Archive for June, 2004

  • Rob Spectre
  • 30
  • Jun
  • 04

The other night I was driving home and what should I come across but a raccoon. Clearly a sow with a disabled foot, how the hell such a creature got this far inside the city I could not understand. A few other Prov residents, likely their first time seeing one in the flesh, stood about and marveled. After watching the sow’s behavior, I could tell she was a mama. Sure enough, out of a storm drain a litter of five crawled out of the storm drain to the claps and cheers of a now huge throng of onlookers.

Ro appropriately asked, “Didn’t you used to shoot those?”

“Yeah, but only after I sent a dog genetically bred to hunt and kill after them,” I replied.

In other news, I found out last night that H.P. Lovecraft is buried, like, 100 feet from my house. Apparently a dunce for not knowing this, Mr. Necronomicon himself was Rhode Island born and raised. This was said as a point of pride by many Rhode Islanders, which gave me a bit of pause. Identifying yourself as progeny of the same environment that produced a dude capable of cogitating Cthulu doesn’t seem to me like a particularly sane call to banner.

Incidently, I was sure to check under my bed twice for the presence of tentacle.

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  • Rob Spectre
  • 27
  • Jun
  • 04

Last night I snatched my shitkicker hat and hit the town with Route 44 for an NNFP benefit at Providence’s extraordinarily chill Black Repertory Theatre. Though we were initially billed as “dancable bluegrass,” the first time Ian kicked into the big hits of Allman Brothers‘ “One Way Out” I think we sank that miscommunication like a 12 inch shot to the rudder. The first show featuring the full and hastily assembled complement of the band, it was a huge hit. I believe everyone had a blast, including the fine Forest Practioners who were getting their feet wet in the fine art of fundraising also for the first time that night.

We had the difficult responsibility of following a fashion show and a talented traditional Hindi dancer, both having more beauty in their left toe than we have in our entire band. Fortunately for us, beauty is not as primary an instinct as booty-shaking among tree-hugging hippies as all assembled had a true ball for their tax-deductible dollar.

Getting paid to have this much fun shouldn’t be legal.

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  • Rob Spectre
  • 22
  • Jun
  • 04

Since puberty, my face has not so much been the focus of my identity but rather a physical and spiritual battleground upon which a neverending war against my natural canine/porcine hybrid superfreak genetics is fought with bitter tears and the latest technology. Everyone’s face undergoes the horrible, radical changes of hyperhormonal release, but usually these changes calm down after the endocrine system learns that it doesn’t have to release everything it has all the time. Unfortunately, either my personal pituitary capacity didn’t come to the same conclusion with age, or it, like my face, has an extreme dislike for me. Perhaps its still a little raw over the whole Accutane thing. Maybe its just pissed because it is losing.

The werepig that I am, I have counted on my good friend technology to help out of every debacle with my face. One of the larger fronts upon which I must wage this conflict is the ubiquitous and alarmingly fast appearance of hair. This battle is particularly perilous as I believe if left unchecked for a period of 36 hours, it may well take a federal search and rescue team to find me underneath my overgrown beard. With such high stakes, I tend to dance merrily on the bleeding edge of technology, so while Gillette is still fucking everything and going to five blades I have to settle for their new M3.

With an impressive BMW-sounding name like M3, I’m sure the guys at Gillette thought they had a winner. However I don’t think their market analysts fully considered the ramifications of consumer confidence in three razor sharp blades twitching around like a 12 year old kettledrum player in the back of orchestra who has to pee. This instrument is strictly for individuals with two major qualifications: 1) outrageous facial hair growth and 2) complete lack of desire to keep any facial hair straight.

My left sideburn is now a long trapezoid while my right is quite nearly a rhombus. But hey, my five o’ clock shadow didn’t show up until 2pm this time.

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  • Rob Spectre
  • 21
  • Jun
  • 04

25% is such a deceivingly small percentage that I wonder if there is something simply unethical about advertising such a percentage off a total purchase at a bookstore. I wouldn’t go so far as to call it illegal per se, but in my opinion it is very much like flipping off a nun in traffic. Yeah, you *can* do it, but everyone is just going to end up thinking you’re a dick.

Sadly, I wasn’t able to snag the pair of latest Repairman Jack books, but I loaded up on a fair balance of trash and treasure. Among the trash is the guilty delight of another Terry Pratchett novel which like free basing is sadly both horribly addictive and fashionable in the underground. But when you are heaping tomes in your bag with blissful fantasies like, “25% means that, like, every fourth book is free,” one’s editorial selection can end up a heap of black tar on the concrete under the overpass.

A few folks have been asking about the show and pointing to the two new folks showing up mysteriously in the photo gallery. The answers will come my child, but only in due course.

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  • Rob Spectre
  • 20
  • Jun
  • 04

After months of anticipation, I finally got out to see Saved! Being co-produced by one of my heroes notwithstanding, it pleases me to no end to have a 21st Century film join the illustrious John Hughes genre of high school deviant filmmaking. Loaded with abrasive satire that made even me blush, its not the God-is-not-so-great film that I came into the theater secretly wishing for. I’m not even sure if it was the Church-is-not-so-great film the trailer said it was going to be. I think, ultimately, it’s another film in a long line about life on the outside looking in, but with the notable presence of thought to consult the greater outside that we all seem to inhabit.

I speak, usually at nauseating length, of the sense of urgent happiness that comes knowing there isn’t an unmoved mover over your head striking down hopes and dreams with predestination schemes, but when the shit hits the fan a warm blanket of faith can become a pretty comfortable home. And in perhaps the film’s most shining moment, when the biggest shit hits the fastest fan, it doesn’t deny the blanket’s existence at all…

It just insinuates it would be a lot warmer if shared with others.

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