A private word to some incoming freshmen.

My friend the ProJo ran this photo today...

These fresh-faced rising freshmen are lugging suitcases around the downtown campus of Johnson & Wales University, their academic home for the next (fingers crossed!) four years. Let's all give them a hand! And now, if you don't mind, I'd like to address these and all other incoming JWU students directly.

First of all, welcome! You must be so excited to be embarking on your college career, especially if this is your first time in a biggish city. If you’re here for JWU’s culinary program, good for you! I look forward to sampling your wares in the future. For those of you from New Jersey, and I know the Garden State is especially well-represented at JWU: your long nightmare is almost over.

Now, you and I are going to be cohabitating to an extent in the Jewelry District, where I work and where a lot of you will live and go to class most of the time. In the interest of neighborliness, and short of bringing you a casserole, I’d like to offer the following advice:

Stay the hell out of the street. There are plenty of sidewalks in downtown Providence, and you don’t need to be navigating potholes big enough to swallow your best pair of Uggs in winter on foot. See those blinking light-box-things at most intersections? Those are walk/don’t walk signs. Obey them. If there aren’t any where you happen to be crossing, look both ways before you cross the street.  Don’t just fling yourself willy-nilly into traffic with a grossly misguided sense of who has the right-of-way. Chances are it’s not you, and although I’ll do my very best to not hit you with my car, I can’t make any promises, especially when there’s ice and snow involved.

You’re bringing a car to campus? Lucky you. Find a place to park it and leave it there until you have an errand that can absolutely not be accomplished on foot or by using one of those big blue buses your school provides. If you drive it around town, know that parking enforcement is the sole part of Providence government that runs like a well-oiled machine. Even if you can’t see the “no parking sign,” even if you didn’t know you were too far away from the curb, even if you were only thirty seconds over the one-hour time limit, you will get a ticket. If you want to get out of it, you have to go talk to this guy, and depending on his mood, the whole “but I just had to run upstairs to turn in a paper!” excuse – especially when whined – will not cut it.

When you’re driving your fancy car around town, please keep in mind that arriving at your destination is not a good reason to simply exit your car wherever it happens to be; say, in the middle of the street. Putting on your hazards does not give you dominion over traffic rules or basic manners. Same goes for Jersey plates.

That guy who’s name is all over your campus? It’s this guy. If you see him, try not to make eye contact.

And finally, and most importantly: if you’re not wearing a dress, skirt, or shorts, please wear pants. Tights are not pants. Leggings? Not pants. Jeggings? Not a word, and don’t let me hear you use it again or I’ll cut you. If a two-legged, bottom-worn piece of clothing highlights every contour of your behind and ends in a tight taper around each ankle, that garment is not a pair of pants. You’re in college now! So put on some pants.

Real estate-based fear-mongering is rather uncool.

So today I’m plugging along, doing my thing, secure in the knowledge that while many things in the world are bad right now, at least there’s no ticking time bomb within walking distance of my office. And then I see this:

Dammit!

But… wait. Turns out it’s not an actual explosive device waiting to detonate (even though the ad banner above is urging me to celebrate the fourth of July “with a bang.” Ha ha). Clicking through brings you to a much more boring picture of the downtown, um, “skyscraper,” also known as the Bank of America building, and the dire warning of a guy who will not stop running for mayor that if the Bank of America leaves that building when its lease is up, Providence as we know it will cease to exist. 

Questions/comments? I have some.

First, the “Superman building?” Oh, Providence, you are adorable sometimes. You know, if you photograph a stalk of celery at night, in fog, and with sentry-looking statues flanking it (although I think the upper one is Roger Williams), it might look Superman-ish, too.  But a more accurate representation may be how it appears behind the Griffins’ house on Family Guy:

Decidedly less super.

Second, what the hell? Is there a dearth of crises in this state, country, and world right now that necessitates the manufacturing of scary-sounding problems of a pseudo-violent nature? Honestly, I’m a little preoccupied worrying about how my local elementary school is going to have turned into a cash-for-gold depot by the time my daughter is ready for kindergarten to worry too much about downtown getting all Lord of the Flies if BoA vacates. 

And lastly, if BoA truly is one of the state’s largest employers, and the lion’s share of its employees work in this one downtown building, where do they all park? Where do they all park?

Stop it... other states.

