Archive for August, 2004

  • Rob Spectre
  • 31
  • Aug
  • 04

A dispatch from Ted. He’s was in Minnesota, and apparently had a run-in with the rich and famous.

====================

I forgot to mention, and for those *ahem*, Hardcore Dems and Republicans

out there, I ran into Mr. Jesse Ventura -twice- coming back from the

Twin Cities.

Run In 1: Ted Learns Wrestlers Like Candy, Too

Location: Minneapolis/St. Paul International (I guess Canada -does-

count as its own nation, doesn’t it?) Airport.

Time: Roughly 1:00 PM Central.

I’d just seen a brief news bit detailing “What’s He Up To Now!?” segment

the night before. Jesse, The Body, is doing well and has decided to

braid his beard. I took note of this not realizing that preternatural

forces were at work.

We in the airport, and I decide I want to run into a newsstand type shop

for the latest MacAddict and some candy. While browsing the candy, I

look over and its first an earing, and then an oddly braided beard that

catches my eye.

“Self,” said I, “That looks familiar…HOLY CRAP!”

My realization was confirmed when a few feet away The Wife bellows, “Hey

Jesse! Are you going to want to put this in your bag?” To which he

responded, gruffly, “No.”

Leaping across the room, I pointed him out to Monica who was…less then

enthused that the former Minnesota Gov and more importantly, one of

Hulk’s bitter rivals. Somebody wasn’t a Little Hulkster when -she- was

growing up, brother. Sensing where my loyalties truly lay, Jesse ‘The

Body’ Ventura flees and vanishes into the terminal.

====================

Run In 2: Ted Gets the Drop On The Body, Meeting Out Sweet, Sweet

Hulkster Vengeance and Living to Tell the Tale

Location: T.F. Green Airport, Providence (which is actually in Warwick,

but why nitpick).

Time: Aprox. 5:45 PM Eastern

We’ve landed and are off the plane, and down into the baggage claim

area.

Waiting…waiting…waiting…AHA!

With my catlike reflexes and finely honed (literally, by a laser)

vision, I spy and snatch our largest and heaviest bag as it attempts to

make a run for freedome with its brethren on the Carousel of False Hope.

Executing a deft Snatch, Grab and Spin technique, I haul the heavy

luggage off the belt and swing it around, to fully claim and deposit it

with our others.

Only to nail Mr. Ventura neatly, and solidly in his right knee.

Let me go on record by saying that he is a mountain of a man, with

startling blue eyes. He was also munching on an unlit but mostly smoked

cigar in one corner of his mouth. Jewelry dangled freely about his

person, the braided beard that had become his trademark swung defiantly

in the air in response to my blow.

“Shit,” thought I. “Hulk never said it’d be like this.” And the prospect

of sacrificing my dignity and screeching like a schoolgirl in order to

save at least a pint or two of precious blood, suddenly seemed a little

more reasonable.

My apologies, powered with a previously unknown celerity and sincerity,

were met with a guttural mutter, and a steely glare.

“Jesse! Get over here and help me with this bag!” called his wife.

Muttering, Jesse Ventura turned away from the pain that awaited him, and

fled the cruel, cruel fate that I had in store for this beast called The

Body.

The bruised knuckles he surely would have sustained while pounding me,

now made a thing of hypothetic fancy by a damsel in need.

Then I too turned and went on my own way. Two warriors. Two separate

paths. Two different sets of matching luggage.

Fine.

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  • Rob Spectre
  • 28
  • Aug
  • 04

There’s always something new and beautiful at WaterFire no matter how many times I go; it’s wonderful to see all the great things about Providence which seem to always be illuminated better by firelight. A lot of my associates seem to have a more jaundiced view of the event and the inevitable traffic havoc it seems to cause, but I think a look at a newfound couple in at the point where the rivers meet can make the extra five minutes to go through downtown an inconsequential sacrifice to the hope of future love struck. At least, I can deal with it.

The gargoyles – two performance artists dressed in stone outfits – are always large attractions at the event and tonight I guess they were joined by two newcomers; females dressed as pillars. The usual crowd in front of the statue of Verrazano was double the size with the addition, handing out small scrolls undoubtedly containing words of infinite wisdom to the gathered throng. I was walking to my car when the quartet of stone emerged from behind me illiciting a shocked response from the cars I was waiting to stop. Sheepishly, I walked amongst them and mentioned, “You make extremely effective crossing guards.”

They pleased me beyond compare by staying in character and failing to respond, as the curtain on that act is not drawn until the mask is off.

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  • Rob Spectre
  • 26
  • Aug
  • 04

I’m coming to the conclusion that I went to school for the wrong disciplines. Clearly, I should have pursued a challenging degree in Linebacking, possibly with a minor in Trash Talking.

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  • Rob Spectre
  • 22
  • Aug
  • 04

Last night I had a dream that I was accosted by an evangelical lounge singer on my way to buy a venti no-whip caffe vanilla frappachino and some fig newtons. He had just finished a soulful rendition of “Our God is an Awesome God” who evidently reigns on both Heaven *and* Earth. Some ethereal movement had brought his heart to bear on a heading that intercepted mine and King James Version in hand he asked in familiar tone if I believed in God.

I responded that on that particular night if fig newtons and coffee were not enough, I doubt any God would be. He said there was a world beyond this mortal coil; an everlasting happiness that would make even the finest coffee and the finest fig newtons pale beyond compare. He shared the lyrics of a song that testified to a grace incomprehensible by man. He quoted scriptures that promises infinite life and neverending joy. He said all I had to do to get there was die a Christian.

I said living as a Christian was a penitence for a sin I didn’t commit, and that if I was wrong and he was right the ones that I did I’ve already paid for, and would deserve to pay again.

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  • Rob Spectre
  • 21
  • Aug
  • 04

For the past few days I’ve been spending my time in Boise, Idaho. Tater toffees and terrible coffee, lo it was a pilgrimage of great sacrifice, but I did make it out alive if harrowed from the ordeal.

In a moment of sheer foolishness, my employers sent me off for an assessment of the infrastructure of a partner company which meant spending a day looking at a bunch of blinking lights and then next floating down a river talking smack with their CTO. Boise was actually a lot of fun at night, but I’m told its only good for one night making me feel fortunate for the rapid evacuation.

The biggest problem on the trip was getting to the damn state. With a whole four flights going out of the Idaho state capital from an airport that makes Wichita’s look like a sprawling metropolis. Of course, there is little demand for non-stops from Providence to Boise, so I had to hop a connector in Minneapolis. About 60 miles out Wednesday night, the pilot got on the horn and notified us that the airport was locked down for a VIP and we couldn’t approach the airspace.

Who was that VIP, you ask? None other than our veteran-bashing Commander-and-Thief. I had the wonderful opportunity to circle that airport for an hour and a half waiting for that jackass to get the hell out of our blue state and mosey along to spread some lies elsewhere. Predictably I didn’t take the information from the pilot quietly. Loudly I announced, “It wasn’t enough that he stole the election, he had to steal an entire airport?”

The cheers from the passengers made me want to kiss everyone of them. Sadly however, an armed air marshal prevented my affections.

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