Header corrected from the original.
ON THE AVENUES REWOUND: Our great and noble leader
is here to stay soon will be going away, so let’, so let’s break out the țuică and make a joyful noise.
A weekly column by Roger A. Baylor.
I. May, 2019 Preface to Rewind
Perhaps as many as two-thirds of our 2019 primary election votes will be cast on Tuesday. Regular readers already know my choice.
ON THE AVENUES: It’s time for a change, and David White understands that change begins with a whole lotta scrubbing.
The following column was written in 2017 and repeated in 2018. In the year since then, the anchor-laden civic idiocy has continued to proliferate.
We’ve witnessed the final Reisz Mahal luxury city hall fix, the death of a skateboarder on uncalmed city streets, a planned sixty-mile recreational trail to nowhere, David Duggins’ piece-by-piece dismantlement of Riverview Tower, the Colonial Manor public relations catastrophe and Jeff Gahan on the verge of $500,000 in career earnings from pay-to-play political patronage.
NA Confidential has documented Gahan’s bullying of a street department worker and a policeman, and we’ve watched with dismay as the News and Tribune continues to duck, cover and abdicate its responsibility to cover news in New Albany.
There’ve been Kool-Aid blackouts and loaded Rice Krispies Treats freakouts, and all the while the insider Democrats keep doubling down on Dear Leader — and why not? They’re at the apex of a cliquish and privileged pyramid looking down at the people they’re supposed to be serving, but have been too busy implementing Gahan’s luxury enhancement program to give a damn.
Now they’re nervous, aren’t they?
II. April, 2018 Preface to Rewind
Early this morning I began writing the weekly column over kippers and coffee, and after 300 words, a pervasive feeling of déjà vu began furrowing my brow. Sure enough, upon comparative examination, I’d been there before — 13 months ago, to be exact.
In which case, why not just repeat the original?
I tend to refrain from reruns of such recent vintage, but as Year Zero approaches, there has been a noticeable resurgence of sheer, unmitigated hubris on the part of Team Gahan’s increasingly vacuous functionaries, including (though not limited to) Pat McLaughlin’s malicious Knable censure resolution, the shameless and bullying pilferage of intellectual property rights on the part of Develop New Albany’s tittering second-raters, a rumored million-dollar cost overrun on the mayor’s luxury city hall reclamation, and politically motivated harassment and intimidation of city employees.
There’s a great deal of talking down, and too little talking to or with. The stench emits from the top, from Jeff Gahan himself and the Floyd County Democratic Party.
Local Democrats are feeling cornered, and like animals, their fangs are being bared. Decades of ward-heeling patronage and forever merrily wetting beaks is at last threatened by a gradual rising tide in the form of the municipal wing of the Republican Party.
Unfortunately, ranking local Democrats remain enamored of center-right pandering spaced with occasional whiffs of gesture-laden identity coding to entice the two-person-strong East Spring Street Neighborhood Association — and they’re as terrified by the likes of Dan Canon in 2018 as they were by Bernie Sanders in 2016.
Straight up: Gahan’s all the Democrats have; this is an apocalyptic Alamo in the making, and doubling down is their only real choice. The re-election tactics already are nasty, and they’re going to get worse, because the institution is incapable of reform as constituted, on the fly, but the problem goes far deeper, because in addition to the usual petty graft and high school city council chicanery, the power elite — Gahan, Dickey, Gibson and Duggins, among others — truly believe they’re infallible.
They aren’t. Furthermore, neither am I. Returning to March of 2017 and rereading what I wrote last year, it occurs to me that the odds of regime change have improved. The more we point at the deficiencies of Gahan’s megalomania, and to the absurdity of a veneer peddler’s innate perfection, the more numerous are those heads nodding in agreement.
They may or may not vote, but there’ll be two chances to topple the statue and begin papering over those anchors.
III. March, 2017 Original Column
Țuică is plum brandy, and sweeping generalizations tend to be insupportable. Seeing as I’m in no mood to be dainty, let’s have a drink of the firewater and stumble into the breach.
