tag:drunch.it,2013:/posts Drunch 2017-06-20T17:47:17Z Drunch tag:drunch.it,2013:Post/1102282 2016-10-26T10:39:41Z 2017-06-20T17:47:17Z Recognition


I’d like to start by describing a scene. You, a hypothetical 30-ish-year-old, have a job. This job makes you successful, in that you’re making your own way. You generally enjoy the people you work with. You’re qualified for your position. You can eat out and enjoy time off. But something is missing. Something about your day job smacks of capitulation—you feel as though you’ve somehow given up.

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Drunch
tag:drunch.it,2013:Post/1096115 2016-10-05T09:43:17Z 2016-10-26T10:51:58Z This is About Time

If I were a betting man, I’d wager you’ve recently thought about time.  Maybe it was when you were late for an appointment? Or possibly when you were contemplating whether or not to hit snooze again? How about when you looked up from work for the first time all morning and couldn’t believe it was already lunch?

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Drunch
tag:drunch.it,2013:Post/873875 2015-06-26T13:08:00Z 2016-10-26T10:52:12Z The Ten Most Portland, Portland Restaurants


While this is kind of a top ten list — it provides ten places in a rough order of which I'd want to visit over another — it is not a definitive list of all Portland has to offer.  It is an attempt to solidify which restaurants form the constellation of Portland-only standouts that make this peninsular city the gem it is. Meaning, which places contribute most to making our wee Portland's food scene the lauded one that we know and salivate over.

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Drunch
tag:drunch.it,2013:Post/870336 2015-06-17T10:53:15Z 2016-10-26T10:52:24Z Isa Bistro - Portland, ME


Where is my Danny Boy? thought Mother Gem, scrubbing at a long-handled spoon. She spread the window wide and sung to the morning air, “Danny Boy!” Only the sweetness of bird music caressed her dainty ears.  

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Drunch
tag:drunch.it,2013:Post/867905 2015-06-10T10:48:48Z 2015-06-10T10:48:48Z Steady Progress

Drunch is coming — just not this week.

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Drunch
tag:drunch.it,2013:Post/864799 2015-06-03T11:02:40Z 2016-10-26T10:52:42Z Portland, ME - The New Slogan

Portland unveiled a refurbished slogan in 2013, "Portland, ME. Yes. Life's good here." I do not love it. Not only is this slogan vague and oddly pleading — needing to affirm itself before the thought is even stated, "Yes. You like Portland. Yes?!" — its halting structure catches on the tongue. I'm guessing the runner-up option was, "Portland, ME. Sturdy. Indeed, a goodly-fine city. Very nice thank you."

Since I have already reviewed Portland as favorably as one can, I thought I'd throw a couple slogans of my own out there to see if any stuck.

Below, enjoy nine, Drunch-approved slogans, mocked up and ready to be appropriated by the greater Portland community. You're welcome!


#1

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Drunch
tag:drunch.it,2013:Post/861517 2015-05-27T10:55:03Z 2016-10-26T10:53:03Z The Net Result - Vineyard Haven, MA


To whom it May Concern,

“Hark, a farting on the wind?” I thought me this morning past. After a brief silence, the notion was swept from my razor-keen mind. And then another twoozling flatulence… could it be vagrants, airing their bowels beneath my window?

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Drunch
tag:drunch.it,2013:Post/858635 2015-05-20T10:22:11Z 2015-05-20T10:22:12Z WEDNESDAY?!


J/K I knew it was Wednesday.

However, this week's Drunch requires more careful consideration and crafting. This is good for you RE: quality. This is good for me RE: time.

In the interim, have a great Memorial Day Weekend and I'll spy you back here next Wednesday with a brand spanking new Drunch.

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Drunch
tag:drunch.it,2013:Post/855376 2015-05-13T11:10:33Z 2016-10-26T10:58:44Z Portland, ME - The Review

Portland Sucks: A Paean

 



Howl with me comrades, “I hate Portland,”

Don’t migrate here, stranger. It sucks,

It’s cold and our taste stinks,

We’re all weird and ugly,

The praise is hype.

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Drunch
tag:drunch.it,2013:Post/852162 2015-05-06T12:10:27Z 2016-10-26T10:59:09Z Collaborative Drunching


THE BAD NEWS: Drunch simmers like a delicious stew, gaining potency for your patience i.e. it's not done yet.


