Somewhere out there, a city council meeting is happening. And you're not watching it. But I am. Each week, I bring you the highlights, lowlights, and weirdlights from places you don't live.
Attention Chronicleheads! Next Monday, August 15, is the holiest of high holy holidays: National #CityHallSelfie Day! The concept is simple: 1.) take a selfie at your city hall 2.) win prize.
From the event page:
The first annual National #CityHallSelfie Day is taking place on Monday, August 15. Our goal is to break the record for city hall selfies taken in one day. What’s the record? We’re not quite sure but we’ve pegged it at around nine.
You can participate in this new holiday by posting your #cityhallselfie on Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, or Twitter. If you not a fan of social media, send your #cityhallselfie via email.
Prizes will be awarded all day. Everyone who participates will receive an ELGL coozie. You’ll also have a chance to win a selfie stick, Treat Yo Self mug, Pawnee ringer t-shirt, Indiana names t-shirt, and RIP Harambe t-shirt.
As a bonus, City Council Chronicles is upping the ante. If you take a selfie WITH a city council member OR INSIDE OF a city council room, your picture will be posted here! So get out there and ambush somebody!
I’m super stoked to report that our friends at Engaging Local Government Leaders (elgl.org) nominated City Council Chronicles for the “Top 100 Local Government Influencers” list–a.k.a. the “Chris Traeger” award.
We’re changing the world, baby! Personally, I was angling for the Presidential Medal of Freedom, but this is an acceptable substitute. Now that we’re an official Local Government Influencer, call up your city council member and tell them they have no excuse not to get chronicled!
Quick! Put on your seersucker and chug a pitcher of sweet tea–the whole town’s a-goin’ down to watch the Cartersville city council dole out some Southern justice.
Yessir, today the fine men and women of the jury are deciding whether to change the zoning on a troublemakin’ patch of grass yonder. And the city’s brightest legal lights are here to deliver an Atticus Finch-worthy performance.
The judge–a.k.a. Mayor Matt Santini–narrowed his steely eyes at the packed room of onlookers. “Anybody’s welcome to get up and speak. However, if it doesn’t relate back to one of those 13 points–” he gestured to a PowerPoint slide with, ironically, only ten points, “–then we’re really not getting anywhere.”
With that, the Trial of the Century began. First up, attorney for the defense.
“This would be a distribution-type facility such as you see for Amazon,” the simple country lawyer drawled. “Those type of things are goin’ up these days. Seems like that man comes to my house every night with something my wife ordered on the Internet.” He flashed a smile to the jury.
The Cartersville city council meeting
The star witness for the defense was a 51-year resident of Cartersville with a lethal knowledge of local roads.
“I’m personally familiar with the traffic flow of the county. On my way over tonight, I clocked the mileage from the Waterford [subdivision] to the intersection of Erwin Street and Old Mill Road: 1.7 miles.” This modern-day Rain Man dazzled the jury with flashy testimony not seen since the O.J. Simpson trial:
“The natural flow of traffic is coming up 75 or 41 to 293 onto Old Mill. Or it’s gonna be going out Erwin to the South Bridge. Or it’s gonna be Old Mill to Douthit Ferry to 113 and then either going up to 61 to Dallas or Rockmart. Or it’s gonna be going Burnt Hickory Road to the new roundabout.”
This man NEVER gets lost.
Ladies fanned themselves. Gentlemen loosened their ties. Newspapermen chomped on cigars. Now, for the prosecution: a patrician man in a disarmingly-casual blue Polo approached with hands in pockets.
“I stand here before you trying to decide if I’m opposed to us having business coming into Cartersville,” he slowly pondered. “In the mornings and late in the evenings, if you’re coming out of Erwin Downs, you sit there at that stop sign for a good long while waiting for the traffic.” The Georgia night air was heavy with sweat and tension.
“If we add another 400 trucks–this is just my opinion if you don’t mind–but if they have the choice of going 293 or coming up across South Bridge to 41, you know where they’ll go,” he warned the jury, his eyes sliding from person to person to deliver his closing argument. “I’m opposed to it. I hate to say that I’m opposed to business coming into Cartersville.”
Some onlookers were overcome with emotion.
At this point, the mayor-judge interjected: “I should have said this off the top. There will NOT be a vote this evening on this zoning request. That will take place at our meeting two weeks from now.”
No verdict? Well, shucks! Thelma? Toss on another order of grits–justice is gonna take awhile.
I am stoked to report that City Council Chronicles has partnered with the makers of Pokémon Go to create a fun new game: City Cóuncil Go!