As human beings go, the late Romanian communist dictator Nicolae Ceaușescu (1918-1989) was a regrettable and unfortunate piece of work.
Yes, Ceaușescu was canny and possessing the survivor’s keen animal instincts, but offered few redeeming qualities otherwise. He was brutal, long-winded and poorly educated, though slightly brainier than his wife, Elena, a semi-literate bumpkin who built her own cult of personality around pretending to be a superstar scientist.
To read about the despot Ceaușescu nowadays is to constantly find yourself asking, “How could this nondescript dullard of a rural functionary be called the Genius of the Carpathians?”
Even apart from Ceaușescu being an installed and pliant cog in a closed international geopolitical system, itself constructed to institutionalize precisely such non-ironic chicanery, the very thought is breathtaking – and almost surely he believed every word of it.
While shaving each morning, the Conducător (leader) gazed into the mirror not unlike Wile E. Coyote, and paused to admire the length and breadth of his genius.
And why not? A quasi-feudal collection of stooges, sycophants and “yes men” surrounded Ceaușescu, assuring him constantly that he was every bit the ranking luminary ever to have emerged from the dark, forested Transylvanian mountains, overshadowing even the legendary Vlad Tepes – historical basis for the character of Dracula.
In turn, these assurances became the substance of propaganda, including press clippings about himself that Ceaușescu read eagerly over his daily breakfast of luxury foods generally unavailable to his subjects, as well as ubiquitously placed visual reminders of his presence.
Propaganda was the source for parroted and fluttering expressions of fealty on the part of those Romanian citizens who grasped the obvious, and cheerily rebroadcast the boilerplate from a desire to stay out of prison – and of course some of them ended up there, anyway.
What a vicious and dreary fraud, that Ceaușescu.
For 25 years, he was a veritable anchor of vapid tastelessness, mired in the mud flats of the Danube River delta, surrounded by clueless henchmen and corrupt vandals who enriched themselves at the expense of the common man.
Hmm. I’m not sure what made me think of all this, but did I tell you there was a ceremony at the amphitheater on Tuesday morning?
As we enter Year VI in the Chronicles of New Gahania, the only major surprise is that Mayor Jeff Gahan hasn’t yet designed a logoed scepter.
On Tuesday morning, Gahan – our Genius of the Floodplain – bounded to a podium hastily erected at the underused amphitheater, chosen for this occasion because the river looks so “cool” behind it, though it remains unfit for the dashing Team Gahan otherwise.
Giggling and gesticulating in a paroxysm of agoraphobic ecstasy, Gahan thanked the Horseshoe Foundation board members who he’d either had appointed or strong-armed, or both, and accepted a check for $5 million from the only Floyd County politician whose compliance really mattered, his neighbor and arch-rival Mark Seabrook, who from this moment forward will be utterly forgotten as Gahan claims full credit for the foundation’s largess.
Gahan proceeded to run down the list of previous multi-million dollar quality-of-life luxury improvements, praising the investments while never revealing their true cost in terms of municipal subsidies and post-ribbon-cutting maintenance.
Verily, Gahan’s done it all; laid the bricks, moved the dirt, smoothed the asphalt, sold hot dogs and swept the floor. It was repulsive and sickening, and within a few seconds it became evident to me as never before that short of getting caught in bed with a known book reader, Gahan has emerged as the odds-on favorite to serve indefinitely as New Albany’s de facto mayor-for-life.
The list of baubles, glitz and glitter – of bright, shiny objects that function as Potemkin facades, suggesting municipal progress while obscuring the ongoing rot proceeding apace underneath – has become as lengthy as Shane Gibson’s arm.
Concurrently, Gahan’s increasingly pedestrian press releases clearly indicate that he’s efficiently cured our city of the social ills that plague the remainder of the planet, apart from a handful of Scandinavian towns and the acreage of various Disney properties.
We have no crime, drug abuse, homelessness, poverty or red lights being run by speeding vehicles. Litter? It isn’t really there, you know. Perhaps you imagined it.
It is left to vicious scandal-mongering dissidents like Jeff Gillenwater to challenge the status quo.
