Life imitates art: The dizzying pinnacle of Gahanism came in January of 2016, when the Bicentennial Park Snow Schlong spoke volumes to our municipal predicament.

It's a new tradition: During the first Great White Death Event of the new year, we look back to January, 2016 when nature provided the canvas for stirring and innovative public art.

Bicentennial Park Snow Schlong proves conclusively that public art can be turgid, indeed.

Mayor Jeff Gahan Presents: The Bicentennial Snow Schlong Remix.

Bicentennial Park Snow Schlong: Or, when City Hall stamped out public art (literally).

Apart from the Anchor Regime's hostility to grassroots expression, there's a way to tell if you have good neighbors.

ONE WAY TO TELL IF YOU HAVE GOOD NEIGHBORS, by Rachel Quednau (Strong Towns)

 ... During this snowy season, it is very easy to figure out who your attentive and caring neighbors are: They're the people who shovel. Shoveling clearly shows how present property owners are and how connected they are to their neighborhood. As I walked down the street after that big snowfall, I could immediately tell which apartments were vacant and which landlords lived far away from their properties (my area is mostly commercial and residential rentals).

The surface parking lots were by far the worst. I'd bet their owners only visit these lots a couple times a year. And why would they visit more often? They're just managing a piece of asphalt. So not only are parking lots bad neighbors because they waste precious space in our towns, contribute negligible property taxes, and create space vacuums, they also leave dangerous sidewalks around them.

Winter walking isn't easy. Not only does our Board of Public Works and Safety make no special efforts to make winter walking easier, it also tolerates snow removal (especially from surface parking lots) that often makes the problem worse.

When neighbors are present and connected with one another, the whole community benefits; when they're not, it's a loss for everyone.

Of course, there's another solution to the problem of shoveling: make local governments responsible for plowing sidewalks, just like they're responsible for plowing roads and streets. As I wrote in an article about winter walking last year, "The failure of cities to plow sidewalks is utterly indicative of the way they view pedestrians." If cities wanted to prioritize a more affordable mode of transportation than driving—more affordable for government and more affordable for resident—plowing sidewalks would be a small step to getting more people out walking.

So far, it doesn't look like a schlong-worthy accumulation in 2019. We'll see.

---

As an addendum, NA Confidential has been unable to confirm whether New Albany Mayor Jeff M. Gahan or anyone working in the city's administration is under federal investigation or indictment for corruption, bribery or racketeering. It is standard policy of the U.S. Justice Department to refuse to confirm or deny the existence or non-existence of investigations or subjects of investigations. A similar policy exists at the F.B.I.

Red-faced old white guys howl in fury as March for Our Lives successfully occupies Bicentennial Park.

Photo credits: social media.

According to reports from social media and first-hand testimony, the crowd at Bicentennial Park for Saturday's "March for Our Lives" may have reached as many as 200. That's very solid for a bone-chilling, waterlogged morning in March.

The Green Mouse was told that the police presence was muted, and Democratic Party heavy-handedness gratifyingly kept to a minimum. That's amazing. When the AdamBot gets out of the way and lets the kids speak, you know it might actually be meaningful for once.

Congressional candidates Dan Canon and Liz Watson both briefly spoke. City council member (and retired teacher) David Barksdale was present, but it isn't clear whether any other elected officials attended, although is is said that somewhere deep within the curled linoleum of a living room in Westendia, Councilman Cappuccino grimaced in mute nostril agony.

As confided to us by an attendee, a final curious feature of the rally was a preponderance of students from Jeffersonville and Clark County. Let's hope the Bulldogs and Highlanders aren't falling behind the curve when it comes to principled activism.

After all, their nominal "leaders" aren't very good at it.

Nationally and locally, March for Our Lives seems to have been a success. Can the movement endure, and can it beat the stacked decks of Big Money, Big Racial Divide, Big Patriarchy and Big Dumbass?

We'll see, and remain hopeful.

Southern Indiana protesters brave cold and rain in Saturday's 'March for Our Lives', by Mandy McLaren (Courier Journal)

NEW ALBANY, Ind. — Braving bitter cold temperatures and a steady rainfall, about 100 people gathered in downtown New Albany on Saturday morning to call for stricter gun laws.

"A bulletproof vest should not be a part of my school uniform," Nicole Gomez, 18, told the crowd gathered at Bicentennial Park.

Several students spoke at the rally, which was connected to the national "March for Our Lives," a movement organized by the survivor's of last month's school shooting in Parkland, Florida, that left 17 people dead.

The dizzying pinnacle of Gahanism -- or, fond remembrances of the Bicentennial Park Snow Schlong in 2016.

New Albany's sole Great White Death Event of 2017 was little more than a dusting, but maybe this first snowfall of 2018 will echo the one in January, 2016 and produce stirring and innovative public art.

Bicentennial Park Snow Schlong proves conclusively that public art can be turgid, indeed.

Mayor Jeff Gahan Presents: The Bicentennial Snow Schlong Remix.

Bicentennial Park Snow Schlong: Or, when City Hall stamped out public art (literally).

Apart from the Anchor Regime's hostility to grassroots expression, there's a way to tell if you have good neighbors.

