Archive for November, 2003

  • Rob Spectre
  • 28
  • Nov
  • 03

I spent my first Genocide Celebration Day away from home with Andrea and her family. She put on a pretty good spread between her roommate and her alone, with all the traditional dishes and a couple curveballs that still has me wishing I lived there so I could snag the sweet leftover lovin’. However, after the ham, the turkey, the stuffing, the mashed potatoes, and the bread, I turned to her, belly full of happiness and asked, “Where’s the pumpkin pie?”

She paused for a moment, gave me the finger, and said, “Probably with my new drummer. Asshole.”

I didn’t get any pumpkin pie.

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  • Rob Spectre
  • 26
  • Nov
  • 03

In all the happy holiday hubbabaloo, my ass said unto me, “Rob, I have little to be thankful for.”

In all fairness, it does get the shit end of the skid mark quite a bit, however I would like to think it has a decidedly better time than most asses. Spacious interior, adequate maintenance, and protection from foreign intrusion are all benefits that my ass receives with nary a complaint from me, but when it finally said that seating in the Spectre household was substandard, well, I had to put the folding chair away and agree.

I said to my ass, “Hearten, for this day you will have a throne fit for your magnitude” and departed forthwith to ye Olde Office Maxxe for sweet, sweet relief. After an extensive and carefully observed audition process, I had my selection in hand. Sadly, it seemed that the chair for which my ass was so fond would not be the one I could take home. Those wily sharks at Office Max have things called “display models” that are functional and put together, whereas the one at the front counter that you exchange your ticket for is in a box in a million unintelligible pieces.

I resolved that this could pass. After all, I’m a reasonably intelligent young man, and have been known to assemble a Star Destroyer or two back in the day. I grabbed a little beer, which would be my metric by which to gauge the effeciency of my construction. Sadly, I would pay a high price for my hubris.

After about 5 beers and a lot of head scratching, I found the directions. After unassembling the Tripodal I had created, I offered a beer to the chick that lives upstairs. It took her far fewer to complete.

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  • Rob Spectre
  • 23
  • Nov
  • 03

Why isn’t anyone asking the real important question with regard to this case? Are we *sure* Michael Jackson isn’t a zombie?

I finally got the Shaft website to validate XHTML today, meaning that we are mere breaths away from turbonitrothunderfuck new layouts of the website, the first of which will no doubt commemorate our annual raping of the Native American people. As it turns out, Thanksgiving is some pretty serious shit out here. Before the Wampanoag were building casinos, I guess they were saving the white man from starvation, and it all went down just a short drive from my house. Maybe we’ll have to celebrate it Shaft style with a special holiday season stylesheet.

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  • Rob Spectre
  • 22
  • Nov
  • 03

Cox. Perhaps the most appropriately named telecom in America today. For they have a whole lot of them in their customer service department, shiny and new with interchangable attachments to make your getting-fucked-in-the-ass experience as personal, intimate, and deep as possible. After 48 hours without service, I finally get back online with the counter-intuitive superiority of their live chat support as opposed to their phone, which as near as I can tell was outsourced to a third world nation populated entirely by mongoloids; the natural result of a civilization built on brother fucking sister. I suppose I should just be thankful that my abusive telecom relationship isn’t as impersonal as some folks.

So Andrea and I opened up for two amazing folks over at as220. Mary Bue, fresh from the Midwest herself, gave an absolutely captivating performance and sold me a CD that still hasn’t left my player since. A really progressive sound that immediately likens itself to Tori Amos, she is a really nice girl in addition to a musician, though I must admit I wonder where her daintiness comes from because it sure as hell isn’t in her tunes.

After grabbing her disc, I was treated to Ryan Fitzsimmons who apparently was from Syracuse but sounded like he was from the Midwest with this jazzy, alt-country vibe and a pearl snap shirt that would make any hick proud. The people that we get to play with are so amazing, I’m really wondering what exactly it was I did in a previous life that gave me access to such great tunes. I hope it keeps up.

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  • Rob Spectre
  • 19
  • Nov
  • 03

I’ve always been a big fan of open mikes everywhere I go. It’s just a good creative environment where your audience is usually only musicians, so it gives the opportunity for some good pointed criticism as well as yet another excuse to buy a friend a pint. There are, however, some inexorable truths at every open mike that I seem to consistently obliterate. I always show up retardedly early, I never tune before I arrive, and, worst of all, I shake hands with the weirdos.

There were a good crowd of folks around, punctuated by the friendly, but decidedly crazy Herb. After sitting down with a pint I shake Herb’s hand and he begins to talk at me. Literally. Like I was some strange genetically-modified wasp that could only be bat down with sheer volume of words. Herb was very round, always wore sweat pants, carried around his critical gear in a plastic bag, and was convinced that preternatural energies were distrupting his electrical system with the goal of preventing him from shaving too much. After about, say, three sentences he quickly detailed his significant narcotics use; quite a thing to be doing to a complete fucking stranger. I guess crack does kill.

He gave me a CD to listen to, but I think I left it at the club. I think I’ll probably go back and rip a particularly choice mp3 and put it in here, so you can hear what I mean.

And, finally, the answer to the world’s biggest question has been answered.

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