This column originally was published in the local 'Bama newspaper on October 8, 2009.
---
“CC, I just don’t get it. Why are we having a pay raise at three in the morning on a Sunday?”
Councilman Cappuccino glared at the ventriloquist dummy seated next to him on the riding lawnmower. He had other bologna to barbecue at the moment.
Like: Where were all the little people?
And: Where was the Citizens Faux Accountability float?
He’d been promised a million taxpayer turnout, and now here it was, crunch time, and nothing – well, nothing except that strange woman dressed up like a male college professor, waving her (his?) “NO” sign at the drunkard sleeping on the sidewalk outside the deserted Luddite Bar and Grill and babbling about teabags.
“It’s a PARADE, not a pay raise. It’s a wonder I get anything undone around here.”
Cappuccino spat.
“Li’l Stevie, I already told you. Them people wouldn’t let us in their high-falutin’ parade last Saturday. True, the application was late, but the Englandites, the parade committee, the Democrats, the Republicans, them pergessives – they’re all against us, every single one of ‘em.”
“But CC, I thought we were Democrats, too. Isn’t that what it says on my yard signs? What are we, anyway? Are we Yeller Dogs?”
Cappuccino felt the clinch of his inner copperhead. “That’s BLUE Dogs, not yeller. Durn it, we’re more Democrat than all them people are. We’re so Democrat, we’re actually Republican.”
“Is that why we’re against everything, CC?”
Hmm, thought Cappuccino as he fondled his ceremonial toilet key. Maybe that IS it, after all.
---
“Let’s get this protest march … I mean, this parade … on the road.”
Cappuccino clambered up on the seat of the riding lawnmower. Pawing his antique plastic Captain Marvel bullhorn, he turned to address the throng gathered behind him.
“Remember, we’re mad as heck. All them people getting the breaks, and us not getting the right information, and then they want to come and take the EDIT subsidy off the sewer bills – don’t they know that this year’s parade theme is Gloom, Despair and Agony on All of Us, Each and Every One?”
A lone stray mutt sprawled in the gravel moaned. Was this crazy human going to feed him, or not?
“All right, let’s go!”
Sputtering and coughing, the Regress Express eased onto Spring Street and headed west.
“Watch out, CC,” exclaimed Li’l Stevie. “You’re in the bike lane, boss. It’s illegal to mow the bike lane.”
I wouldn’t worry about that,” replied Cappuccino through clenched teeth. “We’re against ordinance enforcement, remember?”
“I thought that was just because of my rental properties. Look, CC, there’s one over there. It’s that quadplex cardboard box. I can’t believe they were throwing that one away. We’re hurtin’, don’t you know?
The pitch black autumn night sky gradually laced with streaks of light as Cappuccino’s convoy neared the historic business district. Li’l Stevie picked up his banjo and began rendering.
TWANG
C’mon people now
Smile on your brother
If it just would’ve been $4.8 million and not a mere 870 g’s
We could’ve shut this mother down, right now
TWANG
---
“Look at what you went and made me do,” bellowed a red-faced Cappuccino. “I missed the turn on Bank Street! Now what?”
“Heck, I wanted to see the patio the ratepayers built,” said Li’l Stevie, “but that’s okay. Take a left on Pearl, and we’ll double back and close down Hewie’s.”
As Cappuccino gently guided the festive lawnmower left onto Pearl, a grandly costumed figure suddenly leaped into his path. What remained of the transmission was disengaged, and Li’l Stevie went crashing into the moon tea jug.
“Halt, interlopers. You shall not pass!”
Standing before them was a fully armored Roman centurion, complete with diamond-studded breastplate and 24-carat plumed helmet.
(“It’s one of them revenuers, CC,” whispered Li’l Stevie. “Hide the pull tabs, fast, and call the VFW.”)
There was much clanking and clanging of iron and steel as the man lowered his Latinate scroll.
