Heeding the signs.

While grocery shopping at Dave's this weekend, I saw this:

My favorite thing about this sign is the fact that it implies that at one point, escarole was for Italians only. The rest of us, making do as best we could with kale and arugula, could only press our sad noses up against the glass and watch them chop this unremarkable leafy green into their chicken soup while they twirled pizza dough, drank Chianti, waxed their moustaches and exclaimed “Madonna,” only it sounded like “Marone.” Sure, if you really wanted it you could grow it, but you risked having Italians come into your garden at night and wrecking up the place, and writing “Escarole  not-a for you!” in marinara sauce on the side of your house. But who liberated us? Who brought escarole out of the Italian darkness to where it truly belongs, crammed into the top produce row at Dave’s market, right between the curly endive and the lemon thyme, where no one, Italian or not, will notice it? Who on earth do we thank?

In other news, this was attached to the gas can I bought at the Shell near exit 10 off 295 in Cumberland this weekend:

What this tells me is that there are people who start fires with gasoline.

Ahem.

People. Who start FIRES. With GASOLINE.

ON PURPOSE.

And not just one or two. There are enough people who make the conscious decision to start fires with gasoline to warrant a point-of-purchase PSA campaign on gas cans that’s meant to say, “Hey. Hey there. Hi. You know that stuff you’re probably going to put in this shiny new gas can? Don’t use it to start a fire, okay? It’s wicked dangerous.”

I actually saw a person start a fire with gasoline once. It was my landlord when I was living in Lake Forest, Illinois, one of the few places where burning leaves in autumn was still legal. We spent the afternoon raking leaves into a gigantic pile, and when we were all finished, my landlord poured a gallon of gasoline over the whole thing. The resulting fireball shot so high into the sky that neighbors for three miles in every direction called 911 and sent about six engines to our house. My landlord, who was a true idiot, got a scolding from the firemen and was duly embarrassed. What I took away from that experience, aside from the sheer astonishment of seeing what I saw, was that it was the dumbest thing I had ever seen anyone do, before or since. And I’ve lived in New Jersey.

Honestly. Unless you are an active arsonist, when is the need for fire so urgent that, say, lighter fluid  -- or the naturally present oxygen in the air -- just won’t cut it? Gasoline is so flammable that oily rags and nail polish remover are ashamed to call themselves fire hazards if gas is within earshot.

I suppose it shouldn’t be so surprising. After all, we live in a world where people set off fireworks indoors and keep incredibly dangerous animals as pets that ultimately kill them.

No wonder we’re the dominant species on the planet! Go humans!

Thursdays of Begrudging Respect: a follow-up.

Hey, remember when this happened? Some got-dang fool in Tiverton got all ignorant in the comments section of an online story about a kid starting a gay-straight alliance club at her high school, and some feathers were ruffled, including mine. Especially because this knucklehead is an elected official, and the kind of elected official who has nothing better to do than troll local news sites and make stupid comments to somehow bolster his self-distinguished "straight shooter" cred.

Well, yesterday his fellow Rhode Island Republicans made their caucus a No-Dan-Gordon club. It seems his hobby of being a blowhard online got him the boot, but not for his comments about the Tiverton GSA. Nope, it was the apparent bashing of fellow Rhode Island Republicans in similar forums, the details of which aren't being offered by the ones doing the ousting. (I spent exactly five minutes looking for something he said that may have been deemed derogatory to his party, and I didn't find anything, so I gave up. Already I long to get those five minutes back.) And so, in a state with only a handful of Republicans holding elected office, where they can use as many warm bodies as they possibly can, this guy got the ax. But you know who's still in their good graces? This guy! This guy got pulled over in Connecticut with marijuana in his car and cocaine in his system, and claimed the East Haven police were unduly hard on him after they found out he was a Rhode Island lawmaker. Because, you know, what a bullseye to have on your forehead, right? Everyone knows that local police forces in Connecticut have had it out for Rhode Island State Assembly members for, like, forever. It's like the Hatfields and the McCoys, people.