Here’s how to play:
1. Search for city council members.
Walk around the perimeter of your city hall until you spot a city council member. Usually they are dressed nicely, carrying a latte in one hand and a folder of important documents in the other. When in doubt, consult a City Cóuncildex.
2. Capture the city council member.
(Sold separately)
3. Make them fight each other.
They may not want to do it at first, but with a little training and the right amount of food deprivation, those city council members will be dueling in no time.
4. Have them get interviewed by City Council Chronicles.
If your underbritches feel bunched, y’all are in good company. At the Newport city council meeting, the People’s Business was as sticky as maple syrup on flypaper.
“I wanna bring everybody up to speed on the situation with the animal shelter,” city administrator James Finchum announced from somewhere behind his extensive mustache. “They promised they would get us our money. As of today, we’ve received $10,000.”
The bad news: “They still owe us about $60,000.” All right, fellers: time to shake down them dogs and cats! Milk bones and kitty litter gotta be worth something!
“Nobody at the city wants to close that animal shelter,” kindly old Vice Mayor Mike Proffitt warbled. “That’s the furthest thing from our mind.”
One councilman murmured, “Don’t they have some $90,000 in repairs?”
“I’ve never heard that figure,” Finchum recoiled, no doubt contemplating all the gold-plated food dishes 90 grand could buy. “The roof definitely needs repairs.”
At this point, a man in a lime-green Polo stood up–apparently Newport’s roof guru. “When the heat rises and it hits the tin [roof], it causes the metal to sweat and it rains in your attic. Then it ends up in the electrical lights.” Some tar paper would fix the problem, he added. (Again, am I the only one who sees the value of super absorbent kitty litter?!)
“The itsy bitsy spider went up the water spout. Down came the rain-“
Speaking of snafus, the city attorney had some unwelcome news about 318 White Oak Avenue. There were no other bidding parties at the tax sale.” He tossed up his arms. “Consequently, YOU have ended up with the property.”
Vice Mayor Proffitt immediately complained. “Everything I’ve heard from everybody says, ‘get rid of this! If you get anything, beats nothing, ’cause you’re gonna be holding onto it.'”
Taking the advice of the man with “profit” in his name, the council voted to sell.
“Get off my lawn!” -this man, to the taxpayers
During citizen comment, Carla had some things to say for the good of the city: “We are hosting a motorcycle fundraiser that will start at the Tanner Building. We’re calling it ‘Kickstands Up for Preservation’,” she announced.
“Maurice, I’ll borrow your motorcycle!” the mayor ribbed the police chief.
Second: “I had asked the council about supporting my transportation program,” Carla gently backed into her sales pitch. “I am still looking for funds for that program other places…but if you could help in any way, I’d appreciate it.”
“How much are you needing for that?” one alderman inquired.
$2,500, she deadpanned.
There was a pause. Vice Mayor Proffitt let her down gently. “I know it’s frustrating to you, but I appreciate what you’re trying to do.” Oh, well. Maybe once the animal shelter pays them back, Carla.
Carla: “Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?”
Speaking of appreciation, the vice mayor had another uniquely Newportian thank-you to dole out. “Lisa, I’d like to thank you for being up there the other night when the folks [were] gettin’ dog-bit,” he drawled. “And the neighbors tell you ‘they won’t bite you’…and blood’s running down both legs. But I appreciate you being up there at the time to defuse that situation.”
Woof! Methinks they need to get that animal shelter squared away, stat!
Final thoughts: If you ever watch a Tennessee city council meeting, be sure you have a translator. Their accent is thicker than gravy on a biscuit. I give this meeting 7 out of 10 vicious dog bites.
Danville may not be the biggest city. Or the best city. Or even the best city named Danville (it’s Danville, California, obvi). But it has one thing that other cities do not:
The most annoyingly-cheerful sons-of-b’s on city council.
Mayor Sherman Saunders rose with a proclamation for the 50th anniversary of the city’s Goodyear plant. “Whereas the Goodyear tire and rubber company broke ground in DANVILLE,” he said, practically shouting the city name. “And whereas Goodyear DANVILLE is DANVILLE’s largest employer–” at this point, the two representatives from Goodyear were suppressing laughter as the Honorable Mayor bellowed “Danville” every other sentence.
“I, Sherman M. Saunders, mayor, city of DANVILLE do hereby commend Goodyear DANVILLE on its 50th anniversary in DANVILLE, Virginia.” He glanced at the room with a kingly defiance.
