My inclusion in the story, which was mostly coincidence, was part of a P.R. feature they were doing on the National Weight Control Registry, for whom I once filled out a survey.  At some point, I accidentally checked-off that I would be willing to speak to reporters. I didn’t know the ProJo had any of those left.

I was also contacted by Roy Wallack, a journalist, exercise guru, and contributor on fitness to the Los Angeles Times. He is working on a book on weight loss, and shared some interesting conclusions of his own with me, based on a recent Harvard University study.

It took two years, but now, it seems everyone wants to know how I did it. It was actually much easier than I thought it would be. So people will stop asking, here is some advice you, too, can follow to lose your own 100 pounds.

Step 1 – Do not follow my advice. I am not a doctor, I have never played one on TV and what I know about medicine I learned from the Internet and those exploitative shows about conjoined twins on The Learning Channel. I have a primary care physician at the moment  who I like, but the last one treated me with a backpack full of questionable pharmaceuticals, soaked my insurance company, then dumped me and his practice to open a weight-loss clinic. I am medically ignorant, yet abashed by the irony.

I am not fat. I am big boned.

Step 2 — Gain 100 pounds — You can’t lose what you don’t have, and if you only weigh 150 pounds to start, this will likely kill you, which may not be a good thing, unless you are that ass who cut me off near Route 37 in Garden City last week. Go eat some lettuce, you scrawny, emaciated  bastard! Gaining 100 pounds can be an enjoyable hobby  — I once polished-off  48 oz’s of prime rib at Austin’s Steakhouse in Albuquerque, and was rewarded by the restaurant with a free dessert — and the dessert was so good, I ate my wife’s, too. Statistically, the weight I lost is equivalent to that of an entire European supermodel (not one of those cute, hair-blowing-in-the-wind, aloof-looking ones, but one of those skanky, sunken-eyed, heroin chic ones). My personal weight gain occurred gradually, 4 or 5 pounds per year  across 25 years. Those who see me every day barely noticed the change. Being 6 ’4″, I was often told I “carried it well.” And I now know that “carried it well” is a euphemism for “holy crap, you’re fat.”

Step 3 — Eat Less — Don’t put so much food in your mouth.

Step 4 — Don’t Worry About the Holidays. I learned that there are 3,500 calories in a pound of fat. So if you blame those high-calorie Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners as the reason you gained 100 pounds, put on your magic hat and polish off a few more pies, Frosty. I have learned that weight loss and maintenance are about the other 1,000 meals you eat the rest of the year, and whether you have good, daily, balanced eating habits. So instead, put down the Diet Coke and enjoy the eggnog,  then go home and throw away the bag of Ruffles and boxes of Reese’s Pieces hidden in the broom closet.

Step 5 — Run around More. Exercise sucks. In New England, it’s either too cold or too hot to be outdoors, and since no one knows how to drive anyway, every walking or running activity is abound with the stench of danger, fear, doom and Johnston’s Central Landfill. (Little known fact: Hitler could have used the Central Landfill to help build his master race! Just ask our local State Rep. Mike Chippendale…)

Johnston's Central Landfill: Creating a fuhror.

And if you elect to frequent the local gyms, you are more than likely going to bring home  athlete’s foot, head lice, a beefy same-sex date, or all three.  But exercise is a critical and key ingredient in the weight loss brew… but not for reasons you might think.

That recent study out of Harvard University I mentioned suggests that the reason exercise is important as a component of weight loss has little to do with calorie-burning or the alleged euphoric feeling that the compulsive exercise addicts claim (with a straight face) you get from working out. The vast majority of those surveyed who maintained significant weight loss relied on some sort of consistent exercise program. And the most popular? Walking! But wouldn’t you need to walk half way around the planet to burn that many calories? Well it seems that regular, repetitive exercise creates a physiological change in the part of the brain that is responsible for executive function. Simply put, exercising may improve concentration and determination, as an unexpected side effect, not only helping you stay on a calorie-reduction program, but also helping you accomplish great things, start businesses, or finish life-long projects… like writing the Great American Novel.