THE GOOD NEWS: You (you, you) get to contribute to next week's illustration(s).

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Drunch
tag:drunch.it,2013:Post/848718 2015-04-29T11:13:24Z 2016-10-26T11:00:50Z Vena's Fizz House - Portland, ME


In a time when the hills were small and the trees just taking root, the Wendigo came. It devoured the flesh of men and could never be full. In shadows it made its home. And not a soul knew its form except for he that would soon depart this world, hastened by the Wendigo’s fang and claw.
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Drunch
tag:drunch.it,2013:Post/844583 2015-04-22T08:46:49Z 2016-10-26T11:01:09Z Po' Boys & Pickles - Portland, ME [Click the picture to see it work properly. I can't figure out what sort of hocus pocus is making it look funky]


The band deserved to be back together. It was up to me to make it so. 
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Drunch
tag:drunch.it,2013:Post/840992 2015-04-15T11:11:34Z 2016-10-26T11:01:24Z Portland Hunt and Alpine Club - Portland, ME


Soot rolled through the gutters and clumped in the branches of oak trees and accumulated on my windowsill like black snow. The castle at the end of town had burned the night before, its silhouette now a black skeleton, looming.

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Drunch
tag:drunch.it,2013:Post/837674 2015-04-08T11:06:16Z 2016-10-26T11:01:50Z The Holy Donut - Portland, ME

 

At Davie Trembleau’s stupid eighth Birthday party I snuck into his brother’s room and stole a baseball signed by Mo Vaughn. The following day at school I was certain that Davie’s brother, a stringy tree of muscle named Dirk Trembleau, was going to find me, pick me up by my neck and hold me that way until I expired.

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Drunch
tag:drunch.it,2013:Post/834079 2015-04-01T11:21:27Z 2016-10-26T11:02:10Z Market Street Eats - Portland, ME


How to Impress Girls

According to An Eleven-Year-Old Boy

 


Do a High Kick:

If you kick really high when a girl is watching, she’ll have to like you.

 

Perform The "Near Fall”:

Or, surprise her with this one:  pretend to fall and then, at the last second, roll out of it and stand up like, “oh you thought I was gonna fall?” Girls love agile guys.

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Drunch
tag:drunch.it,2013:Post/826287 2015-03-18T11:16:07Z 2015-03-18T11:22:20Z Scratch Baking Co. - South Portland, ME


“Chief,” said Nell, sauntering into my office. “You called for me?” She closed the door and sat without asking, her diamond earrings glinting in the hollow yellow light of my desk lamp.

            “I have a confession,” I said. I lit a thick Cuban cigar with a lighter held in my giant, brown flipper. “I’m a walrus.”

            Nell’s walnut-brown eyes narrowed. That was all the reaction she allowed.

            “You,” said Nell, picking her words carefully. “You’re a… a walrus…”

            “Correct,” I said, blowing smoke between my two-and-a-half-foot-long tusks. “I’m sorry to break it to you like this. I tried to think of a better way, but none appeared. I’m sorry… baby.”

            Her breath probably quickened and I bet the heart underneath her glorious chest might have even skipped a beat, but I’ll be damned if she showed it. She was a hard dame, Nell. That’s why I’d hired her. That’s why I loved her.

            “So, you want me to believe,” said Nell, straightening her back. “That the best goddamn precinct in New York City is run by a four-hundred-pound aquatic mammal?” She shook her head. “Nuh uh… I’m not buying it.”

            She was so beautiful like that — angry, confused — it nearly broke my enormous heart. “Nell I—“ I said. She cut me off with a flat palm in front of her. Her hard façade was cracking. Below us, sirens from the city street wailed up at the closed window. Nell sat up, shaking her head.

            “You’re a walrus,” she said. “You think I’d fall asleep every single night thinking of a walrus? You think I’d write out drafts and drafts of the words I’d use to break it off with my fiancé for a walrus? You think I would have felt my stomach do a somersault when I heard that I was wanted in the office of a walrus?!”

            She got up and stormed for the door, wiping quickly at her eyes. I felt the need to say something, but what could I say, propped as I was with both flippers on my mahogany desk? I thought of something.