ONE WAY TO TELL IF YOU HAVE GOOD NEIGHBORS, by Rachel Quednau (Strong Towns)

 ... During this snowy season, it is very easy to figure out who your attentive and caring neighbors are: They're the people who shovel. Shoveling clearly shows how present property owners are and how connected they are to their neighborhood. As I walked down the street after that big snowfall, I could immediately tell which apartments were vacant and which landlords lived far away from their properties (my area is mostly commercial and residential rentals).

The surface parking lots were by far the worst. I'd bet their owners only visit these lots a couple times a year. And why would they visit more often? They're just managing a piece of asphalt. So not only are parking lots bad neighbors because they waste precious space in our towns, contribute negligible property taxes, and create space vacuums, they also leave dangerous sidewalks around them.

Winter walking isn't easy. Not only does our Board of Public Works and Safety make no special efforts to make winter walking easier, it also tolerates snow removal (especially from surface parking lots) that often makes the problem worse.

When neighbors are present and connected with one another, the whole community benefits; when they're not, it's a loss for everyone.

Of course, there's another solution to the problem of shoveling: make local governments responsible for plowing sidewalks, just like they're responsible for plowing roads and streets. As I wrote in an article about winter walking last year, "The failure of cities to plow sidewalks is utterly indicative of the way they view pedestrians." If cities wanted to prioritize a more affordable mode of transportation than driving—more affordable for government and more affordable for resident—plowing sidewalks would be a small step to getting more people out walking.

So far, it doesn't look like a schlong-worthy accumulation. We'll see.

---

As an addendum, NA Confidential has been unable to confirm whether New Albany Mayor Jeff M. Gahan or anyone working in the city's administration is under federal investigation or indictment for corruption, bribery or racketeering. It is standard policy of the U.S. Justice Department to refuse to confirm or deny the existence or non-existence of investigations or subjects of investigations. A similar policy exists at the F.B.I.

ASK THE BORED: Fond remembrances of the Bicentennial Park Snow Schlong (2016), and this: "The failure of cities to plow sidewalks is utterly indicative of the way they view pedestrians."

Our first Great White Death Event of 2017 was little more than a dusting, but there'll surely be at least one snowfall sufficient to produce stirring and innovative public art ... and for the mayor and BOW to obliterate it.

Bicentennial Park Snow Schlong proves conclusively that public art can be turgid, indeed.

Mayor Jeff Gahan Presents: The Bicentennial Snow Schlong Remix.

Bicentennial Park Snow Schlong: Or, when City Hall stamped out public art (literally).

You'll search the Down Low Bunker top to bottom and never find an occupant with a sense of humor, except when Commander Duggins tells one of his patented "on the links with the oligarchs" fart jokes.

Meanwhile ... there's a way to tell if you have good neighbors.

ONE WAY TO TELL IF YOU HAVE GOOD NEIGHBORS, by Rachel Quednau (Strong Towns)

 ... During this snowy season, it is very easy to figure out who your attentive and caring neighbors are: They're the people who shovel. Shoveling clearly shows how present property owners are and how connected they are to their neighborhood. As I walked down the street after that big snowfall, I could immediately tell which apartments were vacant and which landlords lived far away from their properties (my area is mostly commercial and residential rentals).

The surface parking lots were by far the worst. I'd bet their owners only visit these lots a couple times a year. And why would they visit more often? They're just managing a piece of asphalt. So not only are parking lots bad neighbors because they waste precious space in our towns, contribute negligible property taxes, and create space vacuums, they also leave dangerous sidewalks around them.

Winter walking's not easy. Not only does our Board of Public Works and Safety make no special efforts to make winter walking easier, it also tolerates snow removal (especially from surface parking lots) that makes the problem worse. The VFW downtown is a persistent offender.

When neighbors are present and connected with one another, the whole community benefits; when they're not, it's a loss for everyone.

Of course, there's another solution to the problem of shoveling: make local governments responsible for plowing sidewalks, just like they're responsible for plowing roads and streets. As I wrote in an article about winter walking last year, "The failure of cities to plow sidewalks is utterly indicative of the way they view pedestrians." If cities wanted to prioritize a more affordable mode of transportation than driving—more affordable for government and more affordable for resident—plowing sidewalks would be a small step to getting more people out walking.

Stop looking at me like I'm a space alien, Warren.

Georgetown, look not to NA's Bicentennial Park as a harbinger of revitalization. Beak-wetting? That's another matter entirely.

A fitting and genuine national landmark in Georgetown.

When I was a kid, Georgetown was a place that had an identity of its own. Perhaps more importantly, until 1967 Georgetown had a high school, which was folded into Floyd Central amid the consolidation trends of the 1960s.

If you ask me, Georgetown's identity crisis began just then, and has proceeded apace during the subsequent half-century.

I'm supportive of any plausible suggestion to restore the "there" to there, but if hopes for renewal hinge on the creation of a boondoggle akin to New Albany's Bicentennial Park, I'd recommend overt and continuing skepticism.

In short, as we discussed exhaustively in 2012, Bicentennial Park's design makes little sense according to any coherent criteria, apart from being an excellent way to spend more than $800,000 on flawed symbolism.

Bicentennial Park, Part One: "Whom Does Design Really Serve?"

Bicentennial Park, Part Two: "When did the public input process into this park's location, imagined functions, design, and construction occur?"

Park comparisons get worse: Breaking ground on an overpriced copy.

