No, that's not Kurt Kobain. It's Steven Thorn, who was a musician and lover of music in his own right. Here he sits on the couch next to me. I am to his left, age three. To my immediate right is what could either be my dad or mother. Both had dark hair then. To Steven's left is his father, Pete thorn. On the ground in gray hair is my great grandmother Mildred Zimmerman. Next to her is my brother, Jack, playing the Milton Bradley game, Connect Four. In the left immediate foreground is Alma, a friend of Grandma Zimmerman. Santa needs no introduction.
Steven was probably still in his 20s here, much like Kobain. Steven was an avid music collector, worked at a music store, and even grew up around the members of Uncle Tupelo, notably Jeff Tweedy. He worked with him at a Granite City record store before it became Vintage Vinyl and would get lots of live concerts and footage from Tweedy up until the end. That was Steven's mild brush with fame. Here, he's simply participating in the Christmas events at a late stage in what would become a wandering life. He would spend time in a supermax prison, earn a childhood education degree, raise multiple cats, switch female companions, and ultimately tool around Saint Louis, going to the public library to get his live CD labels printed out. He died in February of this year. Like my mother, his body was riddled with cancer, and it took his life.
He bears an uncanny resemblance to Kurt Kobain here, and that's the only thing worth mentioning for the reader.
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