Phillipe & Jorge’s Cool, Cool World: Donald Duck Dynasty
Donald’s Duck Dynasty
Phillipe and Jorge are giddy with excitement as we welcome the dysfunctional new First Family into our lives, a writhing snake pit of preening, self-absorbed poseurs who will take the reality show art of bringing a cringe-worthy dumpster load of rotten-brained inbreds to the national stage to new depths.
Unfortunately, the president’s wife, Zsa Zsa, has elected to give Washington a miss, deciding instead to stay back home at the gilded Trump fortress in New York. There she will be dumping son Barron on a cadre of nannies while she curls up daily on her harem bed with a handle of vodka, listening to Rosetta Stone tapes and re-reading Michelle Obama’s speeches until her lips get tired. Meanwhile, liveried staff will be kept busy smuggling hot young Chippendale dancers up to the penthouse in the freight elevator to ease her ennui.
We will also get more than we can take — ie, two minutes worth — of The Donald’s oily sons, Beavis and Butthead, two odious little slimeballs of the first water who make your skin crawl. When they are not on “safari” in Africa, shooting exotic prey that have been tethered to stakes so they can play Great White Hunter, they will be seeing how far they can stick their noses into the air, not realizing others are doing the same, mostly to avoid the stench that emanates from them.
Then we have Ivanka the Terrible, the new “First Lady,” who will be performing her prime duty of rubbing up against aging, lecherous foreign dignitaries. She will also display her business acumen, polished as the designer of highly combustible, made-in-China scarves and shameless flogging of ostentatious jewelry that appeals mainly to mobsters’ wives and QVC shoppers, and flaunting her cleavage so Daddy can ogle her tits in Zsa Zsa’s absence.
Let us not forget The Orange Orangutan’s second-in-command, Veep Mike Pinhead. Mikey’s tiny, perfectly round but vacant skull, with his beady little black eyes, is the perfect frame for designing an entire inventory of emojis coming from the Trump administration, shaped to whatever feeling is being conjured up, provided it can be backed up by Pinhead’s allegiance to biblical references, even if they are, as we have seen in the past from this phony God-botherer, hypocritical or totally bogus.
This shower of assholes will be tended to and cultivated by chief of staff Ratso Priebus, the president’s repugnant, rodent-faced little go-fer, and The Donald’s chief strategist, “Seig Heil Scott” Bannon, who should doubtless enjoy giving chummy, fireside rants to Ivanka the Terrible’s ultra-Orthodox husband, Jared Kushner, about how greedy Jews are destroying America from within. Can’t wait for those two to be sitting next to each other at a state dinner.
This should produce a great new class of President’s Medal of Freedom award winners, featuring the philanthropic cast of Duck Dynasty; academicians Snooki, J-Woww, Pauly D and The Situation of “Jersey Shore;” dedicated social activist and KKK icon David Duke; classical musicians Ted Nugent and Kid Rock; massive force of the modern theater Scott Baio; admired athlete (and ignorant as a hammer) Ryan Lochte; whoever wins the Miss Universe contest, providing she’s not too fat; and, of course, the brightly burning symbol of an America made great again, Gary Busey. Sleep tight, dah-lings. You got what you asked for.
Little Rhody’s Trump Toadies
Locally, folks have been delighted by the fact that Vo Dilunders have been included in the upcoming, doubtlessly apocalyptic, Trump administration.
And they represent the state perfectly, one being totally delusional and thoroughly absorbed by fake news on Twitter, and the other being a professional liar. Sounds like they might have been plucked directly from our General Assembly.
Huzzahs for retired Lt. Gen. Michael Flynn, named to be the Donald’s powerful national security advisor. Ooh, Middletown native. Ooh, URI grad. Ooh, fired as head of the Defense Intelligence Agency by current National Intelligence Director James Clapper for any number of management issues, including a chaotic style and making up what his subordinates reportedly called “Flynn facts.” Ooh, wants to wage global war against all Muslims (they all look alike anyhow). Ooh, posted fake news stories to Twitter. Ooh, also his son was fired from the Trump campaign team for disseminating fake news about a Washington pizza parlor that was allegedly housing a pedophile sex ring supported by Hillary Clinton, which led to it being shot up by a deranged Trump supporter (sorry for the redundancy). Like father, like son, eh?
Ooh, Sean Spicer, Whitehouse press secretary and director of communications. Ooh, Barrington native. Ooh, Portsmouth Abbey grad and masters from Naval War College in Newport. Ooh, director of communications for the Republican National Committee, that bastion of truth, justice and the American Way, provided you are a white male. Ooh, will now be backing up the president’s outright, blatant lies to the national media without blinking an eye, coolness in the face of dishonesty and prevarication well- honed by years of selling bullshit by the barrel for the RNC.
So a Biggest Little salute to these kings of post-truth who will be representing the Ocean State as the world hangs on their every twisted word in years to come. “Rhode Island’s famous for you,” as the song goes. Walk tall, citizens! (And you thought being identified with the mob was bad.)
RIP, 2016
Yes, 2016 was a rough year at Casa Diablo where we had to say goodbye to quite a few good friends. Providence Phoenix associate publisher, Steve Brown, beloved by all who worked with him, passed away as did Bob Healey, the Cool Moose and a Casa Diablo regular who died in March at the age of 58. The great Henry Shelton, the social justice advocate and founder of the George Wiley Center (and mentor to P&J) passed away in September. All were duly noted in this column. Sadly we must add to this list Tom LaFauci, a close friend of P&J’s for many years and a U.S. Senate Foreign Relations Committee staffer who passed away on December 12 at the age of 67. Tom was a celebrated wordsmith known as an aide and speechwriter for major figures like Joe Biden, John Kerry and Bob Menendez. Love and condolences to Tom’s wife, Libby Rock. a brilliant illustrator who worked with Phillipe & Jorge on numerous projects over the years. Love Song
Phillipe and Jorge enjoy country music as much as the next pair of regular guys (provided they are also wearing feather boas and peppy capri pants), and are still mourning the death this past year of the legendary Merle Haggard, the Okie from Muskogee (well, Bakersfield, California, actually), who penned the epic political line, “It was back before Nixon lied to us all on TV,” in the amazing “Are the Good Times Really Over?” (Answer: Yes, for now.)
So we doff our beret and sombrero to Justin Moore, and give our “Song Title of the Year” award to his “You Look Like I Need a Drink,” which we predict will gain epic status. Been there, seen that.
Viva Steve A big Casa Diablo shout out to Stephen O’Shea on the upcoming (February) publication of his latest book, The Alps, A Human History from Hannibal to Heidi and Beyond. Steve is a friend and a resident of Providence’s Fox Point neighborhood.
Phillipe & Jorge’s Cool, Cool World
Fake News For many years Phillip & Jorge thought of ourselves as pioneers of fake news, but that was long before the current virulent strain of fake news arrived. It is all quite sad and we take no responsibility for this recent crop of hate-inspired crap. Best Intentions
The story of Dan Doyle, the founder and former head honcho of the Institute for International Sport (IIS), who is now facing many years in prison after being convicted of embezzlement and forgery in connection with his work for the IIS, and cost Rhode Island taxpayers as much as $5 million, is a very sad one, the financial loss to citizens notwithstanding. Phillipe, who once worked for Doyle at the IIS, offers his take.
P. first met up with Doyle, who he knew peripherally through mutual friends in the Little Rhody sports world, in the mid-1990s. P. walked into one of the finest hotels in Colombo, the capital of Sri Lanka, and saw a huge banner draped across the lobby that read, “University of Rhode Island World Scholar- Athlete Games.” It was more of a shock than if he had encountered a friend from his local bar back home enjoying a Lion Stout beer on the verandah in khaki linen pukka sahib attire.
