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.
Summer may be winding down, but the city council meetings are heating up! The biggest news out of August was International City Hall Selfie Day. You can check your social media for the thousands of images generated on the holiest of high holidays or you can peruse my Top 10 list instead. I also invited a top selfie expert on the podcast to pick an ultimate winner.
Of course, we saw our fair share of drama in city council meetings, including two mayors who raised their voices at council members and an entire council meeting that very quickly turned into a bonfire. If you missed that Jerry Springer plotline, go scan the August Month in Review.
And if you don’t know why this man is pointing at heaven…it’s because he’s pointing at heaven. But the reason will blow your heathen mind:
HUGE NEWS: this is our first international episode of the “Best Thing, Worst Thing” project! And the Canadians I talked to could not have been nicer: you’ll hear from senior citizens playing lawn bowling in the suburbs. You’ll sit on the sidewalk as a blues guitarist serenades us. And most climactic of all, you’ll observe a butter tart bake-off at a fancy hotel, listening to judges and pastry chefs alike. (I’ve been told that this is a HIGHLY Canadian thing to do.)
If you’ve never heard of the project before, check out the page here. When you are mentally prepared to discover who won the Great Canadian Butter Tart Battle, click to the City Council Chronicles podcast to download the latest episode. Or you can play it below.
Episode 11: Toronto, Ontario
Toronto is the most populous city in Canada and one of the most multicultural places in the world. It was amalgamated in 1998 from several smaller cities and is crisscrossed by streetcars and subways–although those are often a target of Torontonians’ frustrations. We will learn about lawn bowling from a senior citizens’ league, sample the merchandise in a sex shop, and experience a play-by-play of the Great Canadian Butter Tart Battle. Along the way, we will hear from an immigrant, a city councilor, pastry chefs, a musician, and an educator.
It took astonishingly little time for the Council Bluffs council meeting to go from zero to 11.
“I need to know what kind of right-of-way you guys are going to take,” the owner of a tire store fretted.
“Jack, I believe it would be just enough to do the sidewalks on the corner,” Mayor Matt Walsh informed him in a low, gravelly tone.
This upset the tire man even more. “They wanna come 25-foot into my parking lot to put the signs, street lights…I cannot afford to lose that kind of parking!”
“I don’t believe we’re talking about 25 feet into your parking lot–” the mayor tried to reassure him.
“I just cannot afford to lose any more parking,” repeated the man.
The mayor nodded, unmoved. “Perfectly understandable.”
“I’m not trying to be the bad guy. But I cannot afford to lose any more parking.”
I think he’s got it.
Mayor Walsh hunched over and calculated how to end the interaction. “I can’t answer you with any specificity tonight. I can get your phone number out of the phone book.”
The man thanked him, adding, “I cannot afford to lose any more parking.”
Councilmember Nate Watson flattened out his notes and mused about the dilemma. “I think there are a lot of competing interests, though I’d remind all of us that any further alterations to the master plan may test the patience of the funder of such improvements.”
The Funder? Who is this mysterious and impatient funder-who-must-not-be-named? And if he gets angry, how many virgins must the city sacrifice to appease him?
“Prepare the goat’s blood, madam clerk.”
“It’s primarily geared to making sure there’s enough space on the corner so we can meet the Americans with Disabilities Act,” Watson explained.
Abruptly, the tire store owner moved toward the front and began arguing back from the gallery.
The mayor remained placid. “It’s NOT authorizing them to take your property,” he said firmly. The man continued to protest.
Councilmember Watson nodded sympathetically. However, his sympathy was seemingly at its breaking point. “Your opinion matters a great deal, but it’s not the only one,” he replied gently.
The council moved on to talking about a parking garage. But Councilmember Al Ringgenberg ringgen-berated the whole concept.
“I question whether this is in the best interest of the city,” he frowned. “Not long ago we were provided documents and included is $2 million for [a] parking ramp down payment.”
He appeared deeply frustrated. “What I have a problem with is using general obligation funds that should be used to repair crumbling streets and sewers.”
Ah, yes. I see the design flaw.