Legacy Square? Nah, pie are round, cornbread are square.

Yes, folks certainly enjoy Bicentennial Park when summertime concerts are staged there, but these spectacles cannot take place without an ongoing weekly subsidy from City Hall -- thousands of dollars per event, spent over and over again just to make the park functional for a use that apparently no one bothered anticipating.

Good luck, Georgetown. The single best question residents might be asking themselves is how one restores vibrancy to a bedroom community primarily maintained as a component of a pervasive culture of auto-centrism. Just imagine if residents of Georgetown and places like it could make the suburban/regional transit station a centerpiece of its renewal.

One thing's for sure: If a single New Albany city official appears at your gates to offer advice, you'd be wise to send him or her packing.

Georgetown Downtown Revitalization Plan presented to the public; Plan includes economic, building and community design recommendations, by Danielle Grady (News and Tribune)

 ... That space could be a park, like Bicentennial Park in New Albany, possibly with temporary stages, playgrounds and a splash pad. A “far out” future plan, for after the town square is finished is what McCllelan's dubbed “Georgetown Village.”

An annual reminder: Forgotten fields in Flanders on Armistice (Veterans) Day.

The annual renewal of Veterans Day reminds us that 2016 is the 98th anniversary of the Great War's end. The conflict's centenary was in 2014, and throughout 2016 there have been 100-year memories of horrific battles like Verdun and the Somme.

Why is this important? Among other reasons, Americans remember 11/11/11 each year in the form of a holiday that has come to embrace the service of all veterans, not just the World War I generation.

Veterans Day is an official United States holiday honoring armed service veterans. It is a federal holiday that is observed on November 11th. It coincides with other holidays such as Armistice Day or Remembrance Day, which are celebrated in other parts of the world and also mark the anniversary of the signing of the Armistice that ended World War I. (Major hostilities of World War I were formally ended at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918 with the German signing of the Armistice.)

November 9 was the 27th anniversary of the day the Berlin Wall fell. As I'm fond of arguing, the armistice in 1918 didn't end the first war at all. The demise of the Wall did, although recent events suggest that it's still being contested.

Still, my guess is that future historians will refer to this period as the 1912-1989 "77 Years' War," and be done with it. Here is a guest column originally published in the pre-merger Tribune on November 5, 2009.

---

Forgotten fields in Flanders.

Lately I keep hearing this tune.

Keep the home fires burning,
While your hearts are yearning,
Though your lads are far away
They dream of home.

These dreaming lads were soldiers, in route across the English Channel to fight for the United Kingdom, and several hundred thousand of them failed to return home to nostalgically remember a popular song written to inspire the home front in their absence.

By now it should be clear that war is horrible, and I’m not sure that it serves any purpose to discuss which wars are “just.” Justice in this context inevitably owes to situational morality as the combatants pray to their respective deities and make theological mockery of whatever religious interpretation devolves from these biased, selective judgments.

By all such standards, the Great War was especially horrible. The specific horror of this conflict, which eventually came to be known as World War I out of a contextual necessity to keep our historical accountings of human suffering clearly ordered, surely represents societal innocence shattered on an unfathomably massive scale.

An entire generation that had known no war outside of mock duels and parlor games willingly marched off to slaughter while gaily singing songs about honor and glory, and consequently, it’s a safe bet that World War I was the last disastrous conflict to feature a soundtrack entirely devoid of irony. Western societies would have to wait decades and refine techniques of amplification until the onset of thrash metal’s inherent violence finally provided music capable of approximating the grim reality of institutionalized murder.

Earlier this year, the last British veteran of the war died. Perhaps one American soldier of the era remains alive – and, in the time it has taken for me to write this essay, perhaps he’s gone, too. The war began in 1914, and it has long since faded into the black and white images of crude newsreel footage that only hint at the carnage of trench warfare and the doltish, outmoded “leadership” on the part of uniformed war criminals.

Providentially, my own grandfather was drafted too late for combat duty. He managed the not inconsiderable task of avoiding the flu pandemic that killed more American soldiers than enemy fire. My father then followed suit by serving in the Marines during World War II, which was “his” war, and a subject of fascination for him the remainder of his life.

I, too, went overseas, although not in uniform. In 1987, I found myself in Sopron, Hungary, choosing a beautiful early summer’s day to go for a hike in the hills. I came upon a large, older cemetery, and decided to walk through it, ascending a gentle, wooded slope past contemporary gravestones of the still-extant Communist era.

Like rings on a tree stump, history’s reverse chronology rotated as I continued uphill. Nearing the top, rows of Great War graves finally commenced. These were the soldiers who fought and died for the ruling family of the Austro-Hungarian Empire – the losers, as it were, who died as readily as the “winners” on the other side.

The first death dates were more recent: 1918, and then somewhat more from 1917, and as I scanned their names, the majority Hungarian, but also some Germanic and Slavic owing to the mutli-ethnic, polyglot nature of the Habsburg domain – as I contemplated how ridiculously, stupidly youthful so many of them were – I reached the lip of the hill, rather puzzled that there seemed to be no graves from earlier war years.

The answer to my befuddlement was just on the other side. Dipping into a valley studded with older, larger hardwoods, row after row of markers told the lethal tale: Died in 1916, 1915 and 1914.