            “Nell,” I said.  “Just listen.” She stopped, didn’t turn. Standing there, her black hair framed against the smoked glass of my door, she looked like a silhouette of a dream. God, the professional way she dressed, trying to hide curves that refused to be hidden; I’d have swam through arctic waters just to be with her. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’ve gone crazy. But no matter what I am and what you believe: I still want only you...”

            It was pretty good for off the cuff, I must say. Nell turned. Her eyes shimmered red; she wanted to let me keep talking. She wanted us to work out no matter what. I wanted that too.

            “Please, Nell,” I said.

            She started to say something herself but Detective Alvarez burst in the door without knocking. Nell casually hurried to the window.

            Alvarez’ eyes were bloodshot and his red hair askew. The thin, red mustache that lined his upper lip like mascara quivered with sweat. “Chief!” said Alvarez, panting. “Chief we have a triple homicide out in Jersey City and… hello Nell."

            Alvarez was Nell’s fiancé.

            “Hi,” Nell said, turning from the window, the picture of normalcy.

            “If you’re telling me about a homicide in Jersey City,” I said. “That means it’s him again, right?”

            “Party kids. Spring break from Oklahoma,” said Alvarez. “All eighteen years old. Two males and a female. Yeah Chief, we think it’s him.”

            “Goddamn it,” I said, slipping my government-issue suit jacket over wherever a walrus’ shoulders are. “Nell, we’ll finish this conversation later.” Nell nodded, a true professional.

 

 

I flopped out of the squad car onto the frigid pavement. Red and blue lights painted the lone building abutting the lot. Eight motionless officers leaned against their squad cars, sipping at lukewarm coffee in the weed-strewn lot. We were out in the boonies of Jersey City, no place for three revelers to end up. What a shame.

            “Same arrangement,” said Detective Alvarez, getting out of the passenger’s side. I nodded. The kids’ bodies were arranged on the ground, two prone, one bent at the torso. The dead skin of their pale, skinny bodies glowed opalescent in the full moonlight. Their bodies formed a W shape on the ground. Or was it an M? We’d seen this two times before and it was starting to get on my nerves.

            I hunkered down to look at them. These murders were all alike, three young, innocent kids — two males, one female — taken from their natural habitat in the packed jungle of bars that made up the meatpacking district, brought to a foreign place, poison froth leaking from their mouths. Who was this maniac? What was he — or she — trying to prove?

            “Chief!” said Alvarez. “Look.”

            I humped next to Alvarez; he had the girl’s skirt lifted. “He’s taunting us,” he said, pointing to words etched over the faint blue veins of the girl’s pail thigh. This was new. He’d never sent us a message.

            The handwriting was hurried, the blood still not fully congealed. It read, “Monkey see. Monkey do.”

            I was inclined to agree with Alvarez — that this was just another taunt, another piece of the puzzle — but it didn’t sit right. I scanned the scene again, two guys and one girl. Far away from home. I gazed up at the lone abandoned building looming behind us. Its façade was grim, chipped brown concrete framing rows upon rows of windows. So many windows. He’d underlined see. He sees. He could see us.

            “He’s still here,” I said, rearing up on my hind fins. “He’s still here! Form a perimeter!”

            The scene sprung into action. Coffee cups rattled to the ground and service pistols were cocked. Policemen bristled from behind the parked cruisers like some epileptic phalanx. I caught my breath behind my vehicle — walruses aren’t meant to hustle. Alvarez, seated next to me, his pistol up in front of his flushed, red face, gave me a look that said I was either nuts or a genius.

            “What the hell is going on, Chief?” he asked. I twitched my tusks towards the abandoned building. It stood not fifty feet from us, five stories of windows, some broken, some yellowing to opacity, lining its five dilapidated floors.

            “He’s in that building,” I said. “Let’s go catch this maniac.”

 

 

 

 

The front door opened with a grating shriek, as if its hinges hadn’t been moved since the twenties — they probably hadn’t. Behind us, police officers spread out in a perimeter in case our killer tried to make a slick escape. I shuffled in first, a flashlight raised in my flipper; Alvarez followed close behind. I could hear his pistol rattle in his shaking hands.

            Around us oily dust was pushed up in piles next to skeletons of machines. It was just another manufacturing plant, from back when Jersey had jobs for the middle class. My thick brown hide rasped against the aged concrete. Chipping paint and the odd spray of graffiti littered the walls and girders that somehow held this hollow carcass up.

