The Eva factor

Over the last few months, your superior correspondents have written several times about the Cranston mayoral election, particularly about the hotly contested Republican primary between Raymond Votto and Casa Diablo fave Brock Bierman. However, we have failed to note a most interesting little irony in that race -- the dilemma faced by many members of outgoing Cranston Mayor Michael Trafficante's GOP in-crowd.

Trafficante-controlled city regulars and state Republicans have anointed Votto as their golden boy, undoubtedly because they're not pleased with Bierman's independent ways. On the other hand, much of the crowd also supports home girl and Trafficante goddaughter Eva "Park Avenue" Mancuso in her bid for attorney general, even though Mancuso is running as a Democrat.

As a result, with predictions of a rather low statewide voter turnout, Trafficante Republicans are torn between supporting Votto in the Republican primary and crossing party lines to support Eva, who faces two competitive Democratic challengers.

Rumor has it that while Traf himself will sign in Republican, numerous members of his own family will vote as Democrats to support Mancuso. To confuse things even more, since the majority of ol'-boy Republicans aren't anxious to declare which primary they'll vote in on September 15, polling figures garnered by any of the candidates beforehand will be seriously flawed.

Needless to say, both Mancuso and Votto are sweating this one out. And by the way, what's Votto doing sending campaign press releases via Women & Infants Hospital's fax facilities? We're not sure if it's kosher under campaign rules, but you'd think his employers might find this questionable.

Pigpile on Sheldon

Speaking of the Democratic primary for attorney general, Casa Diablo tuned in to the debate aired on Channel 12 last Sunday to hear each candidate's pitch. While all three are qualified, likable, and basically class acts, we must say that the classiest act of all is Sheldon Whitehouse.

People like to have things presented in black-and-white terms, even though reality indicates that the world is not quite that simple. So we are impressed with Whitehouse's ability and willingness to articulate difficult issues (i.e., his position on the death penalty) in spite of the obvious pressure to avoid nuance. Although it is clear that both Mancuso's opposition to capital punishment and William Guglietta's support for it are honest and sincere, Whitehouse's more complex reasoning is closer to our own philosophical thoughts on the subject. And the fact that he responds to the issue in a way that is sure to disappoint a large segment of voters speaks volumes about his character. Virtually no consultant type we know of would suggest a candidate's discussing an emotionally charged issue like the death penalty in such a manner.

Mancuso's slap at Whitehouse in noting that her Rolodex was "from Park Avenue in Cranston and not Park Avenue in New York" certainly qualified as one of the more memorable ripostes of the debate. But compared to Whitehouse's off-the-cuff assurance that he was, in fact, wearing pants, Mancuso's dig had all the freshness of a quip one associates with a pre-fab TV game-show host.

"Now you know where he's coming from," Mancuso stated after criticizing Whitehouse's membership in that White Boy Bastion, the Hope Club. "You've always known where I'm coming from." Well, we do now, Eva -- right out of the Guy Dufault marketing playbook.

Crime and punishment in one dimension

Another comment during the AG candidates' debate on Channel 12 that caught our ear came courtesy of Bill Guglietta. He took on a Mr. Man posture in mentioning something about "coddling criminals."

Sure, Phillipe & Jorge believe in punishment -- swift and certain punishment, at that. But all this tough-guy talk seems to imply that criminals will be magically punished back into good behavior. A rudimentary understanding of social psychology indicates that this is a somewhat dubious notion.

The fact is that the vast majority of people in prisons eventually will be released. And while getting tough on violent crime is a good thing, America's approach continues to be one-dimensional. Phillipe and Jorge long for a parallel discussion from the law-enforcement and political communities on what exactly has been done to provide vocational, educational, and (dare we say) spiritual experiences to ex-cons, which would give them a better shot at returning to the streets with some legitimate skills.

Too much of our approach to crime these days is after the fact. It's simplistic and painted in the broadest of terms. Does anyone out there think we should do something other than chest thumping?

Post cards from the road

Phillipe is off on a worldwide jaunt, the result of a nasty misunderstanding and spat with Jorge that has since been corrected. But with Northwest Airlines ticket in hand and the pilots on strike, he is stuck in Jakarta. Here is his last missive to Casa Diablo.

Salamat siang, Jorge, as they say here when you roll out of bed at the crack of noon. I'm staying at the Hotel President, right on the main square where the May protests took place and across the street from the Hotel Indonesia, as featured in The Year of Living Dangerously.

And speaking of living dangerously, you're in equal jeopardy here whether you're inside or outside a vehicle. Indeed, Indonesian drivers make Vo Dilunduhs look like "Courtesy of the Road" award winners, and the rule of thumb is that if you can stick one inch of your bumper in front of another car's, you're morally obligated to attempt to run them off the road. Ideally, this should be done at high speeds.

Fortunately for the cabbies, your preoccupation with life and death makes you unaware of the fact that they have no idea in hell where you've asked them to take you is. And if the front bumper doesn't get you, what comes out of the exhaust pipe will. The air pollution here would make a Romanian titan of heavy industry whinny with delight. It's so bad that the sun can barely make it through the smog on the best of days.

Fortunately, the weather is hotter and more humid than an Abbo's armpit, so you can sweat directly through your entire wardrobe while coughing bits of lung into your handkerchief within five minutes of hitting the sidewalk.

Jakarta also can lay official claim to having the ugliest cross-dressers and transvestites on the planet. Imagine a 50-year-old elementary school teacher with appropriate hairdo and 5 o'clock shadow, and you've got the pick of the litter outside the upscale Indonesian Plaza.

In a country where the average wage is about 4 centsa month, the plaza is loaded with Cartier, Gucci, and Armani stores catering to rich Japanese tourists and the "wives" of corrupt Indonesian officials. In the days of Suharto, you weren't considered a real player unless you'd siphoned off billions, the result being that you now need an Almacs bag to hold enough rupiahs to buy a candy bar. Indeed, if you spend the equivalent of 20 American dollars here, chances are you've bought a villa in the best part of town, household help included.

Swung past Suharto's house the other day en route to buy one of those Asian fez-type hats the former head ramrod used to sport. The cab driver offered his opinion that Suharto was really an asshole, an observation which I doubt he was as forthcoming with while the old boy was still running the show here. The city has great old Dutch architecture recently embellished in the Chinatown area by broken windows. There are huge black marks where rioters torched the buildings to salute the prosperity of the Chinese owners and iron gates over front doors that were rammed by cars looking for late-night, five-fingered group discounts. Glad I wasn't stuck here in May.

Jakarta also boasts Russian-style monuments in all the main squares, which the expatriates have given appropriate names -- such as "Jack and Jill" for the gigantic couple boldly marching into Indonesia's future and "The Pizza Delivery Boy" for the giant statue of an Asian Hermes holding high a shield.

Got to run, as the electricity is set to go out any minute now, but more later until Northwest is back in business. Sampei nanti, I hope.

-- Phillipe

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