And so, to recap, to keep your membership in the Rhode Island Republican caucus, you may 1) publicly disparage teenagers trying to encourage tolerance and understanding in their community; and 2) get caught driving under the influence of illegal drugs and have the enormous balls to claim to be the victim of some sort of loony imaginary discrimination. You may not, however, hurt your colleagues' feelings in the comments section of any website.

Just so we're clear.

Tininess: a re-education.

Guys. Guys. Calm down. Everybody just calm down. I know, I know --- we felt an earthquake. In Rhode Island. And that never happens, except for that one time when it did. And that other time. It’s crazy. Let’s all just take a deep breath, and then get to our Facebook pages to tell each other how it just happened, at which point we can agree with each other that yes, it did. It totally happened.

But let’s get one thing straight: you know how a lot of people saying how incredible it is that seismic activity that originated in Virginia could be felt here? Well, it isn’t. It isn’t at all. Know why? Because Virginia and Rhode Island are not that far away from each other. It’s true! 

Let’s review: Rhode Island is small. Very, very small. And it’s situated in a part of the country where states tend to be small. I think that when you live in a very small state surrounded by other small states, you tend to lose perspective, so as a public service, I’d like to provide a refresher course on just how small Rhode Island is. Ready?

Okay. First, let’s look at the distance between Mineral, Virginia, the epicenter of yesterday’s quake, and Providence, where I work, and where my office building swayed ever so gently for a couple of seconds.

The purple line is the way you’d go to drive from one city to the other, but since the effects of shifts in tectonic plates tend not to stick to interstate highways, I’ve added the red line, which is the straight-up, a-to-b, as-the-crow-flies distance. The purple line is just under 500 miles, and the red is about 430.

Now. In 1931, there was an earthquake of similar magnitude that had its epicenter near Valentine, Texas, and it was said that the effects could be felt as far away as Oklahoma. I’m not sure which part of Oklahoma the US Geological Service was talking about, so I’m just going to measure to from Valentine to the OK border. In this map, which is to the same scale as the one above, the purple line is 477 miles, and the red is just under 400. And that’s all in one state, albeit a gigantic one.

And so, as you can see, it is not unthinkable that an earthquake can be felt, however slightly, four or five hundred miles away from its source. Even though that’s equivalent to several Rhode Islands, that in itself does not mean that it’s a great distance. It is not.

Still not convinced? Okay. This is George, the world’s largest dog. He is comically huge, but it’s hard to tell in a picture just how big he is, so for scale, I have included Rhode Island (and let's remember that my graphic design skills are limited, please):

See? That gigantic, adorable dog will devour us all! Ha ha ha. If that still doesn't do it, here's a final example, and this should really leave no doubt in your mind that Rhode Island is not large. This enormous pumpkin was actually grown in the Ocean State. You may remember that stretch of early fall a few years back where the sun was blocked out and thousands fled in terror at the sight of a behemoth jack-o'-lantern-to-be getting ready to have its revenge on anyone who'd ever taken knife to squash before, which is pretty much everyone in New England. Anyway, the great big pumpkin was picked and taken across state lines to be shown at a fair:

See that fella standing next to it? No fewer than twelve Rhode Islands could fit around that guy's waist. He could attach them together with sturdy jump rings and wear them as a belt! Because the state is small.

Not so much a revolt as a flagrant disregard for agendas.

They should have called ahead.

So here’s what happened in Warwick the other day: a bunch of people marched to City Hall to crash a City Council meeting, where they expected to let the council know how they felt about the recent raise in the town’s car tax rate, which is not good. Not good at all. However, the members of the council were holding their meeting in the basement instead of the council chambers, and it’s not like they were hiding from the protesters or anything – it’s just where they usually meet, apparently. So when the council was informed of the protesters’ existence upstairs, they said that the car tax wasn’t on the agenda, and to go away. Which the protesters did, after apologizing for the mix-up and for wasting valuable council time.

