Inspired by Mark Caro snork-inducing tweet —
I now can announce my new project: a song, “Who Put the Turd in Turducken?” I’ll be selling it to Adele as a change-of-pace single.
I decided to internet-search the origins of this chip of Dada.
Some interesting candidates.
We have the great and grand Grey DeLisle on Nov. 22, 2012: “I put the ‘turd’ in Turducken.”
However, this came out back in 2009:
And a few years later seems to have grown into an outright cooking perennial:
There’s a glancing reference to it in the comments to this post from 2005 (warning: you will have to look at several photos of turduckens).
Finally, there’s a straight mention from SweetIceT down in the comments here from 2002.
And that’s the end of the road for this load.
Gotta get right to the start of the parade to finally see the “Adventure Time” balloon (third appearance), but worth it.
This is a test flight from a couple years ago:
You can always blurt out — “Hey, do you believe that a DNA abnormality called ‘XYY’ in males causes many who have it to become criminals? That it’s a kind of insanity defense? And that horrible mass murderer Richard Speck is a prime example of it? Well, it’s a totally debunked myth.”
But a lot of people do kinda vaguely remain convinced that it’s true.
I don’t want you to just be a tableside gasbag. You should take time to master the basic arguments laid out in this paper. Naw, naw — you don’t have to nail the details or even read all of it, but you should get the last couple of pages in particular firm in your head.
Here’s a quickie “executive summary” type discussion.
This is another example of the syndrome I mentioned in relation to the Texas Tower Shootings — people want rampage (or even serial-repeat) killers to have some deformity, some identifiable biologic freakishness, that sets them apart from “normals.” So they can be explained, distanced from you and me.
I don’t wanna hear it’s a morbid or inappropriate topic for Thanksgiving discussion. Believe me, there will be more bloodshed if the subject of Donald Trump comes up.
The tragedies of the band Boston.
When I first heard the group, I considered Boston the incarnation of everything I disliked about ’70s rock and roll. But I went into total sad-feeling mode decades ago. Karma clobbered these people.
I missed this earlier, but finally noticed my old journalism colleague has accepted a buyout offer:
Today is his last day in the office.
I assigned and edited some of his music pieces way back at the Boston Phoenix, where he always showed a terrific attitude that combined professional and positive in a rare perfect match.
Felt like a tiny bit of those times survived, especially when I was able to walk into the newspaper building with Mark. I know he’ll excel at whatever comes next. But perhaps the ink-stained memory palace is closed for good now.
Something I did back in the day.
Probably more relevant now than before or (we all hope) for the future.
Beloved by devotees.
Given surprising prominent coverage.
How incredible could this Mush by Leatherface be if I’d never heard of it?
Pretty. Fucking. Incredible.
I don’t know about finest punk album or whatever, but it is an exceptionally ferocious and smart hardcore workout that has obviously thrived underneath the surface. Frankie Stubbs is a hi-octane roarer, not as off-putting as the obit descriptions might suggest and Hammond is, yes, a root-and-rip-through-the-landscape riffer with dynamic impulses that whirl you along with him every track. Hardcore has to be all out. Mush is all that will be left of you at the end.