Shopping Maul

Buy Local — Why do I seem to be the only one not to get the buy local campaigns? On its face, they sound like a great idea — why spend my hard-earned dollar in Providence Place or on Amazon.com  if I can support one of the bustling three or four stores occasionally open right here in Chepachet! I get that part. But doesn’t “shop local” also mean that people from Worcester or Putnam will stop coming to Chepachet, and shop in their own obsolete, dreary downtowns?  The effort all  seems circular to me and represents a collective waste of energy  better focused on improving prices and service.

Things That Go Bump in the Night — An era ended quietly this Fall when The Town removed the speed bumps from the end of Absalona Hill Road near Route 44. No longer will residents be able to sheer off their mufflers and set their minivans onto their front grills as they speed through the countryside. The nearly invisible, badly-signed bumps have been the bane of commuters since they were installed, and we will now, sadly, have only our repair bills and memories to honor them.

"Through tattered clothes, small vices do appear."

In the News — Eagle-eyed friends, relatives, and those who still pay attention to local TV news coverage may have caught a glimpse of yours truly on a number of local stations last week including Channels 11, 12, 10, 6 as well as www.GoLocalProv.com, rallying the cause of my new employer Big Brothers Big Sisters, who were recently victimized by the theft of bins and donations meant to fund mentoring programs for kids. Can there be any act more shameless than stealing from needy children? Perhaps not. But in the spirit of this season of shamelessness,  look for me to make another surprise, self-indulgent media appearance in the feature section of next Tuesday’s Providence Journal.

Trash Talking

Dumps – Is an unpopular “Pay As You Throw” trash program the inevitable result of a poorly operated transfer station, an irrelevant Town Council whose messages are ignored, an apathetic populace too lazy and self-indulgent to sort out their own bottles and cans, or perhaps all three? Despite the grumbling, evidence is clear that “Pay As You Throw” programs not only work but show dramatically positive results — and if you don’t like it, you can just dump your stuff over the border into the woods in Burrillville.

It's the End of the World As We Know It

REM — In September, after 31 years together, REM announced it was disbanding. The news came as a shock to many who thought the band disbanded years ago. But no matter how irrelevant and uninspired their songs had become in the modern era, their influence on rock is permanent, and deserving of Rolling Stone Magazine once calling them the greatest rock band in the world. REM invented and defined the sound of music for my generation. So beware, that ear-splitting sound you hear in the middle of the night may not be the screeching mating call of the fisher cat after all, but might just be me with my guitar in my basement belting out one last cover of, What’s the Frequency Kenneth.

Rep Chippendale: Dancing Around the Real Issue

Connecticut Junkies — A rash of serial break-ins in the Foster area in October inspired State Representative Mike Chippendale to alert his friends and constituents, via email,to be alert and lock their doors –  a bit of absolutely wise advice, of which my family has dutifully followed. However, the eyebrow-raising part of his message surprisingly identified the bad guys, “...when we see serial break-ins, it’s usually junkies from over the CT border…” Egad! Who knew all those old people driving down 395 to Foxwoods were heroin addicts! Considering Foster has had its own share of serious crime stories this year, and the recent and troubling raid in Chepachet that netted marijuana, cocaine and two semi-automatic pistols, Rep. Chippendale’s finger pointing at “them” and not “us” not only demonizes whole communities who are more than likely innocent, but also provides a false sense of security in our own communities where the real culprits may lie.

The War on Christmas

Out on a Limb — I have been baffled at the attention everyone is giving Governor Chafee’s big, dead evergreen at the Rhode Island State House. Rather than express my opinion on whether  to call it a “Holiday Tree” or a “Christmas Tree” I’ll say this. I know how hard it is to motivate people to volunteer, coach Little League, help at their schools or mentor a child in need. So when people who are enamored with their own self-righteousness are suddenly motivated to show up and rudely interrupt the Rhode Island Children’s Chorus with a protest-inspired rendition of Oh, Christmas Tree, I know, at least, what I want to call them.

