Archive for April, 2004

  • Rob Spectre
  • 27
  • Apr
  • 04

Felony Films’ first production is underway. “Held for Questioning” the 60 minutes straight-to-DVD documentary of three monster rally racers, the backwoods of Rhode Island, and – yes – a 1976 Ford Granada.

This weekend we *finally* got our mother plucking ducks in a row and took the Bark of the Meast out for a lovely Sunday evening stroll through the roughest roads we can find, often at speeds exceeding 35 miles per hour. One might think that a three-decade old sports sedan might not be ideal for baja rallying, and that one would be absolutely correct. Though we had a ridiculously good time and spent 3 hours demolishing what thirty years could not destroy, it was not all squealed tires and oil spray.

First, as we go tumbling over a trail dotted with enormous rocks all over hell and breakfast, Jesse has the amazing forethought to ask, “Are these tires rated for off-road travel?”

Immediately I respond, “Of course not.”

And that *exact* moment in time and space some unseen, presumably stone-like object pops the right front tire like a balloon, leaving us flat in under two minutes. We used the two minutes wisely, doing an approximately 13 point turn to get pointed in the direction out of the trail leaving us with two decisions. We could either 1) tow the car out with Jesse’s truck and put a spare on, thus saving the tire and the rim from destruction or 2) see if the Granada can travel 1.5 miles of rough terrain with three tires.

Curiosity in young men being what it is, we discovered the answer to the later query as yes, but not without considerable steering assistance from the other passengers.

After getting the tire on and coming towards the conclusion of the day, we found one final trail upon which we would finally see the capability of the Rockstar. Jesse taking the wheel for this fateful journey, we tumbled of sheer rock faces, slammed into the scorched chassis of older, less fortunate automobiles, and took hairpin turns at speeds bordering on lunacy. Finally, after abuse that would end all abuse the Granada’s steering unceremoniously gave way to better sense, eliminating our ability to control direction and, thus, ending the day’s festivities. Expecting at very least a large explosion of some sort, we were all naturally quite disappointed. Our disappointment would quickly turn to dismay, however, when we learned that the distance between our stranded vessel and the truck that would have to retrieve it was considerable indeed. Further, how one would tow a steering-impaired vehicles through twisting, winding rocky mountain hills was a question posed on many occasions over the two mile hike. Fortunately, we had plenty of time to figure out a plan that would fail enough times to provide suitable entertainment.

Finally, we extracted the vehicle from the trail and with the shadows becoming long, snowballed AAA into coming to tow the vehicle to a proper burial ground. The wait for a tow truck was indicated as considerable, as we apparently were as deep into the boondocks as Rhode Island can get, we decided to quench our undeniable thirsts over at Jesse’s parents while the tow truck arrived. Not thinking that anyone put perhaps the occasional law enforcement officer would come across the Granada, we left a small note on the windshield and took leave.

A little less than thirty minutes later we returned. Now, we had left the vehicle on the trail from whence we pulled it, making its flame-painted side very visible from the road. However as we approached the car from afar we were very clearly observing its rear end. Pulling into the trail it became clear that we were not alone. While the moan of dirt bike engines cascaded in the distance, we discovered that a few someones had taken the liberty of operating the vehicle while we were gone.

You may have remembered before that we had lost steering. As our note did not share that information, the vandals who hopped in the car in our absence appeared to have started the car with the keys that were left inside and stomped on the gas pedal. Clearly, the car surged forward… pushing the front wheels to the right, sending the Granada rather abruptly through a tree on the side of the trail. If that weren’t enough, the stump of the tree these yohans drove through lodged itself firmly underneath the car’s rear-mounted gas tank, eliminating the ability for that individual to get the car out themselves.

From the evidence we gathered at the scene, we came to the conclusion that the villains must have been incensed by this event, as they completely obliterated what was left of the Granada with a 20 pound sledgehammer we had negligently left in the back seat. In what we could estimate as between 30-40 blows, all the windows were completely shattered and many parts of the body dented, as well as the headlights and thievery of the license plate. All and all, what we hadn’t been able to sack, they sacked for us.

All of the above was the God’s honest truth.

Now imagine explaining that to the police officer who just so happened to pull up behind us right after we arrived.

  • Digg
  • del.icio.us
  • Facebook
  • Google Bookmarks
  • Reddit
  • StumbleUpon
  • Technorati
  • Rob Spectre
  • 24
  • Apr
  • 04

So Jesse, A-train, and I saunter into Tortilla Flats with their respective girlfriends, hearts set on picking up a pair of plates of their legendary hot wings. A reasonable wait made bearable by another Yankee ass-stomping on behalf of the Boston Red Sox, we finally made it over to our table and got our order on. Taking the waitress aside, I indicated that I wanted one of the plates of hot wings turbonitrothunderfuck hot.

She responded, “If I go back there and tell those guys that, they’ll make it so you can’t eat it.”

Jesse naturally replies, “Oh, bring it.”

“No, they’ll make it so you can’t eat it at all. They’re really sadistic.”

“Bring it on,” I reply confidently.

In the back of her mind she had a case of a couple cocky yohans who wanted to look tough by ordered the hot wings crafted with sauce selected from the fifth circle of Hell, but in the back of my mind all I could remember was the searing pain from Taste of India several weeks ago. However, I did notice two extreme differences.