I always think about the cemetery in Sopron on Veterans Day, formerly Armistice Day, which originally fell on November 11th because that's when the fighting stopped in 1918, ending the First Great World War and enabling a “peace” conference in Versailles that did so much to ensure a second.

Previous generations knew about the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, but all the other mass bloodlettings since required a consolidation of observance, and a holiday more intrinsically American. So be it, and I’m not here to disagree, even if we forget the first causes that brought it about.

However, we’re left with those many innocent, misplaced songs. Now that living memory has passed, they speak even more eloquently about life, death and our capacity, sometimes successful, and often not, to make sense out of the insensible.

A CBS television documentary, World War One, ran from 1964-65, comprising 26 half-hour episodes, and later airing on cable. My friend Barrie videotaped them. The series is now available on DVD (you can see excerpts on YouTube), and I’m weighing a Christmas purchase, because one of the episodes, “Tipperary and All That Jazz,” has haunted me since the first time he and I watched it around the time of my Sopron sojourn.

Ancient film, much of it depicting camp life behind the lines, forms a backdrop for song snippets. They are melancholy, sentimental and elegiac. It is heartbreaking … and very real.

There's a long, long trail a-winding
Into the land of my dreams,
Where the nightingales are singing,
And a white moon beams.
There's a long, long night of waiting
Until my dreams all come true,
Till the day when I'll be going
Down that long, long trail with you.

View the new Special Event Permit Application for Bicentennial Park, City Square and the Riverfront Amphitheater.

The permit presumably is in draft form and will be rubber-stamped at this morning's Bored of Works meeting. It includes the new city seal that isn't, and contains this interesting paragraph.

While there is no fee for the use of our public parks, donations are accepted for the use of the City of New Albany Bicentennial Park and Riverfront Amphitheater. Contributions support a broad array of recreational activities for residents and visitor as well as helping to maintain our ever evolving park system. Donations made to New Albany parks and Recreation Department are tax deductible.

Why two of the three park units, and not City Square? The document's title includes all three, and the rules are directed at all three.

As this document seems to suggest that the parks department now operates Bicentennial Park and the Riverfront Amphitheater, City Square's omission is a head-scratcher, unless placing it under parks supervision would conflict with Develop New Albany's traditional "tail wags dog" hegemony over the farmers market.

Only the shadowy operatives in the back corridors of New Gahania know for sure.

Bicentennial Park Snow Schlong: Or, when City Hall stamped out public art (literally).

To send light into the darkness of men's hearts - such is the duty of the artist.
-- Robert Schumann

Bamiyan, Palmyra ... Bicentennial Park.

Even before the snow melted, minions had been dispatched to obliterate a spontaneous outburst of public art.

R.I.P. Bicentennial Park Snow Schlong.

You were not with us for long, but you brought joy to countless observers, both up close and personal, as well as on electronic media, including 1,317 viewers of this post ...

Bicentennial Park Snow Schlong proves conclusively that public art can be turgid, indeed.

 ... and 245 for this one.

Mayor Jeff Gahan Presents: The Bicentennial Snow Schlong Remix.

We can only hope that next time winter intervenes, the entire city of New Albany will blossom with creative public art.

That'll keep Team Gahan running ...

Bicentennial Park Snow Schlong proves conclusively that public art can be turgid, indeed.

This Big Bicentennial Park Johnson's pointed right at you.

Reprise: Forgotten fields in Flanders on Armistice (Veterans) Day.

The annual renewal of Veterans Day reminds us that 2015 is the 97th anniversary of the Great War's end. Last year was the conflict's centenary, and throughout 2015 have been 100-year memories of horrific battles like Gallipoli and Ypres.

Why is this important? Among other reasons, Americans remember 11/11/11 each year in the form of a holiday that has come to embrace the service of all veterans, not just the World War I generation.

Veterans Day is an official United States holiday honoring armed service veterans. It is a federal holiday that is observed on November 11th. It coincides with other holidays such as Armistice Day or Remembrance Day, which are celebrated in other parts of the world and also mark the anniversary of the signing of the Armistice that ended World War I. (Major hostilities of World War I were formally ended at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918 with the German signing of the Armistice.)

November 9 was the 26th anniversary of the day the Berlin Wall fell. As I'm fond of arguing, the armistice in 1918 didn't end the first war at all. The demise of the Wall did. My guess is that future historians will refer to this period as the 1912-1989 "77 Years' War," and be done with it. Here is a guest column originally published in the pre-merger Tribune on November 5, 2009.

---

Forgotten fields in Flanders.

Lately I keep hearing this tune.

Keep the home fires burning,
While your hearts are yearning,
Though your lads are far away
They dream of home.

These dreaming lads were soldiers, in route across the English Channel to fight for the United Kingdom, and several hundred thousand of them failed to return home to nostalgically remember a popular song written to inspire the home front in their absence.

By now it should be clear that war is horrible, and I’m not sure that it serves any purpose to discuss which wars are “just.” Justice in this context inevitably owes to situational morality as the combatants pray to their respective deities and make theological mockery of whatever religious interpretation devolves from these biased, selective judgments.

By all such standards, the Great War was especially horrible. The specific horror of this conflict, which eventually came to be known as World War I out of a contextual necessity to keep our historical accountings of human suffering clearly ordered, surely represents societal innocence shattered on an unfathomably massive scale.