“It is I – Tiberius Severus Octavian Elagabalus Septimius Augustus Claudius Hadrian, the Protector of Pearl, Deliverer of all Downtown Datedness, Master of the Mercantile, and Guardian of the Gates. I have embarked on a valiant campaign against invading barbarian parade watchers, for which the city shall be eternally grateful. We will meet them on the plains, and in the forests, and in the streets, and out behind the floodwall … ”
“Wait a minute,” said Li’l Stevie, who’d climbed back on Cappuccino’s knee. “Who do you think you are to stand in the way of progress downtown? This is MY council district to kneecap – right, CC?”
Cappuccino grimaced. “It’s just Councilman CeeSaw.”
CeeSaw struck an appropriately dramatic pose.
“Indeed! Festive parades bring people, and people are a grave threat to walk-up sales. We can’t afford to lose even half of 1/365th of a day of business to a mere event that makes the community happy, even for only half of 1/365th of a day.”
“For heaven’s sake, CeeSaw,” countered Cappuccino. “It’s Sunday morning. Your shop isn’t even open.”
“But what if it was? There’d be all kinds of people down here, and then what would we do? Obviously, you don’t understand retail.”
Distractedly tuning his dobro, Li’l Stevie observed, “CC, this guy makes even less sense than you do.”
”Oh, yeah!”
“Sez who?”
“Who do you think you are, Dan Quixote?”
Their squabbling voices rose with the sun, and a council meeting broke out right there, in the empty downtown street.
Showing posts with label Li'l Stevie. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Li'l Stevie. Show all posts
Friday, October 04, 2013
Saturday, October 06, 2012
REWIND: We love a parade, unless …
This column originally was published in the local 'Bama newspaper on October 8, 2009.
---
“CC, I just don’t get it. Why are we having a pay raise at three in the morning on a Sunday?”
Councilman Cappuccino glared at the ventriloquist dummy seated next to him on the riding lawnmower. He had other bologna to barbecue at the moment.
Like: Where were all the little people?
And: Where was the Citizens Faux Accountability float?
He’d been promised a million taxpayer turnout, and now here it was, crunch time, and nothing – well, nothing except that strange woman dressed up like a male college professor, waving her (his?) “NO” sign at the drunkard sleeping on the sidewalk outside the deserted Luddite Bar and Grill and babbling about teabags.
“It’s a PARADE, not a pay raise. It’s a wonder I get anything undone around here.”
Cappuccino spat.
“Li’l Stevie, I already told you. Them people wouldn’t let us in their high-falutin’ parade last Saturday. True, the application was late, but the Englandites, the parade committee, the Democrats, the Republicans, them pergessives – they’re all against us, every single one of ‘em.”
“But CC, I thought we were Democrats, too. Isn’t that what it says on my yard signs? What are we, anyway? Are we Yeller Dogs?”
Cappuccino felt the clinch of his inner copperhead. “That’s BLUE Dogs, not yeller. Durn it, we’re more Democrat than all them people are. We’re so Democrat, we’re actually Republican.”
“Is that why we’re against everything, CC?”
Hmm, thought Cappuccino as he fondled his ceremonial toilet key. Maybe that IS it, after all.
---
“Let’s get this protest march … I mean, this parade … on the road.”
Cappuccino clambered up on the seat of the riding lawnmower. Pawing his antique plastic Captain Marvel bullhorn, he turned to address the throng gathered behind him.
“Remember, we’re mad as heck. All them people getting the breaks, and us not getting the right information, and then they want to come and take the EDIT subsidy off the sewer bills – don’t they know that this year’s parade theme is Gloom, Despair and Agony on All of Us, Each and Every One?”
A lone stray mutt sprawled in the gravel moaned. Was this crazy human going to feed him, or not?
“All right, let’s go!”
Sputtering and coughing, the Regress Express eased onto Spring Street and headed west.
“Watch out, CC,” exclaimed Li’l Stevie. “You’re in the bike lane, boss. It’s illegal to mow the bike lane.”
I wouldn’t worry about that,” replied Cappuccino through clenched teeth. “We’re against ordinance enforcement, remember?”
“I thought that was just because of my rental properties. Look, CC, there’s one over there. It’s that quadplex cardboard box. I can’t believe they were throwing that one away. We’re hurtin’, don’t you know?