Mayor Walsh grew visibly irritated, raising his voice. “So this is an ongoing diatribe of false statements–”
“Mr. Mayor, point of order!” Ringgenberg interjected in surprise.
“It’s my turn to talk, Mr. Ringgenberg,” the mayor thundered. “It’s my turn to talk!”
“First of all, the $2 million was NOT general obligation money. Second of all, we are the SECOND LOWEST city in Iowa with debt!”
Council members looked uneasily around the dais after the mayor concluded his angry rebuke.
Watson stared out to the audience. “There are a good number of young men here today for their communications merit badge.”
His face was expressionless as he added, “that’s what makes our country great. Stay involved.”
Final thoughts: I can’t imagine what kind of communications lessons were learned here, but 10 out of 10 stars to The Funder, if He’s watching. (He always is.)
Any regular announcements at the top of Salem’s city council meeting were “eclipsed” (MAJOR PUN ALERT) by a single event.
“I want to say to the staff that you did a fantastic job with the eclipse,” Councilor Tom Andersen crossed his arms and beamed. “I pushed back a little bit several months ago–and I see the city manager is nodding his head!–about what should have been done. This may be the first time I ever say this, but he was right and I was wrong!”
There were guffaws from the gallery. That noise was quickly replaced by Councilor Sally Cook signaling for the mayor’s attention.
“I just wanted to ask everybody a quick question: do you know your blood type?”
Asking for a friend
Sporting a gigantic “I Made A Difference” sticker, she put in a gigantic plug for getting one’s blood drawn.
“I donated today. I had my first ‘Power Red’ donation. Very exciting. Very strange,” she mused. Noticing raised eyebrows, Councilor Cook added, “it means my blood is SO special, I get extra credit.”
Other councilors groaned, causing Cook to grin innocently. “It means they take your platelets and also the plasma. And that has a longer shelf life. I just encourage you to visit your friendly vampire.”
While this doesn’t give me extra motivation to donate blood, it does make me wonder about the shelf life of my own platelets.
But there was no time to dwell on my hypothetical blood. At this point, a deeply distressed public commenter stepped forward to talk about actual bloodshed.
“Car had to be going 60-70 mph down Fisher Road,” the man held up a graphic photo of a car crash’s aftermath.
“Five days later, this young lady,” he shakily displayed a picture of his wife, “was hit getting her mail out of the mailbox and killed right there.”
😥
He lowered his gaze and continued in a gravelly voice. “Fisher Road just became a speedway. Something needs to be done. It’s just too bad my wife lost her life out there.”
Councilor Chris Hoy braced himself on the desk and looked the man in the eye. “I sat at your dining room table with you and your wife a few weeks before this horrible event. I have not forgotten that–and never will forget.”
It was an uneasy segue, but the council had no choice but to move on to what should have been a less emotional topic: amendments to the sign code.
Councilor Andersen leaned forward and frowned. “I’d like to make a substitute motion that we postpone deliberation on the sign code and have a work session.”
This touched off a nerve for Mayor Chuck Bennett, who lashed out without warning at the suggestion.
“I’ll tell ya: you knew you had two weeks. Not ONE PERSON followed up during the two weeks to talk with anyone about this,” he snapped at the stunned councilors. “I would hope you’ll ACTUALLY put your nose to the grindstone and do some work.”
“Your mother and I aren’t mad. We’re just disappointed.”
Councilor Cara Kaser bristled at the mayor’s insinuation of laziness. “The two weeks were punctuated by a celestial event that will never happen again in our lifetime,” she protested. “We’re volunteer councilors. We work 40 or more hours a week.”
“Yeah, I also work 40-hour-plus weeks,” retorted the mayor icily. “I don’t mean to be nannyish, but maybe this time folks will step up and do the work.”
Against the mayor’s scolding, the council voted to give themselves more time for their homework.
July was noteworthy for two reasons. First: it was Mayor’s Month! That’s right, we talked on the podcast to an unprecedented four mayors from three continents. What we heard was heartwarming in some cases and tear-jerking in others.
