Phillipe and Jorge decided to take a short vacation to Florida for a little fun in the sun now that the weather is, as P.'s sainted mother would say, "turning to shit" in the Biggest Little. So naturally, it was ultra-civilized West Palm Beach ho! for your intrepid duo.
We immediately stopped by our old pal Donald Trump's digs to say "hi," but it turned out he was busy overseeing the ferret-kill for his latest hair-do. Likewise no luck at Casa Limbaugh, where we dropped by to try to score some OxyContin.
Seeking simpler pursuits, we headed to the golf course, where we encountered a number of Rhode Islanders ensconced in the federal witness relocation program. On our first round at Okeeheelee (seriously) Golf Club, we were catered to by the top dog in the pro shop, who used to work in Newport and live in Portsmouth; we had a starter who used to dock his boat at Bannister's Wharf; and we were paired up with a hustler from Providence who grew up on Charles Street and another gentleman whose daughter-in-law attended Brown Med School for three years. We were expecting Bob Urciuoli to clean our golf bags when we got in, or at least to see GOP sacrificial lamb Kerry King knocking down a few martinis in the clubhouse.
What always impresses P+J when we dabble in Palm Beach society is that there are more plastic surgery procedures on parade at one cocktail lounge than at a Kardashian family reunion. To wit: P. once encountered the strangest looking chihuahua he had ever laid eyes upon. Inquiring of the aged dowager who owned the pooch, she told us that it was actually a Shar Pei. Turns out that, after consulting a "dog whisperer," she determined the dog was very ill at ease with his wrinkles and ears and yearned to look more like his Mexican brethren. So she sent him for a major nip 'n' tuck for only 100 grand. Money well spent, opined P. through tears of laughter.
Eventually, sick of pomp and pretense, P&J decided to take to the other side of the tracks in search of la vida loca. But the "Salsa Fest" we found was little more than a seedy carnival operated by Sling Blade-esque crackers who made the northern carnies look like members of the House of Lords.
So it was back to Little Rhody for Thanksgiving, where we will offer thanks for the comparatively small number of nose jobs, facelifts, and cancer tans; for our ability to amble about without FBI-supplied disguises; and for the opportunity to find romantic partnerships outside of the extended family.
Oh, and we did manage to get our cars registered while we were in Florida. Livin' large, folks, livin' large.
KUDOS AND CONGRATS . . .
. . . to the producers of Boston television's Phantom Gourmet show, who showed the good sense to dedicate their entire hour program this past weekend to Vo Dilun and, in particular, Providence restaurants. They got a lot of stuff right, featuring such really cool local spots as the Liberty Elm Diner, Tini, LJ's BBQ, the glories of Federal Hill, and Jigger's Diner in East Greenwich. Sad to say, there wasn't nearly enough time to really get into the Rhody eating experience. But there were cameo appearances from some of the usual suspects when it comes to RI eating: the Bud-I strolling the Hill and ubiquitous Bob Burke lopping off yet another champagne top.