The pitch black autumn night sky gradually laced with streaks of light as Cappuccino’s convoy neared the historic business district. Li’l Stevie picked up his banjo and began rendering.
TWANG
C’mon people now
Smile on your brother
If it just would’ve been $4.8 million and not a mere 870 g’s
We could’ve shut this mother down, right now
TWANG
---
“Look at what you went and made me do,” bellowed a red-faced Cappuccino. “I missed the turn on Bank Street! Now what?”
“Heck, I wanted to see the patio the ratepayers built,” said Li’l Stevie, “but that’s okay. Take a left on Pearl, and we’ll double back and close down Hewie’s.”
As Cappuccino gently guided the festive lawnmower left onto Pearl, a grandly costumed figure suddenly leaped into his path. What remained of the transmission was disengaged, and Li’l Stevie went crashing into the moon tea jug.
“Halt, interlopers. You shall not pass!”
Standing before them was a fully armored Roman centurion, complete with diamond-studded breastplate and 24-carat plumed helmet.
(“It’s one of them revenuers, CC,” whispered Li’l Stevie. “Hide the pull tabs, fast, and call the VFW.”)
There was much clanking and clanging of iron and steel as the man lowered his Latinate scroll.
“It is I – Tiberius Severus Octavian Elagabalus Septimius Augustus Claudius Hadrian, the Protector of Pearl, Deliverer of all Downtown Datedness, Master of the Mercantile, and Guardian of the Gates. I have embarked on a valiant campaign against invading barbarian parade watchers, for which the city shall be eternally grateful. We will meet them on the plains, and in the forests, and in the streets, and out behind the floodwall … ”
“Wait a minute,” said Li’l Stevie, who’d climbed back on Cappuccino’s knee. “Who do you think you are to stand in the way of progress downtown? This is MY council district to kneecap – right, CC?”
Cappuccino grimaced. “It’s just Councilman CeeSaw.”
CeeSaw struck an appropriately dramatic pose.
“Indeed! Festive parades bring people, and people are a grave threat to walk-up sales. We can’t afford to lose even half of 1/365th of a day of business to a mere event that makes the community happy, even for only half of 1/365th of a day.”
“For heaven’s sake, CeeSaw,” countered Cappuccino. “It’s Sunday morning. Your shop isn’t even open.”
“But what if it was? There’d be all kinds of people down here, and then what would we do? Obviously, you don’t understand retail.”
Distractedly tuning his dobro, Li’l Stevie observed, “CC, this guy makes even less sense than you do.”
‘”Oh, yeah!”
“Sez who?”
“Who do you think you are, Dan Quixote?”
Their squabbling voices rose with the sun, and a council meeting broke out right there, in the empty downtown street.
---
“CC, I just don’t get it. Why are we having a pay raise at three in the morning on a Sunday?”
Councilman Cappuccino glared at the ventriloquist dummy seated next to him on the riding lawnmower. He had other bologna to barbecue at the moment.
Like: Where were all the little people?
And: Where was the Citizens Faux Accountability float?
He’d been promised a million taxpayer turnout, and now here it was, crunch time, and nothing – well, nothing except that strange woman dressed up like a male college professor, waving her (his?) “NO” sign at the drunkard sleeping on the sidewalk outside the deserted Luddite Bar and Grill and babbling about teabags.
“It’s a PARADE, not a pay raise. It’s a wonder I get anything undone around here.”
Cappuccino spat.
“Li’l Stevie, I already told you. Them people wouldn’t let us in their high-falutin’ parade last Saturday. True, the application was late, but the Englandites, the parade committee, the Democrats, the Republicans, them pergessives – they’re all against us, every single one of ‘em.”
“But CC, I thought we were Democrats, too. Isn’t that what it says on my yard signs? What are we, anyway? Are we Yeller Dogs?”
Cappuccino felt the clinch of his inner copperhead. “That’s BLUE Dogs, not yeller. Durn it, we’re more Democrat than all them people are. We’re so Democrat, we’re actually Republican.”
“Is that why we’re against everything, CC?”
