It is the stage of the wasted. The night of bleeding beer or scotch and the burning of our hearts in these nocturnal psychedelic pot hullabaloos. It is the time of our lives. The cursing off at the top of our lungs, the age when the use of the four-letter words is at the loveliest. F*ck. It is loveliest. Tonight, I am The Who and Jimi Hendrix and the Grateful Dead. You are Janis Joplin, my rock n’ roll.

I could really feel myself right now either headbangin’ or moshpittin’ or both, along with these Minneapolis kickasses from the Replacements to Soul Asylum to the Suicide Commandos. Smelling the collective addictive piss/pot/puke scents of Manhattan’s CBGB while Ramones or The Heartbreakers or the Voidoids are smashing the shit out of their guitars or drums or what-have-yous. Or freaking out with a peace sign at the wild helm of a crowd of 70s Bistro in Manila. I miss these days of disquiet, the mohawks and thrashing around and all these crazy, stupid get-ups. These days when I called the shots and when bravery was like accepting that I could be f*ckin’ dead at any moment of this generation without fear or regret.

And you look at me. Yes. Dammit, yes, you look at me, lovely b*tch. And your eyes, your eyes are saying let’s do it tonight. Your eyes are rounded and black and purple and are singing Velvet Underground’s After Hours. “Say hello to never,” I hear your eyes blabbing, sounds like alcoholic gulping. I would have kissed you right there and then but you were blabbling all those words. Hello to never. Hello.



Courtney Love and Grunge

“Grunge.”Lavine, Michael. 2009.
When I was turning 27, I felt like dying.
Kurt Cobain made absolute sense.
I wandered in the beautiful philosophy of death.
Every night as I turned off the lights,
approaching the eve of my new age,
I was setting off into trance of pitch black sight.
I was alone at the center of that dark universe.
It gave me chills and urge of lust and there’s just no word
that would exactly describe the feeling.
Maybe, bliss.
Maybe, nirvana.
The flesh of my physical existence
bloomed like eternal sunshine.
Nobody would understand Kurt.
He killed himself, but it wasn’t suicide –
it was freedom.
He was not a sick and depressed junkie;
he was an eclectic geek
who happened to tap his highest level of consciousness
that drove him into the wilderness of paradise.
He sided with the point of view of the few.
I understood Kurt with absolute certainty,
and I felt like he left with me a part of his soul
which was pulling me into his reality.
He whispered in my ears,
*And I’m not scared / Light my candles,
in a daze / ‘Cause I’ve found god.
*Lithium. Nirvana. 1992.