Dumb and dumber (cont'd)

Thank God that "Steamy Tom" Schumpert, head ramrod of the state Economic Development Corporation, had for once the cojones to act on his own, without instructions from Governor Bigfoot or EDC legal eagles, and opened to the public the August 20 advisory board meeting of the Quonset-Davisville Management Committee (which was about to review the final draft plan for QP). Could he possibly be starting to understand the concept of public perception?

The EDC originally planned to keep the meeting closed, for who knows what reason, given the fact that they trotted out essentially the same old tattered plan, on the advice of the EDC attorney, Robert Stolzman. Robbie is the preening, unctuous little git from the Providence law firm of Addit, Porkem, & Seeya, and he helped to inspire the EDC to refuse to make public the infamous "White Paper" -- a move that infuriated QP-Davisville board members, some of whom also happen to be members of the General Assembly.

Fortunately, and perhaps sensing that Stolzman at least had a real job to go back to in case the advisory board went ballistic again, Steamy Tom opened the doors to the great unwashed. Topping off Stolzman's lame and totally unwarranted attempt to close the meeting -- unless he likes making his boss look like a fool in public -- was the fact that six state agencies and the Town of North Kingstown received copies of the coveted report by the previous Wednesday, August 15.

Yet Stolzman's rationale for closing the meeting was to "pay a courtesy" to the Missing Linc's EDC board of directors, who get a look at the final draft August 27 -- unless, of course, they have a friend at the DOT, RIPTA, DEM, Town of North Kingstown, or essentially anywhere else, all of whom have easy access to the report's contents. Nice job, Rob.

By the way, has anyone noticed that James H. Waterman Jr., the EDC's chief operating and financial officer, has resigned? Although he's still listed on the EDC Web site, he handed in his resignation almost a month ago. Since Waterman was on the job for only about a year, we'll be very interested in the explanation that the agency puts out for his departure, when they finally get around to it.

Mi casa es su casa

In the August 27 issue of the New Republic, Ryan Lizza yanks down Dubya the Dumb and his handlers' pants for their disingenuous attempt to paint the lazy little liar's extended vacation at his ranch in Crawford, Texas, as "Home to the Heartland." This cheesy PR ploy was intended, first, to highlight the fact that former President Billary never had a real home to go to on holiday, and that Junior was a simple rancher getting back to where he once belonged, in particular away from Washington (and real work).

"The Crawford ranch does not precede Bush's life on the national stage; it is a product of it," points out Lizza, noting that Dubya bought his own Ponderosa just two years ago. Prior to that, Daddy's Boy lived (exactly like a certain W.J. Clinton, at one point in his career) in the governor's mansion. And where did he let his hair down on vacation? At a members-only lakeside retreat (just chock full of Hispanics and blacks, we imagine) in East Texas; the Gasparilla Inn, a "luxurious Florida hideaway owned by an heir to the DuPonts" (ditto for the melting pot aspects); and, of course, Kennebunkport, where the Bush family has their compound, and the only "bar codes" that anyone is familiar with are the rules laid down by Mommy.

Dubya and his PR advisors are no doubt hoping the American public brings to bear the intellectual expectations reflected in an old Texas saying favored by LBJ -- "He's so dumb he doesn't know whether it's raining or someone's pissing on his boots."

Corny jokes

P&J hope you didn't miss the furor in Nebraska over the ads and billboards touting this year's Nebraska State Fair.

It seems many Nebraskans have their knickers in a twist over some promotions that take an unconventional approach to luring people to these bastions of heartland America. "Engage in heavy petting," the slogan used to attract folks to the petting zoo, has been the lightning rod for the whole tempest. Some of those Midwestern folks who are so uptight you couldn't pull a greased pin out the assholes with a tractor have raised a ruckus over the lewd (honk!) nature of the ads.

One includes a tease for a carnival ride -- "The only place where you pay to throw up" -- and another, in a reference to the amount of livestock on hand, depicts a brogan that has obviously encountered a cow pie and offers an admonition to, "Wear old shoes." Now, that's what you'd expect from a state that produced Johnny Carson and Dick Cavett.

But our particular favorite is from the musical entertainment arena at the fair, which featured Engelbert Humperdinck, Mel Tillis and Kansas. The billboards announced, "See bands you thought were dead" -- a message that should have left Engelbert and the members of Kansas stuttering right along with Mel.

