It's a lovely paving stone, but I think Bob Caesar's pulling my leg.

The only problem is that Caesar mailed my gift COD.

Maybe if I stage a ribbon-cutting ...

Rave reviews by the book's own designer

Bicentennial commission financial trail? What's two (yawn) weeks (shrug) after 463 days?

And those pesky dual city seals. 

Tomorrow will mark two weeks elapsed since the anticipated date for learning how Bob Caesar's jigged Bicentennial Enfluffment Commission (BlECh) handled the cash.

Lawyer Daggett's vocabulary homework: Dilatory, unpunctual and "perhaps it's time to ring the Indiana public access counselor."

Hail, Caesar ... and make it 463 days. How much time and how many pencil erasers does this man need to honor a simple request?

418 days later, it's obvious that Bob Caesar doesn't care for you to know how the Bicentennial money was spent.

How very helpful. Obviously, Caesar isn't interested in taxpayers knowing how many of those 5,000 books remain unsold and non-glad-handed, or if the redevelopment commission's loan was paid back. What, didn't those lavishly illustrated tomes written by an outsider-for-hire sell like veritable hotcakes?

418 days later, it's obvious that Bob Caesar doesn't care for you to know how the Bicentennial money was spent.

Tonight's city council meeting offered a potpourri, or for the word challenged, a collection of different things.

There was information about Montessori bonding, homeless coalition funding, David Duggins' family ties to the prospective developer of Summit Springs, and firefighter breathing apparatus (apparati?)

Through it all, 2nd district councilman Bob Caesar was dogged about expenditures. How much? For what?

Caesar rigorously chased every spare penny -- until my turn came to speak, and I pointed out to him that it has been 418 days since I asked him to produce the financial report for Bicentennial Follies, 2013 Edition.

It has been 334 days since I asked Bob Caesar to show us the Bicentennial accounts. Crickets chirp. (March 14, 2016)

Way back on January 7, 2014, we asked:

On the Bicentennial's Crutchfield seat cushions: How many were sold? Was the loan paid back?

All we really wanted to know is how well those hired-gun Bicentennial books had sold, how many of the 5,000 (!) remained to be sold, and whether Redevelopment's loan was ever paid back. At the time, we were fairly gripped with mercenary gala nostalgia just thinking about it.

A pile of these books surely still exist, unsold and destined to be dispersed at every glad-handing political photo opportunity between now and the Tricentennial ...

Then, after being so talkative about numbers, Caesar suddenly made like the proverbial clam. Did he even remember saying the numbers were "buried in a box" somewhere, and he'd find them?

No, but when I reminded Caesar that 418 days is a long time to be stonewalled, he was ready with an answer.

"You know, I think they're on-line now."

"Do you know where? Is there a URL?"

"I don't know."

(I searched)

"If you're not going to get me these numbers, I can file a FOIA request."

"Okay."

"So, is that what I must do -- file a FOIA?"

"You can if you want to."

How very helpful. Obviously, Caesar isn't interested in taxpayers knowing how many of those 5,000 books remain unsold and non-glad-handed, or if the redevelopment commission's loan was paid back. What, didn't those lavishly illustrated tomes written by an outsider-for-hire sell like veritable hotcakes?

Rewinding to 2011 ...

“We feel there won’t be any problem selling it,” Caesar said. “These stories will have flavor to them.”

If they did sell like hot cakes, you'd think Caesar would jump at the chance to prove me wrong.

Was I mistaken in reminding an elected public "servant" that he'd previously promised to get these numbers? Caesar said he would, and he has not. He has no intention of doing it. Yes, I'll throw a FOIA request in the water and see if anyone else gives a damn.

But really, why must I -- or for that matter anyone else -- have to go to this much trouble to receive simple, basic information?

Selling New Albany by the pound? Hey, I'm a bureaucrat, and "I'm only doing my job!"

Something to think about from Steve Turgoose, and as the 1960s rock group once advised, "we have all been here before."

From 2010: "Weights, measures, short pours, long odds and Little Big Pints."

NABC’s Pizzeria & Public House was twice visited last week by Floyd County’s recently installed local weights and measures inspector. His stated reason for knocking on our door was a complaint he had received to the effect that we were not offering full pours of beer.

Consequently, in order to comply with the letter of the law in a place that seldom enforces any of them, we shall continue pouring draft beer as we always have, while recalibrating the way we’ve spoken about our draft business for 18 complaint-free years, as we learn new ways to describe what we're pouring by speaking in vague shades of linguistic, liquid content.

Not only have I been there, but apparently it's where I reside; at least once a year, like clockwork, taking time away from managing a small business to grapple with soulless, turf-hugging bureaucrats. It's enough to make a guy into a Tea Partier, though so far I've been able to avoid the siren's call.

These ruminations are occasioned by the experience of the Bookseller, who lately has been offering books by the pound. What might a few stray ounces constitute between friends and customers? And is the "letter" of the law really applicable to what is, in reality, a marketing ploy?

Must be payback time. Our cute little gimmick of selling a few of our surplus books "by the pound" motivated a 2-man inspection team to come out and harass me for selling books at 25 cents an ounce. City's worried someone might get cheated out of a quarter. Once I realized it wasn't a prank, I got mad. And, as with every regulator this city has thrown at us, we passed. Ridiculous overreach of jurisdiction. And yes, I said do your job and gtfo.