So it’s finally happened. I’ve had to admit that while there are many, many things that irritate me about Rhode Island, there just aren’t enough to justify sitting down and writing about it on a regular basis. That is, there aren't enough new things. The ProJo still sucks, it takes a million years to go from point A to point B in a state the size of a postage stamp, etc. But be assured that this does not mean that Rhode Island isn’t irritating; it just confirms that it is small. (But not as small as me. HA! Beat you to it.) And so, in the interest of maintaining even a modest momentum, I am forced to turn my judgmental eye to other states, with the understanding that Rhode Island irritants take precedence over all others. You’re number one, baby.

Anyway. I’d like to begin with Maryland, the state in which I spent the bulk of my childhood, and the place I tell people I’m from when I’m asked, because it’s just easier than rattling off the relatively complicated list of places I’ve lived.** Specifically, I’d like to have a word with this guy, who has taken it upon himself to finish an open-water swim in the Chesapeake Bay with a few butterfly strokes.

[I'm having some trouble cross-posting the pic, so please click on the link and go to picture #11. Sorry.]

Hey, fella? Boasty McShowoff? You’re not impressing anyone with that. I used to be a swimmer, and while I was never awesome (I spent my swimming career nestled comfortably between “passable” and “kind of good”), I can say with certainty that I always had the good sense not to lollygag my way through a race so I could showboat at the end. Also? I stayed the hell out of the Chesapeake Bay. Know why? Sea nettles. Millions of them, all waiting to sting the hell out of someone fool enough to invade their house.

Am I a little jealous? Maybe. I’m big enough to admit it. In fact, I’m big enough to have abandoned the skintight one- and two-piece racing suits of my youth for a much  more sensible swim dress from Land’s End. So what? It hides the post-baby lumpiness I can’t seem to get rid of, jackass. Will you ever know that pain? No, you will not. The closest you’ll come is probably a few months of a few too many indulgent happy  hours at Pusser’s, and you’ll rid yourself of the resulting gut in two weeks by switching to skim lattes. So who are you to judge me? How dare you? I am working on it, okay?

On another note, a special shout-out to this guy for making me feel like a lazy ass.

sea nettle : Chesapeake Bay :: toaster : bathtub

** New Jersey, Minnesota, Poland, Minnesota, Virginia, Minnesota, Maryland, Chicago, Evanston, Chicago, Los Angeles, New Hampshire, New York, New Jersey, Rhode Island.

A brief roundup of sad.

Has it been a while since you've sighed dejectedly? Do your eye-rolling muscles need some exercise? Well, here you go:

First, the Providence Journal thought it necessary to publish a list of the top ten reasons not to open up a fire hydrant on a hot day. One can only assume that there are people out there who need not one, not two, but ten reasons not to do something dangerous and illegal, and that those people look to the ProJo for guidance. This is sad.

Also sad is the fact that the couple who sponsored a public art project to erect a bronze statue of Providence native George M. Cohan in Fox Point can't raise enough money to pay the sculptor because nobody knows who George M. Cohan is.

And the final sadness  - for today -  is not only that this column happened, but that the ProJo commenters really, truly outdid themselves. Not just in inanity and petty bitchiness, but in honest-to-goodness, what-the-hell-are-you-talking-about confusion and off-topic-ness. Please to read and then throw up your hands in defeat.

You're welcome!

Begrudging respect? Fat chance.

Well, this sucks. (ProJo photo)

You know what, Providence? I’m sorry to have to say this so bluntly because I know you’re sensitive and all, but after today’s commute, it simply must be said that you are truly bad at this whole “being a functioning city” thing. Seriously, what the hell is the matter with you? You fail at the easy stuff, stuff that even tragically dysfunctional other cities can do, like… I don’t know, let’s say Detroit. Not because I know or I’ve ever been there, but because it provides the stark comparison I’m looking for. Yeah. Detroit! How does that feel?

I know that the storms that rolled through last night hit you pretty hard. But traffic lights were still out hours and hours after the power went out. You know what should get fixed first in the case of an electrical outage? Traffic lights. Oh, and would you mind mentioning to your fine citizens that an out-of-order traffic light is the same as a four-way stop sign, and not a signal that it’s an every-man-for-himself chaotic free-for-all? As the lone individual who remembers that rule from driver’s ed class, I sure would appreciate it.