Hmm, thought Cappuccino as he fondled his ceremonial toilet key. Maybe that IS it, after all.
---
“Let’s get this protest march … I mean, this parade … on the road.”
Cappuccino clambered up on the seat of the riding lawnmower. Pawing his antique plastic Captain Marvel bullhorn, he turned to address the throng gathered behind him.
“Remember, we’re mad as heck. All them people getting the breaks, and us not getting the right information, and then they want to come and take the EDIT subsidy off the sewer bills – don’t they know that this year’s parade theme is Gloom, Despair and Agony on All of Us, Each and Every One?”
A lone stray mutt sprawled in the gravel moaned. Was this crazy human going to feed him, or not?
“All right, let’s go!”
Sputtering and coughing, the Regress Express eased onto Spring Street and headed west.
“Watch out, CC,” exclaimed Li’l Stevie. “You’re in the bike lane, boss. It’s illegal to mow the bike lane.”
I wouldn’t worry about that,” replied Cappuccino through clenched teeth. “We’re against ordinance enforcement, remember?”
“I thought that was just because of my rental properties. Look, CC, there’s one over there. It’s that quadplex cardboard box. I can’t believe they were throwing that one away. We’re hurtin’, don’t you know?
The pitch black autumn night sky gradually laced with streaks of light as Cappuccino’s convoy neared the historic business district. Li’l Stevie picked up his banjo and began rendering.
TWANG
C’mon people now
Smile on your brother
If it just would’ve been $4.8 million and not a mere 870 g’s
We could’ve shut this mother down, right now
TWANG
---
“Look at what you went and made me do,” bellowed a red-faced Cappuccino. “I missed the turn on Bank Street! Now what?”
“Heck, I wanted to see the patio the ratepayers built,” said Li’l Stevie, “but that’s okay. Take a left on Pearl, and we’ll double back and close down Hewie’s.”
As Cappuccino gently guided the festive lawnmower left onto Pearl, a grandly costumed figure suddenly leaped into his path. What remained of the transmission was disengaged, and Li’l Stevie went crashing into the moon tea jug.
“Halt, interlopers. You shall not pass!”
Standing before them was a fully armored Roman centurion, complete with diamond-studded breastplate and 24-carat plumed helmet.
(“It’s one of them revenuers, CC,” whispered Li’l Stevie. “Hide the pull tabs, fast, and call the VFW.”)
There was much clanking and clanging of iron and steel as the man lowered his Latinate scroll.
“It is I – Tiberius Severus Octavian Elagabalus Septimius Augustus Claudius Hadrian, the Protector of Pearl, Deliverer of all Downtown Datedness, Master of the Mercantile, and Guardian of the Gates. I have embarked on a valiant campaign against invading barbarian parade watchers, for which the city shall be eternally grateful. We will meet them on the plains, and in the forests, and in the streets, and out behind the floodwall … ”
“Wait a minute,” said Li’l Stevie, who’d climbed back on Cappuccino’s knee. “Who do you think you are to stand in the way of progress downtown? This is MY council district to kneecap – right, CC?”
Cappuccino grimaced. “It’s just Councilman CeeSaw.”
CeeSaw struck an appropriately dramatic pose.
“Indeed! Festive parades bring people, and people are a grave threat to walk-up sales. We can’t afford to lose even half of 1/365th of a day of business to a mere event that makes the community happy, even for only half of 1/365th of a day.”
“For heaven’s sake, CeeSaw,” countered Cappuccino. “It’s Sunday morning. Your shop isn’t even open.”
“But what if it was? There’d be all kinds of people down here, and then what would we do? Obviously, you don’t understand retail.”
Distractedly tuning his dobro, Li’l Stevie observed, “CC, this guy makes even less sense than you do.”
‘”Oh, yeah!”
“Sez who?”
“Who do you think you are, Dan Quixote?”
Their squabbling voices rose with the sun, and a council meeting broke out right there, in the empty downtown street.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Nash: "What would a New Albany that is run with cooperation look like?"
