Chickie's Wholesale Club

Just when we thought that John Swen and his eating and drinking club were the biggest embarrassment to state government, along comes Tom "Chickie" Jackvony with an even more P&J-worthy story. Last Thursday at Casa D., we were speculating that it would only be days before Swen would be outta here. Our speculation was based not on the fact that seven of eight state Senate Republicans were calling for his dismissal, but that the BeloJo, on the very same day, printed an editorial praising Bigfoot for sticking with his embattled EDC chief. If that's not the kiss of death, we don't know what is.

Sure enough, a big front-page photo of a near-tears Missing Linc (looking jowlier than usual), accepting Swen's resignation, appeared in Friday's Urinal. Linc's explanation for sticking with Swen was that he'd done such a great job as economic development chief. In other words, bilking the state is okay if you're a Republican.

Meanwhile, the Swen story was being eclipsed as a truck rollover on I-95 revealed an even more spectacular tale of your tax dollars at work. Chickie Jackvony, a $99,000 man at the state Department of Transportation, was allegedly discovered by the state police while aiding in the truck accident cleanup by grabbing tins of butter cookies, blank VHS tapes and bathroom scales, and storing them in his Crown Vic.

A veteran television cameraman of our acquaintance tells P&J that back in the good old days of Col. Stone, state troopers would frequently join in similar scavenger parties. Under Col. Culhane, however, times have changed, and this time the staties decided to turn in a shocked Chickie boy.

Close watchers of state government also wonder why Chickie was now in his 41st year of state service. The usual thinking is that after about 33 years, a state worker has maxed out his earning potential and can do much better by retiring at peak pension levels with all benefits. That is, unless he's running some sort of independent salvage operation.

Chickie's lawyer, Bill Dimitri, didn't acknowledge that Chickie was actually stocking up on butter cookies and bathroom scales (a curious combo, if we do say). He did, however, offer the unique defense that this was a legitimate cleanup operation since, although the truck's contents were originally headed for BJ's Wholesale Club, they were now destined for the trash heap as tainted merchandise. We're sure that BJ's insurers were glad to learn this. There's also the long-held Vo Dilun belief that anything that falls off a truck, whether literally or metaphorically, is fair game. And the beat goes on.

Backstage at the White House with Jorge

Jorge jetted to our nation's capital last week at the invitation of E.L. "Ted" Widmer, a former Phoenix columnist and current Clinton speechwriter, for a lunch in the White House mess, the little restaurant on the ground floor of the West Wing that seats about 30. Jorge was privileged to check out a lot of behind-the-scenes life at the White House, as Ted took your superior correspondent around the nooks and crannies of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

Luckily, Ted still has his job, even though Jorge was caught snapping a photo of a wooden beam in the basement of the Executive Mansion that was charred when the Brits tried burning the president's residence during a little thing called the War of 1812. Apparently this kind of shutterbuggery is against the rules, and the security guy in the basement quickly hustled us from the area. Later, we visited the Old Executive Office Building, where Ted has his office. Here we found the White House airlift headquarters, where the folks in charge of the presidential chopper and Air Force One do a brisk business selling presidential cufflinks, sweatshirts and fabulous Air Force One bathrobes. Jorge picked up one of the bathrobes for his father, but was disappointed to learn that replicas of the official White House Christmas tree ornament, the hottest item among presidential staffers this season, had sold out.

But not to worry. The airlift office has its own Christmas tree ornament, as does the White House Food Services. Jorge suggested to the Food Service folks that the American eagle in the official seal should be grasping knives and forks, instead of a fistful of arrows. Apparently, this suggestion had been made before, and the food services personnel patiently agreed to look into a new design for next year.

Later, Ted ushered Jorge into the West Wing office of Sidney Blumenthal, possibly the most illustrious alumnus of the Boston Phoenix currently operating in the nation's capital. Among other things, we discussed various ways to torture Sid's nemesis, cyber-gossip Matt Drudge.

As we exited Sid's office for the driveway between the West Wing and the Old Executive Office Building, we noticed a limousine idling about 10 feet in front of us. Could it be that the silver-haired back seat passenger, chatting presidentially on the phone, was none other than the POTUS hisself? That would explain the Secret Service agent strategically placed in front of the passenger window. Unfortunately, the mighty Bill did not emerge to shake the paw of your superior correspondent, and Jorge, now nearly in tears, missed his big photo op.