            “Chief,” whispered Alvarez, shaking. He pointed to footsteps in the grime. They were fresh, leading deep into the back. I nodded and we trudged deeper.  

            My flashlight created more darkness than it pierced, shadow darted behind shadow. Crack heads and squatters had taken everything of use; only forgotten debris remained. My thick torso’s scrape echoed against the concrete walls. We followed the footsteps back and back until they came to a door. Painted on its cracking wooden face, in what used to be beautiful hand-written calligraphy, was the word  “Foreman”. I motioned to Alvarez and he raised his pistol, releasing the safety. We got into position beside the door and I started counting. Even my whisper echoed.

            “3… 2… 1…” I threw my girth against the door, splintering it like Styrofoam. I bellowed for the killer not to move. First, there was silence. Then a bang echoed through the darkness and a blunt stick knocked the flashlight and gun out of my flippers. Both went clattering uselessly toward the far wall.

            “Alvarez!” I yelled. “Get your light on!” But there was only silence again. The smell of the place inundated me, engine oil mixed with dirt and mold, a forgotten smell. But there was something else… something acrid to it that I just couldn’t place. Maybe it was my own fear. I tried to slide toward a corner, I had no idea where this maniac might be or what he’d done to Alvarez.

            As I flopped helplessly, I heard a chuckle.

            “Chief,” it said. It was a deep voice, more gravel than I was used to hearing in it. But it was a voice I knew.

            Alvarez flicked a light on his face; it was pinched up, rage or madness or some admixture of both boiled on the surface. He was across the room, sitting with his feet up on a desk. “I know you’re a walrus.”

            What? How could he know? I’d never told him. Alvarez shined the flashlight in my eyes.

            “I’m a what?” I said, squinting against the glare.

            “You think I didn’t notice?” He said, his voice a sickly growl. “All those pounds of whole fish sent to your office? The way you never talk about family, where you came from. Oh I picked up more than you think.”

            Alvarez turned the light’s beam back on his face. “I know about you and Nell. I know the way you two skulk around like your feelings aren’t on your sleeves! But you don’t know Nell like I do. And that’s why you’re here. That’s why I wanted to show you this…”

            Alvarez flicked a switch and electronic buzzing filled the room. Halogen lights jittered on, dazzling my eyes. Slowly, the images coalesced. The walls were covered in pictures. That had been the acrid smell. Pictures, so many, but of whom I couldn’t tell.

            “Look,” said Alvarez, cocking a silenced pistol and leveling it at my brown dome. “Look at them!” I raised my flippers and complied. Sidling to the wall I focused on the one closest to me. It was of Nell, younger than I’d ever seen her, looking happy, eating a banana. The next photo showed Nell prone in a cage, naked, a dart sticking out of her neck. The next she was sitting in a tree, people were watching her through bars. And more and more: people in lab coats teaching Nell sign language, Nell picking mites out of someone's hair. There was something connecting all these, some pattern or reason in all these images… I just couldn’t figure it out.

            “What are you trying to show me?” I asked. Alvarez cackled, his mania growing by the moment. “You know, Chief. I know you know.”

            I didn’t know. Did I? Hadn’t I suspected this since the moment I laid eyes on her? Hadn’t I felt it in the way she walked with her knuckles lightly grazing the floor? Hadn’t I noticed her swinging from the pipes of my apartment when she was happy? A tear rolled down my giant wrinkly cheek. “Nell is a chimpanzee.”

            “Yes!” shrieked Alvarez, spreading his arms wide. “And how does that make you feel?” Alvarez leapt onto the desk, kicking a stack of dusty paper to the floor. I was confused. Nell, is a monkey? It blindsided me, sent me reeling. I slumped into a corner.  “How does it feel to have something hid from you?! Still love her? Can a walrus love an ape?!”

            “Nell is my love,” said Alvarez. “My love. You can’t even begin to know what that means. You love Nell the person. You could never love Nell the stinking simian!”

            I straightened my back, shook my girth. What was I thinking? What did that change? Nothing!

            “Of course I still love her,” I said, puffing my chest out to its full barrel splendor. Alvarez stepped down from the desk and raised his gun. I began to ebb towards him. “Did you kill those girls? What the hell is wrong with you?”

            Alvarez’ gun shook slightly. “You think I could get the chief of New York City’s most honored precinct out to just any old crime? You think I could get such a figure — such a walrus! — to join me into any old dilapidated building? You think I didn’t know that there was only one way I could break you and Nell up and still get away with it?”