The New Book — Many have asked, and yes, my new novel is underway! But it will not be a sequel to Confessions of the Meek and the Valiant. The new book is titled Manisses and if successful, I hope it will change how people view history and their role in it. But don’t worry, it won’t be some boring textbook — there will be Indians, pirates, spiritual channelers, shipwrecks, lobsters and lots of other fun stuff, too. I promise.

Association of Rhode Island Authors

Come join me this Saturday and Sunday at the Johnston Apple Festival, along with Rhode Island authors Lynne Holden, Erin Whalen,  Jo-Anne DeGiacomo-Petrie and others, as we sign and sell copies of our new books. The special group signing is brought to you by the Association of Rhode Island Authors (ARIA) — a recently organized collection of local writers interested in selling and promoting their works, and who have recognized that it is time that Rhode Island authors stand up and take their place in the state’s vibrant arts community. There are over 20 published RI authors who have voiced their support to the new organization.

The formation of ARIA is partly in response to the upheaval that is underway in the publishing world. It is difficult to explain why revenue from adult fiction sales (according to the New York Times) is up 8.8% the past three years, while companies like Borders are liquidated through the bankruptcy courts. The answer has something to do with the 300 year-old business model that doesn’t include little old ladies in retirement homes huddled around  Kindles. To make a long story short, power has shifted from the Publishers and Booksellers to the Writers and Readers.

Gaelic Breath

The Apple Festival will be held at Johnston Memorial Park on Saturday and Sunday (9/24 & 9/25) from 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. each day. If you cannot attend, come see me at the Harmony Library next Wednesday, September 28 at 6:30 p.m. where I’ll be reading from Confessions of the Meek and the Valiant as part of the Harmony Library’s “New Authors Series.”  (NEWS UPDATE: Sources have confirmed that Dawn’s delicious Irish soda bread will be making an encore appearance.)

Tuesday night, Harmony’s own Lynne Holden read at the Harmony Library from her recently published memoir, The Pastor Has Gorgeous Legs. For those of you who missed it, shame on you. It was a treat.

One of the unexpected side effects of this new power shift? Many of these emerging, new works — once ignored or suppressed by the status quo — just happen to be pretty good.

Your power will be restored by Friday.

There was much we learned from Hurricane Irene. We learned that neighbors are always willing to help neighbors. We learned how to light kerosene lanterns without setting ourselves ablaze the way our ancestors did. We learned how to check email on cell phones from the front seat of our cars in the dark. We learned that the stupid traffic light at the intersection of 44 and 102 is unnecessary. We learned what it takes to make people who make over $250k per year to line up at Red Cross trailers to get free lunches and non-potable pond water. We learned that the new DePetrillo’s Pizza & Bakery in Chepachet was closed for serving unsafe food that could make you sick . (Attention Health Department, really, it’s OK.., those pizza strips are supposed to taste that way, and always make your stomach rumble even on good days. You are ruining the denouement.)

And we learned that in the absence of any quality puns for the word “Irene,” the chronically lazy of the world adopted the moldy, nauseating  Dexy’s Midnight Runners’ hit Come on Eileen to fill the void. (Acceptable, of course, only if you are willing to sing it karaoke-style with one of those racist, fake-Asian accents.)

In its aftermath, we are now left with piles of dead batteries, several cord of free firewood and a petty political storm of protest that would have made old Thomas Wilson Dorr burrow deeper into his grave. (Outlaw Governor Dorr is buried in Providence’s Swan Point Cemetery in a neighborhood that did not lose power.)

