There was once a boy who fell to earth.  He was delicate and small, his hair was blond, his face was smudged, and he was born nowhere — but he had an unusual talent for writing songs that remind listeners of the Beatles, with lyrics that were a strange combination of puns and jokes and pure misery. He sang like he was in pain, which was real and came from his stomach, and which he tried to dull with everything from heroin to hot tea. He played the game of being hip and wasted like the pro that he became, but at the same time there was a part of him that stayed pure and reached for something that only he could touch. Also, he loved turtles. He had a big turtle tank in his cramped apartment, which stank like turtle water. He built the turtle tank himself. The story of Kurt Cobain’s mythic life and death is well known by now, thanks to biographies by Michael Azerrad and Charles Cross; there is no point in rehashing it, except to offer some context for what follows.  The place where Kurt …