“Yeah, I’m proud to say ‘DANVILLE.’ That’s right!”
Don’t tell Mayor Sherman Saunders that someone didn’t put “DANVILLE” in all caps
“Thank you, and we look forward to another 50 years of good service in Danville,” the company’s representatives responded, opting not to scream the city name. It didn’t matter–there was already a huge lovefest for Goodyear in the crowd.
“I worked at Goodyear and I built on the U2s,” the mayor reminisced.
“I also worked at Goodyear,” boasted Councilman James Buckner.
“Goodyear is Danville and Danville is Goodyear,” Councilman J. Lee Vogler, the resident poet, freestyled.
Next, the sheriff came forward to talk about the first annual Youth Day on Saturday–complete with music, a basketball free throw competition, and hundred-yard dash.
“Do you have something for [people] over 65?” Councilman John Gilstrap cheekily inquired.
“Serving hot dogs,” the sheriff retorted.
Gilstrap chuckled. “I can do that!”
The council, looking jazzed about Youth Day
Youth Day wasn’t the only big ticket item in town–and not even the only one featuring wieners: “The community market opens this Saturday,” Councilman Buckner reported. “Make sure you stop by at the time I’m working because I’m gonna make hands down the best hot dogs.”
Vice-Mayor Gary Miller called bullsh*t: “Mr. Buckner may think he makes the best hot dogs, but I’m gonna produce the healthiest ones. I’m gonna have turkey dogs,” he bragged, to groans from the council. “That are healthy for you.”
“There goes my appetite,” the mayor gagged. It sounds like the vice-mayor will have plenty of leftovers. Thanksgiving dinner at the Miller house? Turkey hot dogs.
Would you eat a turkey hot dog from this man?
Before the meeting adjourned, Mayor Saunders flipped on his mic, leaned back, and speechified like a Sunday preacher. “I want to thank the voters who reelected me just a few days ago. I maintain–you’re gonna hear it four more years–DANVILLE is a great city.
“Yes, we do have issues to work on and we are working on them. But the minute number of people who are causing these negative issues….they will be caught and they WILL be stopped.”
The mayor was all worked up and now spitting pure verse.
“There is no despair here in DANVILLE. Thank you for electing us.
“Thank you for supporting us.
“Thank you for believing in us.
“And thank you for being a part of the great city…of DANVILLE, VIRGINIA.”
Final thoughts: I loved this meeting as much as Mayor Saunders loves screaming theword “DANVILLE.” I give it 8/10 turkey hot dogs.
—
UPDATE: 11:33 a.m. THIS GUY!
Vice Mayor Dr. Gary Miller is cooking turkey franks at the home expo.
— City of Danville, VA (@cityofdanville) May 7, 2016
As the classic song goes, “Sweet home Alabama / Where the skies are so blue and the city council meetings get ’em riled up like General Lee’s army.”
The warning shot was fired by a grizzled Northport veteran who wasted no time during public comment in waving the rebel flag. “We now have regular traffic jams at all hours of the day and early evening,” he charged.
“The speed of cars along Fifth Street going 45, 50, 60 miles an hour has unfortunately become commonplace–and the noise pollution of cars and trucks.” He gave one final push on his verbal bayonet. “I wouldn’t invite my two-year-old granddaughter to come and visit me in Northport until this situation changes.”
Remember: the Civil War was started because of traffic concerns
How would Mr. Lincoln’s army respond? Council President Jay Logan chose retreat. “I know your wife came up two weeks ago and expressed an interest in traffic control…I can’t really give you a solution right now just simply because it’s still considered a state highway.”
Councilman Bert Sims made a run to join enemy lines. “When I’m eating at Billy’s [Sports Grill], I’m very nervous for pedestrians. When that light’s green…they have at it like they’re at Talladega.”
One councilman down. A traitor to his cause.
The next skirmish was a big’un: Jody Jobson, himself a former city councilman, strode up to the front line. Brother against brother. Heartbreaking. War is hell.
“Are you familiar with any slush funds in this past administrator’s office?” Jobson assailed.
Mayor Herndon sat up. “Slush funds?”
“Slush funds,” Lieutenant Jobson responded. “That nobody on the council had access to except [the recently resigned city manager]?”
“No, sir, I do not,” the mayor returned fire. “And it’d be better if you–if you’re gonna be talking about an individual that’s not an employee of the city of Northport–”
“Well you get on the radio and talk about it…you get on the TV and talk about it,” Jobson flanked Hizzoner.