Branch Managers

But when it leaked out that National Grid intended to re-connect our  northwest corner of the state last, based on the concept that no one actually lives out here, and not on the fact that we simply have more trees, our elected wooden Indians suddenly came to life to wag their termite-infested index fingers in disgust. The whining even caused Governor Chafee to pack his overnight bag and come all the way from Providence out to Harmony Farms to see for himself what a felled and broken apple tree looked like. Like Governor Dorr, Governor Chafee never lost power at his house either.

So now Sen. John Tassoni of Smithfield is chairing a state senate  inquiry into the response to Irene. Possessing no political influence is OK when things are calm, but when it is unwittingly revealed during a crisis, it is unacceptable. Someone must be blamed. When the kids are home, campaign donors must maintain Xbox Live service at all times.  Memo to Foster, Glocester, Smithfield, et al.– work on that political influence thing before the next big natural disaster.

I waited to write this hoping it to be the last word on Hurricane Irene. No such luck. Sen. Tassoni will extract his pound of flesh, fry it up on

A Dark & Stormy Knight

an old propane grill, and sell it to the highest bidder. National Grid and EMA will stand chastised and we will hear it over and over again throughout the next election cycle. And when both the Chepachet River Bridge and Chestnut Hill Bridge construction projects miss their deadlines as we all knew they would, they will have their patsy, the maladroit Irene, to blame.

If you were one of those who found something better to do on an 80 degree, sunny, summer afternoon, here’s what you missed (besides the chance to buy the next Great American Novel) –  rum pudding, rhubarb crumble, Panforte,  Gamberi e Fagioli, Insalata di Olive, Crema Formaggio all’Olio, Irish soda bread and much more.  All the Irish and Italian recipes were homemade (by Dawn) and were more interesting and popular than the novel’s author.

So if you still need a copy of Confessions of the Meek and the Valiant, Brown and Hopkins has them in stock, as does Amazon in both paperback and for download to your Kindle. And if you would prefer one signed and personalized, I will be doing several bookstore and library readings over the coming weeks, including Barnes & Noble in Warwick and Tatnuck Booksellers in Westborough, Mass. (near Worcester). My next event is at 6 p.m. on Tuesday, September 13 at the Lincoln Public Library. The complete schedule is posted on my website, www.stevenporter.com.

Thank you again to everyone who came by and helped Dawn and I enjoy a great day!

Bustling downtown Chepachet

Come down to Brown & Hopkins, this Saturday, August 20 from 11 a.m. to 1 p.m., and help Dawn and I celebrate the release of my novel “Confessions of the Meek & the Valiant.” I will be happy to sign and personalize your copy, and the store will have plenty of additional copies on hand for purchase. (Books are on the shelf now if you want to grab one early!)

The event also gives us an opportunity to thank everyone for their support and encouragement throughout this project, and to thank all the first readers for the wonderful reviews.

Those of you who have read the book know that the book’s main characters always seem to be eating. So as a special treat, Dawn will be preparing a few tasty Irish and Italian snacks for everyone to sample. (So you better get there early!)

If you have never been to award-winning Brown & Hopkins before, it is the oldest store in continuous operation in the United States. Even if you don’t want to see me, the store alone is well worth the trip — a treat unto itself.

Bring a friend, as everyone is welcome. I am looking forward to seeing you all there!

“Is this where they murdered the nice elephant, daddy?”

“Yes, Junior. Just imagine the entrails from that ol’  girl spread from here to the liquor store.  Hey look over there… there’s a giant potato commemorating it. Gimme the camera.”

It looked like the village’s economic recovery was just around the corner.

Mashed, baked or fried?

But the shrieks of joy and relief were quickly replaced by groans of anguish as the new construction zone not only chewed-up its share of the already limited public parking, but also turned the village’s primary thoroughfare into a virtual one-way street, knotting traffic in every imaginable direction.  And making matters worse is the schizophrenic construction schedule that seems to coincide with the local shopkeepers busiest days. Even the proverbial chicken refuses to cross this street to buy an antique.