P. took a photo of the banner and gave it to Doyle upon his return to the states and his job at URI’s Grad School of Oceanography, and expressed his interest in the Scholar-Athlete Games, which obviously had a demonstrable international reach. One thing led to another, and soon P. was doing freelance PR work for Doyle and the IIS.
The man Phillipe saw at that time was driven to a degree one rarely sees. And his accomplishments to that point were as startling as they were admirable: bringing together hundreds of young athletes from around the world with an emphasis on academic and cultural achievement; uniting kids from Catholic and Protestant backgrounds in Northern Ireland to play basketball together; bringing in speakers such as Bill Clinton and Desmond Tutu to further inspire the youth; and becoming well-known within American sports circles for going where no man had gone before in this arena of marrying academics and athletics. Doyle seemed to be on the road half the time working on his projects and delivering speeches, the other laboring (and sleeping at night) in the Institute’s huge building on the URI campus. He took only rare visits home to his family in Connecticut.
P. left after a couple years of helping out at IIS, and he never saw or even thought about the idea of the Institute being misused by Doyle, and was as shocked as anyone when the charges were brought against him. Being neither a psychiatrist nor a philosopher, Phillipe can only imagine that from Doyle’s intense nature, his many successes, and his dedication to young athletes, that his efforts became an almost messianic quest to him, wherein the glorious ends justified any means used to achieve them.
Sadly, that became far from true. Phillipe feels very sorry for Dan, as well as the people he has hurt along the way, but his day of final reckoning in the legal system has come due. It will be hard to forget stepping out of the 100+ degree heat into that enormous Colombo hotel lobby and seeing a sign touting URI and the Scholar-Athlete Games, and feeling not just stunned, but extremely proud of Little Rhody.
And then one day you grow up.
Life on the Used Car Lot
Well, you have to hand it to New Yawk City developer Jason Fane for thinking he is dealing with a bunch of backwater rubes here in Little Rhody when it comes to his ambitious plans for the I-195 land in downtown La Prov.
Fane got all the big headlines when he recently said he would like to erect three enormous phallic symbols of 33, 43 and 55 stories along the Providence River. This preposterous proposal that would dwarf the existing skyline was generally seen as an over-the-top suggestion for Our Little Towne, but hey, wouldn’t we all look big time now, Gomer?
Fane also displayed his deep understanding (honk!) of the Vo Dilun way of life by saying that the new condos and apartments in the three buildings would be gobbled up by folks who would want to move back into the city from the ‘burbs to enjoy such luxurious accommodations. (We’ll pause for you to say, “Are you shitting me?” at this point.) Yes, who wants to live down by the coast and its excellent beaches and open spaces when you could be holed up in an ostentatious, ugly behemoth of a building where you need to be escorted to your car at night by a security guard in a city where they roll up the sidewalks at 10pm (but provide valuable sleeping space for off-duty panhandlers)? People work years to finally afford that little bungalow at Bonnet Shores or near Misquamicut and retire as far away as possible from Kennedy Plaza, nevermind Olneyville or The Bucket.
Now that Fane jarred most citizens awake with his metropolitan monoliths, he is now moving with the oiliness of a veteran used car salesman and switching his pitch to a mere 43-story building, tiny in comparison to the original project, which would still be taller than the iconic Superman building downtown. (Oh, and never mind the current seven-story height limit now in effect, we can take care of that for you, Mr. Fane, nudge-nudge, wink-wink.) And with his arm wrapped around the city fathers’ shoulders, he’s saying the new deal is because we look like real savvy customers who know their buildings and were sharp enough to know his initial pitch was for too much. But he’s sure we will appreciate this new scaled-back “special opportunity” for “re-imagining downtown Providence.” And just think about the gleam of admiration in your little lady’s eyes when you roll up in this new model.
The speed with which Fane has shifted gears, and the pressure he appears to be putting on the city and the I-195 Redevelopment District Commission, combined with his obvious lack of knowledge of the character or concerns of the Biggest Little public, make P&J think we are being hustled big-time. But with a governor hungry for the slightest success for any project in her economic achievement portfolio, perhaps it is best we take time to kick the tires and at least look under the hood and make sure there isn’t just a hamster wheel there before we buy this gleam machine we are being peddled.
Holiday Reading List from a Couple of Old Humor Writers
Of course you can never go wrong with Mark Twain, but here are a few of P&J’s favorite books that have made us laugh over the years. Class: A Guide Through the American Status System (1983) by Paul Fussell is a small paperback and one of the funniest things we’ve ever read. Matters of Fact and of Fiction (1977) by Gore Vidal contains some very funny essays. The Unexpurgated Code: A Complete Guide to Survival and Manners (1973) is by J.P. Donleavey and probably only available at secondhand bookstores. The Most of S.J. Perelman was Jorge’s Bible when he was growing up in Pawtucket.
The Trump Cabinet It appears we are seeing a dramatic unraveling of regulations on everything from overtime pay to power-plant emission rules as Donald Trump seeks to fill his cabinet with determined adversaries of the agencies they will lead. Picks like fast-food executive Andrew Puzder to head the Labor Department and Oklahoma Attorney General Scott Pruitt, a climate change denier and butt boy for the oil and fossil fuel industries, are prime examples.
And then there’s Ben Carson for HUD and Rhody’s own Michael Flynn (a leading perpetrator of fake news) for National Security advisor. Yes, sleep tight, America.
Phillipe & Jorge’s Cool, Cool World: Thanksgiving Celebrations and Cabinet Picks
The Southern White House (Shudder)
As Jorge recuperated at home at Casa Diablo, Phillipe was off to Palm Beach to celebrate Thanksgiving with the Trump family at McMansion-a-Lago (“Home of the Lepers,” in Spanish), The Donald’s hideous tribute to excess in the land of the very, very rich and very, very reprehensible. Put simply, it’s a great place to take your skin for a crawl.
(Phillipe offers this one scenario to illustrate the jaw-dropping, bizarre world of Palm Beach. Sitting next to P at dinner one evening at a fine local restaurant was a couple, each about 70 years of age. The gentleman was wearing the uniform of the day: a blue blazer with some sort of yacht club crest on the pocket. Both he and his partner were wearing traditional white pants, but instead of khakis, had opted for fashionable – provided you are under 25 — skinny corduroy jeans. Oh, and did we mention that the man had a Rod Stewart haircut? Hey, pal, unless you’re touring with the Stones, that combination of age and dated coif simply isn’t done. His date, meanwhile, shocked Phillipe’s delicate sensibilities when as she stood up to exit, revealed she was going braless under her sheer sweater, with, unless the laws of gravity have changed, breasts that could not possibly, yet did, stand straight out, a feat of engineering whose architect we would recommend to the Rhode Island DOT honchos in charge of repairing and rebuilding the state’s falling bridges. And whatever peroxide she had left in the bottle after turning her hair blonde, she had obviously shared with her rock star wannabe partner. P suspects they drove home in a yellow Lamborghini, as one does in Palm Beach.)
And speaking of driving, local residents and other area travelers were just delighted to have the dysfunctional Trump family arrive at Palm Beach International Airport at the height of Thanksgiving travel, security concerns shutting down areas of the airport and one of the major routes in Palm Beach so the unctuous tribe could be shuttled to their house-is-not-a-home. Off to a good start, Orange Boy.
