Suddenly, it was April again and besides that beer was four dollars, what was a highway robbery even in New York city, nothing was wrong with that bar. "American Trash" was its name. There was some cool music on the juke-box. And the people around didn't exactly resemble lawyers and stock-brokers that they probably have been in the daytime. I had Fosters while the AC/DC played. There were three TVs in the room. Each of them showed different channels. One had Rush Limbaugh on. Another had Kurt Cobain on. The last one just had an ad for a psychic readings. Three Televisions, three major trends.

Only, Kurt Cobain died that day. And all the media were out of their mind rushing to get more bizzare Nirvana stories. Kurt killed himself. He shot himself with a shotgun in the head like Hemingway. Die young and be a terribly ugly corpse. I heard this before and I still couldn't believe it. No overdose for him. People might say then it was an accident. Jean Michelle Basquiat might have been an accident. Or Sid Vicious. Or Darby Crash. For some reason, he wanted us to know that he was SERIOUS about his suicide. He did not take chances of failure.

Meanwhile, Gary Gersh, who signed Nirvana for Geffen, became president of Capitol Records, and Danny Goldberg, founder of the Gold Mountain Entertainment, Nirvana's late manager is now president of Atlantic Records. John Silver, their RA, became president of yet another record company, didn't he? Courtney Love, Kurt's wife, became a rock super-star, and she seems to enjoy it more than her late husband was willing to. And, of course, Rush Limbaugh is still alive and quite well nourished.

Pat (Smear), the only guitarist in the world who played in two bands which both lead singers committed suicide (The Germs, Nirvana), would be better of starting his own band.

In the time of Kurt's death I had that album of the late Serbian rock heroes Ekaterina, that I never returned to its legal owner, the former drummer of Ekaterina, Firci, who lived in my East Village neighbourhood in New York, a good friend of mine, who, of course, curses me now for not returning him his album.

Serbian rock is now outlawed in Croatia and Slovenia, as Croatian and Slovenian rock music is outlawed in Serbia. Essentially people in Serbia left this planet few years ago. Serbian-government- controlled-TV defied Copernicus and returned Serbs to the Earth of Ptolomeus: in the center of the universe as a flat plank on the back of a turtle. That turtle stands on two other turtles, and there are turtles all the way down. There are no other countries on that planet but the Realm of Serbian Lands and the Realm of Russian Lands. The planet of Khazars, as Serbian writer Pavic defines them: the oldest people in known universe. There the earth is still flat, and people often dream of falling over the edges.

Countering the Khazars, Croatian writers and political scientists created Croatian Teritories, that is a half-sphere. On the eastern end of Croatia amidst plentiful cornfields the planet ends. Roads lead to the edge of a great abbys. In some other dimension there the planet of Khazars starts. In the domain of Croatian universe there is simply nothing beyond the abbys. Nobody crosses over and lives. People there are superstitious. They don't know science. As we see and learn causes and effects from our history, they see and learn magical signs from their history. They live in a mistery.

The bloody spells of two universes meet in Bosnia, that spreads between worlds like some kind of an interzone, where, of course, as in any interzone, nothing is true and anything seems to be possible.