It didn’t have chains on the walls, just beautiful flowers. In one part of the dream I was being honored for something and the ceremony was at an S/M club, but it was a really nice one.
“So I went down to where the oppressed people were starving on the streets, killing each other for a quarter. I was completely disgusted by the idea of living next to these people.” Cobain speaks in a lilting Pacific-Northwestern drawl, like a grungy Quentin Crisp.
Courtney and I were in the Hollywood Hills, and Arnold Schwarzenegger was my neighbor. “The last dream I had like this was two nights ago. “In my dreams, there’s always this apocalyptic war going on between the right and the left wing,” he says, sitting on the plush burgundy couch in his Seattle living room. But for Kurt Cobain, our collective obsession seems like a car’s stark headlights, freezing its unassuming victim in the glare. It lifts and floats the celebrity into our most private venue: dreams.
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