Many Rhode Islanders suffer from obsessive, compulsive license plate disorder. Symptoms include: 1) A belief that status in this state hinges, not on the kind of car you drive, but on having the lowest possible number on the license plate hanging under it. 2) A belief that the world wants to know that you are the RI-BADBOY or RI-HOTCHIK. 3) A belief that your closest relative didn't truly love you if he/she didn't bequeath the rights to their plate number or vanity message.
Our license plate angst is historic. The state's official colors are blue and white, but from 1972 to 1980 Rhody's license plate colors were black and white - because most of the state legislators were Providence College men's basketball fans. But things are better now. From a graphic design standpoint, few states can match the blue wave on the current edition of the Rhody plate. And in recent years, legislators have offered up the state plate to local charities. The R.I. Community Food Bank raised money with a Mr. Potato Head license plate. Save the Bay followed up with an environmentally friendly Osprey plate. Now lawmakers have introduced legislation allowing the state Division of Motor Vehicles to issue a special license plate to benefit Providence WaterFire. An extra $40 surcharge would support the popular bonfire-world music carnival, with half the money going to the state's general fund and the other half to WaterFire organizers.
The mottoes may change (just as "Discover Rhode Island" gave way to "The Ocean State") but the mores never will. How does a state solve a $434 million budget deficit? One license plate at a time.
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2 comments:
When I was creative director for an ad agency up in Hartford, I came up with a parody Connecticut plate slogan.
Live Well Or Die
It was a thinly veiled jab at the yuppie/Rolex/BMW crowd, of which I was a card carrying member.
The line caught the attention of the Hartford CBS affiliate. I was interviewed, filmed. My 15 minutes of fame and all that. Other side of coin: The agency I was working for was in the process of merging with a larger firm, which was pitching the state's economic development account. The state official who'd make the call on who got the account was interviewd by the same reporter who got me on tape. Asked what he thought of Live Well Or Die, he said, " Not much. "
The five minute segment aired the next night, as I and the ad agency big wigs sat around at a retreat in Madison, Connecticut. It was our first official night together.
As we watched the news, I thought: The copy writing is on the wall; I'm not long for this ( ad ) world.
I was right.
That's my license plate story.
Sounds like my experience as a "news" director for a college in New Hampshire. Over the years, the school paid thousands of dollars for consultants that came and went and slogans that came and went to try to improve our image and attract big-money donors. We did ads, radio spots, newspaper tours - the whole dog-and-pony act. Instead of simply telling the stories of students, faculty, staff and alumni who had stories to tell. I made the decision to quit the job and say goodbye to good money and security one night when I was in a local bar and a student described a ridiculous experience with the school's bureaucracy. I went off on a long, loud rant, ending with "and I'm the #@%*ing PR guy!"
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