            Alvarez shot me, the bullet hit just below the sternum, taking some meat on its way out my back. I groaned, stopped.

            “Do you think they’ll find you?” Alvarez pulled out a remote with a red switch on top. “I mean… five stories of brittle steel and chipped concrete. That’s a lot of shrapnel.”

            I didn’t know what he was talking about. I was focusing on the next breath. It felt like an elephant seal was sitting on my chest.

            Alvarez kicked open a back door, letting in the sound of sawing crickets. The room hovered at the very extremities of focus. I had to get him, but I didn’t know where he was. My body felt heavier than it already was.

            “Well,” Alvarez said from somewhere in the onrushing blackness. “Got to get back to Nell.”

            I heard a click and then the shut of the door. I didn’t even have time to bellow for help before a dull thud rumbled out from deep in the factory. A large pillow of shrieking warmth wrapped itself around me, lifting my body from the ground. Everything seemed to suck inward as the air was filled with the unthinkable wrenching shriek of falling steel.

 

 

 

 

I woke up to blinding light and the soporific beep of a heart monitor. Phosphorescent light stabbed my pupils, so I squinted until it only hurt a lot. I tried to roll over and stopped immediately as pain tore through my chest.

            Next to me on a little tray was a piece of paper, folded in fourths. I gingerly moved a flipper, the same pain growling with every inch. I flipped the note open. It read:

 

            Chief,

 

            I know you know. Alvarez disappeared. I can’t see you, not anymore.

 

            Nell

 

            I lay in the bed listening to machines tell me I was alive. I didn’t believe them. I’d get Alvarez for this, all of it. I’d make Nell understand it didn’t matter what she was. I’d fix everything if I could only move.

 

 

TO BE CONTINUED…

 


 

FOOD:

4.3 Stars

*bows at the foot of a bagel altar*

PRICE:

Light on the Dough

$1/2 — For the quality of the eats, the money is well worth it. Bagels themselves aren’t pricy; the baked goods by the counter can run a bit more — in the $4.00 – 6.00 range. Scratch is filled with fluffy pastries that won’t leave your wallet light.

AMBIENCE:

Goods on Display

Bagels are fresh and copious. A horn-of-plenty’s worth of savory and sweet delights await you by the front counter. Fresh cream cheese awaits in the fridges. It’s a walk-in-and-get-what-you-need sort of place with a nice, homey ambiance for good measure.

SERVICE:

Swift Lines

Chipper, fulfilled-looking people manned the cash register. Working at a place that’s producing a product of very obvious quality certainly pervades the workspace with a feeling of wellbeing.

EAT OR SKIP:

Eat

If you hadn’t already guessed, Scratch has my number. The quality and care they put into their baked goods is abundantly apparent first in the layout of the shop — baked goods cover nearly every flat surface — and second, upon biting into one of their heavenly bagels. A Scratch bagel’s crisp crust enwraps a matrix of fluffy inner-bagel-flesh that, when lathered with their insanely tasty, made-from-scratch cream cheese, is a piece of gustatory splendor. Seriously, I’ve been back already this week. I will not, however, give Scratch the nod over my all-time favorite bagel spot, Brookside Bagels, but it is a close — and delicious — second. Go there. Eat bagels. Love life.

Scratch Baking Co.

416 Preble St, South Portland, ME 04106

(207) 799-0668



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Drunch
tag:drunch.it,2013:Post/822128 2015-03-11T10:42:58Z 2015-03-11T10:42:59Z Gone Drunchin'

Welp... ratfarts!

This week's post is taking longer than expected. For the sake of quality, I've postponed it to next week. In the meantime, however, allow this GIF to salve your tender disappointment.

Thanks for your understanding,

Drunch

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Drunch
tag:drunch.it,2013:Post/818700 2015-03-04T12:06:19Z 2016-10-26T11:02:31Z Brealu Cafe - Portland, ME


One summer’s morn we Good Gentlemen endeavored to erect a den in which to consume copious illegal drugs. It was Tim Tam’s plan — he being the one who procured for us our intoxicants. In compensation for Tim Tam’s underwriting of our risk, the rest of us provided payment for both our future drug den’s raw materials and the various uppers, downers, hallucinogens and barbiturates to be enjoyed therein.
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Drunch
tag:drunch.it,2013:Post/815344 2015-02-25T11:45:34Z 2016-10-26T11:02:49Z 158 Pickett St. - South Portland, ME


See that young lady right over there? Why, she’s about your age, son. This must be kismet. It’s just her and us at 7:43 AM grabbing a bagel on a Saturday morning. She’s a hot ticket too… The way the warm morning light hits her freckly cheeks, she’s a looker m’boy.