Also? Instead of dispatching one crew to take care of downed trees one at a time, why not have them divide into smaller crews and tackle two – maybe even three! – tree branches at once, in different places? You know, like the Scooby gang! Scooby-doobie-doo, goddammit! And would you mind telling the cop who was sitting in the squad car that was used to block off the street  -- the one that the giant crew was working to clear –  that maybe he could step away from Angry Birds for a moment? There are a few intersections right off the end of a freeway off-ramp that have no signals and could really use some traffic direction. Look, I know that he’s probably about to lose his job, and that really sucks, but those intersections are an Italian-style fifty-car pile-up just waiting to happen.

And you know what would have been great about all this mess? A warning. But how? Oh, how could you warn citizens of this fair city that certain parts of downtown were nigh impassable because of the weather? Perhaps the LED signs along the freeways? No, no, of course not. Their current message – CLICK IT OR TICKET – is far too important to usurp for some measly weather-related tidbit. No, what’s important is that before puttering through a foot-deep, block-long puddle created by inadequate drainage, all the while praying that the electrical system in the car didn’t shit the bed, we were buckled up right. But wait! What about the news? I listen to NPR on my way to work in the mornings, and there was not one single mention of the state of downtown. It’s right there on the website, but apparently they didn’t see the need to say it out loud to those who were not presently on the interwebs. Because we were driving.

Look. Times are tough. I get it. But this is the easy stuff. This isn’t pensions or job cuts or unemployment. This is making sure traffic signals never go out. This is clearing the crap off of the storm drain grates so water can drain after a fucking storm. This is easy, Providence. This is putting on clean underwear in the morning. It’s just not that much of a challenge. And look what you’ve done to me! I’ve gone from being a writer the Times of London once called “a refreshingly modern satirical voice… the wit of Dorothy Parker melded seamlessly with the homespun wisdom of Erma Bombeck,”** to someone who wastes precious work time ranting impotently about a stupid anthropomorphized city on a blog few people read! Is that what you want, you sick son of a bitch? Well, fine. You win. You win because you’re a city and I’m just a writer of an anger blog about a state no one cares about. But you still suck.

** This did not happen.

These guys.

I work in philanthropy, and part of my job is to find out what wealthy people like to do with their money. It’s usually the same old stuff: houses, planes, art, philanthropy, un-sensible shoes, etc. Some rich people like to shout, “Hey! I’m rich!” from the jewel-encrusted penthouse roof, while some prefer to keep a lower profile.  Then there are the two rich Rhode Island guys who do neither, while somehow doing…both?

First, there’s this guy. John Hazen White, Jr. runs a successful HVAC company called Taco. (I always assumed that it was pronounced like the foodstuff, even though my mind always went here when I saw it. Recently I learned it’s pronounced “tay-co.” Because of course it is.) His father ran the company before him and the White family is pretty well off; Jr.’s the kind of guy who wears a pro-wrestler hairdo and jingly-jangly bracelets because he’s rich enough not to care what you think. But what he doesn’t spend on ponytail elastics and gold bangles, he funnels into billboards and bus ads that look like this:

Yes, that is John Hazen White, Jr., and he is pointing at you and frowning. All over the city. Why is he so mad at us? I don’t know. But I do know that he wants you to read his blog, which is a (mostly) level-headed outlet for him to talk about Rhode Island goings-on, especially the political and economic ones. And so, to recap, this guy pays thousands for ads for… his blog. I want to pay thousands for ads for my blog! No, I don’t. Not really. But if I did, they’d look something like this:

I’m no graphic artist, but you get the gist. The important thing is that a wiener dog is fed up with you. Now, White seems like a pretty nice guy, actually. His company gives lots of people jobs, and word is people stay at Taco for, like, ever. The billboards and ads add up to what’s probably best described as an eccentric and highly public hobby.

And then there’s this guy. Oh, Alan Shawn Feinstein. You are a mystery. And yet, you are so totally not. Here’s a quick primer for those not up on all things ASF: he’s a guy who made a bundle in the stock market, through selling booklets about how to get rich, and through selling Sierra Leonean stamps with the face of Mars on them, which are guaranteed to skyrocket in value as soon as we set foot on the red planet and discover life there, which should happen any day now.

I’ll give you a moment to process that. No, no: take your time.

Anyway, he took his loot and set himself up as a master of combining genuinely valuable philanthropy with jaw-dropping self-promotion, the likes of which you have probably never seen. It goes far, far beyond naming a building or a walkway after oneself. He established the Feinstein Junior Scholars, which encourage youngsters to not be jerks to each other, and he buys ad time on local networks so he and his family can tell the Junior Scholars, while riding a carousel, that he’s “so very proud of you” and to “keep up yaw good deeds.” These messages always start with a couple bars of "This Land is Your Land," and always end with ASF's catchphrase, "See ya later, alligator." Often, his cute family thanks you, too. To receive a Junior Scholar membership card, you need to promise to do good deeds, or simply run into AFS at the Roger Williams Park Zoo, where he hands them out to kids once a month.