With what’s potentially the most significant political upheaval in several decades currently taking place, New Albanians can take solace in the fact that both city and school corporation leaders have ensured an equally significant lack of flexibility going forward with hundreds of millions of dollars in debt payments coming due over the next two or three decades. If you’re planning on having any good civic ideas in 2027, tough cookies.
The problem for Bluegill, and for me, and for anyone else who pays close attention, is that in the main, New Albanians seem perfectly content with the Ceaușescu-like tendencies of King Gahan.
After all, in 2015, roughly 14% of the city’s eligible voters opted for the anchor, and as with Donald Trump nationally, they’re getting exactly what they deserve – good and hard.
It’s increasingly difficult to imagine a scenario in which Gahan loses a third term in 2019. Try as he might, Seabrook won’t ever be able to shake the ignominy of smiling weakly while handing Gahan what amounts to five million free clams to campaign for re-election.
At the same time, the current crop of potential Republican challengers has largely chosen to play along with Gahan’s beautification-over-substance shell game.
Granted, the rules of this game have been written to exclude elected officials and empower political appointees, and there isn’t much the minority party can do, but when push comes to gag, the nominal opposition will be depicted as having been complicit.
Just remember: The Bicentennial Boondoggle was very bipartisan.
Consider one of Gahan’s chief acolytes, self-important councilman Bob Caesar, who formerly served as nominal Ceaușescu of the Bicentennial Commission.
Most readers are aware of my two-year-long struggle to wrest public Bicentennial Commission financial records, first from Caesar and then the city itself, only to be dismissed with supreme condescension by both.
To repeat: The celebration of New Albany’s two-hundred-year birthday cost several hundred thousand dollars, and was funded in part with taxpayer funds. I’m a citizen of New Albany. Caesar refused to show me the records, and the city attorney Gibson said the city doesn’t have the records to show.
In short: Go peddle your papers, insufferable peasant.
This is amazing, and it should be unacceptable; absolute power corrupts absolutely, and any mayor who takes seriously his obligation to enforce the law shouldn’t allow it.
However, I’m happy to announce that the Green Mouse has obtained these Bicentennial records. Fascinating revelations lie within, and copies currently are in my possession, illustrating plainly that while Caesar and Gibson may not have lied outright, they certainly have acquiesced in a cover-up, and are guilty of consciously subverting the intent of state laws governing freedom of information and public access to records.
This should disturb all of us, and both should be cashiered. If they’ll resort to evasions and subterfuge to obscure Caesar’s handling of relatively paltry Bicentennial funds, just think what they’ll do to obscure the leakage from the many yearly millions going toward feel-good, beautification projects.
And yet … you’re bothered, but only a bit, and not enough to rock the boat, right?
The newspaper doesn’t ask these questions, does it?
In more candid moments, it may seem like smoke and mirrors, but just enough of that magic pixie dust is being spread around to encourage acceptance.
And you’re fine with it, aren’t you?
The fact is, if I were to spend 40 more hours of my own time, gratis, to sifting through the records the Politburo has denied exist, in order to show that lots of Bicentennial bucks were hemorrhaged this way and that, often straight to community pillars and/or political party stalwarts who nuzzled up to wet their beaks – as I’m completely confident I could – nothing at all would happen, would it?
They wouldn’t concede error or apologize, would they?
You wouldn’t expect it, would you?
And this is a slight problem, isn’t it?
I’m not ruling anything out, or in. I might take the time to sort through those records, or maybe use those precious hours to drink beer and watch documentaries about tin horn dictatorships the world has known.
But there isn’t much one person alone can do to prevent Jeff Gahan from redesigning New Albany in his own beige image, and as the sainted Bob Knight once implied, if tacky Disney totalitarianism is inevitable, then we might as well escalate plans for a new barroom in order to have somewhere to seek refuge from the sheer indignity of it.
That’s exactly what I’m working to achieve, and when it finally comes to pass, I promise to place portraits of Ceaușescu and Gahan right where they belong, at the entrance to the toilets.
Or better yet, inside them.