            You’re going to talk to her and there are no two ways about it. First: make sure your eyebrows are full. Straighten ‘em I’m serious. You gotta make ‘em like a sharpie marker attack. The first thing a woman notices — even if she doesn’t know it and most of ‘em don’t — is a man’s eyebrows. Believe me, if you got no eyebrows you are as good as a damn eunuch to these females. They yearn for robust brow hair like what grows in our family. We’re blessed in that regard.

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Drunch
tag:drunch.it,2013:Post/812949 2015-02-18T11:53:31Z 2016-10-26T11:03:08Z Q Street Diner - South Portland, ME


Laird Gilkes IV had stipulated in his will that his wake would take place inside Q Street Diner. Now, the tables were pushed against the wall by the entrance and the chairs were all arranged in rows facing the window, in front of which Laird’s waxen body sat.

            Laird didn’t want a traditional ceremony in which he was laid out like “a snoozin’ slouch,” as he put it. Laird wanted to be seen in action. So his embalmed form was sitting at a table; his rigid arm raised a black cup filled with steaming coffee and his head was thrown back as if caught at the peak of a raucous joke. I imagine it had cost an extra penny for the morticians to figure out how to rig him up  — fishing wire shot from Laird’s limbs making him appear, if you caught the right light, to be a shrieking man snared in a massive spider’s web.

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Drunch
tag:drunch.it,2013:Post/809953 2015-02-11T11:23:58Z 2016-10-26T11:04:00Z Piccolo - Portland, ME

 



In the low lit, cozy dining space of Piccolo on Middle Street, I approached the Almighty Creator of Life. We were meeting for dinner. He sat in heavenly splendor, surrounded by swirling immaculate robes of gossamer thread. As I sat, some of His robes flew in my face and I had to politely bat them away. The One True Power stifled a grin.

            “God,” I said.

            “I prefer Yahweh…” He said, crossing His arms.

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Drunch
tag:drunch.it,2013:Post/806674 2015-02-04T12:03:54Z 2016-10-26T11:03:43Z Bonfire Country Bar - Portland, ME


Flexing his rippling thighs, the Bro Ranger peered out the foggy window of his upscale apartment. Below, bundled forms humped their puffy, stumbling bodies across the snow swept ground of the Portland Peninsula. The Bro Ranger pulled amply on his Black and Mild and blew a smoke ring shaped like a dick.

            Behind him, Totino burst through the door. Swart, stump-like and always smiling, Totino ran up the to Bro Ranger and slapped his bro behind.

            “Ranger,” Totino said, winding up for another ass slap. “There’s a nerd posse afoot. They’re on the hunt for women.”

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Drunch
tag:drunch.it,2013:Post/803733 2015-01-28T13:25:29Z 2015-01-28T13:25:30Z OOO I deeply regret to relate that this week’s Drunch is postponed. I, foolishly, thought that I was capable of both being on vacation — drinking beers and skiing — and working hard to complete this week’s Drunch. I was grossly mistaken.

 

However, from beyond the veil of my beer-soaked haze I offer this sneak peek at next week’s review of Bonfire. Behold.

 

 

Drunch will be back next week with its regularly scheduled skullduggery. Thanks for your patience, understanding and beautiful bodies.

 

-Brett


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Drunch
tag:drunch.it,2013:Post/799051 2015-01-21T12:43:09Z 2016-10-26T11:04:36Z Boo Facebook. Hooray E-mail.


This week, I’m attempting to rid Drunch of its social media dependency.

How? Simple. If you like Drunch and want to see more, just click the link to the left that says “Subscribe by E-mail." After clicking, enter your e-mail, click "subscribe" and you're all set!

By entering your e-mail, updates will come straight to your sweet little inbox and I won’t have to try to harangue you via Facebook — a social media giant whose tumble from the beanstalk imminent.
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Drunch
tag:drunch.it,2013:Post/795811 2015-01-14T12:10:11Z 2016-10-26T11:04:50Z Bao Bao Dumpling House - Portland, ME

This is how it happened.           

