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.

People are from here!

Today, we are all with James Woods.

Oh, joyous day! Just in case you haven’t heard the news, it’s official: Rhode Island’s own James Woods was nominated for an Emmy for his groundbreaking performance as Richard Fuld in the HBO miniseries Too Big to Fail. Which I totally saw. And am familiar with… you know, it being about banks? And the money, with the bailout and the things? I think? Yes, well. Moving on.

What’s that? You say you didn’t know that James Woods is from Rhode Island? It’s true! In fact, other people – several, even – are from Rhode Island. Sometimes people who are from Rhode Island leave Rhode Island, and then they do things you might hear about! And they’re not all embarrassing, either. There’s A.O. Scott from the New York Times; The Today Show’s Meredith Vieira; indie darlings Deer Tick; singers (and stepsisters!) Kristin Hersh and Tonya Donnelly;  SNL announcer Don Pardo; and the Farrelly brothers. John Cafferty, he of the Beaver Brown Band. And those are just the ones who are still alive! H.P. Lovecraft was from Rhode Island, and so was Nelson Eddy (look him up, children). 

Know who's not from Rhode Island? Seth MacFarlane. Nope. He's from Connecticut. Although he does provide the voice of Rhode Island on a regular basis. (It sounds just like Brian.)

Boom, boom, sigh.

At some point last year, when I wasn’t paying attention, fireworks were legalized in Rhode Island. Not the big, star-spangled types they shoot off from barges or the end zones of football fields, but sparklers and those things that snake along the ground, hopefully not setting other things or people ablaze. These are sometimes known as “why bother fireworks.” For the ones that bang – the still-illegal ones – you have to head to Connecticut or New Hampshire, where the biggest fireworks name in town is Three-Finger Eddie’s, which has to win the award for making business lemonade out of the oh-so-lemony dangers of a product.  (To get your karate supplies at the same place you get your fireworks, you’ll have to go a bit further.)

Last year they didn’t pass the law in time for vendors to get permits and set up shop in Rhode Island. This year is different. This year, they are everywhere. There are fireworks displays in the produce section at Stop & Shop. Pop-up stores line Route 2 in Warwick and Route 1 in Pawtucket to the Mass line. Farm stands. Farm stands! The storefront next to my favorite Chinese restaurant, where Curves used to be in Cumberland:

The "TNT" may be a little misleading.

They are everywhere. You’re probably sitting on some right now. Someone was selling them out of my car this morning, and that doesn’t even make sense.

The hilarious thing about this is that these aren’t even the kind of fireworks that go boom. The kind that someone in my neighborhood, wherever I have lived, has set off on a nightly basis for a week before and after the Fourth of July. It doesn’t matter if they’re legal or illegal. There is someone on my block, wherever I happen to be, who feels the need to blow shit up in the street, and I have a feeling that almost everyone in this country either has someone like that as a neighbor or actually is that person. And somehow those people will find the kind of fireworks that go boom, no matter how far they have to drive, no matter how much it costs. Did you know that the fireworks industry is utterly recession-proof? It is! Nothing – but nothing! – will stand in the way of people’s favorite way of saying “Happy Birthday!” to America: causing explosions.

To those of you looking forward to lighting fuses this weekend, I’d like to introduce you to someone:

This is Becky. She is my dog. Look at her sweet face! Look at it. Not only is she adorable, but she is super gentle and nice to boot. She is also enormous, weighing in at about a hundred pounds. We adopted her from a Southern rescue last year, and somewhere along the line in her previous life, she became terrified of loud noises. Know what she does when she hears one? She sits on you. Wherever you are, whatever you are doing, she will find you, climb on top of you, and sit on you.  So, as it is for many dogs, the Fourth of July is hard on Becky.

Now, I would never ask you not to set off fireworks on the Fourth. I know it isn’t reasonable to ask people not to partake in a treasured tradition because it scares some people’s dogs. But could you toss her a bone, at least? I mean that literally. Toss my dog a bone. Or some beef jerky. She’s not picky. And you know what? It doesn’t even have to be Becky. Blow stuff up, but take something over to your neighbor’s dog, who’s probably cowering under the couch. It’s all about karma.

And if you see someone walking around with a gigantic dog wrapped around her shoulders like a stole, that’s me. I could probably use some Advil.

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.