The intrepid driver stayed safely on the back roads until we reached Wickford at the trestle bridge over the harbor, where P. hopped out to join a bunch of people who were busy pulling a friend's car from a snow bank it had skidded into. Pitching in seemed like the right way to pay back the cosmos for an LSD-laced rescue.
By the next day, the sun was out, the local roads were plowed and, thank all gods, the liquor store was open. Phillipe and his roommate spent the morning doing flips off their back porch into an incredibly deep pile of snow and swanning down the middle of Main Street with glasses of cheap Gallo red wine in hand.
Two days later, P. had one of the oddest experiences in his time in Little Rhody when he hitched a ride north to Providence to see his then-girlfriend. He wound up walking into the city down the middle of Route 95 when the car couldn't go any further due to the snow and abandoned vehicles. If you have ever seen The Day After Tomorrow, you get the idea.
THE POISON PILL
Despite the joy surrounding the House's recent passage of same-sex marriage legislation, questions remain about its fate in the Senate.
Proponents are most worried about the wholehearted opposition of Senate President M. Teresa Paiva Weed (thoroughly explored in last week's Phoenix by news editor David Scharfenberg); Michael McCaffrey, chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee, and professional thug Senator Frank Ciccone, who wants a voter referendum on a constitutional amendment declaring marriage the union of a man and a woman.
The biggest fear is that the Judiciary Committee will attach a "poison pill" to the legislation ensuring its defeat, something like: "same-sex marriage will be legal, and we will also allow people to shoot each other's dogs whenever they feel like it."
That, or any similar addendum, would be an egregious affront to democracy.
An old soccer saying has anyone who knows little about the game believing "the ball moves because there is a frog inside it."
Well, it was only the frog contingent that was surprised when Europol recently declared that hundreds of professional matches across the continent had been fixed by underworld forces — including an Asian cartel — in recent years.
For decades, match-fixing has been a part of the game in Europe. P&J won't point fingers, but Greece and Italy, among others, will know whom we are talking about. And don't even think of looking too deeply into African or South American behavior.
This is just a case of the apple not falling far from the tree, though, as FIFA — the game's global governing body — is an atrocious conflagration of self-serving, power-hungry old men who you wouldn't let hold a dollar for you.
And that atrocious conflagration has some serious problems on its hands — not just match-fixing, but incidents of racism, which have largely vanished from American pro sports. (Let's put it this way: anyone at a recent live, stateside event heard fans making monkey noises or throwing bananas when a black player touches the ball? Thought as much. Not a good idea if you value your teeth.)
UEFA, European soccer's governing body, recently fined the Serbian Football Association $105,000 after fans racially abused English players in a match of Under-21 teams.