Matt Nash is as omnipresent in the newspaper as those Alabama pensioner-endorsed OSIN pop-up ads.
READER JEERS ... to the News and Tribune for printing Matt Nash’s nothing column basically saying he had nothing to write about.
If one commits to writing a column, they should certainly be able to find something to write about. Since he doesn’t have Steve Price to kick around anymore, due to the paper’s hatchet job, he doesn’t have anything to write about.
The frequent jeer contributor Granny Larner obviously is upset that with his council seat gone with the wind, Li'l Stevie now actually must go back to work. Too bad there are no available positions in the private sector that pay 12k yearly to repeat the word "no," although Price might consider applying for a job at a bank's loan department.
Meanwhile, Matt remains an undeterred optimist.
NASH: The future seems brighter in New Albany
NEW ALBANY — The votes have all been counted and the winners have all been declared — pending a challenge from Floyd County Republicans. Hopefully, all of the signs have been packed away and will not return until late next spring.
The election is over and we finally know who the new mayor of New Albany will be. We also know who he will need to work with on the city council when the new year begins. Now it is time to start planning for the future of our city.
Beginning Jan. 1, mayor-elect Jeff Gahan had better be prepared to hit the ground running, because the residents of New Albany have a track record of turning on our leaders pretty quickly. The president of the United States usually has an unofficial deadline of 100 days to make his mark on the American people; the mayor of New Albany usually gets called out by the time of the first snow storm.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
A third way is defanging a Copperhead.
One way is to "build a fleet of 200 warships known as triremes." Another is to elect a 3rd district council person capable of rising just a bit above the shuck and jive of Willy and the poor boys. The week to come is going to be momentous ... and fun.
How to Make a Small City Great, at NewAlbanyBooks.
How to Make a Small City Great, at NewAlbanyBooks.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Today's Tribune column: "Only sissies catch and release."
Ifuns they come back with a mess of EDITs and TIFs, maybe they kin put 'em in a Cajun cooker top o' the new parkin' gay-rodge.
BAYLOR: Only sissies catch and release
SOUTHERN INDIANA — It was dawn’s earliest light in the damp cold of an Ohio Valley winter morning, and down in the muddy creek bottoms of Falling Run, a smudgy tableau was lifting, sketched in drab shades of brown and gray.
Invisible waterborne contaminants gurgled past an exposed mound of illegally dumped tires. Nearby, where imperceptibly decaying rubber met an abandoned wooden packing crate, rustlings in the dead leaves gradually betrayed the presence of three shivering, huddled forms, two of them clad in Army surplus desert camouflage.
The third, smaller and mannequin-like, was perched on an empty plastic milk jug, wearing a straw hat and wielding an unlicensed Dobro®.
TWANG!
“A hunting we will go, a hunting we will go,
Heigh ho, the Mayor must go, a hunting we will go.”
TWANG!
From below a scarlet, grease-smeared doo rag, Councilman Cappuccino glared at his ventriloquist’s dummy.
“Be vewwwy quiet! We’re hunting EDITs.”
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Today's Tribune column: "Cappuccino's Pendulum."
Which world is real, and which one fantasy?
In one world, as reported in today's Tribune, a New Albany councilman barely capable of finishing high school lays claim to higher legal knowledge than the interpretation by a former Indiana Attorney General holding that, "pay for elected officials may not be reduced to less than the amount of their salary from the previous year."
---
BEER MONEY: Cappuccino’s Pendulum.
Somewhere down Culbertson way, a mangy brown squirrel reposed peacefully on artfully crumbling bits of disintegrating concrete at a place once known as the curb, last repaired during the giddy euphoria of the C. Pralle Erni years.
Lazily gnawing on a discarded ice cream wrapper (his favorite flavor, cherry red), the squirrel spied a faded blue pickup slowly approaching. The squirrel took no note of the truck’s perpetually scowling driver, but immediately spotted a ventriloquist’s puppet dressed vaguely like the late Porter Waggoner, propped atop the stained passenger seat.
“Some nice wood on that one,” mused the squirrel. “Too bad he’s with dummy.”
