This was God.
How was he gonna act?
Did he know how truely amazing he was?
How could he not?
So sad to think that all those epithets of adoration and one bleached blond were what
killed him in the end. He actually dispised what he had become, and even wrote and
performed (In Utero) to try and get the trendy trend diggers off his back.
"Cali's the guy with the bra in the bathtub... with the word, Princess
written in
lipstick by Kurt on the actual CD."
Anyways, so off into the unpredictable night we drove.
We went to Kurts hotel, which is one of the many in Hollywood I cannot recall.
There, among the crowd of people looking important, sat Kurt, in this enormous red chair.
This chair seemed to act as a barrier between him and all the other flaming egos that had
set up camp there.
He was tiny, thin and frail but most of all beautiful. I hadn't
really found him so attractive until that very moment.
Little boy lost...that was the first thing that came to mind.
|
|
|
|
He hadn't noticed us right away. As we approached
him, his head was facing downward,
looking at his feet; his bleached blond hair with traces of an old red phase lifted up
itself and then out poured these big bright blue eyes.
Their corneas laced with sorrows that were so very
deeply imbedded.
I'm sure that he
wouldn't even recall the pain from where they came.
As the night progressed, we had to go pick up the rest of on the band. And then it was off
to one of Kurt's favorite dives, the Silverlake Lounge.
I don't know how it is now, or if even it still exists but that night it was a tiny
hovel in an obscure part of town. A smokey dive loaded with mexican men sporting those
cowboy hats and mega-tight jeans.
We all entered, and although the entertainment to follow was to be incredibly awesome,
I think Kurt's reasons for loving it there were mostly because he could party like the rest of
us; without being recognized. Once the lights went down and the spot light went up,
six two-hundred-fifty pound mexican transvestites came to the floor.
|
|
