It Spins On A Crooked Axis Left It Twitching By The Road

Pentastar: In The Style of Demons was released by Sub Pop on July 23, 1996.

This is the third album of Earth. 

According to some specialized reviewers, it sounds like a mix of drone doom and stoner rock and has a friendlier sound than its predecessors.

This style of heavy metal melds the slow tempos of doom metal with the long-duration notes of drone music, according to Wikipedia.  

I found about this band on 1998, when I saw the morbid documentary Kurt & Courtney.  

Dylan Carlson was among the people interviewed by Nick Broomfield. 

The English film director wanted to know if he had bought the shotgun with which Kurt Cobain supposedly commited suicide. 

Carlson seemed to be under the influence of opiates, he did not seem to think clearly, but he denied it. 

He said that Kurt Cobain didn't have suicidal tendencies and that if it had been the case, he would not have bought him a shotgun.  

Short before this scene, a clip of Tallahasse appeared on the documentary. 

Courtney Love had told several times to the press that Dylan Carlson and her husband were friends, that he had a lot of guns and that he had bought him a shotgun.

(Kurt Cobain had suggested to the press that one verse of In Bloom spoke about Dylan Carlson's interest on guns.)

There was a time when the leader of Nirvana bought guns -he even told to the media that he loved to shooting them-, but once Courtney and he had a fight and she called to the police and accused his husband of family violence and the police confiscated all the firearms found on their house and forbade him to buy more. 

Tom Hansen also suggested that both Kurt Cobain and Dylan Carlson were drug partners. 

He wrote on a passage of American Junkie that he was Kurt Cobain's dealer and that he even sold him drugs the very same day Nirvana played the famous concert MTV's Live N' Loud on Seattle, WA. 

He picked him up with his car a blocks away from Pier 48.
Dylan Carlson accompanied Kurt Cobain and he took the backseat of the car.  

On Soaked In Bleach, Tom Grant -the detective hired by Courtney Love to find her husband when she reported him missing- suggested that Dylan Carlson was involved on Kurt Cobain's murder.

Other journalists have even said that Courtney Love blackmailed Dylan Carlson with drugs, and that she funded the recording of Pentastar: In The Style Of Demons. 

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Tallahasse

I'm A Loser Baby, So Why Don't You Kill Me

Almost fifteen years ago, I started to teach at undergraduate level. 

One of the reviewers of my thesis was a young researcher.  

He studied timing on rodents. 
I had just written a thesis about numerical competence on pigeons. 

At the end of the revision process, I told him that I was interested on teaching and he got me an interview on a private University. 

It was one of the most expensive in the country, or they said so. 

When I went to the interview, the appearance of the school surprised me. 
It seemed really modern. It seemed a first world school.

Everything looked so new and clean.  

http://www.marca.com/

I began three months later.
I had an awful schedule and a boring topic. 
Nevertheless, the experience was the best I could ever have. 

A few of my pupils were really concerned in learning.  

Since it was the first time I was completely responsible for a full course, I must have been a lousy teacher. 

Two years later, I started to teach at UNAM. 
I worked there for four years. 

On the last years of my postgraduate studies, I was so stressed that I did not enjoy teaching and then I quit. 

The relationship with my PhD advisor was so unpleasant at that time.

I had even found a way to teach my classes when it was lunchtime at the lab, to avoid any kind of conflict between us.

Sadly, it didn't work. 

He was not personally mad with me, but in general. 

The lab was full of undergraduate students. Most of them were apathetic and lazy. 

He treated me like if I were one of them. 

One day I got sick and I told him that I would not go to work. 

Unfortunately, that day none of the lazy undergrads was in the lab at that time. 

He got furious and wrote an impulsive e-mail. 

He wrote the worst things he thought about each one in the lab. 

In my case, he wrote that I had no ideas and that I just followed his instructions. 

He sent that e-mail to all of us. 

I still conserve it. 

Obviously, it hit me. 
Specially 'cause he made it public. 

I trusted him and he trusted me –I was the one who took charge of his classes when he couldn't do it–, but it was completely disappointing. 

Maybe I was apathetic and lazy, too. 

However, everybody is able to check my track record at his lab and draw their own conclusions.  

The last paper I published with him was my idea, but he refused to accept it. 