Concurrently, an agitated Councilman Cappuccino took no note of the masticating tree rat, but immediately spotted the decrepit curb.
“We’d better do something about that,” spat Cappuccino to Li’l Stevie. “Let’s make sure none of them people come here and start a business. Heck, pretty soon they’ll improve the area, property values will rise, the city will waste taxpayer money fixing the sidewalk, and then the curb, and maybe give ‘em a patio, too. Where would we be then?”
“10th Street,” said Stevie, glimpsing a tottering street sign.
“I have some rentals right near here, CC. Let’s stop and make my tenants buy us a round of cold ones, hee hee. They don’t have a choice, seeing as I don’t let ‘em keep beer on my property unless they buy it from me – and none of that microbrew %^#$, either.”
---
SCREEECH.
As Cappuccino slammed on the brakes, Li’l Stevie clattered to the floor, and the poor squirrel … well, he remained safely ensconced amid the rubble, wondering exactly what had halted the noisy humans.
“See that cash cow of a quad-plex over there? Just look at the gorgeous beige vinyl siding,” cooed Cappuccino. “It adds real character to that crappy old historical house.”
“It says, ‘Rent me, depreciate me, don’t you ever appreciate me.’ Why, it’s so fluffy, I could die!”
The infatuated councilman immediately jumped out of his truck and began running across the street to caress the cherished siding, but he didn’t see that enormous land yacht coming …
SCREEECH.
The squirrel covered his beady eyes and recoiled, but luckily, there was no sickening sound of molded aluminum meeting legislative corpulence. Out in the middle of Culbertson, Cappuccino waved his fist.
“If I’d have let myself have city council insurance, you bet your bottom dollar I wouldn’t have used it – even if you killed me!”
Suddenly trumpets sounded, and emerging from the car was a Roman centurion, complete with diamond-studded breastplate and 24-carat plumed helmet.
“Halt, vilest jaywalker, for it is I – Tiberius Severus Octavian Elagabalus Septimius Augustus Claudius Hadrian, the Protector of Pearl, Deliverer of all Downtown Datedness, Master of the Mercantile, and Guardian of the Gates. You will be brought before the municipal court, except that we have no such thing, so I shall immediately signal for the city clerk.”
“Yo,” squealed Li’l Stevie, reaching for his banjo. “It sure isn’t Halloween, and that’s no gladiator. It’s Councilman Seesaw!”
TWANGshumpaTWANGshumpa
Please let me floss my jewelry
So much ice make ya eye sight blurry
Jewelry, this ain’t even half my jewelry
It's gettin’ kinda cold ‘n here I'm serious
Everybody starrin’ cuz we rockin' big jewelry
TWANGshumpaTWANGshumpa
Seesaw’s and Cappuccino’s jaws dropped in unison.
“Thank you, thank you – it’s great to be back here on Culbertson,” exclaimed the performer, adjusting his rhinestones. “I don’t let my tenants listen to hip hop – unless I sing it for ‘em. That usually puts a stop to it, and they can get right back to good ol’ Neil Young.”
---
Tugging at his epaulets, Seesaw said, “I’m sorry I almost ran you down, Cappuccino, but I’m late for a very important date. One Southern Indiana’s secret public policy committee is meeting to decide how to spend the $70,000 we voted to give us.”
“Nay,” interjected Li’l Stevie.
“C’mon, Seesaw. There are still two readings left,” said Cappuccino. “I want that money to stay right here in New Albany, because we – I – need a new outhouse at my – our – park in Westendia.”
“Hah! But we – they – have the votes, Cappuccino. It’s 5-4, and the money goes to us, I mean to 1SI, for our – their – nifty marketing campaign.”
“I vote no – no,” Li’l Stevie repeated.
“Marketing? I thought they – I mean you – wanted the money because you – I mean they – brought all them book-readin’ alcoholics downtown.”
“Nah, Cappy, it’s for putting tolls on the bridges we already paid for, so in 25 years we’ll have still more bridges, and maybe there’ll even be some petroleum left by then to run semis across them. Here’s 1SI’s new slogan: ‘You pay more to work over there, and they pay more to shop over here.’ Catchy, huh?”
