Archive for October, 2003

  • Rob Spectre
  • 31
  • Oct
  • 03

I love All Hallow’s Eve. Today at my day job our usual Fight Friday was replaced in light of the holiday by Fright Friday, an event where employees (read: me) were encouraged (read: discouraged) to dress in a costume.

I wore my ratty nasty WaterFire jeans, a hoodie sweater full of holes, and carried around a little paper cup. Who was I, you ask?

The General Manager of the Boston Red Sox.

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  • Rob Spectre
  • 29
  • Oct
  • 03

This is going to spoil the surprise for our Halloween present, but check out my answering machine message.

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  • Rob Spectre
  • 27
  • Oct
  • 03

I’ve come to think of rush hour in Providence as kind of a pleasant afternoon stroll, easily slipping in and out of the crowded lines with a half dozen different alternate routes home in the event of congestion. I’ve become a bit of a master at it, weaving in, twisting the indecision of the accident-prone to my advantage, consistently beating the averages in my small commute home. However, thanks to the autumnal timefuck, I learned that true fear is that pleasant afternoon stroll… in the dark with 25% visibility. What was usually an enchanting erotic ballet became the awkward fumblings of Catherine the Great’s pages trying to squeeze a horse-shaped peg into a human sized hole.

Heard the car door slam behind me like the distant rumble of a sawed-off, echoing fruitlessly against my ears now numbed by rage and the cold, driving New England rain blanketing the night in a chill.

So, in anticipation of its sequel, I’ve been trying to beat Max Payne for the past couple of weeks. Absorbed by both the kickass Matrix style effects and the gritty film noir storyline, I’ve generated a Mickey Spillane filter for absolutely everything I do.

The neon signs laughed with the false charm of a Yakuza – that welcoming grin of cold blooded murder. Shop Smart. Shop K-mart, they said. A sham for the den of criminal debauchery inside.

I mean absolutely *everything*. Even going down to the store has become an experience evaluated only in terms of how many people I could drop with dual Ingrams in slow motion. Add to the equation my three quarter trench coat and a somewhat drizzly evening, and this geek is a public embarassment just waiting to happen.

I walked up to the “cashier.” What that really meant was the broad who took the dime for the goods. I grabbed something off of the shelf just to play it Bogart. She scanned it and without flinching an eye she said, “$8.49.”

I could tell she was hiding something.

The line between fantasy and reality is a lot more black and white for most people, but apparently to me it is not so much “drawn” as it is “chalked with hopscotch pastel just begging to be hopped around over.”

“I got what you need,” I said lowly, growling against the deep seated rage against the loss of my wife and daughter that was forever stuck against the back of my throat, burning with the bile of grief and revenge.

I don’t have a wife and daughter.

“$8.49 sir,” she repeated, rolling her eyes. Real professional, this broad. Kept her hand close to her chest. To raise pulses, I pulled back against my beltline and whipped out my card. This should get me through, I thought. How wrong I was. In a heartbeat’s fit of forgetfulness, a cosmic clumsy moment that takes the salt out of old dogs and the life out of a greenhorn’s lungs, I fumbled the card, sending it tumbling to the floor. She just looked at me blankly with cold, unfeeling eyes.

I picked up the card, and quit acting like a douchebag.

I picked up the card, and quit acting like a douchebag.

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  • Rob Spectre
  • 26
  • Oct
  • 03

Not that I have a whole lot of points of comparison, but RENT is easily the best musical I’ve ever seen. The show was considerably more low budget and laid back than I ever expected, especially since we’re going on almost a decade since it made its huge splash on Broadway. Preserving its shoestring roots, the set was large and reasonably elaborate, but certainly missing the gigantic lazy susans of Meet Me in St. Louis, a certain charm that I appreciate.

One of the interesting thoughts that were proposed over the course of the night is the fact that a lot of what is in the musical is no (at least in places other than the Midwest) blase. A drag queen and a junkie’s misfit adventures in Alphabet City’s ghetto might have raised eyesbrows before, but – besides Elton John – does anyone even talk about AIDS anymore? I remember even five years ago when everybody who was anybody was sporting the red ribbon and the big hubbaloo with Slayer and their T-shirts. Before it was a disease that only homosexuals got. Now it’s a disease that only black people get. It seems so long ago that people would talk about their one friend that got AIDS.

What’s even more frightening is that the epidemic is far from over.

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  • Rob Spectre
  • 24
  • Oct
  • 03

Tickets to RENT and I don’t even have to drive to Kansas City. Living in civilization can be pretty wonderful sometimes.

At a benefits meeting this morning at my dayjob a saleslady promoting our handy dandy 401(k) package asked the question, “Does any one in here really believe Social Security is going to be around when you retire?” To which I immediately replied, “Elect a Democrat.”

Jamie quit, Jodie got married, but I’m still here.

Google just innovated its way around investment bankers. Actually determining market value by using an online auction, as opposed to a couple rich white MBAs; sheer brilliance.

New Anti-Flag record out. Crunchy even in milk.

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