Ha! No no no. That didn’t happen. Instead, the council let some of the protesters fill up the 49 available spectator chairs in the room, while the remaining 100 or so passed the microphone (who brought a microphone?) and yelled to each other how angry they are.

Nothing seems to make people gather into large groups and shout more than raised taxes, I think. And it’s true: raised taxes suck. And Warwickians’ particular problem is that the town is overvaluing vehicles and changed the definition of a or tax-exempt vehicle, or junker, from a car that’s worth $6,000 to one that’s worth five hundred bucks. In other words, if your car is up on blocks and you can’t even sell it for scrap, you don’t have to pay taxes on it, although you’ll probably have to pay some sort of zoning violation fine for having it on blocks in your yard. That is, if I understand the issue correctly, which I may not. Anyway.

Leave it to my friend the Providence Journal to take up the cause of a bunch of protesters by making them look like idiots:

[Some lady] of Warwick, says: "I just traded in my 1999 Rodeo and got $1,000 for it from the dealer — yet the city says it’s worth $4,425: Are they kidding?”

No, they’re not. But they’re probably in possession of a Kelly Blue Book, and they’re optimistically assuming that your car is in pristine condition. And if you’re determining the value of a car based on what a dealer will give you for trading it in, your problems extend well beyond your tax rate.

And then, according to the ProJo, this happened after the angry mob was denied admittance to the room and inclusion on the agenda:

“Boo! Boo!,” [the protesters] shouted. “Ten minutes! Ten minutes is all we ask!”

And then they broke into song! Well, no, they didn't, but wouldn't that have been awesome? A full-length musical about the trials and tribulations about skyrocketing car taxes in Kent County would give Arlene Violet’s mob musical a run for its money, I tell you what.

Tsk, tsk. Won’t someone – anyone – inject some sanity and rational thinking into this mess? Ah, yes. ProJo commenters to the rescue! Oh, ProJo commenters. I want to wrap you around myself like a crazy, cozy blanket, until I realize that the blanket is uncomfortable and giving me a rash, so I take it off. Here are some highlights so you don’t have to say goodbye to part of your soul by reading them all, like I did:

Get ready to pay even more..... the Warwick teachers union is cutting a deal for a new contract behind closed doors. Time to bend over taxpayers.

Okay. You know how some people have called for a moratorium on comparing anyone you don’t happen to like to Hitler? I think we should do the same for comparing actions, especially taxation, to anal rape. I may be going out on a limb here, but I’m pretty sure that anyone who’s lived through both wouldn’t put them in the same category.

I wish the 150-200 collectively stormed that room in the basement and physically dragged the council members to the council chambers to face their constituents. I think it's about time for the voters to really make themselves heard.

Simple assault = success! Come on, mob! Act like a mob if you're gonna.

 We need to set up a gullotine in the center of Warwick. If the swine cops from the city have a problem with it we can stick their heads in too.

Oh my goodness.

THE NATURAL ENEMY OF EVERY FREE = MAN/WOMEN =IS HIS /HER OWN GOVERMENT...THE LAND OF THE FREE AND THE HOME OF THE IS NO LONGER A SAFE PLACE FOR US = UNDER OUR CURRENT CROP OF POLITIANS =IN WASHINGTON AND AT HOME

O…kay?

Ejoy life in Warwick. I pay 0 taxes on my 2010 Altama here in Florida. I lived in Warwick and I lived in a few other cities in R. I. I don't miss the pot holes and high taxes. Keep voting for those good for nothings, and you will have to leave the state to live.

And yet… this guy reads – and comments on articles in – the Providence Journal every day. Every. Day. Five of the 114 comments on this particular article were his, and most were about how great it was to live in Florida, a state four out of five hillbillies describe as “too daing crazy what to live in.” In other words, unejoyable.