The Worst and the Dimmest
The staffing of the new Trump administration continues in its full wonder and shamelessness. The parade by the disturbed and deranged into and out of Trump Towers for kowtowing, ass-kissing and begging must make the interview waiting room look like the Star Wars bar.
The appointment of the vile, muckraking slob Steve Bannon as a “strategic” director told you — and the racists who were begging for a sign from the The Donald — all you need to know. Bannon will doubtless be Trump’s version of Joseph “The Poison Dwarf” Goebbels, America’s very own minister of propaganda, albeit less hygienic and supple than Hitler’s right-hand man.
And look for media access to Trump and the White House to be at an absolute minimum in the days and years to come. Because as we all know, the media are just “liars” who make up “fake news,” and who are never “nice” to the ultrasensitive, whiny, insecure little boy who is now president. After Trump met with major media heads on November 21 — despite the fact they should have still been sitting in the timeout corner for their atrocious coverage of the entire presidential campaign — anonymous reports from attendees indicated Donnie knows nothing about the First Amendment or a free press, and, “He is the same kind of blustering, bluffing blowhard he was during the campaign.” But P&J prefer one attendee’s more simplistic account of Trump at of the media summit: “Fucking outrageous.” However, Trump’s spokeswoman, the hideous harridan Kelleyanne Conway, conveyed it best in Trumpworld language by saying the meeting was “very cordial, candid and honest,” which means it was none of the above.
Oops, back to the surreal supplicants for Cabinet posts, et al. Easily the most frightening of these, in many ways, is the skullhead Phantom of the Opera impersonator Rudy Giuliani, who is being considered for secretary of state. Rudy’s behavior on the campaign trail revealed a man who is seriously deranged, apparent to anyone who saw his out-of-control rants. But we suspect this passes for “normal” in Trumpville. Another SoS candidate is the quisling Mitt Romney. The Mormon Mannequin savaged The Donald during the GOP campaign, but there he was going on bended knee when summoned by the boss, displaying his physical handicap of having been born without a spine. Another genuflecting quisling was Rick Perry, the Texas moron (sorry for the redundancy) who couldn’t spell “cat” if you spotted him the “c” and the “a,” and who now wears fake glasses to look “smart.” (See: “Lipstick on a pig.”) He, too, ripped Trump during the primary, but went on bended knee to audition for a job.
New Jersey Governor Chris “Phat Phuc” Christie is also practically begging for a position, but despite burying his face in The Donald’s lap after bailing out during the GOP race, appears too hot to handle for a top post after the Bridgegate scandal obviously fingered him for being aware of his staff’s shutdown of the George Washington Bridge for reasons of political payback. Maybe he can get the job as the “taster” of all the food the president will eat, which would seem a job made in heaven for him. (“Order the McRibs, Donnie, they won’t be on the menu next month.”)
Phillipe and Jorge could go on and on about this shower of assholes who will be running our government for the next four years, but it’s enough we hid the razor blades at Casa Diablo the morning of November 9. As we have said here before, the expression “You break it, you own it” is in full effect, so enjoy our country in 2017, fellow Americans.
Separated at Birth?
P&J’s favorite lookalikes we can give thanks for are the new, distinguished Trump chief of staff Reince Priebus and Rico “Ratso” Rizzo, featured in the legendary film, Midnight Cowboy.
One is an oily, amoral, lying, gutter-crawling scam artist, while the other was portrayed by Dustin Hoffman.
Thanksgiving 2016
Giving thanks that this election is over and we will hopefully see the constant rehashing of the results on social media ending soon as well. Our suggestion is to avoid both social media and television as much as possible. Instead, spend real time with real humans, especially family and close friends (ie, those you love most). Although this item is being written (by Jorge) prior to the Thanksgiving Day celebration at his brother’s house, it is presumed that great niece Molly was the winner at Scrabble after the meal. So Long, Ralph
Old sports junkies that we are, P&J note the passing of the legendary Brooklyn Dodgers hurler, Ralph Branca, who passed away at the age of 90 on Wednesday, November 23. Branca, although a three-time All Star, will forever be known as the man who delivered the pitch to Bobby Thomson in the 1951 playoff series with the New York Giants that Thomson launched for a home run (aka, “the shot heard round the world”).
Phillipe & Jorge’s Cool, Cool World: The Reign Comes and the World Burns
When the Reign Comes
In the era of faux reality shows ruling the universe, Phillipe and Jorge’s Cool, Cool World became very surreal on November 9. The reign of The Donald Duck Dynasty begins.
It is fairly incredible that Americans have elected an insane person with a narcissistic psychiatric disorder as their president. But don’t worry, we are told, he will surround himself with good people. Which is why, of course, we hear the likes of Newt Gingrich being talked about as a possible secretary of state in the new Trump cabinet. Great, have a fellow wife abuser and adulterer and emotional cripple with all the class and gravitas as a paedo gun show dealer and part-time carnival barker carry the US banner to nations worldwide. That’s sure to garner our allies’ instant comfort and security, as they count the silverware after every state dinner he attends. Trump and Gingrich, the global face of America. Vomit bags are in your seatback pocket, passengers.
Trump does have a parallel in international politics in the form of the former prime minister of Italy, Silvio Berlusconi, who inflicted his damaged and deluded personality on his country for nine years. In that position, the heavily made-up septuagenarian media mogul with preposterously dyed hair like our own orange orangutan was merely nailed for tax fraud (sound familiar?), controlling the press through fomenting outright suppression of news and disseminating lies, and eventually for being heavily involved in a red hot “bunga-bunga” dancing romance with a hot-looking babe who turned out to be 17 years old (ditto on the recognition factor), who he eventually backed in a political career. No problem here, officer.
Facial Recognition
Stalwart as ever in our continuing pursuit of the laughable and absurd, which are thick on the ground these days, Phillipe and Jorge offer a way to find a chuckle in the upcoming days, months and years of the American Caligula’s reign.
As our new president meets and greets leaders from around the world, keep an eye on the faces of these paramount chiefs when they first encounter The Donald, especially when they believe they are off- camera, and even more so when our idiot king is proclaiming his greatness to the world. Perhaps we can have a competition, awarding points for each instance of eye-rolling, bowed-down head shaking or closest imitation of Edvard Munch’s “The Scream.” An outright guffaw would bring bonus points, while we might have to limit the number of times a visiting dignitary is caught looking like he or she is trying to swallow an elephant turd whole, as they will be legion.
Entry fee not required for all the TV producers and videographers out there. Let the games begin.
Thanksgiving
P&J are thankful (no, not for the election results) but for all our friends, and Jorge (Rudy) in particular is thankful that his recent stroke was minor and he was able to get out of the hospital quickly and immediately have lunch and a visit with the person he loves most in this world. Despite all the turmoil, it is indeed a cool, cool world. Hoping that 2017 will be an even better year. Love to all.
Such a Nice Boy
Good to see the Providence premiere of the film Bleed for This, the story of the remarkable comeback by local legend Vinny Paz (nee Pazienza), who survived life- and career-threatening spinal injuries from a car crash, yet won world titles in the ring after his stunning recovery.
Vinny, “The Pazmanian Devil,” is a wild and crazy guy, and sometimes criticized in Little Rhody for his over-the-top lifestyle, as it supposedly makes all Vo Dilunders look like bling-addicted guidos and guidettes (see: Pauly D of TV’s “Jersey Shore”). But Phillipe and Jorge knew Vinny and his wonderful parents, the one-of-a-kind wildman Angelo, and his demure and lovely mother, Louise, from way back in the day, and anyone who thinks Paz is a dimwitted fool is miles off the mark. In the beginning of Vinny’s career, The Urinal gave little space to coverage of the Sweet Science, its violence and questionable culture obviously beneath them to deign to remark upon. Phillipe was then also writing a sport column for The NewPaper, “On the Ball and Off the Wall,” and was interested in the new kid from Cranston who was making his mark in the ring. At that point, the press releases for his bouts were being hand delivered to P. at his place of work by Vinny’s then girlfriend. And once P. met Vinny, he found him to be a very kind and intelligent person (thanks, Louise).
