Archive for April, 2005

  • Rob Spectre
  • 18
  • Apr
  • 05

Last Friday I headed out with Hot Buttered Jesus frontman Sommers and his crew to the season opener of the Paw Sox, but alas we were far too tardy to get into that packed house. Apparently when Curt F.ing Schilling plays a couple times on your field, the demand for entry kind of takes the upswing of gasoline after invading two countries with gigantic oil reserves. Does it really make sense when you stop to think about? No, but we were still sitting on the curb with on thumbs in our pockets.

To start off the night, we jetted over with Cat’s to scope the lay of the land that we will be rocking with HBJ come 28 April. The joint met with our mutual agreement that we would be rocking with great intensity, and that we would definitely be staying the hell away from the dartboards. Those mofos are cutthroat about that game. It was like watching some Mayan ritual, the gist of the pokey things you can pretty much understand, but you’re sure you would hose the customs if put on the spot.

From there we headed down to one of my favorite spots Ri-Ra where significant hilarity ensued. Sommers’ crew digs on the rock and roll, as one might guess from their tunes, but when the passable cover band belted out “Dead or Alive” by Bon Jovi these kids acted like men possessed. Possessed of what I’m not sure anyone can be certain, except falsettos creaky from Guinness and enthusiasm from an unbound passion for the rock. On our way to the bathroom Ben and I were doing a small reprise of the tune, and when we emerged from the head a lady was kind enough to remind us, “Hey, the song is over!”

Ben replied, “Is it really?”

In the usual tone that all dim snotrags seem to possess, “Yeah. Like, really.”

At that point the smartass drive was already in third gear, barely taking the heel off the clutch to add, “You know, we can always put another quarter in the jukebox, but you’ll be ugly for the rest of your life.”

It is my good fortune that Ben looks like he is in a Slayer cover band, otherwise I might have had to make an appointment with a cosmetic dentist this week. As it turns out, the crapper in Ri-Ra is a wonderful place to make new friends. For example, as I’m engaging the impulse engines for the third time that night, the dude next to me whips out his beeping cell phone. One hand on his business and the other on his phone, he replied, “Hey.”

I wait. The time is not nigh.

“Yeah, we’re doing alright.”

Nope… one more second.

“Yeah, we’re at Ri-Ra.”

At which point I turn to my left and exclaim into his mouthpiece, “Yeah! And he’s got his dick in his other hand!”

Like a machine he flips shut the phone, zips up, and doesn’t even bother to clean the instruments. I took the kind of time at that sink that guys on death row take with their last quarter pounder with cheese.

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  • Rob Spectre
  • 02
  • Apr
  • 05

As I stepped out of the two-bit cinema, the girl whose name I could barely remember tugged at my arm. The flick wasn’t half bad, but Hollywood was never quite my thing. My trenchcoat had the salty smell of dried sweat and as I shoved my hands into my pockets to avoid hers, my fingers found my toothpick in between receipts from a stolen credit card. The toothpick was soft and splintered in the kind of way of one that had been chewed a lot, and still had the faint taste of her mouthwash when she deftly plucked it out of mouth with her tongue. It was soft and familiar… like the skin of the dame I was trying to forget.

We made it out revolving glass doors back into the real world, one of road salted streets and flood watch rains. It was beating down lightly on the city tonight, like the love tune-up of an interrogator after he’s already gotten what he wants. Like light slaps coming after the brass knuckles, the water poured into the holes in my filthy Cons making their candy apple run a muddy crimson, almost like day old blood. She had it in her head to make it a night of it, and as I was only hanging on to half of mine the idea didn’t seem so bad.

I could feel the stick reluctantly click into third as we navigated the twilight back avenues of P-town. The air was thick with rain and the glare of the hazy streetlights made the faded lines of the road nearly invisible. That’s what nights like these do to towns like these. They make the nearly forgotten invisible.

I pull a louie and park behind some electric shaver Beamer with leather grip gearshift and vanity license plate. “Rx” said that the pharmacy biz was the hard won pursuit that bought this guy’s wheels, but in this neighorhood it was the prescriptions written on the back of Benjamins on street corners and shoved into old vitamin bottles that paid for custom dubs. We’re stumbling over to her stoop when the lights come on and the cop tells me not to move.

I ask him, “Is there a problem?”

He responded, “You tell me smartass. Were you the one who ran past that stop sign back there?”

I took a look at the sign, turned around and looked back at him. “I can’t remember.”

He walked up with his flashlight and asked, “What movie did you see tonight?”

I said, “Sin City.”

He said, “That figures.”

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