            CHAP CHAP CHAP! A giant rotopoopter sound just like that wakes me up. I kick my door open, peashooter in hand, to russle what hooligans is on my property. ‘Stead of some gumbubble hard-bodies they’s just six green men, naked as little rhino babies, scuffin’ through the leaf piles in my front yard.

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Drunch
tag:drunch.it,2013:Post/792468 2015-01-07T12:14:12Z 2016-10-26T11:05:17Z Greenpoint Fish & Lobster Co. - Brooklyn, NY

The Ballad of Captain Grey

 

From upon the quay one could say they see no ship at all,

The angry ocean boils and foams, a raving heaving squall,

But in that gnashing maelstrom there is one surviving boat,

And at its helm my hero Captain Grey keeps us afloat,

 

What little of his coarse black hair not plastered to his head,

Stands in a rigid cock’s comb: an affront to doom and dread,

His trunk-like chest it ripples as he wrestles with the wheel,

Those steadfast squinting onyx eyes glinting with gutsy zeal,

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Drunch
tag:drunch.it,2013:Post/789549 2014-12-31T12:09:19Z 2016-10-26T11:05:36Z Sonny's - Portland, ME

I wonder how many chances I’ve missed? How many potential significant others I’ve failed to engage as they stood, fidgeting, behind me in line at CVS? How many mentors I’ve neglected to strike up a conversation with at the bar before a show because I chose instead to sit in my apartment, watching the same movies I’ve always watched? How many vital friends I’ve not made because of the way they looked so confident among their own group of friends way over there on the other side of the room?
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Drunch
tag:drunch.it,2013:Post/787354 2014-12-24T12:14:03Z 2016-10-26T11:05:53Z Duckfat - Portland, ME

Still stressing over what to get for your child that spends literally every waking moment on the internet? You can has Kris KringLOL!

            Here he comes on his Angry Bird-drawn ROFLcopter made of Minecraft blocks. Rub his jolly belly to make him shout LOL-worthy catchphrases like, “Christmas all the things!” and “Merry Christmas is merry!”
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Drunch
tag:drunch.it,2013:Post/784508 2014-12-17T12:18:16Z 2016-10-26T11:06:21Z The Dutch - New York City, NY

Oyster Sliders from The Dutch

One sky-less morning wandering down endless city streets, camera in hand, I pause. A benighted alley looms beside me. Eyes like pinpricks aflame sway suspended in the dark. Somewhere deep inside a fence rattles in the stale wind, a baby howls, muffled, a crone coughs. Trashcan fires spurt light hooded by gouts of smoke, illuminating bulbous shifting tatters. My neck hair prickles. This is a forgotten place, I think. Unchanged for ages.

            My city is vast, thriving and expanding for as long as human history goes back. In its corners and nooks nestle cultures once familiar, made foreign by time and isolation.

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Drunch
tag:drunch.it,2013:Post/781219 2014-12-10T12:31:27Z 2014-12-16T00:05:52Z Little City Pizza - Simsbury, CT


March 14th, 2015 was an odd day because at 9:26 AM everything humanity had ever made started using itself.

            I was thirteen. My bed bucked me onto a floor that wobbled under my feet. The steps downstairs tripped me onto a carpet that shuffled me, naked, out the front door to a morning-dewed lawn. Outside, clippers were sculpting the hedges, hoses were watering the plants and lawnmowers were cutting perfect, parallel lines in every yard. My Dad, also wearing nothing — all the clothes were wearing themselves, walking around in front of mirrors polished and reflecting perfectly — was wrestling with a pair of sheers that bridled in his hands. He cursed them as they went scrambling off under a Corvette that had taken itself out for a cruise.

            “Crap,” my Dad said, trying in vain to open our firmly locked front door. Sun beamed through the sparkling, newly washed windows and our vacuum cleaner could be heard hoving ceaselessly across the floor. All down the street people, like newborn hamsters, naked and shouting, were being expelled from their homes.

            “What’s happening?” I asked.

            “The stuff!” my Dad yelled, fish white body darkling with black hair in the bare sun. “It’s all just doing it.”