And up the road just a mile or two, construction continues on the old Chestnut Hill Bridge near the town transfer station , closing off one of the village’s few viable escape routes. The whole traffic nightmare  is either incredibly short-sighted, inauspicious bad timing, or a fiendish plot by residents of Chepachet to keep residents of West Glocester from procreating with residents of Harmony.

And don’t believe for a moment this is a short-term crisis. Word is that the moment both bridges are complete, long-awaited and essential work will begin on repaving Route 102 and rebuilding the death-defying sidewalks that wind through the center of town.

Now when the city folk are faced with such traffic dilemmas, they are encouraged to take public transportation. And of course in a bold and ill-timed announcement, RIPTA stated this week that, to save money,  it wants to eliminate the Route 9 bus from Pascoag through Chepachet – the only RIPTA bus serving the area.

Alas, there may be no escape from this downtown road rage for a good long time. So before someone puts up another plaque, I propose a fundamental design change to the Glocester town seal. Hence our children, like the elephant, will never forget.

Welcome to Chepachet! Please go around.

Save on shipping when ordered in bulk!

And so be it.

Twenty-five years ago, I decided to write a novel. At the time I had no idea what I would write about but I knew I would some day get it done. Every few years or so, I would sit down and begin, etch out a few paragraphs of incoherent drivel, then launch the project into the nearest circular file. But when I sat down in the fall of 2010 something was different. The words flowed. This time when I began I couldn’t stop, and sometime around Christmas, I had a completed 125,000 word manuscript. How about that.

For all you uppish English majors out there, the novel’s theme centers around perceptions of good and evil. It’s part morality tale and part coming-of-age story as seen through a haze of loyalty and family values. For the rest of you, it’s a faced-paced story about a kid from a big South Boston Irish family who gets caught up in the chaos of the Italian underworld in New York. It includes some sex, violence, intrigue, romance and some really awesome food.

The book is available locally in paperback at Brown and Hopkins Country Store in Chepachet for $17.95. It can also be ordered from Amazon.com.  It is available to order at Barnes & Noble too, and hopefully, will be on their shelves very soon. (Feel free to harass them for me.) And if you own a Kindle, Nook, iPad, or any other form of electronic witchcraft, visit my personal website for the appropriate download link.

The book has only been out for a couple of weeks, but the response has already been tremendous. I thank you. Order early… order often. You will enjoy it.

Confessions of the Meek & the Valiant
A novel by Steven R. Porter
July 2011
1-46354-200-3
$17.95 (paperback)
$4.99 (e-book)

Salty Brine & Larry Kruger

The passing of Rhode Island radio legend Larry Kruger, along with the recent celebration of Rhode Island’s two over-hyped yet venerable parades — Chepachet’s Ancients and Horribles and Bristol’s Annual 4th of July Celebration — revived an old, repressed memory within me much like one might recall a greasy Chelo’s cheeseburger the morning after eating one.

First a little background for those who are not fluent in the finer points of Rhode Island culture. Larry Kruger is a member of the Rhode Island Radio Hall of Fame, and is best known as Salty Brine’s sidekick on Providence’s famed WPRO morning show. (Larry would be the guy who read all the other “no school’ announcements before Salty would chortle his hackneyed “No School Foster-Glocester” tag line.) Before the Internet era, this was the only way to find out of school was in session following a big snowstorm  — critical information to anyone under age 12.

Back in 1987 while I was on summer break from URI, I and two friends volunteered to drive golf carts for the VFW in the Bristol 4th of July Parade on behalf of several disabled WWII veterans unable to march. It was my second visit to the Bristol parade. A few years earlier, I worked as a frustrated balloon vendor, selling helium-filled fun to drunks at 4:30 in the morning. (I would learn later, that both Chepachet’s and Bristol’s parades are steeped in an age-old tradition of alcohol binging, except in Bristol, the imbibed town fathers don’t drink enough to put on lingerie and join in the parade themselves.)

