In which Patrick Duffy steps from the shower, and Bob Caesar lovingly French-kisses petrochemical fascists.

There was a council meeting last night.

In it, two-way street conversions were discussed, even though neither measure considered was even remotely necessary, because the mayor does not need council involvement to rationalize the street grid, except evidently City Hall does not intend to expend its own political capital to pursue what it says it supports despite making no public comments in favor of it, and when it comes right down to it, someone in the administration really needs to read this memo I wrote. Where the hell is John Galt when you need him?

Meanwhile, reporter Daniel Suddeath strives mightily to make sense of the evening's needless muddle here.

Or, you can read my tweets. Spoiler warning: There is jaundice and dolt fatigue throughout.

As an aside, last night we learned to no great surprise that Bob Caesar, who somehow avoids being hit by retributive ideological lightning while still referring to himself as a Democrat, capital-D, bases his "lost cause" defense of 1950s-era roadway planning and the white bread social order entirely on the wit and wisdom of the Thoreau Institute.

This is rather like an anti-Semite citing The Protocols of the Elders of Zion as justification for an internal noggin irrationality for which permanent cures don't presently exist, although lobotomies remain an option -- for those of us forced to listen to the sheer drivel.

Yes, it can be depressing living in this monument to underachievement.

Certain of these elected "leaders" gaze at us -- at the year 2013, at modernity itself -- with an abject and bottomless incomprehension, even sometimes the ones who might on occasion know better. New Albany remains in the perfect position to be an exciting, groundbreaking laboratory for urban change. The ones who know this mostly just sit there and say nothing for fear of ... well, of what?

And the ones who do not possess the imagination to grasp change are the ones we permit to make the decision. The decades-long search for political cojones in New Albany goes on and on, but in a place where ignorance is considered the ultimate virtue, perhaps those particular balls simply never will be launched into the air.

Will some one wake me when the clock strikes disinvestment time?