If your organization would like a donation from AFS, your organization must: 1) tack up one of his well-meaning but completely inane sayings on the side of your building in foot-high letters; or (sometimes and) rename your organization after him or someone in his family. That’s why, in the poorest parts of town, you’ll see Feinstein this and Feinstein that, and AFS quotes on schools and even churches. CHURCHES. And the quotes, while harmless and blandly inspiring, are in no way profound. An example:

What you must never, ever do, potential grantee or news reporter, is question AFS or how he made his money. To do so is to spit on children and the hungry, groups which have definitely benefited from AFS’ largesse, regardless of the weird ways it came about.

I can’t seem to decide whether I have profound respect for the sheer magnitude of this guy’s magnanimous balls, or if what I feel is disdain. Is there a middle ground? Resdain? In any case, when I make my fortune, I plan to do the full-on Mr. T with my hair and jewelry, buy bus ads that showcase my ability to do a Vulcan salute, require to make anyone – from a university to a homeless person – rename themselves “Curmudgeon,” and make everyone tack up “Potatoes are Delicious –RIC” on the side of every house. No, no, future beneficiaries: you’re welcome.

Our children are our future, as long as there's no math or reading comprehension involved.

I'm not sure which is more depressing: the fact that none -- not one -- of Rhode Island's public high schools were listed in the Washington Post's annual ranking of American high schools, or that the college admissions consultant consulted by GoLocalProv.com was not at all surprised by it. Sure, it's a small state, and our three dozen public high schools only account for a fraction of the country's, but still. With 1,200 spots available on the list, you'd think that we'd at least snag one. Right?

Raise your damn standards, Rhode Island.

Now there's your homage to Puccini. 

Bored? Unannoyed? Haven't snorted derisively at anything in a while? Here's a fun thing to try:


Take a look at this writeup in last Sunday's ProJo about "Family," the inspired-by-the-Rhode-Island-mob musical penned by Arlene Violet, the Ocean State's very own ex-nun, ex-attorney general, and current hater of all things union. (Maybe you caught a clip of it on last Friday's "The Soup?" I did!) Of all the ridiculous things in this article, which is the most ridiculous?


Here are some hints.  It's not this:

The show, based on some of the more colorful characters Violet encountered as Rhode Island attorney general in the mid-1980s, has got to be the most anticipated event of the summer. 

or this:

 And who isn’t curious about anything touched by Violet, the former nun and prosecutor, and now a controversial radio talk show host?

Who indeed? Moving on. It's not this, but you're getting warmer:

Violet doesn’t want to say too much about the plot of her baby, except that it’s “gritty but also funny, because wise guys are funny.”

Oh, the laughs! And it isn't this, even though it reminds me of my favorite movie:

Meanwhile, Violet is busy raising money, doing publicity and making sure New York movers and shakers come to town to see the show. She has hopes of taking “The Family” to New York, but said that will cost $8 million.

It isn't this, which... just... I don't even know:

When snitch Joe Barros goes into witness protection at the end of act one, he gives his daughter a string of pearls, albeit stolen pearls, to ease her pain of having to give up the life she knew, echoing a practice of Barboza, who in real life used to give his daughter a doll each time he killed someone.

Like you do! And it isn't this, because everyone knows that people who are against gay marriage are against it because they haven't been exposed to the right musical theater character:

No one in the show is all black or white, except perhaps the son, Renaldo, the aspiring opera singer who is gay. Garzilli called him the show’s “moral barometer,” the son every mother would love to have.
“Maybe if people see a character like the son,” said Violet, “it will change the Rhode Island debate over same-sex marriage.”

You betcha. Or this:

There is even a homage to Puccini, in a scene where Renaldo sings at the Providence Performing Arts Center, while his father is on the phone with a Chicago mob boss and another character is being beaten senseless in a corner.

Sweet lord. Give up? Okay. The most ridiculous thing in this whole ridiculous display? Is this:

“The Family” opens Thursday and runs through July 1 at the Lederer Theater Center, 201 Washington St., Providence. Tickets are $60. 

Sixty. Damn. Dollars. 


How many times does that go into eight million?