Vinny was being sent off to Italy for some fights to gain experience and sharpen his skills against real pros, and P. was impressed enough by Paz’s smarts that he suggested that Vinny send back accounts of his fights abroad, as The Urinal certainly wasn’t going to cover them.
What resulted was one of the most eye-opening, satisfying and wonderful moments of Phillipe’s decades-long career as a sportswriter and sportscaster. After Paz’s first fight, P. received in the mail (this was prior to email and texting, kiddies) a letter in a small pink envelope. Inside, on scented paper with scalloped edges, a cute little embossed graphic of a flower in the corner, like the notes you would get from your grandmother on your birthday with a dollar bill folded inside, was a multi-page, handwritten, blow-by-blow account of the bout in Italy. Not only was the writing clear, intelligent and interesting, but it was grammatically correct and easily good enough to be printed nearly verbatim in The NewPaper, which it was. But what gave P. the biggest kick was to be holding this tiny, firsthand account of a brutal fight on this miniature, light pink paper with the rose in the corner, and read lines like, “In the fifth he hit me below the belt, so I got pissed off and beat the shit out of him.” Ah, words to make a mother proud.
Despite the flash Vegas trappings, P&J have always had a great deal of respect and admiration for The Pazman, and having a film made about his heroic return to the sport he loved, that was kicked off by seeing the movie Rocky at the Park Cinema in Cranston, is the least he deserves. He was walking Hollywood from Day One. Angelo and Louise are smiling down, Vinny.
As the World Burns
Now that ignorance and apathy have become the coin of the realm, and lying and greed all-pervasive, Phillipe and Jorge can only say, “Have nice day.” You break it, you own it.
Phillipe and Jorge’s Cool, Cool World: Vote!, Gigi and Too Much Promotion Early and Often
Phillipe and Jorge would be remiss if we did not offer one more encouragement cum demand that everyone get out and vote on election day. It’s a right, it’s a privilege, and it is what any upstanding American should do. We have seen our friends from other countries break down and cry with joy and relief once they were given this opportunity after years of dictatorial rule, and you should be equally joyous this freedom of choice has been handed to you. Plus, you lose your bitching rights if you don’t do the right thing on November 8.
And please cast your vote for Hillary, because a vote for the Cheeto-colored, rug-wearing, self-serving, bloviating narcissist, misogynist, racist pathologically lying rip-off artist that is Donald Trump is a vote for reducing America’s greatness — which does not need to supposedly be recaptured — in the eyes of the world. And wouldn’t you be proud to tell your kids and grandkids you put this vile quasi-human being in office? Yeah, harsh, but extreme times call for extreme measures.
Foreign Correspondents
As the creation of Phillipe and Jorge’s Cool, Cool World was heavily inspired nearly 40 years ago by England’s notorious news/satire magazine, Private Eye, we thought you might enjoy the front cover of their most recent issue, addressing their view of our sordid political world.
(INSERT PRIVATE EYE COVER GRAPHIC HERE)
We could not have put it better ourselves.
How Not to Do Things
As the Brits might say, the Raimondo administration couldn’t organize a piss-up in a brewery. The recent Department of Transportation fiasco with the Providence viaduct/Route 95 re-routing was merely the third layer of icing on the cake.
We first famously had the clueless, embarrassing and shameful roll-out of the “Cooler and Warmer” tourism campaign. Governor Gigi, bedazzled as always by the bright lights of anyone with a New York City cachet, got it so wrong she might have been operating on a different planet than the rest of the state’s citizens. Gigi, who ironically is neither cool nor warm, again figured she was the smartest person in the room, and launched a quickly aborted extravaganza that glaringly failed to capture the essence of The Biggest Little, while ignoring homegrown talent that could have done a better job for a few cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon and pairs of skinny black jeans all around instead of the $$million+ spent. We won’t even bring up the Iceland video, dead (and beloved) chefs featured or the out-of-state restaurants being touted. This one indeed “blowed up good!”
Then came the gargantuan glitches in the Department of Human Services UHIP (no, Unot-so-hip, or cooler and warmer, for that matter) data system, which saw thousands of Vo Dilunders not receive their social service benefits on time, severely crimping the daily existence of families and children who depend on them for frivolous items like food and housing. The blame here again seems to fall on Rhodes Scholar Gigi, who had the DHS roll out the new system despite warnings from the federal government it wasn’t up to requisite warp speed. Obviously, once again the call came from above to rush a flawed project out the door in a panic to show they could get things done on time, which backfired and reinforced the idea that the entire system of state government doesn’t know what it’s doing. “Slowly, slowly, catchee monkey,” Gigi.
And as mentioned above, we had the fatally flawed I-95 South lane shifts debacle, which led to rush hour traffic being backed up to Massachusetts and nearly a dozen car accidents caused by panicked drivers thinking they were missing their turns on the new highway to hell. How in the name of whatever god you choose does the DOT think sending out an email about a major disruption at one of the busiest commuter interchanges in the state less than 24 hours before the switcheroo is sufficient warning? Perhaps someone should clue the Internet and social media besotted young turks doing communications work for DOT that not everyone checks their cellphone or computer every hour for their contact with the real world outside their cellphone. Those dinosaurs like radio, TV and print media reach a damn sight more of the working public than Instagram, Facebook and Twitter.
More heads should probably have rolled than just the Gaspee-challenged person in charge of the tourism roll-out, but if our beloved Governor Gigi had people in place who were prepared to occasionally question her majesty’s all-encompassing genius decisions (the buck stops where?) or have the sand to say, “No,” or “Bad idea” to her at times, we wouldn’t be facing this merry-go-round of farcical, but quite unfunny, situations. It’s called speaking truth to power, a concept with which today’s generation of hard chargers in the political world seems quite unfamiliar.
Quote of the Week
From Ron P. Broussard, a former “coordinator” and self-styled motivational speaker at the laughably and scandalously bogus Trump University. The comment emerged from the trial records indicting Trump U as a massive fraud, which hired not experts in the real estate field, but many with extremely questionable resumes. (“It was the most massive ever,” P&J can hear The Donald saying. “It was huuuge!”)
As an Army sergeant, Broussard was convicted of sodomy and indecent acts with a child, the 8-year-old daughter of a fellow soldier, at a court martial in 1994. He served five years at the military’s pleasure in prison at Leavenworth, and now is a registered sex offender in his home state of Georgia.
Broussard told the investigating Associated Press, “Those were trumped-up charges.” (Insert rim shot here.)
We quite agree. Good to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor or relevance, Ronny.
He Doth Promote too Much
P&J are wearied of The Urinal’s executive editor displaying his Trumpian paranoia/defensiveness with front page screeds about how wonderful his newspaper has become and all the groundshaking improvements that have been made of late to the Old Lady of Fountain Street.
Dave, you can’t bullshit bullshitters, and Little Rhody’s residents are PhDs in the art of weaving webs of deceit; our manure detectors can smell a ripe pile from 50 miles away. Not only is your paper shrinking as it is gutted from within by your overlords at GateHouse Media, but trying to tell us that snappier headlines and new fonts are a reason to pony up $2 a day for what the legendary Buddy “Vincent A.” Cianci rightly deemed a “pamphlet” ain’t gonna convince folks you are the local version of the New York Times.