It looks like he just wanted to show how powerful he was.
Also, the most important issue above all: he never get wrong. 
Specially when it's about judging people. 

He recently published a review including part of the data of my published papers.

Not only he did not include me as a co-author –he could ask me to write the corresponding section of the paper or to redo the plots, or whatever–, but he did not even put me on the acknowledgements of the review. 

On each one of my papers he put people who actually did not collaborate at all.  

2011 SfN Annual Meeting. San Diego, CA

I was so stupid. 

I should have leave his lab sooner than I did. 

I quit as a professor. 
I should never have given up.

I would have almost fifteen years teaching at UNAM. 

I became SNI soon after I received my PhD and I had a post-doc position for three years at UAM-Iztapalapa on which I acquired several abilities related to training of human resources and to Grant's writing.

I've been teaching on a regular basis, at both undergraduate and postgraduate levels. 

I also have been invited to speak about some research topics on diverse academic forums. 

I was advisor of a graduate student and also co-advisor of a postgraduate student. 

I am about to send the response to the reviewers' comments to my last research paper. 

Nevertheless, what I do is barely attractive to society. 

September 19th earthquake' damaged an important research building in the institution I have been working in the last four years.  

Obviously, it worsened my chances to find a researcher position there.  

A month ago or so, I sent my CV and my independent research plans to compete for a researcher position in a provincial University. 

A colleague told me about this opportunity.
A week later, he also told me that I had just passed the first candidate filter.

This researcher position was offered by an institution interested in conducting studies on addiction to drugs of abuse. 

They wanted to have evidence to apply it on public health policies. 

They expected from the young researcher all the abilities I had acquired as a post-doc. 
This opportunity sounded like real fun. 

Besides, my postgraduate studies were conducted in a lab focused on cannabinoids and I have an expertise on behavioral tests employed to evaluate diverse stages of addiction on murine models.

My profile could be of interest for the institution.  

Nevertheless, a couple of weeks ago, while I was watching a FIFA World Cup game between Brazil and Belgium, I received an e-mail from this institution. 

I was so nervous.

Then I started to read: 

"We're sorry to inform you..."

It seems the epithet of my academic life. 

I asked them what had been exactly wrong with me. 

They told me that they didn't have the necessary resources to support my research purpose and that they were looking for a social researcher.

My profile was too oriented to basic research. 

In other words, they wanted a profound thinker rather than an expert on behavior and basic research. 

It was kind of weird, 'cause on the announcement of the vacant they asked for an expert on evaluating the effects of drugs on health. 

What the hell does that mean? 
Were they just too polite to me?
Was my PhD advisor right about me?
Am I an average untalented researcher?

I hate my situation. 

They say it cannot rain all the time.

However, this has been the second bad news I have received in the last month. 

At this rate, the best news I will have is that I can have a child. 

Perhaps I am overreacting.

I guess I should have learned how to fix cellphones and cars. 

I am a disaster. 

I fail over and over again. 

https://libero.pe/rusia-2018/

http://grantland.com/features/beck-phases-out/

I'm A Loser Baby, So Why Don't You Kill Me

She Ripped My Heart Out And Gave It To Me

I was just a moron with walkman and grungy clothes.  

I must have been fourteen years old. 
All I cared about was rock n' roll music. 

All I did was listening music and writing silly songs on a notebook I lost at some point.

I wanted so badly to play in a band, but I didn't even own an electric guitar nor I had friends interested on music, in the way I was. 

I wrote day and night: in classes, between classes, after taking a nap in my bedroom, before I get to bed, as soon as I woke up in the morning... 

I was obsessed with writing songs.  

A few months before I met Claudia, my dad had bought me an acoustic guitar.

It was a cheap guitar. It was enormous and heavy. 
I'd changed the strings of the guitar so I could play it as a lefty.

I'd learned how to play some Nirvana songs. 

To find an electric left-handed guitar was so difficult. I'd tried to learn how to play guitar with my right hand, but I'd failed. 

I felt I was a terrible guitarist. 
I couldn't even play three chords' songs.
I felt I lacked rhythm to play the guitar.  

Nevertheless, I was convinced that all I needed it to improve my artistic skills was an electric guitar. I knew electric guitars weren't heavy and enormous. 

One day, a cousin went to our house with a left-handed Ibanez.

Dunno how he got it. All I knew was that he was involved on dark businesses.

