A couple of class acts

A few months ago, your superior correspondents ran into the estimable Asst. US Attorney Richard Rose on the streets of Our Little Towne. This was shortly after his boss, Sheldon Whitebread, had announced that he was leaving his post to run for state attorney general. Foolishly attempting to squeeze some juicy gossip out of Rose (foolish, because Richard don't play that), we asked if he had heard anything about whom US Senator Jack Reed was considering as a successor to Sheldon.

Richard told P&J that he didn't have a clue but that he was certain Jack wouldn't pay much heed to the political ramifications of the appointment and would instead select the best person for the job. Hey, that's what they all say, but in this case, your superior correspondents believe that Richard Rose was right on the money. It's exactly what happened.

A hearty thank you to Senator Jack, a real class act, for recommending another class act, Meg Curran, as his choice for Vo Dilun's US attorney. We expect that the process from here will be less fraught with petty political infighting than when Ms. Curran was nominated by Bigfoot for a state Supreme Court seat. It's reassuring to see talent rewarded and to know that someone with the skills, temperament, and character of Meg Curran can receive serious consideration without the typical "political connections." A win for the Biggest Little on all counts.

Hometown heroes

If you're of a certain age, there was probably a time back when you were in your late teens or early 20s when you got together with friends and fantasized about all the cool things you'd do if you hit the big time. While few actually do, fewer still make good on those fantasies. Peter and Bobby Farrelly are the exception. They make funny movies bankrolled by Hollywood, putting all their friends in the cast and arranging to have portions of their films shot back in Vo Dilun.

On Tuesday, July 14, Peter and Bobby gave their home state a thrill with the East Coast premiere of their latest, There's Something About Mary. And as usual, the opening, at the Stadium Theater in Woonsocket, was crawling with family, friends, admired sports heroes, and assorted local nitwits like Phillipe & Jorge.

Outside the theater, people were chanting "Woody, Woody, Woody," as the actor and hemp hero, Woody Harrelson, blew in to support his old LA roomie, Peter. Inside, the moviegoers tittered whenever one of the locals appeared on screen (which was frequently) and audibly responded to scenes shot in Kennedy Plaza and at the Hot Club.

Check out the movie. It's a strange mix of romantic comedy (the luminous Cameron Diaz is fab) and the broad slapstick for which Peter and Bobby are justly famous. Considering the blend of genres, the Farrellys should consider taking a page from Mick and Keith, who would use the moniker "The Glimmer Twins" for production credits, and start calling themselves "The Preston Stooges." We have our fingers crossed that this one will once again score big time for our hometown heroes.

An insider's look at the cool, cool process

So why are all those people picking on Peter Arnett, the celebrated CNN correspondent who escaped one of the biggest embarrassments in recent journalistic history (and that's saying something!) with a mere slap on the wrist? A couple of producers were fired, head news ramrod Tom Johnson felt compelled to offer his resignation, and the whole industry took a black eye over CNN's broadcasting an unsubstantiated report about the US military using nerve gas against American defectors during Vietnam. But still they call for Arnett's head.

Well, allow P&J to explain exactly how this journalism thing works, and you will see that Arnett is obviously blameless, as are your superior correspondents in such matters. You see, although our names appear each week at the head of this column, it is the product, in fact, of a highly skilled team of trade school-educated interns (many of whom are majoring in philosophy!).

There is a rigorous screening process as the chattel interns dash from the Phoenix office to the editors' lounge at Nick-A-Nee's with the fresh copy printed on a specially designed soft paper that is not only easy on the eye, but ideal for wiping the frothy excess of nut brown ale from a tired and emotional editor's lips.

From the Casa Diablo viewpoint, the next step is most important -- checks are issued followed by a mad dash to the bank. And finally, after spending the entire check on "Roll Down" tickets, the paper hits the streets on Thursday morning.

Of course, Phillipe & Jorge make a real attempt to read the paper before Sunday to find out what we had to say. This comes in handy in case anyone challenges or questions the opinions expressed in the column, as we take a certain amount of pride in knowing what we think.

To be honest, things don't always run this smoothly. Occasionally, a grievous error will slip by our ever-vigilant editors. Not that we want to reveal any trade secrets, but this frequently occurs when some zany patron tries to slip the charges for a couple of extra pitchers of stout onto the editors' bill.

Here's a recent example of what we mean: there was a suggestion in the column that BeloJo editorial writers "Faux" Phil Terzian and Francis "Statistics Boy" Mancini actually proffered an intelligent and worthwhile opinion once. When a terrible mistake like this occurs, the procedure is to fully blame the editors and demand that they be sacked. This is usually done over lunch at the Capital Grille with associate publisher and (we believe) future Jefferson Award honoree Steve Brown.

Maybe we've told too much, but we feel that, in defense of Peter Arnett, this was necessary.

Another classic Bud-I moment

Folks roaming downtown in the banking district around noontime on Monday may be forgiven if they suddenly blanched, passed out, or found themselves screaming in fright. Yes, the amplified voice heard wafting above the lunchtime din was that of Hizzoner, the Bud-I. The occasion? What has apparently become the annual celebration of Walter Miller's birthday.

Walter is the downtown fixture known for his boombox serenades featuring music taped from East Providence's Looff Carousel, with lyrics added by Walter. Walter's songs tend to center around one fairly consistent theme: Providence is a great place because Buddy Cianci is a towering genius.

Needless to say, the mayor has embraced this theme as well. So on Monday, July 13, Cianci had his crew set up some microphones and a podium in the Bank of Boston plaza and put on a patented Bud-I show in honor of Walter. Paulie's hot dog wagon provided free tube steaks, somebody baked up about a billion cupcakes, and the kids from Flynn School exuberantly sang a new, appropriately unintelligible song about Providence.

Capturing the whole thing on video was Kelly, a Casa Diablo regular and RISD student. "I always try to capture any Buddy moments I happen on," Kelly informed your superior correspondents, "but this one is positively medieval." Well, yeah, we could see that as Big Nazo puppet star Ratso, the Bud-I, and Walter passed around the microphone in a barely surreal roundelay that only intermittently qualified as "lucid."

Channel 6 reporter Sean Daley came loping up with his cameraman just as things were about to break up. But, show-biz trooper that he is, the Bud-I threw together a mini-reenactment of the previous half-hour. Sean, a beatific grin on his puss, shook his head in wonder and said, "Only in Providence."

Don't buy it

It just broke P&J's delicate little hearts to hear that Reebok has let the $15 million contract of their number-one shill, oops, excuse us, spokesperson, Shaquille O'Neal, expire. This, of course, had been "mutually" agreed upon, much in the way that O.J. and Nicole Simpson had "mutually" decided to end their relationship.

Paying the kings and queens of the sweaty sciences enough money to choke a Clydesdale to mumble their way through some fantasy-world pitch is the reason why products designed for kids cost so much these days. And sneaker prices being what they are, robbing another kid for his kicks has become a lot more popular than spending five years on the grill at Mickey D's just to rustle up the down payment.

The mindless consumer frenzy, whipped on by ever-insidious Madison Avenue super-hype, is an ill wind that blows no good. The training schools are full of kids who got the conspicuous consumption message all too well. Obtaining their NBA/NFL logo jackets at the end of a knife rather than purchasing them with cold cash was their only mistake.

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