And on a final note, endorsing a champion of Vo Dilun political corruption like House Speaker ‘Thick Nick” Mattiello and treating the recent, hilarious and overblown Barrington yoga pants march like it was Martin Luther King leading his troops over the bridge in Selma shows an incredible lack of awareness and perspective. So, Mr. Butler, stick to firing members of your news staff who deserve a better fate so your absentee owner bosses can cash in bigger bonuses and buy that new Mercedes at year’s end. That you seem to have a much better handle on.
Phillipe & Jorge’s Cool, Cool World
Bond-ing in the Booth
Bond and referenda questions on the ballot are about as boring as watching the Hallmark channel on TV. But there are three items that deserve your attention this year, so don’t bail out of the voting booth until after you have voted on this troika.
First off, Question #6, for the $35 million in Green Economy Bonds, is an absolute no-brainer for approval. It will provide funding for some already successful investments in open space and farmland preservation, historic state park development, new funds to design and construct bikeways (linking the 60 miles of existing paths with existing roads like the Blackstone Bikeway), and last but not least, money for stormwater pollution prevention and reclamation of brownfields. The latter two are also serious revenue and jobs generators for communities. Now that the business community and development communities recognize that the environment and economy are inextricably linked, they are also realizing that these programs will attract innovative new firms, creating conditions favored by young job seekers and entrepreneurs and the tech-savvy way of life they value. The environmental enhancements also help support the state’s tourism industry, which drives 40,000 jobs and generates $3.3 billion annually. Yes, oh yes, on the Green Economy Bonds, Question #6. Second is Question #2, the “Amendment to the Constitution of the State” and despite the vague title, this is the most important one to weigh in on. The referendum will restore ethics commission jurisdiction over General Assembly. This one is big time, boys and girls, and essential to cutting out many of the blatant conflicts of interest of legislators that now exist at Halitosis Hall. If you are as fed up as P&J are with the state being run by the Mattiello and Paiva Weed crime families, let’s bring back a more powerful ethics commission, which was castrated years ago by a court ruling. When dense bullies like Speaker Nick Mattiello and complacent puppets of special interests like Senate President Teresa Paiva Weed are two of the most powerful pols in Little Rhody — both of whom have fought against ethics reform for years, despite their death bed conversions last year when they saw further opposition would cost them votes — you are in serious trouble, Batman. Mattiello still has to answer for his role in the 38 Studios scandal when he was House Majority Leader. He claims he had no knowledge of the Gordon Fox-Steve Costantino backroom deal to funnel $75 million to a clapped out Red Sox pitcher with no business acumen, and if he wasn’t aware, he was either too stupid to be trusted, or he’s lying. Take your pick. There are still some open doors that allow legislators to dodge accountability, but this is a big leap forward, so vote yes for Referenda Question 2 if you ever hope to see a glimmer of honesty and/or transparency on Smith Hill in the future.
Finally, the question you have doubtless seen and heard about due to the massive advertising buy locally to gain voters is Question 1, which is a typically bizarre Biggest Little trick question. This would authorize “state-operated casino gaming at ‘Twin River-Tiverton’ in the Town of Tiverton. Well, on the face of it this will be a winner, since everyone knows the gambling ship has already sailed in Vo Dilun, we’re never getting back our betting virginity, and what’s one more Zombieland casino out in the boondocks of Tiverton going to matter? But wait, there’s more! For Twin River to start having you put your money where their mouth is, it must also be approved by the residents of Tiverton on a local ballot referendum. And unless Phillipe & Jorge read this incredibly wrong, we believe the citizens of Tiverton will likely not choose to sell their town down the gambling river and bankrupt the future of their next generation. Newport found itself in the same state/local situation in the last election, and while casino gambling for the City-by-the-Sea passed statewide, it got its ass kicked by Newporters. Somewhat ironic, since if Tiverton voters reject the lure of the gambling palace, no matter what statewide voters say, Twin River has to go home, and the depressing “Newport Sluts” Den of the Dead will continue to limp along, slowly bleeding out the bank accounts of the deranged and deluded who go there now to forget the real world. Ain’t life a gas?
Bush Meat
Now that “suck-up to the stars” Billy Bush has been canned by NBC’s Today show for playing organ grinder monkey to professional misogynist Donald Trump’s lovely sexual predation, it is not surprising to find that he has an excellent pedigree in such affairs. Grinning chimp “Bushie” is a graduate of St. George’s School in Middletown, now nationally renowned for horrific sexual abuse by its staff and students down through the years, largely unreported to authorities. So if it’s sordid, salacious and shameless you want, call a St. Groper’s alum.
Rock & Roll Collectors Convention
Yes, it’s time again for another of Dr. Oldie’s Original Southeastern New England Rock & Roll Collectors Conventions with records, tapes, CDs, posters and all sorts of other stuff. Dr. Oldie will be there. It’s at the Ramada Hotel, 213 Taunton Ave. in Seekonk, Massachusetts with plenty of parking. It’s a good place to be. Presidential Election, 2016 Finally, on Tuesday, November 8, the United States will be electing someone to serve as President for the next four years. This has been one of the most tumultuous and dissatisfying presidential campaigns we’ve ever witnessed (and P&J go back to Ike when it comes to this). One thing that we have learned over the years is that a third party candidate is not going to be elected, not yet, anyway. Either Hillary Clinton or Donald Trump will be elected and we have some very strong feelings about this. As you know, if you have been reading the Cool, Cool World, your superior correspondents were strong supporters of Senator Bernie Sanders until he was finally defeated in the Democratic primary. The one thing we know is this: Donald Trump is not someone who should ever be President of the United States. Unless you live in an alternative reality (as he seems to), believing myriad and ludicrous conspiracy theories (that the entire Western media and Western governments and business interests fear losing power, influence and wealth if Trump is elected), you cannot seriously vote for this charlatan. He has no understanding of how representative democracies work, he thinks and talks like a dictator and his empty words (“no one respects woman more than me,” etc.) are an affront to every voter’s ability to think and reason. He hasn’t detailed anything specific policy-wise, just made broad generalizations and given many angry (for good reason) Americans exactly what they want to hear. There are, of course, many other angry and frustrated people who do not think that rolling back Roe v. Wade and LGBT advances, packing the Supreme Court with ultra-right wing justices and banning and kicking out millions of immigrants from our country (or building giant walls) are answers to our many challenges. We realize that what we write is not going to convince hardly anyone, but we can tell you that Phillipe & Jorge will be voting for Hillary Clinton and we suggest that you do the same. Right now, that is the best we can do.
Phillipe & Jorge’s Cool, Cool World: We Have Some Questions
Simple Questions
Phillipe and Jorge may not have old-school, Brylcreemed, part-it-on-the-side Ivy League haircuts, and are not as scrubbed-up and bright and shiny as Hillary’s political advisors, but we can probably give her better input on how to run a campaign than her control freak know-it-alls.
How about starting out each day by asking the American public and the wretched, ink-stained hacks and talking hairdos of the media some simple questions such as, “Why won’t Donald Trump release his taxes? What is he hiding?” And then perhaps venture on by querying, “How much money is he in debt to Russian and Chinese investors? Shouldn’t we be shown?”