He wanted $2, 500 MXN for that aquatic green left-handed Ibanez. 

The guitar was beautiful. It looked like the one Alejandro Marcovich played in the recording of El Nervio del Volcán. It was so cheap. 

In the very few music stores that I could find left-handed guitars, they were sort of expensive: their price fluctuated around $8, 000 MXN... or more!!! 

Even though my dad could buy it for me, it seemed an outrageous and an unnecessary expense. What about my little brothers...?

Dunno why my mom believed I was so stupid, but definitely she believed it. She was convinced that I would quit school and that I would become a junkie, if she bought me that electric guitar. 

Maybe she also suspected that the Ibanez was a stolen guitar and she didn't want to buy a stolen item, but I begged her. I desired that guitar. I imagined myself playing it day after day, just right after I came back from school. I imagined myself playing it for entire afternoons. 

My mom told my cousin she was able to pay $2, 000 MXN for the guitar.
My cousin was so greedy and he refused the offer.

I had to wait nearly ten years to buy my first electric left-handed guitar, with my own money... but that's another story I could write about it some day.   

I was so sad. I desired that guitar, even though Ibanez wasn't my first option. 

I preferred Fender guitars. I would have loved to have a black Stratocaster with a black pickguard or a sunburst Jaguar '65, like those Kurt Cobain made famous.  

I was focused on my sadness, when I saw Claudia for the very first time. 

She walked slowly through the schoolyard. 

It was a sunny middle day. The sun rays were febrile and they made me ill.

Suddenly, she appeared out of nowhere and became a shining star.  

I felt nauseous, I lost my mind and thought I was about to have a heart-attack. 
Though nauseas had been common since I was a kid, those nauseas were pretty different, almost like chills crawling right up my spine. The heart-attack sensation was totally new. 

I felt immediately attracted to her, as she walked thru the schoolyard.
Claudia's hair was brown and very brushed. 
It shined like a meteor. 
Her skin was the most white skin I had ever seen in my entire life. 
It was so white that I could almost felt my eyes burning. 

She was like a strange cold sun. 

For a while, we looked at each other. 

She smiled at me. 

Nauseas, heart beats and the illusion of my eyes getting burned, increased. 

Some guys followed her steps.
They looked so dumb. They looked like generic elementary school boys. 

For a moment I could see some of them drooling like thirsty Pavlovian dogs.

A few days later, Claudia and myself crossed in one of the alleys of the school.

I felt like a thirsty Pavlovian dog, too. My breathing rhythm became irregular.

Nauseas, heart beats and the illusion of my eyes getting burned, increased. 

She really was like a strange cold sun. 

Dunno how I had the guts to do it, but suddenly I touched one of her shoulders and I asked her if we could speak. 

She was so surprised, but she accepted. 

I had been thinking of her for an entire week, so I had spoken to her in my mind several times.

I asked her what was her name.

I must have told her: “Like the girl Lestat turned into a vampire...?”

She must have smiled. Or she must have thought I was an idiot. 

From then, we spoke almost on a daily basis for a month or so. 

Everything was ok, until I told her that I liked her so much.

She adopted a pretty different attitude. 
She became so serious. She told me that she had a baby.

I was so surprised. She looked so young. 

Immediately, I envisioned how was her life. 

Probably their parents take care of the baby while she was at school. 

I even imagined myself carrying her baby. 

When I digested the idea, I focused on her face.

She was in silence, but it was so obvious. 

I saw it on her eyes.

Her eyes said:

“You're just a moron with walkman and grungy clothes...”  

“I'm looking for a mature guy...”

I still don't know if she really had a baby or if she just wanted to get rid off me, but then I believed her and I stopped speaking to her for a while. 

When I tried to do it again, she rejected me.  

It took me almost an entire year to get her out of my mind.

I was so miserable. Everything became dark. 

My life was a blacked torture. 

Days and nights were so long. 
I didn't know rejection felt so bad. 

It was so painful and awful.

I still remember myself lying on my bed, feeling ill.

Counting each second as they slowly turned into another slow second.

 

I wrote her several teenager dumb poems in several pages of that notebook I had been employing for writing my silly songs. I never read her one single poem.

As I write this post I wonder where are those poems. I should known where are them. 

It would be so funny to read them and to infer how miserable I believed I was.