Tuesday, May 03, 2005

Stop Bert Cecconi Signs: More Shenanigans in Dist. 8

Seems old Bert Cecconi has his own approach to Stop Art Hall, just tear down Art’s signs. I’ve been driving by Art Hall signs on Dreamland and on Callaghan for weeks. But now most of these small Art signs have mysteriously disappeared and giant Bert Cecconi signs have magically turned up in the exact same locations. I don’t have specific knowledge other than what I see just driving by, but if I was Art, I’d be suspicious of coincidences, since someone in his district doesn’t seem to want to play fair.

As I’ve said before, I’m agnostic about District 8, but tearing down Art’s signs is not only chicken$*#%, it is illegal as well. Before you vote for Bert ask yourself if you want a criminal in office. It may not be Bert’s doing directly, but I’ll bet he isn’t loosing any sleep over the shenanigans being pulled for his benefit.

At the risk of offending my Italian-American brethren, I will recount something I was once told by my full-blooded Dego father. I asked him why he wouldn’t be voting for Frank Lombardino back in the 70’s. His answer floored me. He said, “Never vote for an Italian son.” My dad is a notorious Italophile, so coming from him this was an astounding statement. When I asked why, he quoted Federico Fellini, “Italy is a nation of actors. The worst of whom are on stage.” He added, “An Italian politician will look you in the face, smile and tell you the moon is made of green cheese.” He continued, “If you want a fine tailor, architect, interior decorator, or an engineer, go first to the Italians son. But never ask one of us to hold your wallet.” He didn’t know the first thing about Lombardino’s politics, and he didn’t care.

I know that his observations were a gross overgeneralization, and life experience has taught me that all politicians will try and sell you the Brooklyn Bridge. But driving down Dreamland and Callaghan these days I keep thinking of my Papa’s politically incorrect admonition. To this day, while I would be more than willing to buy a new car from a man named Ferrari, I confess I would be very reluctant to by a used car from a man named Cecconi.