Bankruptcy is liberty. Bankruptcy is for when self-government has failed, as it has here. Don't pay this oppressive tax. Force a bankruptcy through civil disobedience.

Really? Wow. I guess my concept of bankruptcy was way off. It sounds fantastic.

Being a former Warwick resident I sympathize with the public, but the Open Meetings law restricts what the Council can be discuss at a meeting. It has to be on the agenda, which has to be published at least 48 hours before the meeting. The article says Mr. Cote (odd that his first name isn't mentioned) spent two weeks getting word out about the rally. I wonder why he didn't spend ten minutes to call a council member to get the issue on the agenda?

Hey, that’s… well, that’s a good point, actually. Touche, level-headed ProJo commenter! The day is yours.

Another state!

Austin: too hot for spelling.

In keeping with my jet-setting, high-flying ways, last week I got on a plane for the second time in 2011 to go to exotic Austin, Texas for a work conference. Texas, as you may or may not know, is very big. In fact, for scale, I refer you to my current favorite t-shirt, available at the very excellent Frog & Toad on Hope Street in Providence:

Most of my stay was (thankfully) spent in an air-conditioned hotel, but a few brief trips outside were most informative. Here's what you need to know about Austin:

1. It is hot. Sweet lord, is it hot. I mean... I mean, my god. Every day I was there had a three-digit high, except for Saturday, when the mercury dipped to a balmy 99. And it doesn't even start to get really hot until about four in the afternoon, which makes no sense. It was 95 when I stepped out of the airport at 11:30 p.m. on my first night there. Walking into hot Texas air for the first time felt like going outside in Las Vegas: like you're not on planet Earth because it simply cannot be this hot and still support human life. Anyway, it's hot, which makes seeing joggers on the street all the more irritating.

2. Sixth Street is Hipsterton. Hipsterville. Hipsterfordshire. I was told it reminds some people of Bourbon Street in New Orleans, and I'll have to take their word for it because I've never been there, combined with the East Village, combined with the streets off of the Vegas strip. Apparently there are barkers trying to get tourists and conference-goers like myself inside to see various shows and take various tours, but I have no first-hand experience with them. And it's a good thing, too, because if someone is going to try to pester me onto a duck boat or into a dueling piano bar when it's a bajillion degrees out, that someone needs to prepare for a shin kick. From me.

3. There are bats! Why was I not informed of the bats? I didn't learn that Austin was home to the world's largest urban bat colony until a fellow conference attendee told me about it over continental breakfast one morning. Sure enough, there's a bridge in downtown Austin under which a million and a half bats live, and at sunset in the summer, they all leave to go feed, and it's awesome. People line the sidewalk on the bridge and the park underneath it, and there's free parking, and an ice cream man!

4. For all the pride it should take in its bats, Austin should feel an equal amount of shame for this thing:

No. Stop it.

If you can't tell from the picture, it is a bicycle bar powered by many people who were just talked out of money. With all riders pedaling furiously (in insane heat, remember), this thing goes about five mph (max), serves its riders beer (from a keg the riders provide) because no sober person would agree to this nonsense, and inspires me to throw rotting produce in its direction like nothing I have ever encountered.

And so, to recap: Hot. Hipsters. Bats. Shame. Austin! I should write a travel guide.

Central Falls: Rhode Island's Detroit!

Poor Central Falls. Could someone, somewhere, just cut this city a break for once? Last year it made national news when its drastically underperforming school system fired every single high school teacher. A couple of months later it made national news again when the entire city was placed into receivership (it would have straight-up gone bankrupt, but apparently that’s illegal in Rhode Island). Last month the state-appointed receiver shut down the town’s library, which, by all accounts, was nothing to brag about when it was operational, but it was the only library CF had. And now the receiver is asking everyone who receives a pension from the town – retired police, firefighters, etc. – to give back up to half of those pensions to keep this bowl-circling municipality from going entirely down the drain. And these aren’t the fat-cat public pensioners that seem to have everyone over at Fox News so upset, what with their yachts and walk-in humidors and such. The biggest pension in all of Central Falls is just over fifty grand, and the smallest, which shall henceforth be filed under “why bother,” is about four hundred bucks. A year. True, there’s one guy who “retired,” got his pension, and then was “rehired,” but he’s the exception.

