My friend Simon asked me to write a tasting review for iscotch. As a lark I asked to review the worst, nastiest, rotgut hooch that could lay claim to the whiskey name. He obliged.

Click here For my iscotch Review

In a moment of even deeper folly I decided to drink the whole bottle early Saturday afternoon, when I have a work Christmas party at 7pm, and to keep a journal chronicling my descent, drink by drink.

Journal:

Drink one:

I’ve only just opened the bottle and the bar music from “Leaving Los Vegas” is playing in my head. I feel such a strong connection with Nic Cage that I’m sure the teachings of Scientology could have kept me from this foolhardy course of action.

The bouquet smells like a fresh suicide note written in dry erase marker. The booze at least makes a pleasant burbling noise when poured.

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 Music journalism is saturated with timely critique by thoughtful taste makers, we here at Sam The Turtle prefer to operate in the post trendy-pre retro undereducated opinion space. We are behind the curve, but you’d be surprised by what you can see half a lap back. Today I listened to Yeezus.

   Kayne wants everything more than I want anything and feels worse about having gotten it than a starving orphan. By his account no one has ever understood him, given him his due, or allowed him to finish a thought. Yeezus is his tantrum to that effect.

 This is the howl of Narcissus drowning, the crunch of Scrooge being crushed by shifting bullion on a late night money bin swim, and fuck me if it isn’t amazing. How can something this self serving and unwarranted be this visceral and affecting?

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As I child I had strong opinions on literature but limited attention and opportunity to express them. In an effort to remedy this I’m going to retroactively review every book I’ve ever read in capsule form. As best I recall these were my impressions at the time I read them, or at least how my adult mind has reconstructed them.

 Capsule Reviews

Encyclopedia Brown:

  Hey, Encyclopedia Brown, how about you settle the fuck down and mind your own business. Maybe delve into the mystery of how long your father can keep from hanging himself when he’s emasculated nightly by you solving his case load over dinner. Or perhaps I’m being unfair, maybe all police chiefs have their ten year old sons processing rape kits in the carport for 25cents a pop, like some fucked up SVU lemonade stand.

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I started the books twenty years ago because I was bored. I’m still bored, but I’ve finally finished the damn story. The millennium passed, the author died, and I started getting laid and still the books continued. Given the four million words the series has had to make it’s case I hesitate to add more to the pile, yet surely patience pays some wage?

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