Luckily, after bribing an airline attendant with a box of official Presidential M&Ms that were secured as a parting gift from the White House mess, Jorge made it back to our Little Towne an hour ahead of schedule.

Play on

Utterly exhausted by holiday shopping for our favorite ladies and gents at JAP and Gay Crew, respectively, P&J remained in the boudoir amid the papers on Sunday to take in the Meet the Press confrontation between Bill Bradley and Al Gore. The Ghastly-Bore contretemps was marked by Bradley's biting and sardonic comebacks to an obviously flustered Mr. Two-by-Four, especially when Dollar Bill said, "The point is, Al, and I know you don't get this, but a political campaign is not just a performance for people, which is what this is . . . [but rather] a dialogue with people where you listen." This came after Mr. Bore's suggestion that the two debate twice a week until the primaries, a scenario so hideous and unspeakable -- given the entertainment value of the Press the Meat showdown -- that P&J were left shrieking in terror at the thought and gobbling down Valiums with our mimosas.

While Mr. Ghastly appeared to be actually made of flesh and blood, old Two-by-Four continued to amaze us by having less animation than a wooden soldier, swiveling back and forth in Tron fashion with hands neatly folded, catatonically staring into space while listening to his opponent. However, the satiric savaging by Bradley actually excited one of your superior correspondents (Phillipe knows who we're talking about), to the point where wood became an apt allusion for the day. (We're not actually admitting to being carried away by the thought of Bore's defeat. But if a person can have an orgasm while a bass tournament is on TV, which has been known to occur at Casa D., anything's possible.)

Hopes sunk

While many residents of the Ocean State are keen sailors, P&J have always preferred to look upon the yachting set merely as millionaires with wet bottoms. That's why we hardly joined in the mourning that accompanied the elimination of Vo Dilun's own flagship, Young America, from the America's Cup qualifying competition. Young America and its boosters had already drawn the disdain of the Casa Diablo contingent because of their ludicrous $2 million fund-raising campaign, headed by the likes of Hasbro's overpaid CEO, Alan Hassenfeld, and A.T. Cross chairman Russell Boss. We just can't imagine why people wouldn't want to help support a bunch of watery, between-jobs blazer boys, rather than children living in poverty.

The attitudes of these moist sportsmen is best revealed in a story recounted to us about Newport sailor Ken Read, who is still in the America's Cup challenge as skipper of Stars and Stripes, backed by Team Dennis Conner. Conner, perhaps the most despised person in American 12-meter sailing history, is evidently enjoying the mutton and malt down in New Zealand so much that he came to Read, who is as svelte as Dennis is obese, with a favor to ask. Now that the races were getting important, Conner felt the need to be right on board with his team. But he was worried his own burgeoning lard-filled stern might actually slow down Stars and Stripes. So, we are told, he asked Read, would Ken mind dropping about 20 pounds to accommodate his excess baggage? Naturally, Conner couldn't cut back on his own calorie intake -- even if the only way Read could shed 20 pounds would be to lop off one of his arms. You're a swell guy, Dennis.

Happy holidays

Needless to say, P&J wish all our friends -- and even a few of those folks who find us much less amusing than we find ourselves -- a happy holiday season. As we have found while researching the P&J culpability gauge over the years, chances are that someone has something to hide when they scream bloody murder after being hoisted in this space. On the other hand, those folks who can take a joke and laugh at themselves are usually walking around with a clean conscience. Pernod and grapefruits all around!

R.I.P., Q

P&J are saddened to note the passing over the weekend of Desmond Llewelyn, the redoubtable Q of James Bond movie fame. At least the 85-year- old Jickey superstar went out in classic Bondian style, perishing in a gory head-on collision in England. The same, alas, cannot be sad of the last of the cinematic singing cowboys, Rex Allen, who starred in a number of poverty row Republic studio films in the '40s. Rex bit the dust when a woman friend backed out of his driveway, rolling over the old cowpoke. At least he died with his boots on.

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