Second: this being July, of course we saw fireworks! Mostly they were of the verbal variety. But in one case, someone actually brandished a firework in a council meeting. If you don’t remember that moment, perhaps you should browse our July Month in Review page.
And if you’re still questioning whether July’s council meetings are worth a second look, at least find out why this woman is so g–d– happy:
Unless you’re a sovereign citizen, yesterday was the yugest, bigliest day of the year: a celebration of local government called #CityHallSelfie Day! Naturally, that holiday is firmly up our alley.
On social media there are now hundreds–possibly thousands–of city hall pictures from around the earth. That is why I have curated the best city council selfies.
My criteria were stricter than a disgruntled warden. These pictures needed to
A. be taken by or feature a city council member/mayor; or
B. be taken in a council chamber; and
C. be a true selfie — i.e. taken by someone in the picture.
In a few weeks, we will have a municipal selfie expert on the podcast to help me judge the best city hall art! That being said, here are my top 10:
The layers here are incredible: while a reporter takes a selfie, another audience member takes a picture of the city council taking a selfie. Please tell me there’s a fourth cell phone somewhere so that the selfie chain can be even longer.
Ah yes, the power pose. While I think the intended vibe is “tough but fair,” it would also be appropriate to have a speech bubble reading, “Do you feel lucky, punk?”
It appears that Jeff City’s mayor, Carrie Tergin, stepped away from the council meeting–only to be replaced by a cardboard cutout wearing eclipse glasses! (My sources tell me the cutout also runs a helluva council meeting.) I love the spectrum of emotions from council members; they range from “meh” to “I AM HAVING THE TIME OF MY LIFE!”
There were oodles of voyeuristic pictures featuring people in the process of taking selfies. I like this one for two reasons: first, Columbia has set up their selfie station in advance–major points there. And second, this proves that you can have a good selfie or you can have a good portrait, but it’s hard to have a good portrait of a selfie.
Dallas lands a spot on the list thanks to this fellow gunning it through the city council selfie loophole. Not only is it ingenious to have a chart of all council members’ faces, but do you see that flamingo shirt?! Memorable for sure.
Hats galore! Witches in the back, viking in the front, and the mayor in a top hat inside the council chamber. There aren’t nearly enough props in city government, so nice job raiding the costume store.
Uh, paging all art museums: who wants this masterpiece on their wall?! Seriously, what a trippy and visionary take on a selfie by Alder Maurice Cheeks! I’m getting a bit nauseous, but part of me wants to put on some sitar music and ponder the circular nature of life.
Gaithersburg had all hands on deck. Council Member Ryan Spiegel covered the outside perimeter, Council Member Neil Harris staked out the inside, and Mayor Jud Ashman took the extreeeeeeeeeeeme eastern part of Gaithersburg: Europe! Good teamwork, gentlemen.
“OH, FOR GOD’S SAKE. WHY DIDN’T WE THINK TO USE THE HORSE?!” That’s what I imagine every media person in local government is saying this morning as they bang their head on a desk. Seriously, hats and helmets WAY off to Ocean City for setting next year’s bar at “getting a horse into a council chamber.”
If you had asked me to write the plotline for a council meeting in a small southern town, there is no way I would have invented anything as riveting as the actual Goldsboro city council meeting.
“My favorite time of the night: public comment period,” swashbuckling Mayor Chuck Allen boomed as onlookers stirred in their seats. He had barely finished his sentence before an elderly man swaggered to the podium, shouting his name and address.
“How are you, sir?” Council Member Mark Stevens greeted him warmly.
“I’m doing wonderful! Everybody’s bright-eyed and enjoying the meeting,” hollered the man. He planted his entire body in an immobile slouch and made his position crystal clear.
“In behalf of all the fine, clean, Christian people who live in Goldsboro and wanna keep this a safe and clean city,” he thundered, “we the clean, Christian people do hereby OPPOSE Sabbath morning sale of alcoholic beverages.”
Oh, my god. It’s Footloose.
Heads nodded in the crowd.
“It’s a threat to the church. It’s a disgrace to the community. Thank you for your vote against it.”
