I remember clearly the moment the news of Kurt Cobain's death was announced, nineteen years ago. I was 23 years old then, and I remember being restless the entire afternoon. I couldn't wait to get off work. I needed to get home and make some calls. I had been in negotiations the previous week to buy an autographed photo of Cobain and his fellow bandmates, negotiations that obviously fell through because that photo tripled in value in a matter of minutes. I was crushed, but not for the reasons you probably assume.