Yeah, that’s probably too simple for her smug, preening pack of Kennedy School of Government grads. But there is nothing that resonates more with the Great Unwashed than someone who is scamming the IRS, especially if he claims to have made $690+ million and isn’t paying a dime every April, while most of us are hunting down deposit soda bottles and donating blood for money to make the nut for what we owe the federal government. “Because I’m smart,” was the orange oaf Mr. Buttinski’s comment during the first debate, which should up the ante on how much he should be despised. So the rest of us are just numbnuts who are too stupid to game the system despite the fact he spends more on cosmetics and hair stylists each week than we all make in a year. And anyone who has been audited by the IRS, as Donald Duck-the-Truth falsely claims is the hold-up on the release of his detailed financial information, knows, it is a horror show. The IRS goes after folks a paycheck short of looking for a couch to sleep on while he skates by using deductions — some now being seen as illegal — to which those of us not sitting on bagso’bucks have no recourse.
The Trumpster knows that if his tax returns ever see the light of day he is toast. Because all his duped supporters, who the Donald wouldn’t piss on if they were on fire, should be precisely the ones who should be most furious, and they are the ones carrying his no-pay weight through their own hard-earned contributions to Americans’ everyday education, police and military programs, among other basics of life in the US of A.
Smart? Maybe. Anti-American? Definitely.
Simple Questions, Part Deux
It was heartening news to hear that Little Rhody’s General Treasurer Seth Magaziner is pulling the Biggest Little’s pension system investments out of hedge funds.
As everyone is aware, his predecessor, Governor Gigi, is totally smitten by Wall Street and the professional thieves known as hedge fund managers who produce nothing but thrive on others’ money. Which, under her leadership at the treasurer’s office, is how we started enriching her pals with her “nudge-nudge, wink-wink” blessing years ago.
An interesting question that we have yet to see asked, never mind answered, in the press is how much in total did hedge fund managers skim off in fees from the years of Vo Dilun’s investment, and just how much did the state get in earnings from these bandits in Armani suits and ties?
It is no wonder Governor Gigi gets wet every time someone says, “Goldman Sachs,” as to her it appears that anyone handling investments in New York City should be viewed as a Marvel superhero. The teachers and state employees whose funds are being carved off the top by the hedge fund honchos have rightly been upset by having Gigi’s pals make money off their labor. So it is nice to see that — finally — the treasurer’s office is looking for some professional investment firms that do not consider it their right to peel bills off Little Rhody’s roll for their new Mercedes or next ounce of blow.
And now would someone please total up just how much of a cut they really got, in ’Merican dollars? Thanks, we’re busy watching the Pats, so just call us when you’ve got it.
Headline Story of the Week
File under “Wish We’d Thought of That.” From England’s Private Eye:
Trump Congratulates the Leader of Pneumonia
After shock reports that Hillary Clinton had been struck down by Pneumonia this week, Donald Trump congratulated the leader and the people of Pneumonia for their assistance. “I get on great with the Pneumonians,” said the strange-haired fantasist yesterday. “I love the country of Pneumonia and I get on great with the Pneumonia leader, General whatsisname, who is a close personal friend of mine, and who’s said many nice things about me, and I’m glad to get the help of Pneumonia to defeat crooked Hillary Clinton.”
Passages Passionate, tough, persistent and committed, Henry Shelton, more than any individual we know, changed the lives of the needy, poor and working class people of Rhode Island for the better. He was the founder of the George Wiley Center (and, if you don’t know who George Wiley was, we encourage you do a brief bit of research on this scientist and civil rights leader) and, for decades, the champion and voice of the poor and a primary motivating force beyond nearly every initiative for social justice in the state. On September 21, Henry passed away quietly at his home in the Edgewood section of Cranston. He was 86. State Senator Josh Miller was quoted in The BlowJo as saying, “I have personally always looked to him as a true moral compass.” This has been true for many of us. When there was a new battle or a new initiative being planned, your superior correspondents could depend on getting a phone call or a note from Henry, assuring us of its importance and suggesting that we let people know what was going on in the Cool, Cool World column. The Henry Shelton-led epic battle with the Rhode Island Public Utilities Commission to make it more difficult to turn off the heat and electricity in the homes of poor folks who were in arrears with the utility company was finally won in 2011 with the passage of the Henry Shelton Act, which provided some protection for many who owed money to the utilities, setting up tougher standards for shut-offs. There are many stories about Henry’s tireless and passionate support for those in need and, undoubtedly, they are all true. It will take the efforts of many, many people to carry on the important work that Henry inspired. Rest in peace, Henry. Your work made a huge difference. Phillipe & Jorge also wish to note the passing of someone who we didn’t know, but who was a powerful source of good in his community. Stephen Chrabaszcz, the principal of Toll Gate High School in Warwick, died unexpectedly on September 20. Friends of ours who had children in the Warwick school system tell us that Principal Chrabaszcz was well known for going the extra mile for his students. Not To Be Missed Our good friend Darren Hill (RI Music Hall of Famer for his work with The Raindogs) has a great event planned at his great place POP, the vintage and antique emporium for all cool popular culture stuff at 219 West Park Street in Providence (near the old Coca Cola bottling plant). On Friday evening, October 7 from 6 to 11pm, POP will have (in conjunction with Van Vessem Gallery in Tiverton, an event called “High Fidelity” featuring the photography of Bobby Grossman and a special performance by David (New York Dolls, Buster Poindexter) Johansen. A RISD graduate, Bobby Grossman captured the emerging scene in downtown NYC in the 1970s at CBGB, the Mudd Club and other venues. He has great photographs of a lot of the major figures in that scene, including former schoolmates Talking Heads. He has also collaborated with Shepard Fairey on a piece (Doom & Destiny) featuring Debbie Harry that will be shown. Since Jorge (Rudy Cheeks) has known some of these folks for years — first meeting David Johansen at the Mercer Arts Center in 1972 — he will be emceeing this event. Should be a good time for all. See story at motifri.com/highfidelity. Vo Dilun Degrees of Separation
People who are intimately familiar with the Biggest Little like to talk about the six degrees of separation factor here (but, of course in Vo Dilun’s case, that would be two degrees of separation). It is not unusual to have someone try to introduce you to someone, “Hey Bill, do you know Larry?” To which the tactless answer would be, “Yeah, I slept with him four years ago.”
Is this just because of our small geography or because Biggest Little locals never leave? This phenomenon should be researched by someone, but not Phillipe & Jorge. We’re too busy trying to sleep with Larry.
Everyone has stories that reverberate with the two degrees of separation issue. P&J recall that once, while visiting friends in Denver, we were on top of a small mountain when another car approached with Vo Dilun plates. When the people in the car got out we approached them, and it took less than five minutes to establish a number of people we knew in common. The way to do this is to say, “What city?” When they reply, “West Warwick,” you then shoot out a name like, “Do you know Fleety Sourbutt?” to which they will reply, “No, but I worked with his sister at Ann & Hope.”
When golfing in Florida, P&J once went three straight days at three different courses around West Palm Beach getting randomly hooked up for a foursome with two guys from Vo Dilun, with whom we naturally had mutual acquaintances back home. This is the going record, we believe, for taking the traveling “I know a guy” circus on the road. This far-flung golf course magic has happened many times over the years.
