EUGENE, OR — Local dad and self-proclaimed ‘grunge historian’ 43-year-old Mike Dawson spent the better part of Saturday afternoon explaining to his teenage son that Eugene was basically Seattle back in the early ‘90s.
The two were at the local skate park, where Dawson had been watching his 17-year-old son, Jason, attempt tricks between half-hearted lectures on “real music.”
“You don’t get it, kid,” Dawson said, adjusting his glasses and cracking open a lukewarm IPA he had smuggled in his backpack. “Grunge wasn’t just a sound—it was a way of life. And it wasn’t just Seattle. Eugene had the same flannel, the same rebellious spirit, the same weird smell of mildew and cigarettes. It was practically the same place.”
Jason, who had made the fatal mistake of wearing a Nirvana t-shirt in his dad’s presence, sighed. “Dad, Nirvana was from Seattle. Pearl Jam? Seattle. Soundgarden? Also Seattle.”
“That’s just marketing,” Dawson scoffed. “The real fans know that grunge had regional influence. I was there, man. Okay, sure, maybe I was only 12 in ‘93, but I felt it. We had Sub Pop CDs at Fred Meyer. The dude who worked at the record store had hair just like Chris Cornell. And I swear to God, I saw a guy in a muddy flannel downtown Eugene who had to be in a band.”
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Jason, already regretting his choice of wardrobe, attempted to change the subject, but his father was already on a roll. “Look, Nirvana was great, but real grunge fans also listened to Mudhoney and Screaming Trees. Oh, and let’s not forget The Melvins—they’re from Washington, which is basically Oregon, which proves my point.”
Sensing his dad wasn’t done, Jason nodded along, throwing in an occasional, “Yeah, totally,” to keep the conversation moving. Then came the inevitable:
“And don’t even get me started on Courtney Love,” Dawson continued, leaning forward like he was about to deliver some mind-blowing revelation. “She grew up in Portland. Played in punk bands there. She was part of our scene before she even met Kurt. Portland was grunge before people even called it grunge.”
Jason, who was only mildly interested but trying to make his dad happy, nodded. “Oh, yeah. That’s pretty crazy.”
“I know, right?” Dawson said, mistaking his son’s forced enthusiasm for genuine intrigue. “And don’t even get me started on the time I almost saw Nirvana live—"
But before Jason could make another excuse to leave, Dawson suddenly stood up, cracking his knuckles. “You know what? Let me show you something,” he said, nodding toward the skate ramp.
Jason’s eyes widened in horror. “Dad… no.”
Ignoring the warning, Dawson grabbed his son’s skateboard and stepped onto it with the confidence of a man who thinks muscle memory is still a thing at 42. “Back in my day,” he declared, rolling forward, “we didn’t have TikTok. We skated. We—”
The sentence was cut short by a loud pop followed by a pained “Oh, son of a—” as Dawson’s back seized up mid-turn, sending him straight onto the pavement in a dramatic, slow-motion collapse.
Jason winced. “You okay?”
Dawson groaned from the ground. “Just… give me a second.”
Sources confirm Jason did his best to help his dad up while desperately hoping none of his friends had witnessed the incident. Meanwhile, Dawson was last seen lying on the skate park bench, staring at the sky, muttering, “Kids these days just don’t get it.”
