RAVEN MACK is a mystic poet-philosopher-artist of the Greater Appalachian unorthodox tradition. He does have an amazing PATREON, but also *normal* ARTIST WEBSITE too.

Sunday, March 21

Legend Chocolate Porter

AFFORDABILITY: My Rasputin-ass looking homeboy D picked up the bill at the Blue Moon, so I didn’t actually get to buy any of the tasty Chocolate Porters I drank down while a John Prine wannabe warbled behind my back in the far corner much to the delight of aging hipster doofuses with few scars cutting across their soft palms’ lifelines. I did drop some bucks on the tip for my girl The Notorious M.E.G. behind the counter, and me and fake Rasputin had long important discussions about a bunch of bullshit that perhaps could make reality out of things such as scary terrorist God Bless America t-shirts or might not end up being anything except for two hours of our lives we stuffed our big asses into tiny stools in a throwback diner joint corner and drank some beers, hoping the sands of our hourglasses didn’t run out right then and there and make us feel stupid for listening to some non-white trash guy playing academic Hee Haw skit and butchering up some old-timey by his age songs from the 1970s, when everyone wore way cooler shirts. I don’t think that; he thinks that. I think everybody sucked at all times forever. Yet still I’m hopeful. 5 out of 5.
DESTROYABILITY: A combination of assorted illnesses hit me the same time these beers did, and their oversized chocolatey frothiness through my bloodstream into a shaker and gave all my white blood cells tiny little concussions that felt good to stumble through, and it was one of those very pleasant but heavy drunks that you know you could over-indulge in at some point and have one of those all-time notable drunken evenings where you do things that make for good stories and scars for years to come. But I stopped myself short this night, because I am forever afraid of getting a DUI in the family car. My truck, not so much so. It would seem almost fitting in that piece of shit, but in the family car, with assorted child seats and Polly Pockets on the floorboard and empty Goldfish bags, I'd feel like a first-class piece of shit, if such a thing is not an oxymoron. 5 out of 5.
LABEL AESTHETIC: There were no labels to actually read but the pint glasses were clean, though there seemed to be some sort of persistent keg leak going on behind the counter and they kept throwing towels on it. Plus, the other girl working there was dressed to expose her cleavage, yet she seemed like she was always angry you might be looking at her cleavage. I have never quite understood this phenomenon. Does one think they can publicly partially expose themselves only for others they deem attractive enough to ogle them? If it is in the public domain, it’s out there for whoever, and if it is tiring to have men stare at you then maybe don’t expose yourself. I know this is a fine line between this and that whole bullshit “she was raped because of how she was dressed” argument, and man, I’m not trying to associate myself with that type of dude, but seriously, cover your damn self if you so worried. And anyways, I wasn’t even staring at this chick’s breasts, but she kept tugging her shirt up and mad dogging me out the corner of her eye like I was. I guess I just look like a skeevy fucker. Still, as far as I’m concerned, the slow constant keg leak on the floor is the label for this beer, and sitting on a diner stool in a dingy ass place where sticky beer leaks on the floor and is sopped up with dishtowels whenever it builds up enough to be a near major hazard, that’s quality living right there. Nothing can be perfect in a real world, and worlds that feign perfection (planned communities, science, the Florida Keys) have always seemed unreal to me. 4 out of 5.
CORPORATE MASTER: Legend owns buildings in shit parts of Richmond, although maybe they're not so shitty now as white people love to regentrify shithole parts of towns because they are young and only semi-wealthy and can buy things for cheaply, run out the broke ass pieces of shit that made it so cheap, fix the trimwork and paint it like a homo magazine spread, run the price up, sell it all off in mass, and be rich like their folks, and finally open that vintage antique/wine bar shop they've always wanted to run because nobody has really opened one of those places correctly. Know what I mean? 2 out of 5.
OVERALL AMBIANCE: The Legend Chocolate Porter was quite tasty, and sitting in a public environment enjoying a nice alcoholic beverage with Rasputin, who promised to show me how to play Russian dominoes for secret monies. It was a wonderful evening, I had a good time, and sure Chuck Woolery, I'd love to go out again. 5 out of 5.


Unknown said...

I especially liked "show me how to play Russian dominoes for secret monies". That's some funny shit.

Anonymous said...

My baby girl calls it the unicorn beer.