“No,” shouted Li’l Stevie, “No tolls! No Nazis! No dark beer! I’ll just play some more hip hop. That’ll keep ‘em on Frankfort Avenue.”
Cappuccino glowered. “Seesaw, you’d best not count your organic eggs before those pergessives overpay for them at the Farmer’s Market. That Naygain flip-flops more than IHOP, and then there’s McWafflin.”
“Maybe,” said Seesaw, “Although it’s hard for me to believe that Councilman Cappuccino and Li’l Stevie are voting with Ponder and the progressives, when it’s 1SI that’s got all the vinyl siding you need. See you on Thursday, gentlemen.”
The squirrel abruptly turned and ran, spooked by an emerging mandolin.
TWANG.
“Torn between two lovers, feeling like a fool,
Loving you both is breaking all the rules.”
Roger is looking forward to non-stop operatic karaoke in the 1st and 3rd districts during next year’s election. For the only blog that New Albany reads, go to www.cityofnewalbany.blogspot.com
In one world, as reported in today's Tribune, a New Albany councilman barely capable of finishing high school lays claim to higher legal knowledge than the interpretation by a former Indiana Attorney General holding that, "pay for elected officials may not be reduced to less than the amount of their salary from the previous year."
(1st district councilman Dan) Coffey said Tuesday he intends to proceed with the resolution, adding that he researched the state law before writing the measure and believes it to be on par with Indiana code.In the other, which perhaps will be posted to the newspaper's web site at some point today, but that I'll reprint in its entirety below as a reproach to tardiness, an amok elected official disturbs the tranquility of a squirrel, has a siding moment, and dances to hip hop.
---
BEER MONEY: Cappuccino’s Pendulum.
Somewhere down Culbertson way, a mangy brown squirrel reposed peacefully on artfully crumbling bits of disintegrating concrete at a place once known as the curb, last repaired during the giddy euphoria of the C. Pralle Erni years.
Lazily gnawing on a discarded ice cream wrapper (his favorite flavor, cherry red), the squirrel spied a faded blue pickup slowly approaching. The squirrel took no note of the truck’s perpetually scowling driver, but immediately spotted a ventriloquist’s puppet dressed vaguely like the late Porter Waggoner, propped atop the stained passenger seat.
“Some nice wood on that one,” mused the squirrel. “Too bad he’s with dummy.”
Concurrently, an agitated Councilman Cappuccino took no note of the masticating tree rat, but immediately spotted the decrepit curb.
“We’d better do something about that,” spat Cappuccino to Li’l Stevie. “Let’s make sure none of them people come here and start a business. Heck, pretty soon they’ll improve the area, property values will rise, the city will waste taxpayer money fixing the sidewalk, and then the curb, and maybe give ‘em a patio, too. Where would we be then?”
“10th Street,” said Stevie, glimpsing a tottering street sign.
“I have some rentals right near here, CC. Let’s stop and make my tenants buy us a round of cold ones, hee hee. They don’t have a choice, seeing as I don’t let ‘em keep beer on my property unless they buy it from me – and none of that microbrew %^#$, either.”
---
SCREEECH.
As Cappuccino slammed on the brakes, Li’l Stevie clattered to the floor, and the poor squirrel … well, he remained safely ensconced amid the rubble, wondering exactly what had halted the noisy humans.
“See that cash cow of a quad-plex over there? Just look at the gorgeous beige vinyl siding,” cooed Cappuccino. “It adds real character to that crappy old historical house.”
“It says, ‘Rent me, depreciate me, don’t you ever appreciate me.’ Why, it’s so fluffy, I could die!”
The infatuated councilman immediately jumped out of his truck and began running across the street to caress the cherished siding, but he didn’t see that enormous land yacht coming …
SCREEECH.
The squirrel covered his beady eyes and recoiled, but luckily, there was no sickening sound of molded aluminum meeting legislative corpulence. Out in the middle of Culbertson, Cappuccino waved his fist.
“If I’d have let myself have city council insurance, you bet your bottom dollar I wouldn’t have used it – even if you killed me!”