But perhaps the most memorable was when a friend of ours, a retired Italian barber named Rico from Silver Lake, joined us at Okaheelee Country Club in West Palm. We had a foursome made up at the starter’s hut by a very quiet, good-looking fellow who resembled Dean Martin, who told us he was an assistant golf pro as well as a dance instructor. This, when extrapolated using the renowned and proven Vo Dilun 2+2 calculation, clearly meant to us he was a gigolo. Three holes into the round, after a little prodding, we discovered he, too, was from Vo Dilun and grew up on Federal Hill. Our Italian pal then began grilling him with questions like “You know Billy Meatballs? How about Tommy Tortellini?” Naturally our Dean Martin impostor revealed he (of course) had known them since childhood, and the rest of the round was played with dialogue that resembled something out of an episode of “The Sopranos,” with back-and-forths like, “Gino still got that silver Caddy? Fuckin’ guy was loaded and never picked up a dinner check in his life. Yeah, he did some time for B and E after high school, but now he’s runnin’ with the big dogs. He married Gina, but she got fat, and now he’s screwin’ anything that moves.”
A Little Rhody hybrid in this genre is tied to the traditional Biggest Little way of giving directions, which relies upon using references to places that no longer exist, like ‘Take a left where the Mobil station used to be, and when you hit the corner where there was that little Mexican restaurant, hang a right.” The human side of that local quirk evolves to establish you are talking about the same person you both know: “Is she the one who used to waitress at Leo’s? Yeah, saw her at the Hot Club last week.” Or, “That the guy who worked with Lupo when he had the painting company? My brother did that, and we used to go out for a few beers with the guy. Yeah, he’s doing carpentry now, lives up in North Providence.” Half the time you haven’t seen the person in question who you both had known for years but, the connection has been made, and you could have him on the phone swapping stories in five minutes.
Actually, Phillipe and Jorge first met by way of a cosmic variation on the “know a guy” thread. Phillipe was bartending at the late, lamented Leo’s, the ProHo hipster haven, and got to know a woman named Barbara Conway, who worked upstairs. (He was soon to learn that Barbara was a.k.a. Simone Cuc, one of The Fabulous Motels infamous dancers, the Tantalizing Tampoons.) She told P, “You have to meet this friend of mine named Rudy. You will really like him, and you two think so alike.” This was when Jorge (Rudy Cheeks) was working in Newport and sans auto, as ever. After months went on of P. (Chip Young) hearing about the mysterious Rudy, who conversely had also been told this was a mental match made in heaven, but we had never seen each other face-to-face or even spoken on the phone. Then one afternoon when Phillipe/Chip was behind the sticks at Leo’s, a stranger walked in the door, and saying only, “Hi Chip. Is Barbara around?” The response was simply, “Yeah, Rudy, she’s upstairs. You two come back in for a beer when you’re done.” Some things just don’t need an explanation. And thus the first seed of Phillipe and Jorge’s Cool, Cool World was planted.
Phillipe & Jorge’s Cool, Cool World: Nethers at Brown, Matt Lauer and So Long, Bobby
Hygiene News
You’ve come a long way, baby.
The reigning academic LGBT king/queen of political correctness and insipid and fragile sensitivities, Brown University, recently announced it will provide free tampons and sanitary napkins in all university building bathrooms. Yes, we mean women’s, gender inclusive and men’s rooms. Guess the guys will have to continue to find condom machines in the gents’ at their local dive bar, strip club or highway truck stop.
As for having the products in men’s rooms, P&J imagine the clever laddies at Brown will figure they might be valuable in stuffing a tampon down their undershorts to give enhancement to their perceived wedding tackle, certainly much cleaner and less messy than using the traditional salami. But remember, boys, it goes in the front.
National Organization for Women President Terry O’Neill told the Associated Press in a statement, “Feminine hygiene products are not a luxury. They’re as essential as toilet paper, just ask anyone who has ever struggled to obtain or afford them. Students’ participation in school should not be hindered by insufficient access to this basic necessity. Universities around the country should follow suit.” At a higher level, elimination of sales taxes on feminine hygiene products has become a national issue, and rightly so.
To its credit, Brown has always been a leader in proper use and maintenance of the nether regions. Back in the day, when men were men and women were women, Brown made waves nationally by being the first to provide safe sex products to their students, including birth control pills. The program drew fire for seemingly encouraging their bright young things to have as much sex as they wanted (obviously in the interest of it being a learning experience). In 1965, an article in Time magazine reported: “Latest benchmark on US manners and morals: Dr. Roswell Johnson, director of health services at Brown University and its women’s college, Pembroke, last week acknowledged that he had prescribed birth- control pills for ‘a very, very small’ number of girls (perhaps as many as five) in his official capacity. The girls were over 21 and intending to be married. He emphasized that he had had lengthy consultations in each case, because ‘I want to feel I’m contributing to a solid relationship and not to unmitigated promiscuity.’ Brown President Barnaby Keeney stoutly backed his health director…”
Associate professors of the female variety at the Phillipe and Jorge-founded Institute of Casual Research who attended Brown and Pembroke at that sexually liberated time recalled their own experiences, including prior to Brown opening the gates further on their hot topic distribution center, having to go “downcity” to Planned Parenthood to get contraception, because “Johnson wouldn’t prescribe to anyone under 21 or who was ‘promiscuous.’ HA!”
Those who followed saw the loosening up of restrictions, if not morals: “By the time I got there five years later, pills were handed out free and unfettered to anyone — no questions asked. (Saved me from having to go to the PP downtown and lying about being a married grad student at Brown.)”
We can just imagine Donald Trump coming to Brown to campaign (which like P&J’s election to the RI Journalism Hall of Fame, is dependent upon the weather -- like when Hell freezes over), and wandering into a men’s room where there are free tampons and sanitary napkins on display and running out screaming “Disgusting! Disgusting!” and heading straight for his gallon-sized jug of Purell. “I sing the body antiseptic,” indeed.
After Brown’s more recent idiotic pc-driven decisions (eliminating Columbus Day jumps to mind), spineless and milquetoast coddling of spoiled brats and endorsement of trigger warnings and safe spaces in recent years, among other travesties, it looks like they may have gotten at least one right. And if our lack of respect for the supposed best and brightest on College Hill offends someone in the ivory towers, let us repeat the soothing words of comfort offered to us on many occasions by our dearly beloved, sainted mothers: “Tough shit.”
The Show Must Go On (but can the country?)
The Commander-in-Chief Show with Matt “Bow-Wower” Lauer, “Pilloried” Hillary Clinton and Donald “I’m still making this shit up” Trump, was the highlight of last week in Presidential Election Campaign (or is that cam-pain) 2016. After the “forum,” one of your superior correspondents’ wisest and wittiest friends, the longtime educator and artist, Judith Swift, posted her impressions on her Facebook page. Among her observations were “…Matt Lauer is being skewered for his moderator softballs and passes in the national defense and security commander-in-chief forum with Clinton and Trump and deservedly so. He has been running a coffee klatch for his entire professional life in the form of ‘The Today Show.’ He was way over his head, serious glasses aside. And one ‘minor’ consideration: ‘The Apprentice’ is an NBC product as is ‘The Today Show.’ The appearance of affiliate bias, let alone the reality, was rampant. This is a serious presidential election turned clown college by Donald Trump with Lauer as facilitator. There are serious journalists out there, men and women who have the figurative cojones and the knowledge to call out both candidates and put aside their own egos to examine strengths, expose weaknesses and outright mendacity.” Phillipe & Jorge couldn’t agree more. Much as we like Matt — and we both know him from his days at PM Magazine in Providence (disclosure: Lauer did a profile of Rudy Cheeks, aka Jorge, for the magazine in 1984), we agree that he was the wrong choice to moderate this forum and someone with more news chops should have gotten the gig. It is hard to say how all this will play out by the time we reach November. Our hope is that the upcoming debates will reveal what has been so painfully obvious for months and months: that Trump doesn’t know a thing about how to operate as the President of the United States and, despite our many qualms about Clinton (as you may recall, P&J were early and ardent Bernie supporters), she is totally experienced and knowledgeable about the workings of government and the law. Trump is potentially the greatest disaster the country has faced since the Civil War. We continue to urge those planning to vote to study this whole thing carefully and give it a lot of thought.