In a first for me, he then commenced his own round of applause, which citizens and a few council members joined as he retreated from the microphone.
A petite woman with a shock of white hair took his place. “I attend Adamsville Baptist Church. Serving alcohol at 10 a.m. on Sunday will be a bad influence on the young people.”
She frowned deeply as if looking into the eyes of Satan himself. “If we have our people setting in the bar on a Sunday morning, they are missing an opportunity to attend one of our many churches.”
I should mention, the council was voting today on the “Brunch Bill” to allow alcohol sales starting at 10 a.m. on Sundays. And if you couldn’t tell, there was a teensy bit of opposition from a very specific demographic:
“You have one person–one person ONLY–that is looking at you HARDER than we are,” bellowed a graying church deacon, pointing skyward. “It’s the man upstairs.”
People are literally sitting in pews here.
“Amens” flitted across the room. But the president of the downtown merchants’ association strolled to the podium to argue on behalf of the local heretics.
“Seventy-one percent of downtown merchants are in favor of the Brunch Bill. The merchants feel the bill will bring new businesses to Goldsboro,” he countered, rattling off all of the neighboring cities and counties that had Sunday morning sales.
A hostile silence, broken by a single boo, greeted the heathen as he walked off.
Another local bar owner, clad in a neat button-up shirt and a tidy haircut, stared at the mayor and asked a simple question.
“We have alcohol sales starting at 7 a.m. Monday through Saturday. So what’s the difference with Sunday?”
Mayor Allen eyed the gallery as various parishioners muttered, “it’s the lord’s day.”
“The LORD’S day,” the man repeated for emphasis. “THAT’S the difference. So now this is an issue of religion.”
If I may answer on behalf of the audience: “Yeah…so?”
“There are many sabbaths,” this barkeep-cum-professor lectured the council. “Sunday is not the ONLY sabbath. We’re making laws based on religion. I would refer you to the First Amendment.”
Having heard both sides for almost a half hour, Mayor Allen called for the vote. “All those in favor, raise your right hand.”
He and three council members voted aye. The remaining three voted no. The teetotalers had lost.
Council Member Stevens vented in frustration. “For those who were disappointed in this situation, you know…keep praying. The lord will keep you safe.”
Randal Wallace has been a councilman since 2001–and he’s running for a fifth term as we speak! Normally, I get livid when a city like Myrtle Beach does not video stream its meetings. But I calmed down when he told me he would like to see that happen. Plus, he shared a nice thing his mother does after he has a difficult council meeting.
—
Q: I went on the city’s website looking to watch the Myrtle Beach council meetings and I became kind of angry when I saw that you do NOT put your meeting videos online.
A: We’re televised and you can go to our public information officer and ask for a copy of the meeting. It’s a little old-school. We hired two new assistant public information folks. They’ve been putting the minutes online, so I think we’re moving toward the twenty-first century. We just got a new Facebook page and Twitter presence and Instagram. So that would be a very good next step, to live stream the meetings. I would certainly be supportive of it.
Q: You are running for reelection, as are two other council members and the mayor. If you came across in these meetings as the voice of reason, the consensus-builder, the guy who treats everyone well–I would think you’d want voters to know that. And if someone is behaving abominably, you’d want voters to know that too. Do you feel the same way?
A: Yeah. The seven members that are currently on council, we’ve gone out of our way to disagree agreeably. We’ve had the same upper management staff for, like, 29 years. So you’re seeing a lot of change happening now and we’re moving out of the status quo.
Myrtle Beach, SC Councilman Randal Wallace
Q: Your meetings happen at 2 p.m. during the workday. Between that and the lack of streaming, it seems like Myrtle Beach is making it difficult to find out what’s happening in those meetings.
A: Well actually, when I was first elected, the televised meeting was at 7 o’clock on Tuesdays. We moved the 7 p.m. meeting to 2 o’clock. The majority of council–of which I was not one–felt like we were keeping staff there. It had been routine that we had meetings that ran sometimes till midnight, 1 o’clock in the morning, and it would make great television. But the staff was having to be there from 8:30 in the morning till we finished. Then they had to come back.