An entire generation that had known no war outside of mock duels and parlor games willingly marched off to slaughter while gaily singing songs about honor and glory, and consequently, it’s a safe bet that World War I was the last disastrous conflict to feature a soundtrack entirely devoid of irony. Western societies would have to wait decades and refine techniques of amplification until the onset of thrash metal’s inherent violence finally provided music capable of approximating the grim reality of institutionalized murder.

Earlier this year, the last British veteran of the war died. Perhaps one American soldier of the era remains alive – and, in the time it has taken for me to write this essay, perhaps he’s gone, too. The war began in 1914, and it has long since faded into the black and white images of crude newsreel footage that only hint at the carnage of trench warfare and the doltish, outmoded “leadership” on the part of uniformed war criminals.

Providentially, my own grandfather was drafted too late for combat duty. He managed the not inconsiderable task of avoiding the flu pandemic that killed more American soldiers than enemy fire. My father then followed suit by serving in the Marines during World War II, which was “his” war, and a subject of fascination for him the remainder of his life.

I, too, went overseas, although not in uniform. In 1987, I found myself in Sopron, Hungary, choosing a beautiful early summer’s day to go for a hike in the hills. I came upon a large, older cemetery, and decided to walk through it, ascending a gentle, wooded slope past contemporary gravestones of the still-extant Communist era.

Like rings on a tree stump, history’s reverse chronology rotated as I continued uphill. Nearing the top, rows of Great War graves finally commenced. These were the soldiers who fought and died for the ruling family of the Austro-Hungarian Empire – the losers, as it were, who died as readily as the “winners” on the other side.

The first death dates were more recent: 1918, and then somewhat more from 1917, and as I scanned their names, the majority Hungarian, but also some Germanic and Slavic owing to the mutli-ethnic, polyglot nature of the Habsburg domain – as I contemplated how ridiculously, stupidly youthful so many of them were – I reached the lip of the hill, rather puzzled that there seemed to be no graves from earlier war years.

The answer to my befuddlement was just on the other side. Dipping into a valley studded with older, larger hardwoods, row after row of markers told the lethal tale: Died in 1916, 1915 and 1914.

I always think about the cemetery in Sopron on Veterans Day, formerly Armistice Day, which originally fell on November 11th because that's when the fighting stopped in 1918, ending the First Great World War and enabling a “peace” conference in Versailles that did so much to ensure a second.

Previous generations knew about the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, but all the other mass bloodlettings since required a consolidation of observance, and a holiday more intrinsically American. So be it, and I’m not here to disagree, even if we forget the first causes that brought it about.

However, we’re left with those many innocent, misplaced songs. Now that living memory has passed, they speak even more eloquently about life, death and our capacity, sometimes successful, and often not, to make sense out of the insensible.

A CBS television documentary, World War One, ran from 1964-65, comprising 26 half-hour episodes, and later airing on cable. My friend Barrie videotaped them. The series is now available on DVD (you can see excerpts on YouTube), and I’m weighing a Christmas purchase, because one of the episodes, “Tipperary and All That Jazz,” has haunted me since the first time he and I watched it around the time of my Sopron sojourn.

Ancient film, much of it depicting camp life behind the lines, forms a backdrop for song snippets. They are melancholy, sentimental and elegiac. It is heartbreaking … and very real.

There's a long, long trail a-winding
Into the land of my dreams,
Where the nightingales are singing,
And a white moon beams.
There's a long, long night of waiting
Until my dreams all come true,
Till the day when I'll be going
Down that long, long trail with you.

Recent events demand that Team Gahan provide a full and prompt public disclosure of the city's finances.

Today we are being gifted with the crowning achievement of Jeff Gahan's first and only term as mayor, as his Mayor Jeff Gahan Presents Your River Run Family Water Park opens for a truncated first season.

The project, which was not mentioned a single time during Gahan's mayoral campaign in 2011, was originally budgeted for circa $9 million, as borrowed on the city's TIF ONE card, although now the city alleges that the real cost has been only $7.5 million. It will be open for wetness perhaps two months each year, and has a fee structure virtually the same as the Kentucky Kingdom amusement facility in Louisville.

Want to go to either of these fun parks? You'll just have to drive.

The re-election circuses will continue this evening with another "free" summer concert series installment at Bicentennial Park, itself built at a cost of somewhere around three-quarters of a million dollars, though not with adequate infrastructure for the events being held there. Perhaps another $200,000 has been spent over a period of fours years on temporary stages, sound and booking, as provided by a third-party contractor/promoter based in Louisville.

Meanwhile, an amphitheater languishes.

Just up one-way Spring Street street from Bicentennial Park is the former site of Coyle Chevrolet and Coyle Dodge. Gahan's minions have cut a deal with an Indianapolis developer to construct "upscale" apartment buildings at the site. It is said to be a $15 million project, spurred in part by an unprecedented sewer tap-in waiver worth more than $200,000 to the developer, as well as TIF bonds allowing the developer to substantially reduce the amount of its own investment in the project.

In short, millions of dollars are leaving town, as going to incentivize these apartments. Standing before the rubber-stamp Redevelopment Commission, upon which sits the chairman of the Democratic Party, the city's economic developer described the nature of this deal.