Mayor Herndon refused to give ground. “With good cause, good reason.”
Corporal Jobson laid into the mayor about how the former city administrator moved money from one fund to another without a council vote. Then, mid-sentence, a loud, piercing siren sounded. Did General Grant surrender? Had Johhny Reb captured Fort Northport?
Artist’s rendering of the bloody Battle of Mount Slush Fund
No, Jody’s time was up.
But he wasn’t going quietly. “I was fixin’ to call for a state audit because you just don’t– you don’t move funds from one to another without a vote. And he doesn’t have any authority to do that unless council does it.”
Score one for the Union. A slow clap from the graycoats greeted Jobson as he sat down.
As they prepared to celebrate the ceasefire, council President Logan had one final dispatch from Mr. Lincoln’s war room. “We had a safety fair Saturday and Councilman Sullivan and I participated in a dunking booth. So if you missed the opportunity to dunk me and Rodney…you just missed it.”
Councilman Sullivan muttered, “I’m glad they missed it.” Clearly, he was shaken from narrowly avoiding Jody Jobson’s sustained volley. Lord knows what that man could do with a dunking booth in his crosshairs.
“Dearest Nelly: I narrowly survived the dunking booth today. I only wish divine Providence had spared Councilman Sullivan.”
Final thoughts: Let’s just pray these boys make it home to their wives. And that the country never again sees the horror of the battlefield.*
Why, I do declare! Sip yourself some sweet tea and try not to get the vapors, because we’re in South Carolina for the Aiken city council meetin’. This Palmetto State powwow is built on the three G’s: God, Grits, and Gettin’ down to the People’s Business.
Mayor Rick Osbon, the Aiken dry cleaning mogul, started things off with a down-homey prayer from one of the local men of the cloth.
“Through it all, [God] will be glorified and your name and your kingdom exalted. For this we give you all the praise, all the honor, and all the glory with thanksgiving. In Jesus’s precious name, Amen.”
Amen! I believe it’s a law in South Carolina that you have to start everything in Jesus’s precious name, so just to be safe, let me start this review in His name as well.
Two minutes in and we’ve already got 18 retinas! Hallelujah!
The first piece of new business was as spicy as a drop of Tabasco: a citizen’s committee to review complaints about the police. This could get explosive–and the village elders certainly didn’t want another Fort Sumter on their hands.
“Five of you would have to vote in favor and council would have to make a finding of exigent circumstances that warrants this,” Councilman Reggie Ebner drawled.
“I don’t know what the definition of exigent is,” he admitted, folksily. “I looked in the dictionary. It’s ‘something that requires immediate attention.'”
It was awfully diligent–er, sorry, “good job-doing”–of the councilman to do some research. Aikenites, be sure to keep him around. He’s a reader!
“I would definitely deem it exigent,” nodded the mayor, flexing the fancy new word. The council agreed unanimously.
Mayor Rick Osbon knows two things: how to rock a pocket square and what “exigent” means.
“I’ma go back to our audience,” Mayor Osbon announced, scanning the sparse crowd in the chambers. “Any comments?”
A smart-dressed man strode confidently to the podium. “Good evening, ya’ll. I have my family back there so excuse them if they start talking with me,” he chuckled. He endorsed the committee, adding “this community is special.”
“Thank you for your comments,” the mayor smiled. “That’s what makes Aiken the special place that it is.” Well, butter my buns and call me a biscuit!
Suddenly, the mayor spotted a target in the audience. “This is Steve Kisner. You may know his son,” pro-golfer Kevin Kisner. “He made us all very proud this past weekend!” The mayor was interrupted by an outbreak of applause. The elder Kisner, himself dressed in a golfy blue Polo and khakis, accepted the applause on his son’s behalf.
“Steve, if he’s in town during a council meeting, bring him around and we’d like to personally recognize him,” Councilwoman Lessie Price promised.
Added Councilwoman Gail Diggs: “Tell him we’ll give him the key to the city. Whatever that is.” Aww, how gracious! (Er, sorry, Councilman Ebner: HOW VERY NICE-THING-TO-DO.)
Steve Kisner’s son will get the key to the city, whatever that is.
With everyone vibing on Steve’s son, it was time to adjourn. “All those in favor please stand up,” the mayor called, just in time to watch his council make themselves as scarce as a hen’s teeth. In Jesus’s precious name, Amen!
Final thoughts: Because everyone learned the definition of “exigent,” I think we’re all winners. I give this meeting 2 out of 3 mint juleps.
City Council Chronicles 