            Though poorly articulated, he had a point. Everything was simply doing what it was intended for, nothing more. Our house's clapboards and formerly sinking roof had all straightened themselves. The couch inside had plumped itself. And my Dad’s den was spotless, for once, his computer tip-tapping productively away. The house looked nicer than it ever had. But we were no longer welcome.

            In the living room a newly dusted TV was watching the news on itself. My Dad and I peeked through the bay windows from the backyard. The camera equipment over in New York was doing a fine job, with the microphone sounding crisp and clear and the camera framing the shots just right. The show was really entertaining, a perfect mix of humor, professionalism and introspection about the morning’s surprising events. In totality, it was better than any group of people had ever put on.

            We learned that all the guns had shot themselves. All missiles, grenades, mortars and even nuclear bombs met up in the middle of the pacific and blew each other up. The markets were soaring as money shrewdly invested itself or spent itself on mostly assets with a few, fun casual liabilities mixed in. New technologies were inventing themselves while commercials wrote and directed themselves so that new products could buy and use themselves.

            Simply put, all us people had nothing to do.

            Through the kitchen window we watched our food cook itself to perfection, plate and dispose of itself.

            “We’re going to the woods,” my father concluded. And to the woods we went.

            On our way out of town we saw pens scribbling heartfelt, perfect stories under their own volition. The materials for concrete climbed from the earth around us, mixed themselves and with the help of steamrollers and backhoes rolled out perfect new streets. The formerly low buildings of downtown Simsbury were already demolishing themselves and building themselves anew at random. It was clockwork the world over.

            Most people we met looked shocked, some terrified. Everybody wondered aloud why it had happened. Why everything we’d ever endeavored to create had suddenly found no use for its own creators. We didn’t talk much about how nicely they were all performing, though. Why add insult to injury?

            From up on the promontory next to our house where the Hublein Tower sits we could see people streaming from town, eddies of beige and brown. The cities of the world were probably in chaos. Of course, there was a lot of strife among humanity, everyone being forced from civilization and all, but it didn’t take too long for the majority to die away. It was only days before we began to spot people’s remains, behind bushes or by the road, burying themselves in the dirt.

            “Look,” my Dad said. “I made a weapon.” He held up a sharpened stick that promptly bent, broke and stabbed itself into unusable splinters. Luckily, fires made themselves in the woods and though animals turned out to be too hard to catch without tools, we made due with tubers, fungi, rainwater and roots — my Dad had been a mountain guide in his twenties.

            Now, it’s been two years of foraging in the woods and huddling for warmth. The air is already clearer, though the sunsets are less brilliant. My Dad and I don’t do much but sit in our filthy mountain cave, watching our former world expand and perfect itself. Rockets of unimaginable size light the sky morning and night, searching out new worlds. Buildings stretch across the horizon, lavish architecture of stunning materials. We wish we could be a part of it. Everybody left does. But we also have come to a kind of peace, knowing that us people will at least be remembered in history books that will no doubt write themselves, unbiased and pure accounts of humanity’s brief existence and the dreams it strove for but could never achieve.

 

 

FOOD:

3.9 Stars

As good as New York (but not New York’s best).

PRICE:

Little Town

My brother and I went and both guessed a full cheese pie would be around $18. It was $12. And it fed a virile family of four. Very pleasing.

AMBIENCE:

Traditional Italian Pizza Place Attacked With Comic Book Grenade

Really, this place has vintage Marvel and DC comic memorabilia everywhere. Pages laminated into the tables, comic book art on the walls. It’s cool. I like it.

SERVICE:

Simsbury’s Finest

It’s solid service. Takeout is quite fast. Dining in has always been a breeze.

EAT OR SKIP:

Eat

Little City proves that Connecticut’s pizza can stand toe-to-toe with New York City’s classic thin-crust icon. However, with New York’s recent proliferation of bespoke, artisanal, gourmet pizza shops in the past decade or so, I can’t say it is the best slice of pizza I have ever put past my lips (then again that slice cost me twice as much and I got -2 times the pizza). However again, if you’re looking for a classic NYC-style pie Little City is the only city you’ll need to visit.


LITTLE CITY'S INFO:

Simsbury Town Shops Shopping Center

926 Hopmeadow St.

Simsbury, CT 06070

PH: (860) 658-4001


 LANDSCAPE IMAGE C/O FLICKR USER Muffinman71xx









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Drunch