"It's boilerplate," said David Duggins.

Yesterday, Develop New Albany forwarded an e-circular touting the many refurbishments and investments occurring in downtown New Albany. It can be read here.

Of the eleven separate projects discussed in the circular (and there are others under way, too), eight have been financed entirely by local private investors, with minimal city participation.

Two of them, wayfinding parking signage and the farmers market expansion (now termed "City Square" in yet another utterly non-transparent exercise), are city-funded projects.

The eleventh? It's the Coyle site redevelopment -- heavily incentivized, subsidized and according to Duggins, "boilerplate".

Perhaps our local builders should establish a post office box in Indianapolis.

All this, and I haven't even mentioned the $3 million beautification project on Main Street that contradicts every tenet of the Speck study following (not preceding) it.

Recall these previous postings, and as you do, contemplate Team Gahan's pathological secrecy and habit of non-transparency.

Phipps: City council has not been asked for more money; therefore, River Run Family Water Park is not over budget.

Pocket veto council Ninja.

Jeff Gahan refused to sign an ordinance requiring City Hall to provide financial information to the city legislative body. This "pocket veto" was dispersed via a 9-0 vote by the very same city council that has allowed itself to be played like a cheap kazoo by the mayor.

What's that about?

There is an election coming in November. Amid the scrambling for cover, does anyone know how much the pool really cost? And, finally, would you characterize any of this as "boilerplate"?

It's time for New Albany to try something different for a change, but before this opportunity arrives in November, a good first step would be Team Gahan's full and prompt public disclosure of the city's finances.

What we'll probably get instead is this.

$$$ hologram improvement project in New Albany receives bond, Dan and Adam approval.

The "solution is density," in which small parks play a design role.

There is no room for creative design downtown? Red = blank urban fabric.

Once New Albany had a grand post office at the corner of Spring and Pearl. It was targeted by Suburban Think and bulldozed in the 1960s for conversion into a mundane parking lot.

So it remained until just a few years ago, when we spent far too much money, perhaps a million and counting, to transform the space into what's known now as Bicentennial Park, one bounded by a building, an alley, and two one-way streets, one of which is a high-speed arterial.

The appearance of Bicentennial Park undoubtedly is an improvement on the poorly maintained parking lot owned by notorious slumlords, but it was built without multi-modal use in mind -- and might mere beautification have been done less expensively?

Also, as with the farmers market build-out at Market and Bank, a crucial street corner is tied to an occasional use concept rather than soon-to-be possible infill construction. With all due respect to my friend David White, high rises never were as much the objective as achieving density by filling gaps downtown.

The overall "message" as conveyed by the city's design, and its periodic use of Bicentennial Park for organized events, is that it isn't really a public space meant for adaptation and impromptu use. Rather, it's for shows and for gigs it wasn't built to support, meaning that each such temporary use must be funded again, over and over. How does this make sense?

The planning and design of Bicentennial Park were decreed from the top-down, and they ignore inclusive principles of community and placemaking in favor of finding a spot to erect a self-congratulatory plaque.

Meanwhile, in DC ... a counter example.

Fairfax trades a parking lot for a new park, by Canaan Merchant (Greater Greater Washington)

Old Town Square in Fairfax used to be a park that nobody used because it was wedged between two parking lots in the middle of the city's small, historic core. Now it's bigger and more inviting, and it's helping Fairfax embrace its urban roots.

Break out the Bud Light, because the Sanctioned Monument to the Glorious Usual Heroes of the Bicentennial Park Cash Unlimited Uprising is scheduled for unveiling soon.

10:06 p.m. update: It has been pointed out to me that Vic Megenity's name does not appear on the plaque shown below. Remember that time he came before council and asked for a Bicentennial Commission audit ... nah, that couldn't be the reason. 

The devil's in the "details," or so "they" say.

But most would agree that BicenPk is a "fun"damentally better corner, as implemented by "courageous" and "selfless" public servants ... say, wait: Isn't that the new, "unofficial" city seal/marketing tool/branding mechanism right there, engraved on a plaque meant to last forever, even beyond the time when Shayruff Duggins has been exiled all the way back to Clark County?

Like they always say: Every tarp costs a thousand bucks.

Let's all rejoice in the promise of a "better" tomorrow, and a plaque at every house, even as we speculate whether the required tithe on the part of the stone mason has pushed Team Gahan over the $100K mark.

Forgotten fields in Flanders on Armistice (Veterans) Day.

The annual renewal of Veterans Day reminds us that 2014 is the 96th anniversary of the Great War's end. More significantly, this year marks the conflict's centenary. Why is this important? Among other reasons, Americans remember 11/11/11 each year in the form of a holiday that has come to embrace the service of all veterans, not just the World War I generation.

Veterans Day is an official United States holiday honoring armed service veterans. It is a federal holiday that is observed on November 11th. It coincides with other holidays such as Armistice Day or Remembrance Day, which are celebrated in other parts of the world and also mark the anniversary of the signing of the Armistice that ended World War I. (Major hostilities of World War I were formally ended at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918 with the German signing of the Armistice.)

November 9 was the 25th anniversary of the day the Berlin Wall fell. As I'm fond of arguing, the armistice in 1918 didn't end the first war at all. The demise of the Wall did. My guess is that future historians will refer to this period as the 1912-1989 "77 Years' War, and be done with it. Here is a guest column originally published in the pre-merger Tribune on November 5, 2009.