RIP, Major Minor Celebrities
Hurry home early, hurry on home,
Boom Boom Mancini’s fighting Bobby Chacon
– Chorus from Boom Boom Mancini, by Warren Zevon (1987)
Phillipe and Jorge are longtime fans of the Sweet Science, aka boxing. And with all due respect to Bob Dylan’s “Hurricane,” about Ruben “Hurricane” Carter’s mistreatment at the hands of the law, the best boxing-related song ever composed is Warren Zevon’s “Boom Boom Mancini,” which P&J are known to crank up to 11 at Casa Diablo when the fighting mood strikes us.
Back when boxing actually mattered in the US (quick, name one of the current heavyweight champs), Boom Boom Mancini was a public darling, the national version of our own adored Vinny Paz. (More on the P&J/Paz relationship in this space as the November debut of his biopic, Bleed for This, nears. And we’re still waiting for those tix to the Little Rhody premiere, Vinny.) Boom Boom was notorious for the fatal beating in the ring he gave to South Korean fighter Duk Koo Kim, known forever after at Casa D as “Duk Too Late.”
At any rate, Bobby Chacon was a flashy, all-action featherweight and super heavyweight champion who took on Boom Boom for the lightweight title in 1984. Unfortunately, moving up in weight doesn’t bring your punching power up with it, and Chacon got pummeled in a third round TKO. But the anticipation of the all-out street brawl was enough to spur Zevon to write his somewhat obscure hit. Bobby Chacon has also hurried home early, dying last week at age 64 while under care for dementia. (Wonder how he got that?) Salud, Senor Chacon, Warren Z. immortalized you.
Phillipe and Jorge’s Cool, Cool World: Stupidity at Home and Abroad
What Would a Moron Do?
Anyone who was even vaguely surprised at the Ryan Lochte Karioca Kops incident at the Olympic Games in Rio evidently missed his former reality show, “What Would Ryan Lochte Do?” on the E! network back in 2013. Probably because it only ran for eight episodes before the producers evidently did their own run for the hills, or to be more relevant to Lochte, swam for shore from the sinking ship.
Phillipe and Jorge watched off-and-on about one and a half episodes of WWRLD, but it only took about five minutes to realize that young Ryan was dumber than a rock, with all due respect to the rock. We are not just talking run-of-the-mill stupid, but “2+2 = Huh?” brain dead. Everyone by now knows all about Lochte’s clueless attempt to claim he and his fellow swimmers were robbed at gunpoint, and only a moron like Ryan could intermesh the gaffes of going to the media with the story when he didn’t have to, involving his US teammates who were essentially innocent, leaving Brazil before them and stranding them there with his bogus tale, and issuing an apology that made Donald Trump’s “regrets” speech sound sincere and truthful.
One has to question how many years it took Lochte to get out of elementary school, and this whole fiasco was no great revelation that you won’t see a new reality show called “Ryan Goes to a Mensa Meeting” anytime soon. The newest Ugly American is just a sad, sad individual with ozone between the ears, no sponsors and no chance of ever competing again for his country. Hey, what a great idea for a reality show!
Final Olympics note: Is there any “sport” more otherworldly, bizarre and fascinating than synchronized swimming? While synchronized diving and trampoline are far too contrived, the maniacally grinning aquatic clones doing cluster Esther Williams routines with some North Korean military parade discipline thrown in was a must-watch at Casa Diablo. Are the Russian swimmers available for pool parties? Please give P&J a call if so. (Plus, if you are of a certain age, the first thing that pops into your mind when you think of synchronized swimming is the legendary 1984 Saturday Night Live sketch featuring Martin Short and Harry Shearer. Sheer genius, back when SNL wasn’t cringe-worthy lame.)
Imported Stupidity
You would think that by bringing on a disgraced sexual predator like former Fox News honcho Roger Ailes, the bigoted owner of the repulsive Breitbart website and an Ann Coulter manqué, the Trump campaign would have plenty of slimy characters adding a certain stench to their efforts. But it appears that these vile creatures weren’t enough, and they are looking for that certain ugly touch from abroad.
Phillipe and Jorge refer to The Donald’s recent appearance in Mississippi (please check your KKK hoods at the door), where he introduced his English friend, Nigel Farage, former leader of the UK Independence Party (Ukip) and a very vocal Brexit leader, to the baying hounds. Evidently Trump was banking on the assumption that anyone who has a British accent is automatically assumed to have 20 IQ points more than you. While the American news media evidently knew little about Farage, P&J are quite familiar with the man. In Great Britain, he is viewed as a bigoted buffoon and piss artist (Britspeak for drunk) of the highest order. Not to mention a blatant liar (Trump and lies — that sound somewhat familiar?), who said after the Brexit vote to leave the European community that many of his and his colleagues’ claims made during the campaign were outright lies. He is seen as a blown-up, clapped-out vile little anti-immigrant racist whose Ukip was nothing more than a laughable charade with him at its head.
The fact that a little gutter-crawler like Farage was brought in to extol the virtues of the orange-tinted, bloviating, immature narcissist with no connection to reality speaks volumes to who the new campaign advisors feel represent their views the best to the American public. No doubt that when England hits the skids after their Euro pullout you can find Farage hiding in some seedy pub on the outside of a few pints, but boasting of how highly he is esteemed in the States, at least until November, when the Trump Dumpster fire is finally wheeled off a cliff.
Passages
As Phillipe & Jorge grow older, more and more friends leave this life and, when they have also contributed richly to our lives and community, we feel it right to celebrate them here in the Cool, Cool World. Last week, Providence native and musician par excellence, Preston Hubbard, passed away at his home in St. Louis, Missouri. He was a good friend ever since his high school days. Known as “Prez” or “Pinky,” Preston Hubbard made a distinctive mark for himself in the world of music, including playing with some of the finest musicians and recording on hit records. Pinky grew up on Providence’s East Side and was playing in bands as a teenager. We first saw him with the great Providence-born tenor saxophonist Scott Hamilton, playing with the Hamilton Bates Blue Flames. He moved on to the equally fine Roomful of Blues where his work with drummer John Rossi epitomized the classic “drag and push” of a first-rate rhythm section. He moved smoothly from electric bass to standup acoustic bass and his talent and skills blossomed. From there, Pinky moved to Austin, Texas, where he became a member of the Fabulous Thunderbirds and, along with Kim Wilson, Jimmy Vaughn and fellow Rhode Islander Franny Christina, helped shape the sound on their string of hit records. But he had his demons; his alcohol and drug use eventually caught up to him and, at its nadir, led to a stretch in a Texas prison. Those who loved Pinky thought that this would not end well but, miraculously, he pulled himself together (he wrote a painful and amazing account of his prison time for a newspaper series in Austin) and survived. He began playing again and, eventually, wound up in St. Louis where he lived and played for over a decade, a celebrated musician in that scene. Everywhere he went, he gained fans and friends who all felt as passionately about him as did his oldest friends from Rhode Island. So it was with ineffable sadness that we heard a few weeks ago that Preston Hubbard, 63, died of natural causes at his home in St. Louis. There are memorial events being planned in St. Louis, Austin and Providence for this much-loved musician. Our thoughts are with his brothers Paul and Jim, and we will inform you here of the Providence event when it is scheduled. So long, Pinky. It was our pleasure knowing you.