Central Falls is tiny – the teeniest, tiniest city in the teeniest, tiniest state. It covers just one square mile, but it’s the most densely populated town in Rhode Island. Not surprisingly, it’s also the poorest. I served on a jury a few years ago and the case was a crime that happened in Central Falls. During voire dire, both the defense and the prosecution wanted to know whether prospective jurors had any “bad or negative feelings” toward the Central Falls police department or Central Falls in general. More than a few hands went up.

Its motto is “A City With a Bright Future,” because apparently no one could think of anything more depressing.

On the up side, I believe that things can only get better for Central Falls now. And if the movies have taught me anything, is that when a person (or, in this case, incorporated community) is truly at his/its lowest point, when all hope has been lost, something magical happens and turns it all around. I wonder what it’ll be for Central Falls? Will they strike oil on Broad Street? Will they find pirate’s treasure buried under the Price Right? Will a genie grant the town three wishes, and for once someone will have the common sense to wish for more wishes, for crying out loud? Whatever it is, I bet it’s going to be good. It has to be, right? I can’t wait!

What's wrong with this picture? (Part 2)

It's okay. Take your time.

Who's that, you might ask? Why, that's Vincent "Buddy" Cianci, Jr. two-time mayor of Providence and two-time convicted felon who enjoyed solid approval ratings while he was on trial for racketeering. He's our very own Marion Barry! It can't be denied that he did a hell of a lot to clean up the capital city in the 1990s, even if he did it by establishing a pay-to-play system that didn't let anything move forward until the right palms were greased. Anyway, you might notice that Buddy's picture is on jars of tomato sauce, because why not? You might not have recognized him because he used to look like this...

...until a particularly brave (and ultimately disappointed) hawk swooped down and snatched that roadkill-looking thing off of his shiny pate during a ribbon-cutting ceremony in Kennedy Plaza or some such. But back to what's wrong with this picture. Have you guessed it yet? Here's a hint:

That's right! One jar of the Mayor's Own Marinara Sauce will set you back Six. Damn. Dollars. Granted, this is at Dave's Market, where you pay a little more to keep things local, but still. Wait, though -- it's a little blurry, but the label says "Benefiting Providence School Children." That's nice, if not a little vague... does it benefit all of them? And if so, how? How much benefit are we talking about?

Okay. Here we go. It seems that the Providence school children who benefit from Buddy's sauce are a few who get $1,000 scholarships. That's... nice? No, no, it is. Hey, if I were offered a thousand dollars, I would not turn it down. (Offer me a thousand dollars right now. I'll prove it.) But with how much today's schools cost, how far does it go? Oh, crap. Do you think maybe the scholarships are so small because we're not buying enough six dollar jars of tomato sauce? That if we all joined together and bought as many jars of comically overpriced tomato sauce as we possibly could, many more Providence school children "with acute financial need" would get another drop in the bucket for their college tuition? Well, great. Now I have guilt!

If only I could find some comfort... say, by gazing upon a handsome face on a jar of demonstrably delicious tomato sauce... which retails at a reasonable price... and offers an un-vague description of the amount of profits it gives to charity...

Yep. That's the stuff.

To learn more about Buddy Cianci, why not check out his recently-released, overtitled memoir, Politics and Pasta: How I Prosecuted Mobsters, Rebuilt a Dying City, Dined with Sinatra, Spent Five Years in a Federally Funded Gated Community, and Lived to Tell the Tale? Let me know how it is.