---

Forgotten fields in Flanders.

Lately I keep hearing this tune.

Keep the home fires burning,
While your hearts are yearning,
Though your lads are far away
They dream of home.

These dreaming lads were soldiers, in route across the English Channel to fight for the United Kingdom, and several hundred thousand of them failed to return home to nostalgically remember a popular song written to inspire the home front in their absence.

By now it should be clear that war is horrible, and I’m not sure that it serves any purpose to discuss which wars are “just.” Justice in this context inevitably owes to situational morality as the combatants pray to their respective deities and make theological mockery of whatever religious interpretation devolves from these biased, selective judgments.

By all such standards, the Great War was especially horrible. The specific horror of this conflict, which eventually came to be known as World War I out of a contextual necessity to keep our historical accountings of human suffering clearly ordered, surely represents societal innocence shattered on an unfathomably massive scale.

An entire generation that had known no war outside of mock duels and parlor games willingly marched off to slaughter while gaily singing songs about honor and glory, and consequently, it’s a safe bet that World War I was the last disastrous conflict to feature a soundtrack entirely devoid of irony. Western societies would have to wait decades and refine techniques of amplification until the onset of thrash metal’s inherent violence finally provided music capable of approximating the grim reality of institutionalized murder.

Earlier this year, the last British veteran of the war died. Perhaps one American soldier of the era remains alive – and, in the time it has taken for me to write this essay, perhaps he’s gone, too. The war began in 1914, and it has long since faded into the black and white images of crude newsreel footage that only hint at the carnage of trench warfare and the doltish, outmoded “leadership” on the part of uniformed war criminals.

Providentially, my own grandfather was drafted too late for combat duty. He managed the not inconsiderable task of avoiding the flu pandemic that killed more American soldiers than enemy fire. My father then followed suit by serving in the Marines during World War II, which was “his” war, and a subject of fascination for him the remainder of his life.

I, too, went overseas, although not in uniform. In 1987, I found myself in Sopron, Hungary, choosing a beautiful early summer’s day to go for a hike in the hills. I came upon a large, older cemetery, and decided to walk through it, ascending a gentle, wooded slope past contemporary gravestones of the still-extant Communist era.

Like rings on a tree stump, history’s reverse chronology rotated as I continued uphill. Nearing the top, rows of Great War graves finally commenced. These were the soldiers who fought and died for the ruling family of the Austro-Hungarian Empire – the losers, as it were, who died as readily as the “winners” on the other side.

The first death dates were more recent: 1918, and then somewhat more from 1917, and as I scanned their names, the majority Hungarian, but also some Germanic and Slavic owing to the mutli-ethnic, polyglot nature of the Habsburg domain – as I contemplated how ridiculously, stupidly youthful so many of them were – I reached the lip of the hill, rather puzzled that there seemed to be no graves from earlier war years.

The answer to my befuddlement was just on the other side. Dipping into a valley studded with older, larger hardwoods, row after row of markers told the lethal tale: Died in 1916, 1915 and 1914.

I always think about the cemetery in Sopron on Veterans Day, formerly Armistice Day, which originally fell on November 11th because that's when the fighting stopped in 1918, ending the First Great World War and enabling a “peace” conference in Versailles that did so much to ensure a second.

Previous generations knew about the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, but all the other mass bloodlettings since required a consolidation of observance, and a holiday more intrinsically American. So be it, and I’m not here to disagree, even if we forget the first causes that brought it about.

However, we’re left with those many innocent, misplaced songs. Now that living memory has passed, they speak even more eloquently about life, death and our capacity, sometimes successful, and often not, to make sense out of the insensible.

A CBS television documentary, World War One, ran from 1964-65, comprising 26 half-hour episodes, and later airing on cable. My friend Barrie videotaped them. The series is now available on DVD (you can see excerpts on YouTube), and I’m weighing a Christmas purchase, because one of the episodes, “Tipperary and All That Jazz,” has haunted me since the first time he and I watched it around the time of my Sopron sojourn.

Ancient film, much of it depicting camp life behind the lines, forms a backdrop for song snippets. They are melancholy, sentimental and elegiac. It is heartbreaking … and very real.

There's a long, long trail a-winding
Into the land of my dreams,
Where the nightingales are singing,
And a white moon beams.
There's a long, long night of waiting
Until my dreams all come true,
Till the day when I'll be going
Down that long, long trail with you.

The best fate ever for Bob Caesar's crown jewel.

As it has been explained to me by a city official, the verdant green mounds scattered through Bicentennial Park are what happens when a nearby resident walks his dogs and refrains from scooping his poop.

For once, these letters are utterly appropriate: LOL.

Hugh Bir, Armistice-to-Veterans Day, and forgotten fields in Flanders.

I ran into Hugh Bir yesterday while examining cigars at Kaiser's, and he reminded me that he's playing on Sunday at Bicentennial Park on the occasion of the weekend Veterans Day celebration. He'll be playing in the 2 - 5 p.m. slot. Smoking's allowed over there, right? I'll save a stogie for it.

In turn, the annual renewal of Veterans Day prompts some rewinding.