Q: Mmhmm.
A: I’m more of a night person. So I understood about people wanting to come later on–they might be a little freer. But I was in the minority.
Q: In 2013, I saw that you tweeted this:
@bsmithnews my mom watches council meetings, she will call me when she gets mad at how people talk to me, public and or other councilmen.
A: She’s had a few distractions, but when I first was on [council], if I got entangled with one of the council members or someone came in really mad at me, as soon as we went off TV my phone would ring. It would be her: “don’t you let him talk to you like that!” So it was good to have a mom in your corner!
Q: That’s sweet of her!
A: Over the years she’s gotten a little thicker skin about it. [Laughs] She still can get a little feisty when she perceives I’m getting treated bad.
Follow Councilman Randal Wallace on Twitter: @randal_wallace
Do you recall the fable of “The Tortoise and The Hare?”
Well, Aberdeen’s city council meeting certainly started out as the hare: brash. Bold. Uninhibited.
“Ordinance 17-07-02, revising the city code relating to intersections. Anything new here?” queried Mayor Mike Levsen, pausing ever so briefly to listen for any intake of air or shuffling of seats.
Hearing nothing, a slam-dunk unanimous vote quickly dispatched the ordinance.
“Ordinance 17-07-04, relating to obstructions parked on city streets,” the mayor barreled ahead.
Briefly, the city attorney nudged the brakes.
“We did have one person who was all in favor of that change,” he informed the mayor with a hint of suspense. “A city employee in the public works department!”
Guffaws broke out as the ordinance again passed without dissent.
It’s that dude’s lucky day.
Rounding the 11-minute mark, the mayor joked: “we’re done early; we can all go home!”
However, he received only a few wary nods–giving me the feeling that the tortoise phase of this meeting had dawned.
“The much-anticipated city manager’s report with the 2018 budget is next,” Mayor Levsen announced with a trace of resignation. He glanced over at city manager Lynn Lander. “We’ll see if we can appreciate the numbers you came up with.”
Lander took his place in front of a gigantic monitor and an even more gigantic set of notes. For the next 40 marathon minutes, he was in the driver’s seat on a sightseeing tour through the city’s bank account.
I get it.
“The 2018 sales tax allocation is based upon the actual sales tax revenue collected in 2016, plus a growth factor,” he opened with a flourish.
“There is NO planned interceptor sewer work for 2018,” he emphasized heavily to grab council members’ attention.
“I am recommending adding three new positions to the city workforce: two patrol officers and a marketing concession manager for Wylie Park,” he dropped this major bombshell 20 minutes in.
The minutes slogged by in a dizzying array of pie charts and spreadsheet tables.
“I know I’m going very quickly,” he apologized, perhaps operating under a very different definition of the word “quickly.”
As he crossed the finish line, Lander concluded, “thank you for listening to me. I hope my rambling made sense.”
The mayor took a second to shake off the inertia and reach for his microphone. “Made sense to me!” he quipped cheerfully.
But suddenly, as folks gathered up their papers and rubbed their eyes, one person tossed a wrench into this finely-tuned budgetary machine.
“I have one thing. In the [promotion] fund allocations, we didn’t count the zeros,” Council Member Jennifer Slaight-Hansen thundered. “When you go in counting the zeros, it changes a half dozen of the allocations. I think we need to count the zeroes.”
Make heroes out of the zeroes.
But Lander raised his hand and politely explained this complex piece of mathematics. “If there wasn’t at least five votes, the zeros really doesn’t matter.”
“It DOES make a difference in that median allocation,” she insisted.
“But,” interjected a confused Council Member Clint Rux, “if you have five people who voted for funding…then…there’s five people who voted for funding. Correct?”
This is why I hate calculus. Aberdeen’s “Zerogate” scandal was spiraling out of control. For the sake of ending the meeting on time, Council Member Slaight-Hansen retreated.
“Karl will send [the spreadsheet] to us and it’ll be more clear,” she sighed.
Final thoughts: I give 10 out of 10 stars to Karl, who was volunteered for spreadsheet duty apparently.
City Council Chronicles 