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.