Inexplicably, Rhode Islanders intermittently convene for no reason other than to watch others convene, mill around, sit placidly, or stuff faces, while some march streets beating drums, blaring brass or car horns, blocking traffic, or shooting weapons, stuff otherwise deemed annoying, frightening or illegal. Supposedly, everyone loves a parade. State is
famous for nation’s oldest run annually from 1785 or so on pertinacious impetus in Bristol. Independence, Memorial and St. Patrick’s Days are similarly marked in other locales. Such gatherings have existed since primitive times but usually as appeasements to angry spirits or fertility rights. Don’t expect to meet anyone attractive; generally they’re populated by misshapen married couples and rambunctious prepubescent children. In 1995 this discriminatory oversight was partially remedied by the
Foo Fest outside AS220 in downtown Providence, where slacker teens and young adults can mingle and shuffle until wee hours to ear splitting noise stalked by homeless crackheads and middle-aged creeps.
Precedent European festivals morphed from medieval liturgical rites to modern vernacular revels. Here they come in several flavors: arts, crafts, farm, film, food, history, music, saints and sports, stuff definitely worth celebrating. Almost all involve anachronistic cacophonous music and questionably palatable snacks. Oddly, parish patrons are honored in the same fashion, when rock & roll was once denounced from pulpits. Rhode Islanders no longer recognize science or technology, which over a century ago made state the nation’s richest per capita but during last several decades reversed to poorest, unless you consider musters of vintage vehicles parked for fatuous fans to drool over and wax nostalgically. Can’t imagine how to classify air shows or balloon rallies except for dangerously unnecessary, while Waterfires arguably fall under paeans to air pollution or an umbrella of Fluxus art.
Similarly, a Memorial Day exhibition of “Boots on the Ground” (shown) reminded everyone of their debt to nearly seven thousand Americans from every military branch who’ve died in this century’s
War on Terror. Naturally, donations from the few who attended didn’t cover costs, because people would rather not know how their luxuries are secured. In the same decades and a half these fatalities are dwarfed by a half million victims of motor vehicle crashes, though both part of a continuing holocaust offered to their chief god, Big Oil. With 4 million accidents annually nationwide, pedestrians in boots fare better than motorists with butts in cars.
Around nation locals tend to honor whatever sustains them. Often that means agriculture and ranching.
Not to be outdone, Rhode Island has its week long Washington County Fair every August, though neighboring states have bigger versions soon thereafter within short driving distances. Come September farmer markets pop up around cities. Arrive on foot, follow your nose, and taste samples from stall to tent. With farm-to-table all the rage, you assume freshness but question comparative quality, high prices, and lack of refrigeration or sanitation. Patrons buy to support local agriculture lest open expanses become housing developments. But prices reduce by half if you visit actual farms with their inherent odors and intimidating remoteness. Up in Woonsocket you can watch cows being milked at Wright’s Farm, though aromas might put you off a pastry shop purchase. Or you can visit your neighborhood supermarket, where exactly the same produce is sold at competitive prices.
Why so many arts events? Nonprofits exist to draw federal grants for which only nonprofits can apply. Once secured, some must be spent demonstrably, and what better proof do they need than another public event crammed into jammed calendar. Summer is prime time, though events occur year round. Just don’t bother trying to join vendors, as all spots are already taken by insiders whose families stole land from natives in distant past.
Consequently, nothing cutting edge, the very definition of art, will ever be shown, rather inferior examples of outmoded tastes with a paint-by-number and velvet elvis vibe. Scituate includes a few fine arts in its primarily craft fair and flea market, whereas Wickford limits recycled junk to stores already serving that purpose, though both focus on hackneyed commerce over ineffable expressions. Food concessions outsell frustrated artists, who retreat with wares to small galleries in seaside tourist traps. Museums at least purport to collect worthwhile examples, though upon huge endowments they preferentially treat the rich with token free admissions which the poor still can’t afford. Pawtucket, with over 600 working artists, used to sponsor a workspace crawl, where you could get to know artist personally, the best reason to collect art, but corporate sponsors probably didn’t figure it was well managed and participants concluded money and time spent weren’t delivering sales results in a depressed economy.
These are not the only assemblies that occur, with micro-scale
social media meet-ups occurring daily, sometimes planned to visit festivals as a group with ease of parking and safety in numbers in mind. Often small fees are levied to join, then members wait forever for something to occur that fits their busy schedule and promises proximity to someone with whom they’d want to spend time. Unfortunately, there are no celebrity meet-ups, though there are rigged raffles at which you can throw money with a remote chance of receiving a brief greeting backstage or before party.
The above examples prove that you can’t rate festivals. Everyone has own reason to attend and size hardly matters, since you really meet only a few among a throng. You’d think theme events would attract likeminded patrons, but chances of succeeding commercially would thereby be limited. Your best bets for social success are cash clubs, private parties, or staying home.