Eat, Drink and be Mary.

I reached the Bristol parade route on time, claimed my golf cart, and took my position in the staging area. A sharply uniformed veteran approached with a cane, assisted by two friends who eased the man, painfully, into my cart. I regret that I don’t remember his name, but he told me he served in the Pacific theater during the war, and had received his Purple Heart at Guadal Canal. He was a stern, thin and proud man, and we chatted for about a half hour as we waited for our turn to join the esteemed parade procession.

As the parade began I was moved by the broad show of patriotism and support these veterans received. The parade route was jam-packed with happy, sweaty, sun block-lathered spectators, and at the site of our small group, without prompting, everyone would jump to their feet and cheer. My veteran waved stiffly, without even a hint of emotion. It was both emotional and inspiring to watch this play out every tenth of a mile.

And then the crowd started chanting, “Salty… Salty… Salty.”

Coming up behind me, on foot at full gallop, was Salty and Larry. The WPRO morning show team were late, victims of the notorious Metacom Avenue traffic,  and had missed their corporate float which was somewhere up near the front of the long procession.

“We need your cart,” Larry said with a sense of panic in his smooth, easily recognizable voice. “You have to get us to our float.”

“I can’t do that.” I responded. “The cart belongs to the VFW. There isn’t room in the cart for all of us. And I can’t leave this veteran behind.”

Before I was aware of what was happening, Larry had pulled the confused yet cooperative veteran out of his seat and helped Salty into it. Larry then hopped into the back of the cart and ordered me forward with the wave of one arm like Custer ordering his horse to charge at Little Bighorn.

“Hurry! We’re in big trouble.”

Without any real options, or considering the consequences, I floored it. The little electric motor hissed. I turned to glance back at my veteran and saw he looked a bit confused and was now limping through the street, chin up, still stoically waving to the adoring crowd. Unfortunately, I realized later, his cane was lying across the floor of my cart.

The Deathmobile

Eager to return back to my honored and proper place in the convoy, I floored my vehicle into the belly of parade itself, reminiscent of the final scene in Animal House. Salty grabbed my arm and Larry grabbed the back of my shirt. I darted in, about, around and through all manner of parade participant, dodging high school tuba players, skidding past angry fez-adorned Shriners in those adorable little cars of theirs, and almost squashing a little girl holding one of those loathed helium filled balloons I used to sell. When in full pageantry, I discovered the parade route is very narrow. A cheer would rise every few moments as the crowd recognized my uncomfortable, flailing passengers. I believe they assumed we were just part of the show.

“Hey, look! There goes Salty!” People shouted as we zipped past. Salty waved and forced smiles from behind his terror. No one recognized Larry.

It took some time to reach the big WPRO float, a gaudily decorated flatbed trailer pulled be a large Kenworth cab. Salty and Larry hopped out of my cart and climbed through a waterfall of red, white and blue streamers to board the trailer without any acknowledgment or thank you. At least relieved I had delivered my payload alive and unharmed, I drove back through the parade to re-locate my hobbling veteran, hoping he wasn’t lying in a gutter somewhere. If this man could survive Guadal Canal, he would be OK alone in Bristol.., probably.

I found the old man well and reloaded him into my cart. He didn’t speak to me for the rest of the parade, no doubt miffed at my unwillingness to defend him from the impetuous deejays. We pushed forward to the end, and as before, exuberant cheers and applause rose from the masses and greeted our every turn. When we reached the parade’s finish line, it was clear the poor, old gentleman was tired and had had enough. It had been an exhausting day. Other volunteers helped him out of the cart, and he politely thanked me as he hobbled away, cane back in hand. In the rear of the cart, I noticed he had forgot his bag.

Angry Beaver

“Sir, wait… you forgot your bag!” I yelled.

“Sorry. That’s not my bag.” He tersely responded back.

Inside, I found a cardigan sweater and two neatly packed lunches. Oh, great. The bag belonged to Salty and Larry.

