In the course of going through and making sense of my sprawling and unwieldy vinyl collection, I’ve been sharing what I find by DJing at clubs. When I started, I wondered why I hadn’t done it sooner. So I’m spinning at Porco Lounge and Tiki Room again this month — mostly vintage lounge, and inevitably this night will end up as a kind of tribute to Doris Day. A decade ago — almost to the day — I stayed at her place in Carmel. I knew her passing was inevitable, but it was still sad when it happened. She was the end of something.
Suicide is tricky. For the individual, it promises an absolute end to a certain kind of temporal pain, sure — but then, just as quickly, it transfers that pain onto others. And according to its algebra, the multipliers can be huge.
In the absence of Mr. Cobain there’s a little game I’ve played, The Kurt Cobain Game. I wrote about it for Hobart today: “Kurt Cobain Doesn’t Know Much Of Anything.”
This is my Kurt Cobain moment: “The Weather of My Youth” in Vol1.Brooklyn.