To be young.

I had a dream last night in which I was riding in a friends car when a song came on by Courtney Love and I started crying. My friend inquired if I was in fact crying and why, I affirm, and explained to him that lately everytime a song comes on by Courtney Love I brake down in terrible sobs because I can't help think about Kurt Cobains untimely death and the effects in must have produced upon Courtney and his other loved ones. The whole incident was so sad, such a skilled and talented man cut down in his prime, all those wonderful songs that now stand as ominous warnings of his utter despair. Who could not feel such overwhelming amounts of sorrow, although this was but a dream and I never really cry when I hear Courtney Love.
In the dream, a bunch of us friends were all going to some concert, although I'm not sure which one, and we were to meet up in front of the venue. As my friends started showing up, and quite the assemblage of colorful characters, the dream morphed and I found myself at Courtney Love's house, but as an invisible phantom just looking on. Frances Bean was home with her new boyfriend from college and she had brought him to meet mom. He was a punker, a big purple mohawk to match his purple clothes. Indignant in that stereotypical punk fashion. Not at all clever, although one could tell that he felt he was. He tried to seem hip, but it's never hip to try anything, you either are and your not, and he most definitely was not. Maybe it was because he was in the midst of punk royalty that he acted in such a manner, but in all likelihood this was his usual demeanor and he was just a naive youth spouting off the same dictums that all disenfranchised have for a half a century now.
The conversation, which was mostly between the mother and the daughter, was light, all about how Frances is liking her classes and whatnot, and the poor purple headed fool took it upon himself at every possible moment to rage against what he perceived as the ills of modern society, and although in many ways he was correct, he wasn't a scholar or a master of philosophy, so the words spewed from his mouth like a drunken orgy of idiocy, and Courtney could only think 'My daughter's dating a bonehead who sits here and rails against the excesses and corruptive influence of capitalism but his parents probably own a nice big house and BMW, and pay for his way through college, but being respectful to her daughter she simply sat back and listen to what the young man had to say while nodding her head time and again, hoping he would finally tire and shut up.
One could tell, by the expressions Frances would shoot her boyfriends way, she was thinking much like her mother. While they were talking, and her boyfriend would interject, she would steer the conversation back onto its proper coarse. She did not appear to be the daughter of punk royalty at all. She had the look of so many other girls her age, her streaked blonde hair permed, hip hugging blue jeans, a nice top and high heals. She possessed a certain grace and charm from being brought up in a world of weirdness but also always being accepted by just being herself. Her life wasn't one of complete ease, but she was strong enough to have learned how to handle it. She was no doubt the princess of this dream.
It was at this time that I realized that someone was sitting to Frances' left. During the entire conversation I never once noticed this person. It was Bret Micheals of Poison, who it seemed, at least in this dream, was now dating Courtney, and was equally unimpressed by Frances' boyfriends annoying behavior.
The dream ended with the boyfriend making one final ludicrous comment, and Courtney shooting Bret a glance, who had sat there the whole time biting his lip and now was on the verge of blowing up. Frances, realizing the feelings of the other two, decides it's time to make their departure, she gets up and ends the night. The boyfriend shakes Courtney and Brets hands, and when he leaves they both shrug their shoulders. And I wake up.