I looked ahead at the crowd which now, with hundreds of colorful parade participants randomly mingling together, resembled a scene copied from the pages of a Richard Scarry children’s book. I felt a responsibility to rush ahead and find the WPRO float to return their belongings. My hands now reeked of sun-baked tuna. The cart lurched forward and I began the arduous task of swimming in and out of the great sea of people. The going was slow, and no doubt, the big trailer at the front of the parade was moving farther away. I pulled the cart up onto the sidewalk and made up some ground, clipping a few unmanned lawn chairs along the way. Now spectators were flowing in and adding to the chaos, and cars were trying to edge their way onto the main street. I cut off many of them. I darted, weaved and wiggled my way to the center traffic lane where there was a small opportunity to gain ground through the heart of the gridlock. I struggled dangerously forward.

Sensory overload can be educational and fun!

I drove for at least a mile, and I saw ahead in the bumper-to-bumper traffic, the rear of the WPRO float at a stop light. I pressed the gas pedal to the floor and tried to catch the truck before the light turned green. I thought I could smell electric wires burning. The cart was not long for this world. If it was a horse, they might shoot it.

When I reached the trailer in triumph, bag held high overhead, it was abandoned, and Salty and Larry were gone. I handed the bag to the truck driver who assured me he would personally hand-deliver the package to them back at the station first thing in the morning. He promised.

***

I slept late that next day, as lazy college kids often do, and was awakened well after noon by a phone call from one of the friends who had volunteered with me the day before.

“Did you hear them this morning?” He asked, ridicule hanging thick in his voice.

“What are you talking about?”

“Salty and Larry. They devoted their whole morning show to you.”

“They did what?”

“They spent two hours this morning complaining about the crazy college kid in a golf cart who nearly killed them and stole their lunches. It was hysterical. They raked you over the coals. And Larry wants his sweater back.”

The moral of the story is to never trust anyone who drives anything in a parade.

***

Now the title of this article includes mention of Jerry Mathers. Jerry Mathers, who everyone knows played the title role in television’s classic Leave it to Beaver, was a special parade grand marshal that day. I have no idea what connection he has to Bristol, or Independence Day, but I do know he has unusually large feet. In my haste to reach that trailer and return the bag, I might have run over one or both of them. I am not sure. I didn’t stop to ask, and I think The Beaver flipped me off.

Don't call me Clarence

And then a few years later, I had lunch with Frank Bank at a book convention in Chicago. Frank was promoting his biography: Call Me Lumpy. You may remember Frank as the actor who played Clarence “Lumpy” Rutherford on Leave it To Beaver. I told him this story and he said no, he thinks Jerry just wears large shoes to make himself feel taller, and he invited me to meet him for dinner some night at Boston’s Durgin-Park.

But I guess that’s a story for another day.

My friend in Pascoag got an ATV for his wife. He says it was a good trade.

It is an indisputable sign of Summer to see the rich, abundant and majestic wildlife of Northern Rhode Island — deer, squirrel, rabbit chipmunk, wild turkey, raccoon, skunk, geese, fisher, opossum, fox and coyote –  being chased through the wilderness by hooligans on ATV’s. No story there. But faced with a slow news cycle, the intrepid investigative reporters from the big city have ventured forth and uncovered the startling realization that citizens here in the outback actually ride around on these ATV’s for fun, and, on occasion, get in trouble with them.

As reported n the Woonsocket Call and the Providence Journal, police in Harrisville recently arrested five men and an eleven year-old boy for riding ATV’s and dirt bikes through the streets, eluding police and creating a general nuisance. And then in Foster, WJAR-TV Channel 10 reported that a teen was badly injured riding his ATV through the woods when it slammed into a tree. Who knew tress could be so dangerous?!

My God… the uninformed might start to think that’s all we do out here.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I–
I took the one less traveled by,
On a Kawasaki Sport KFX 450R.