Kurt Cobain would have been 40 today.
And about all I have to say about that is that now that I live in Washington, I have been to Abderdeen, and if there was ever a town that needed an entire trip to a White Sale and a couple million gallons of paint, that town is it. Every house we saw was chipping and peeling paint and had either horribly ancient faded curtains or sheets in the windows in place of curtains.
In a small, sad way, I kind of like the idea that there is really only a very small number of people alive who will get what Kurt meant to some of us in his generation. Rob and I heard about his death in 1994 in Vancouver, B.C., on a press tour where everyone was much older than us, and no one understood the loss, while we were all frantically trying to get Canada's lame MuchMusic to break away from its taped programming and actually report. (I do love you, Canada, but that was unforgivable.)
I know that I understand the Beatles in a very different way than my sister who graduated in 1964, for example, but thanks to the Baby Boom, there are zillions of people with Beatles influences. Nirvana influences and memories feel rarer.