It's the 95th anniversary of the Great War's end, and next year, the conflict's centenary will be upon us. Why is this important? Among other reasons, Americans remember it each year in the form of a holiday that has come to embrace the service of all veterans, not just the World War I generation.

Veterans Day is an official United States holiday honoring armed service veterans. It is a federal holiday that is observed on November 11th. It coincides with other holidays such as Armistice Day or Remembrance Day, which are celebrated in other parts of the world and also mark the anniversary of the signing of the Armistice that ended World War I. (Major hostilities of World War I were formally ended at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918 with the German signing of the Armistice.)

Saturday, November 9 marks another seminal anniversary: It's the day when the Berlin Wall fell. As I'm fond of pointing out, all things considered, the armistice in 1918 didn't end the war at all. The demise of the Wall did. My guess is that future historians will refer to this period as the 70 Years' War, and be done with it.

Here is a piece originally published in the pretend-local newspaper on November 5, 2009.

---

Forgotten fields in Flanders.

Lately I keep hearing this tune.

Keep the home fires burning,
While your hearts are yearning,
Though your lads are far away
They dream of home.

These dreaming lads were soldiers, in route across the English Channel to fight for the United Kingdom, and several hundred thousand of them failed to return home to nostalgically remember a popular song written to inspire the home front in their absence.

By now it should be clear that war is horrible, and I’m not sure that it serves any purpose to discuss which wars are “just.” Justice in this context inevitably owes to situational morality as the combatants pray to their respective deities and make theological mockery of whatever religious interpretation devolves from these biased, selective judgments.

By all such standards, the Great War was especially horrible. The specific horror of this conflict, which eventually came to be known as World War I out of a contextual necessity to keep our historical accountings of human suffering clearly ordered, surely represents societal innocence shattered on an unfathomably massive scale.

An entire generation that had known no war outside of mock duels and parlor games willingly marched off to slaughter while gaily singing songs about honor and glory, and consequently, it’s a safe bet that World War I was the last disastrous conflict to feature a soundtrack entirely devoid of irony. Western societies would have to wait decades and refine techniques of amplification until the onset of thrash metal’s inherent violence finally provided music capable of approximating the grim reality of institutionalized murder.

Earlier this year, the last British veteran of the war died. Perhaps one American soldier of the era remains alive – and, in the time it has taken for me to write this essay, perhaps he’s gone, too. The war began in 1914, and it has long since faded into the black and white images of crude newsreel footage that only hint at the carnage of trench warfare and the doltish, outmoded “leadership” on the part of uniformed war criminals.

Providentially, my own grandfather was drafted too late for combat duty. He managed the not inconsiderable task of avoiding the flu pandemic that killed more American soldiers than enemy fire. My father then followed suit by serving in the Marines during World War II, which was “his” war, and a subject of fascination for him the remainder of his life.

I, too, went overseas, although not in uniform. In 1987, I found myself in Sopron, Hungary, choosing a beautiful early summer’s day to go for a hike in the hills. I came upon a large, older cemetery, and decided to walk through it, ascending a gentle, wooded slope past contemporary gravestones of the still-extant Communist era.

Like rings on a tree stump, history’s reverse chronology rotated as I continued uphill. Nearing the top, rows of Great War graves finally commenced. These were the soldiers who fought and died for the ruling family of the Austro-Hungarian Empire – the losers, as it were, who died as readily as the “winners” on the other side.

The first death dates were more recent: 1918, and then somewhat more from 1917, and as I scanned their names, the majority Hungarian, but also some Germanic and Slavic owing to the mutli-ethnic, polyglot nature of the Habsburg domain – as I contemplated how ridiculously, stupidly youthful so many of them were – I reached the lip of the hill, rather puzzled that there seemed to be no graves from earlier war years.

The answer to my befuddlement was just on the other side. Dipping into a valley studded with older, larger hardwoods, row after row of markers told the lethal tale: Died in 1916, 1915 and 1914.

I always think about the cemetery in Sopron on Veterans Day, formerly Armistice Day, which originally fell on November 11th because that's when the fighting stopped in 1918, ending the First Great World War and enabling a “peace” conference in Versailles that did so much to ensure a second.

Previous generations knew about the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, but all the other mass bloodlettings since required a consolidation of observance, and a holiday more intrinsically American. So be it, and I’m not here to disagree, even if we forget the first causes that brought it about.

However, we’re left with those many innocent, misplaced songs. Now that living memory has passed, they speak even more eloquently about life, death and our capacity, sometimes successful, and often not, to make sense out of the insensible.

A CBS television documentary, World War One, ran from 1964-65, comprising 26 half-hour episodes, and later airing on cable. My friend Barrie videotaped them. The series is now available on DVD (you can see excerpts on YouTube), and I’m weighing a Christmas purchase, because one of the episodes, “Tipperary and All That Jazz,” has haunted me since the first time he and I watched it around the time of my Sopron sojourn.

Ancient film, much of it depicting camp life behind the lines, forms a backdrop for song snippets. They are melancholy, sentimental and elegiac. It is heartbreaking … and very real.

There's a long, long trail a-winding
Into the land of my dreams,
Where the nightingales are singing,
And a white moon beams.
There's a long, long night of waiting
Until my dreams all come true,
Till the day when I'll be going
Down that long, long trail with you.