Bounce Wit Me, Bitchez. We Won the Lotto!

Check it, kids. We're rich.

We are pleased to inform you of the announcement
today,9TH APRIL 2004, of winners of the FLASH FORTUNE
LOTTO NIGERIA/INTERNATIONAL PROGRAMS, held on 20th
MARCH 2004 as part of our promotional draws.

You/Your Company, attached to ticket number
100-309-7482, with serial number 513-10 drew the lucky
numbers 5, 9, 12, 29, 40, 59, 76, and consequently won
in the Second Category.

You have therefore been approved for a lump sum pay
out of US$1,950,000.00 in cash, which is the winning
payout for Second category winners. This is from the
total prize money of US$13,650,000.00 shared among the
Seven international winners in the Second category.

Anyone want to come to Nigeria to claim the winnings? Huh? The ice cream's on me.

Bear With Me: Another Column on Kurt Cobain. Sorry About That




I first heard Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” in a Levittown nightclub, in a mini-mall designed for shoe stores. Four years later, on a mute TV in an airport terminal, I watched its last tableau: a leafy Northwestern homesite; a room above a garage where someone’s Volvo was parked; dead legs photographed through an open window; a coroner’s van; tattooed kids in the rain with candles; a subtitled elegy; a black-and-white headshot underscored by two dates, hyphenated. It was my 25th birthday.

A decade has slipped by since that day, the day after Kurt Cobain was found dead. Those of a certain age remember the weird little era when Kurt and his band crashed the MTV heavy-metal circle-jerk, caused a near-complete eversion of the recording industry, smashed vintage guitars, and rationalized the wool cardigan for youthful self-loathers. Nirvana’s success meant the fools had gained squatter’s rights to the kingdom. At least, that’s what we tell ourselves in moments of wistfulness, as we change out of our penny loafers and flip past ever more pop-punk product on MTV2.

Don’t misread me: I’m too old to feel any tugging nostalgia for the Kurt Years. (It’s kind of untoward, I think, to idolize someone who’s only two years your senior). Still, I’m a sucker for the story line: a fragile artist whose muse was failure, blown apart, psychologically, by the paradox of being successful, and then, physically, by a needle and Remington 20-gauge shotgun. Add to that a mystery that perhaps his crazy-ass wife killed him out of greed, jealousy, or both.

That legendary story line is much of why April 5 (or 8, depending on whether the event or the day you heard about it holds more meaning to you) is a new Hallmark moment, a valentine for media companies, which have evoked the tin anniversary to sell all kinds of Cobain product, new and old, from reissued CDs to investigative non-fiction. Call me the Grinch who stole Kurtmas, but it feels wrong. Profiting from Cobain’s death will forever be jarring because he seemed to lack the ego required to be a commercial superstar. But there's another reason, a more complicated one.

It was often said, while he was alive, that Cobain’s romantic fatalism and DIY roots were constantly at odds with an increasingly lucrative career. (What do you call the underground when it’s above ground?) Reconciliation of the two was never possible, and likely wouldn’t have been required of a less emblematic artist. While Nirvana’s life-after-Kurt resolved those tensions rather cleanly -- Drummer Dave Grohl now fronts arena-rock profiteers, Foo Fighters, while bassist, Krist Novoselic is currently framing a new platform for progressive politics – the resolution for Cobain the Romantic, at least that which we projected on him, was his suicide. We were the ones who pieced together the story that’s being sold back to us.

But ten years on, legend, commerce, and armchair psychology are just minor fictions. In reality, Kurt Cobain was a sad kid who wrote good songs, a stringy-haired, emotionally scarred diarist with an upset stomach and spot-on pop sensibilities. He died for his own reasons. We supplied the rest. All of us. Every bit of it.

With us around, the kid never really had a chance.

Fly On The Wall: Inside a(n anonymous) Network News Organization -- The Greatest Story Ever Told in Prime Time

LasagnaFarm has obtained an audiotape, allegedly recorded inside the office of an executive producer at a major TV network news organization. On it is a conversation reported to be in regard to the production of an upcoming news segment. Due to legal risk exposure, we are unable to reveal which network it is, suffice to say that it is a major one.

The individuals involved have been independently identified, but their identities have been withheld. A transcript of the recording follows. (A note of caution: What you are about to read may be shocking to some readers, a few non-readers, many of the functionally illiterate, and most complete imbeciles.)

[START TAPE]

STATIC is heard, followed by ambient newsroom office noise.

Unidentified voice: Test, test, test. 1-2. 1-2-3. Sssstatic, sssssstatic. Asssonance, ssssibilance. We are go. We are go. Echo, echo. [laughter]. Shhhh.

Executive Producer: Jerry, I will say this once more before I haul your ass down to the bin where the commissary keeps its used cooking grease and stick you into it up to your Cole Haans: Get me something Jesus!

Producer: I'm working on it, sir.

EP: Don't ever tell me you're "working on it" again, or you'll be lucky if your next job is washing Andy Rooney's orthopedic stockings. Just get it done. Jennings is going to air with a three-hour Jesus special, CNN's got "The Mystery of Jesus." Even that moron from NBC has something.

P: Katie Couric?

EP: No you dumb shit, Stone Philips. That simple bastard can't even remember to take the hanger out of his suit. How in the christ is he beating us to a Jesus piece?

P: Easy, boss. We have a few things in the works. One of our guys says he may have a source who says there's a new Gospel that's just been found. It's written by a local guy... a Steve something.

EP: That's all you've got? The Gospel according to Steve? I asked for something huge. Philips is doing boilerplate crap on the last hours of Jesus. Aaron Brown's got some theological hoohas prattling on about the coffin of Jesus's brother. I will not be beaten by those braying jackasses. Do you understand me? I'll be the joke of the 21 Club.

P: Fully, sir.

EP: Get me a story. I don't care if you find some schmuck who says he found Jesus's shaving kit in a Syrian truck stop, or who's selling a pair of holy traveling sandals on eBay. I want something that kills, dammit. Find me a scandal. Did Jesus have an intern?

P: Um, I’ll have to check with research, sir.

EP: Well, there you go. An intern story would kill. A Roman chick. Hot, like Cathy Z, only in one of those short, armored skirts, you know the ones. Like in "Spartacus." I can see it now: At first, she hated him and wanted him destroyed, but then she was charmed by the Sermon on the Mount and followed him all over the place.

P: Sir, I'm not sure that would be...

EP: Quiet, or I'll sell your ass to Air America. You don't have to be explicit; God knows the FCC is out to put its walking stick up all of our asses. Just follow our [unnamed TV network news organization] motto.

P: Imply, imply, imply?

EP: Damn straight. Now make it happen. Now, what's with that red light coming through your shirt pocket...

P: Oh, shit...

[END TAPE]