Giants in the Earth
Krist Novoselic speaks
Bass player for Nirvana, Flipper, and 3rd Secret lives in Naselle, cuts the grass at the local cemetery
Keeps weird animals in his backyard, turns local creamery into a recording studio.
There was once a boy who fell to earth.
He was delicate and small, his hair was blond, his face was smudged, and he was born nowhere — but he had an unusual talent for writing songs that remind listeners of the Beatles, with lyrics that were a strange combination of puns and jokes and pure misery. He sang like he was in pain, which was real and came from his stomach, and which he tried to dull with everything from heroin to hot tea. He played the game of being hip and wasted like the pro that he became, but at the same time there was a part of him that stayed pure and reached for something that only he could touch. Also, he loved turtles. He had a big turtle tank in his cramped apartment, which stank like turtle water. He built the turtle tank himself.
The story of Kurt Cobain’s mythic life and death is well known by now, thanks to biographies by Michael Azerrad and Charles Cross; there is no point …
Death of a Ladies’ Man
Locked in a recording studio by a violent psychotic
Listening to your woman make love to another man in the next room
How Leonard Cohen’s Doo-Wop Nightmare was Born
I’m no Canada apologist. I once moved there for a spell, inspired by my latest crack-up — Vancouver, more exactly, where I lived with my toothless, jobless lover in the vacated studio apartment of a newly canceled member of the record industry. I made no friends, spent my days walking around. At one point, I attempted to sublet a different apartment from a woman whose only furniture was an exercise ball and who invited me to a “cuddle party,” which is exactly as it sounds. “It’s really all about consent,” she said in a baby voice. Oh, brother.
When Leonard Cohen died, I was halfway through my sentence there. I liked his music well enough, but a self-styled Canadian poet was a hard pill for me to swallow. Get real: It’s a world of truck drivers. That’s Canada, only they’re too ashamed to admit it, much less embrace it. Know what I mean?
A friend sent me a song from the album Death of a Ladies’ …
Keturah Lamb Doesn't Exist
Girl plays tag with the mighty state Leviathan
Finds shelter with the Amish, dumpster dives at Aldi’s
A 4th-generation ghost decides to be a person rather than a number
Three years ago, at the height of COVID, I organized the only substantial Fourth of July public gathering in the State of Montana. It made the papers as an “anti-government demonstration.” But those who attended witnessed no violent displays. It was instead the beginning of something quite sweet: a newfound community emerged through picnics, open mics, music, and literature. I didn’t bother to read the news, nor do I seek to take a side in most current disputes. I campaigned for my father, who was running as a Libertarian, and visited nearly 30 churches to get to know my community better.
Shortly after the Fourth of July event, a friend asked me, “Are your family domestic terrorists?”
After being shocked into laughter, I was forced to ponder how my place in society might appear to the general populace. I am a fourth-generation, native-born yet “undocumented” American. We do not …