1) The kitchen was talking a lot of smack. After we placed our order the waitress came up and said, “The kitchen asked me to tell you guys to put a roll of toilet paper in the freezer for tomorrow morning.” Now when I made the same cocky declaration to the gentleman at Taste of India, he simply smiled knowingly and wrote it on his piece of paper. Foreign policy rule number 2: Nuclear nations don’t talk smack. If these fellas really had the heat, they would have gladly dished it up and watched with a chuckle from afar. The way these schoolgirls were chuckling, they probably only had a couple habaneros in the back.

2) Tortilla Flats was a gringo Mexican joint. Lacking the sort of authenticity found anywhere in the Midwest, I knew these nancies didn’t have the backdoor distribution network to get a hold of the dangerously hot stuff. They might bring a tear to my eye, sure, but we were going to walk away the heroes of this little Alamo.

Well, after much ado and plenty getting up to exchange words with the kitchen, the wings come out. Immediately, Jesse and I dive in chomping down as fast as we can. Habanero has a tendancy to wait until the third or fourth wing to kick in, so we took that as an opportunity to get up and chew them down in front of the kitchen staff. However, at wing three the fire alarms went off. It was enough to give me pause and munch on some nachos for repose, however Jesse continued ducking in for a heart-stopping three more wings.

Finally we made it through the plate, with even A-train contributing a few tears while trying to put one away for the team. The waitress declared we were in fact the first ones to ever finish a plate when the kitchen was ordered to do their worst. However, for one last jive she said, “Next time, I want to see nothing but bone.”

“Next time,” I told her, “Tell them to make it hot.”

  • Digg
  • del.icio.us
  • Facebook
  • Google Bookmarks
  • Reddit
  • StumbleUpon
  • Technorati
  • Rob Spectre
  • 23
  • Apr
  • 04

Already on the edge of my seat for tomorrow night’s preview of the new play starring Rhode Island’s biggest rockstar, Mark Carter. As the Vice-President of his fan club – the Funky Bunch – I take my administrative duties with a level of seriousness that easily exceeds the scholarly-prescribed thresholds of insanity. It was with the demented execution of said duties in mind that I contacted Michael over at the Perishable Theatre who, to my delight, agreed to have set up a preview tomorrow night of Mark’s new play, Kid Simple. Simply identify yourself as a Funky Buncher, arrive with a single non-perishable food item and your ticket is covered for the night by the Rhode Island Community Food Bank. A night of entertainment by the best male vocalist in Rhode Island and a talented cast for a can of creamed corn; you could probably beat it with a stick, but why would you want to?

In other news, I’ve started laying down some bass licks for the boys over in Route 44. It’s fun hanging out in the rhythm section once again, and these swingin’ cats give me plenty of room to get my rock on. Scorching storytelling with a bluesy, roots rock sound, if one were so inclined, one could nab a tune or two in their audio section, but who knows what kind of crazy thoughts would go through one’s head after threatening physical harm to creamed corn.

  • Digg
  • del.icio.us
  • Facebook
  • Google Bookmarks
  • Reddit
  • StumbleUpon
  • Technorati
  • Rob Spectre
  • 19
  • Apr
  • 04

Jeebus. People are kicking out books left and right about the Bush Administration and Iraq. Makes one wonder where the hell the critical press was a year ago. I guess the whole issue of responsible research keeps liberals from chucking out books at the breakneck pace that other, less scholarly pundits seem to be able to churn. It is a lot easier to maintain a rigorous publishing schedule when the minor quibble of factchecking can be overlooked.

My ma seems convinced that Dubya has the election in a lock. I hope the glorious liberal haven of New England hasn’t made me so naive that she proves me wrong. I’ll be working out the details of emigration though, just in case.

  • Digg
  • del.icio.us
  • Facebook
  • Google Bookmarks
  • Reddit
  • StumbleUpon
  • Technorati
  • Rob Spectre
  • 16
  • Apr
  • 04

The boys threw down in poker yet again tonight, and unfortunately I can’t say that I walked out with a fair shake. After taking out A-train in a hurry, Mack, Jesse, and I swapped money around for a few hours before a sleepy-eyed girlfriend started to bring an end to the night. To terminate the evening, the other two gentlemen at the table took it upon themselves to declare the last game an evil mutation of the pure game of poker which they refer to as “Guts.”

In “Guts,” all players are dealt two cards which they examine before holding firmly in hand above the pot. Counting down from three and shouting “GUTS!” players can either drop their hands to fold or hold them to compete against other players. Should more than one player retain their hand, the winner retrieves what is in the pot while all losers match the amount in the pot. The game finally ends when only one player holds his hand. However, two cards are then dealt from the deck. If the player can defeat them, they retrieve the pot and the game stops. However, if they cannot, the pot remains and the loser, well, you get the idea.

Walking into the final hand, Jesse and I had broken even and Mack was sitting on the better part of A-train’s flow. By the end we learned two valuable lessons. 1) Always look at the hand you paid for and 2) about $40 seperates drunk from sober. Jesse and I walked away with an even split.

By the way, Kill Bill fucking rocked.

  • Digg
  • del.icio.us
  • Facebook
  • Google Bookmarks
  • Reddit
  • StumbleUpon
  • Technorati