Suddenly trumpets sounded, and emerging from the car was a Roman centurion, complete with diamond-studded breastplate and 24-carat plumed helmet.
“Halt, vilest jaywalker, for it is I – Tiberius Severus Octavian Elagabalus Septimius Augustus Claudius Hadrian, the Protector of Pearl, Deliverer of all Downtown Datedness, Master of the Mercantile, and Guardian of the Gates. You will be brought before the municipal court, except that we have no such thing, so I shall immediately signal for the city clerk.”
“Yo,” squealed Li’l Stevie, reaching for his banjo. “It sure isn’t Halloween, and that’s no gladiator. It’s Councilman Seesaw!”
TWANGshumpaTWANGshumpa
Please let me floss my jewelry
So much ice make ya eye sight blurry
Jewelry, this ain’t even half my jewelry
It's gettin’ kinda cold ‘n here I'm serious
Everybody starrin’ cuz we rockin' big jewelry
TWANGshumpaTWANGshumpa
Seesaw’s and Cappuccino’s jaws dropped in unison.
“Thank you, thank you – it’s great to be back here on Culbertson,” exclaimed the performer, adjusting his rhinestones. “I don’t let my tenants listen to hip hop – unless I sing it for ‘em. That usually puts a stop to it, and they can get right back to good ol’ Neil Young.”
---
Tugging at his epaulets, Seesaw said, “I’m sorry I almost ran you down, Cappuccino, but I’m late for a very important date. One Southern Indiana’s secret public policy committee is meeting to decide how to spend the $70,000 we voted to give us.”
“Nay,” interjected Li’l Stevie.
“C’mon, Seesaw. There are still two readings left,” said Cappuccino. “I want that money to stay right here in New Albany, because we – I – need a new outhouse at my – our – park in Westendia.”
“Hah! But we – they – have the votes, Cappuccino. It’s 5-4, and the money goes to us, I mean to 1SI, for our – their – nifty marketing campaign.”
“I vote no – no,” Li’l Stevie repeated.
“Marketing? I thought they – I mean you – wanted the money because you – I mean they – brought all them book-readin’ alcoholics downtown.”
“Nah, Cappy, it’s for putting tolls on the bridges we already paid for, so in 25 years we’ll have still more bridges, and maybe there’ll even be some petroleum left by then to run semis across them. Here’s 1SI’s new slogan: ‘You pay more to work over there, and they pay more to shop over here.’ Catchy, huh?”
“No,” shouted Li’l Stevie, “No tolls! No Nazis! No dark beer! I’ll just play some more hip hop. That’ll keep ‘em on Frankfort Avenue.”
Cappuccino glowered. “Seesaw, you’d best not count your organic eggs before those pergessives overpay for them at the Farmer’s Market. That Naygain flip-flops more than IHOP, and then there’s McWafflin.”
“Maybe,” said Seesaw, “Although it’s hard for me to believe that Councilman Cappuccino and Li’l Stevie are voting with Ponder and the progressives, when it’s 1SI that’s got all the vinyl siding you need. See you on Thursday, gentlemen.”
The squirrel abruptly turned and ran, spooked by an emerging mandolin.
TWANG.
“Torn between two lovers, feeling like a fool,
Loving you both is breaking all the rules.”
Roger is looking forward to non-stop operatic karaoke in the 1st and 3rd districts during next year’s election. For the only blog that New Albany reads, go to www.cityofnewalbany.blogspot.com
Thursday, October 08, 2009
Today's Tribune column: "We love a parade, unless ... "
You had to be up early (or still drinking late) to catch Droolapalooza, the “alternative” Harvest Homecoming parade. Missed it? It’s your lucky day, because my Tribune column today provides a gritty, factual account of it.
BAYLOR: We love a parade, unless ...
“Li’l Stevie, I already told you. Them people wouldn’t let us in their high-falutin’ parade last Saturday. True, the application was late, but the Englandites, the parade committee, the Democrats, the Republicans, them pergessives — they’re all against us, every single one of ‘em.”
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