Very Little League

Phillipe and Jorge are among the many whom were thrilled to see the Lincoln Little Leaguers make it to the World Series in Williamsport, Pennsylvania, even though they came a cropper in the first round. Smitten by their success in winning the New England regionals, we watched many of the games with interest, lolling poolside with frozen Pernod and grapefruits in hand, while being fanned by our two new cabana boys from Herzegovina. (Actually, the influx of young men and women from Eastern Europe is something to behold. If you want an example, visit Block Island, where kids from Ukraine, the Czech Republic, and other nations are giving quite an international flavor to BI's service industry.)

While putting suntan lotion on each other's backs and observing young men at play on the tube, your superior correspondents were treated to the perfect game thrown by Danny Almonte of the Bronx Baby Bombers, as the team from the Rolando Paulino All Stars has become known. Unfortunately, the murmurings usually reserved for the Taiwanese, in which their eligibility due to age, place of residence, blah, blah, blah, is being snidely questioned, has already begun. Por que? Because the Rolando Paulino All Stars from the Bronx, as one familiar with the area might surmise, is made up entirely of young men of Latin American heritage, and a few of the new arrivals to the US, such as the Dominican-born Almonte, speak only a bit of English. No way those greasers with the funny accents can beat our suburban white kids without cheating, you know what I'm saying?

Ah, baseball, apple pie, Chevrolet, and racism. It's an American tradition. This is another reason to applaud the Lincoln Littlers for taking their defeat like champs, with no cheap excuses, and coming home walking tall. (PS folks, they are children.)

Aesthetics of The Bucket

Is anyone out there daring enough to make an aesthetic judgment about, say, the difference between Britney Spears and Aretha Franklin? How about the difference between a Gustav Stickley-designed piece of Craftsman furniture and an early '70s green vinyl beanbag chair?

Okay, your superior correspondents, always willing to go out on a limb for our reading public, will take a really gutsy stand: Aretha is one of the greatest singers alive, and Britney sucks. And yes, the beanbag chair is fun, but when it's time to sit down and read the latest issue of Options, call us crazy, but we'll take the Mission furniture over the fun-bag every time. As difficult and challenging as these judgments are, it seems doubly hard for some citizens of Pawtucket (or, as they are commonly known, "The People of the Bucket") to make similar choices.

While we admire all the hard work put in over the years by the folks at the Blackstone Valley Tourism Council (Jorge, who grew up in Pawtucket -- and has been assured that his impending induction into the Pawtucket Hall of Fame is timed to the weather: i.e., "when hell freezes over"-- is especially appreciative of those trying to make the valley more livable), we have to wonder about the BVTC's director of operations, Natalie Carter.

P&J certainly hope Ms. Carter's hoof was firmly in her mouth when she responded to reports that the residents of Belper in the United Kingdom (Pawtucket's "sister city") were less than enthusiastic about the seven-foot Mr. Potato Head, dressed to resemble pioneer Vo Dilunduh William Blackstone, that their friends from the Bucket sent over the pond. She uttered, "I think that some people called it tacky, believe it or not." Carter continued, "They didn't even want golden arches (at the McDonald's) in this town. Anytime they have anything that looks overly like what we would consider as American advertising they view it as offensive."

While some may applaud Ms. Carter's broad aesthetic embrace of golden arches and Potato Heads, Phillipe and Jorge think the Belperites have a point here. The golden arches are a crass and universal symbol of cheapjack food, and the Mr. Potato Heads are tackier than K.C. and the Sunshine Band's stage uniforms, circa 1975. Yes, we understand that Hasbro is an important cog in the Blackstone Valley's economic machine, but this doesn't mean that Ms. Carter needs to kiss their booty.

Culture watch

Perhaps Ms. Carter of the Blackstone Valley Tourism Council would appreciate a couple of ducats to New York City's latest theatrical triumph. Taking the idea of reconfiguring for the stage stories originally created for the cinema (The Producers, Sweet Smell of Success, The Lion King, Carrie, The Full Monty, etc.), Susan L. Schwartz has come up with an even more sure-fire concept for the stage. She bought the stage rights to the '70s soft-core porn classic Debbie Does Dallas, lifted the dialogue, omitted the sex, and created, according to the New York Times, a "satisfyingly silly, adorably innocent production." It recently debuted at the Kraine Theater in the East Village as part of the New York International Fringe Festival. And here's the best part: it's only 65 minutes long.

Send Pixie Stix, lemon squeezers, and Pulitzer-worthy tips to p&j[a]phx.com.

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