that asshole tennis pro, a sneering weasel in a headband and glasses, who chose that moment to join us, bursting through the entrance near the kitchen, laughing, to let us know that Kurt Cobain was dead, that he’d blown his brains out, before fucking off sweatily to teach another tennis lesson, or whatever. (I posted this on FB the other day.)
― Lactose Shaolin Wanker (Raymond Cummings), Sunday, 7 April 2019 20:45 (five years ago) link
Like that asshole tennis pro, a sneering weasel in a headband and glasses, who chose that moment to join us, bursting through the entrance near the kitchen, laughing, to let us know that Kurt Cobain was dead, that he’d blown his brains out, before fucking off sweatily to teach another tennis lesson, or whatever. (I posted this on FB the other day.)
― Lactose Shaolin Wanker (Raymond Cummings)
david foster wallace could be such a dick
― Jaki Liebowitz (rushomancy), Sunday, 7 April 2019 20:54 (five years ago) link
My Facebook post on where I heard the news that was, according to some, that generation's "Where were you when you found out John Lennon died" moment:
Today is the 25th anniversary of Kurt Cobain's death but it's not the 25th anniversary of when all of us found out about it. That was three days later on the 8th. Still, I'll tell my story now...
Ric Ricard was pissed at me.
I had procrastinated and not picked up Pearl Jam tickets. We were set to cover the band when they played at the Patriot Center (now called EagleBank Arena) in Fairfax, VA for a concert review for a British magazine - I believe it was Metal Hammer. We often would try and cover shows outside of NYC because getting credentials was easier and my folks lived near there so we had a place to crash after the show.
Because I didn't take the train into the Epic offices from Brooklyn during the day to pick up the tickets, after he got off work Ric had to pick me up, drive into the city to get them, and then drive to the DC suburbs while dealing with rush hour traffic.
"If we don't get there in time for me to take pictures, you're paying for my gas," he said. Which was quite the threat since I was always broke. It also showed how pissed he was.
We finally get to the venue. We missed Mudhoney but had time to pick up his photo pass. However the person at will call says, "Sorry, the band revoked all photo passes."
Ric, who was already on edge from the long drive, traffic and being pissed at me, snapped at the guy, "What do you mean?"
"There was a death in the band," he said.
"Wait, who died," Ric asked. He told us it was Kurt Cobain.
Ric's response was classic: "He's not in Peal Jam!"
We didn't play the radio on the drive down, listening to cassette tapes the whole time, so even if a radio station might have announced it, we didn't hear it. So this was how we found out.
The band played a really intense set (which I found in full on YouTube - linked below) and Eddie Vedder broke into tears at one point. Ric didn't get to take pictures but fortunately Pearl Jam was one of about three rock bands he liked at that point and since his photo pass was revoked it wasn't my fault so I didn't have to pay for the gas.
After the show on the way to my folks' apartment Ric and I were discussing it. We were wondering how he died. Drugs seemed the most likely culprit.
Get to my parents' place and immediately tell dad I have to turn on MTV. I didn't have cable at the time and it was amusing having dad roll his eyes remembering when I lived at home and would change radio and TV stations but he acquiesced and at that point is when we learned that it was suicide.
Ric and I got real quiet - we couldn't believe it - and even dad started to pay attention (dad would recount to me Nirvana lyrics published in the Washington post a few days later, telling me he liked them) and we watched MTV for a few hours before finally getting to sleep.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j8CbK5lDsI0