Water Street

By Rosalie Tirella

So about two years ago millionaire/Worcester old money-man Allen Fletcher sells “his” Worcester Magazine to the Kirk Davis/Gareth Charter/Holden Landmark crowd. All Worcester Magazine staffers interviewed. All editorial folks told they would be retained. In fact, each person is interviewed for a half hour, asked about his/her job, etc. People feel good; people feel secure and safe. Allen Fletcher writes a happy pappy farewell editorial assuring THE WORLD they are all in good hands with the Kirk Davis/Gareth Charter/Holden Ladmark pukes.

 Next week everyone is fired, except one reporter and sales reps. Bad feelings all the way around.

 Sales reps eventually say Fuck you Kirk Davis! and move on, too. This takes about eight months.

Next … Worcester Magazine cartoonist Doug Chapel, an artist/graphic designer who creates/draws “Action Geek,” a cartoon that had been running in Worcester Magazine for four or so years (for a whopping $50 per ‘toon - how cheap is rich boy Allen Fletcher?) receives an email from the new Worcester Magazine editor, Jim Keogh. Keogh was editor of the Holden Landmark for about 100 years and seems to have experience in running a paper, working with reporters. In his email Keogh tells Chapel he is fired.

Not very classy. Click to continue »

By Rosalie Tirella

Last issue of Worcester Mag (the “new” Worcester Magazine) had the paper’s newest reporter Jeremy Shulkin (they stay about a year at Worcester Mag these days) crowing about his job! Yes, said Jeremy “Skulk-in” (that’s what I call the dweeb) in his op/ed piece, it was great to be “in the club”! In fact, the header of Skulkin’s piece was called: “In The Club.” And so an insensitive, entitled, not very talented writer crowed about how it was great to be “connected” in Wormtown.

In his column, Shulkin bragged that at Worcester Mag’s Water Street office he had a desk with a view - that from it (with his feet propped up, no doubt!), he could look down upon Water Street and environs - the blossoming Canal District. Up high above, from his second or third floor perch, Jeremy could survey the little people of Worcester … his domain! Click to continue »

By Rosalie Tirella

What a dreadful cold spell. What an unlovely sight Wormtown is at tail’s end of winter. What better time - or so I thought, this afternoon - to treat myself to some real comfort food - a cheese omlette, bulkie roll and home fries at my favorite local hang out.

So there I am, on Water Street looking out the restaurant window, hunkering down, trying to avoid all the crap I have to contend with: the dog has cancer, the bills are paid but need more paying, mom has early dementia, guy pal will never get his shit together. Talking with another small biz owner earlier - we both pined for a vacation in sunnier climes. “I haven’t had a vacation in eight years!” he said. All this was weighing down on me … Would spring-time ever return, I wondered, and I looked out the restaurant window and saw ALLEN FLETCHER at the exact opposite side of the street.

He saw me. I saw him. I blanched. He - wearing his ridiculous black beret - gave me a big salute - the kind of salute Adolph Hitler gave his men before … gassing them.

I made a horrible face at him - and immediately lost my appetite.

My old neighborhood, my stomping grounds used to be hallowed ground, for me. Now it’s the Canal Distgrict (or shall we say Cabal District). Now, instead of a cool Jewish ghetto where (in the early part of the 20th century) hawkers lined the Water Street to sell fruits, vegetables, live (!) chickens and other necessities, we have Allen Fletcher in a black beret. Click to continue »