It’s a lifestyle thing
There is a point of rock at a riffle that pours into a run that digs against a bluff that’s abutted by a dirt road that leads to a town of seven where we sit at a table drinking Jack and Cokes inside a warm bar.
Outside, inclement weather straddles the Afghanistan-like landscape that in March eats 4X4 vehicles in drifts of snow and where the earth’s last-remaining trout had survived the apocalypse that is now.
—With Charlie Sheen
For many of us Valentine's Day is a three-headed monster whereby we, A) either F it up royally; B) nail it on the head and proceed to F it up royally; or C) spend time alone, pining and pathetic, getting F’d up royally. In light of these no-win scenarios, The Drake recently turned to notorious actor/call-girl connoisseur Charlie Sheen for advice on dodging V-Day bullets with an eye on survival—sans litigation and rehab repercussions. Say what you want about Sheen, but there’s no questioning his talents when it comes to sidestepping trouble and popping the cork on foolhardy fun.
Today we sit down with the unabashed and articulate Kenny Powers from HBO’s hit sitcom Eastbound & Down. Powers career recently took a turn south, driving to Copales, Mexico, where he’s now rocking cornrows and assumed the alter ego, Steve Janowski. Biding his time throwing pitches, cockfighting, and partying with Aaron the midget, he has still yet to pick up a fly rod. Here’s why. —GM
In what has been coined "Operation Payback," WikiLeaks and the hacker group known as Anonymous have allegedly targeted Drake Magazine intelligence, stymieing its PayPal systems and scrambling the free flow of its members' illicit ramblings for more than 24 hours last week.
Speaking to us via coded HTML brail documents delivered over dial-up Internet, Deputy Marshall of The Drake IT Empire, Grant Summerlin, says the fault lies entirely with the U.S. government for allowing infinite Internet accessibility.
The tequila cobwebs were sticky and thick that hot July afternoon. So too were the 20-pound tarpon holding down turf wars, smearing the blood of wayward interlopers swimming their mangrove barrios. The salty streets can be mean but I didn’t realize how mean until I encountered my first Centropomus undecimalis—snook. I overshot that rookie cast by a fish-length, stripped it alongside a black lateral line, and by the time it reached gill plate, peripherally sensing something worth annihilating, the fish cranked its head 90-degrees and smashed my bug.