DEAD CELEB OF THE WEEK: KURT COBAIN (1967-1994)

Born: February 20, 1967
Died: April 5, 1994
DeadKurtCobainOn April 8, the body of the lead singer of Nirvana was discovered in a garage apartment of his Seattle Lake Washington home by an electrician who had arrived to install a security system. He believed that Cobain was asleep until he saw the Remington 11 20-gauge shot gun pointing at his chin. High concentrations of heroin and traces of Valium were also found in his body. The coroner estimated that Cobain had been dead for at least three days.
Some people believed Cobain was murdered. The Seattle Police Department investigated, and fingerprints on the gun matched those of Cobain. After an autopsy his death was ruled a suicide by a single gunshot wound to the head, and the rocker’s death certificate was stamped and sealed. The suicide note, written in red ballpoint pen, was long and rambling; the excerpt’s reference to Courtney is his wife, Courtney Love; Frances is their daughter. Five days after Cobain’s body was found, thousands gathered at an outdoor memorial service during which a pre-recorded tape was played of an angry Love  reading her lover’s suicide note. Every once and awhile, she’d interrupt herself and curse Cobain, asking the fans to join her in calling him obscene names. While they listened and cussed, Love was actually attending the formal memorial service for Cobain at a nearby church. 
Cobain’s ashes were scattered in the Wishkah River near his home in Washington and at a New York Buddhist temple. Love got the rest. Or she had the rest.
In 2008, Love reported that her portion of Cobain’s cremains—kept in a “pink teddy bear-shaped bag along with a lock of his hair”—were stolen from her Los Angeles home. “I can’t believe anyone would take Kurt’s ashes from me,” she said at the time. “I find it disgusting. They were all I had left of my husband. I used to take them everywhere with me just so I could feel Kurt was still with me. Now it feels like I have lost him all over again.” 

Excerpts from Cobain’s suicide note: 

“. . . when we’re back stage and the lights go out and the manic roar of the crowds begins., it doesn’t affect me the way in which it did for Freddie Mercury, who seemed to love, relish in the love and adoration from the crowd which is something I totally admire and envy. The fact is, I can’t fool you, any one of you. It simply isn’t fair to you or me. The worst crime I can think of would be to rip people off by faking it and pretending as if I’m having 100% fun. Sometimes I feel as if I should have a punch-in time clock before I walk out on stage. I’ve tried everything within my power to appreciate it (and I do, God, believe me I do, but it’s not enough). I appreciate the fact that I and we have affected and entertained a lot of people. It must be one of those narcissists who only appreciate things when they’re gone. I’m too sensitive. I need to be slightly numb in order to regain the enthusiasms I once had as a child.I have a goddess of a wife who sweats ambition and empathy and a daughter who reminds me too much of what i used to be, full of love and joy, kissing every person she meets because everyone is good and will do her no harm. And that terrifies me to the point to where I can barely function. I can’t stand the thought of Frances becoming the miserable, self-destructive, death rocker that I’ve become.I have it good, very good, and I’m grateful, but since the age of seven, I’ve become hateful towards all humans in general. Only because it seems so easy for people to get along that have empathy. Only because I love and feel sorry for people too much I guess.
Thank you all from the pit of my burning, nauseous stomach for your letters and concern during the past years. I’m too much of an erratic, moody baby! I don’t have the passion anymore, and so remember, it’s better to burn out than to fade away.
Peace, love, empathy.Frances and Courtney, I’ll be at your alter. Please keep going Courtney, for Frances. For her life, which will be so much happier without me.
I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU!” 

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Morbid Curiosity, By Alan W. Petrucelli

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