Wednesday, November 20, 2002
 dear nancy dewolf smith,
how many cocks did you suck to get on the ed board of the wall street journal?
that's today's big question
cuz i can see plain as day you didn't get there by writing.
suck any black ones?
fat ones?
tasty ones?
do tell, and when you do, tell it with just as much excitement as you seemed to have gleened when you skimmed this weeks number one best seller looking for the "icky" stuff.
is that too easy a put down to give a woman who got paid today to write a review about kurt cobain's journals which she obviously didn't understand or research, or care about, or bother to undertand?
well certainly it's just as easy to go through the 300 pages of his journals and find the little bits where kurt fantasized about this gruesome thing or wrote about that horrible experience and try to convince your audience that that is who the man was.
that's what you were trying to do weren't you? that was you who insinuated that if kurt cobain didn't learn to play the guitar that he would have perhaps murdered others? cuz that's what i read in your lede: If Kurt Cobain had looked less like a rent boy on the Lido and more like, say, Howdy Doody, would he be alive and well today? On the other hand, if Cobain hadn't found an outlet and an audience for his hostility by performing in the band Nirvana, would he have turned the shotgun he used to kill himself in 1994 on the rest of us instead? people like you fascinate me because you have such a fucked perspective on the world and yet you're given such incredibly amazing jobs.
how many nirvana shows did you go to?
you act as if you're shocked that the number one demigod of punk rock music, the husband of courtney love, the heroin addict who put a shotgun to his mouth and pulled the trigger at the peak of his success would write "when I close my eyes I see lizards & flipper babies, the ones who were deformed because their mothers took bad birth control pills. I'm seriously afraid to touch myself."
you call this "icky"?
i say you swallow.
i say you swallow and you like it.
these are journals you filthy whore. diaries of a madman. so far removed from the ivory tower of the wall street journal that im surprised you read the whole thing. but i'll give you the benefit of the doubt because i'm so fucking gracious.
please tell me that you've heard negative creep live in the first ten or twenty rows with kurt screaming his ass off and your ears being ripped to shreds by the marshall stacks and dave grohl trying to beat the living shit out of his floor tom and snare simulatiously and topless and think about what is in the mind of the man who wrote that song and  sang it night after night after night after night knowing that his father doesn't want him and his mom will call him a fucking loser when he dies, and you tell me ms. smith what color is your parachute because i know kurt kobain's, it's black as night. he tried to kill himself in rome. he tried to kill himself on stage and he finally was able to kill himself in seattle and guess what people's diaries are who don't give a fuck.
they're amazing.
duh.
and guess what people's opinion columns disguised as book reviews written by princesses who know zero about the author and dont seem to care but who've swallowed enough cum to soak in it sound like when they get their chance to rock the mic.
they sound like nancy dewolf smith of the wall street journal editorial board.
the same editorial board who watched alan greenspan lose trillions of dollars in the markets and didn't call for his head.
the same editorial board who has never speculated how many people president george bush would have killed if he hadnt been elected governor and and therefore allowed to excute people legally.
the same editorial board who hired you and decided that what you wrote was worthy. your cynical laughable dreck. your ridiculous lede that you never went back to. your fake shock that a punk rock kid might have it in for cheerleaders and jocks. heavens!
it's called imagination, you ridiculous girl. the same imagination that could breed beauty and love and peace and mystery can also, just as easily, give birth to hate, lust, anger, resentment, revenge, and twisted imagery.
you reviewed the journals of a man who sold tens of millions of records whose cover had a naked baby boy swimming underwater fixated by a dollar on a fishing hook and you act as if he was more disturbed than we thought.
no, we knew he was disturbed.
see, we listened to his words and his screams, and we watched him explode and implode and explode again.
you shoulda been there.
kurdt cobain's biggest hit started out with the unforgettable couplet of "load up on guns and bring your friends, it's fun to lose and to pretend."
didn't mtv play that one enough for you, or were your ears being covered by the old sweaty hands of mr. whoever as you worked your way up the ladder?
there are names for people like you, ms. smith.
punk rock
good
or writer will never be one of them.
welch
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