I sat on the orange couch, grabbed the television remote, and flipped through the channels: 2, 4, 5, 7, 9, 11, and 13, 2, 4, 5, 7, 9, 11, and 13. The Mets weren't on. Meanwhile, Tom Glavine was struggling to become the 23rd pitcher in Major League Baseball history to win 300 games. I needed to know how he was doing.
I abandoned the television and undertook the four-and-a-half delicate steps required to reach my quiet bedroom. In the small closet, I located the old, blue and silver Philips portable radio and carefully lifted it from the floor. I plugged it into a socket behind my bed and positioned the power switch to "Tuner."
The frequency was set to 104.3FM. Nirvana was playing. I listened, fairly fucking riveted, to "Smells Like Teen Spirit." Through the static, I could barely make out the way Dave Grohl's precise drumming worked to enhance Kurt Cobain's raking technique in the song's famous chorus. I think I had just turned thirteen years old when this song hit radio and television. I remember not liking it. I didn't get it. What was wrong with me? My family had just moved from Newark, New Jersey, to Deltona, Florida. I was comfortable with MC Hammer and games of touch football in the middle of Richards Street. Someone would yell, "Car!" and we'd all get out of the way, forming neat little lines along the curb. Nirvana and sunbleached roads littered with seashells and alligator skins made very little sense to a kid from the Ironbound, I think.
Towards the end of "Teen Spirit," a pre-recorded voice interrupted Cobain's screams to announce "Q 104 point 3," and a brief silence made way for a familiar riff. "Come as you are, as you were, as I want you to be," Cobain began.
Two for Tuesday, I thought to myself, happily. And, for a few more minutes, poor Tom Glavine would have to wait. I worked my weary back into a less painful position, and focused on Grohl's intense, powerful drumming.
