The Voices In My Head: O'Riley's World, the column

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THE BEST OF O'RILEY'S WORLD, THE COLUMN

Who Said Government Was Boring?

Tim O'Riley

Last Thursday, I walked into our morning editorial meeting and took my usual seat at the end of the table. The rest of the staff was already there, doing what they do best: drinking high-octane coffee, smoking way too many cigarettes, and beating their heads together to come up with enough stuff (a newspaper term for content) to fill the next issue. The moment I sat down, things got really quiet. Too quiet, in fact. By the way they were all staring at me I knew something was up and it had my name written all over it.

"Since you're the last one here, you get the choice assignment this week, O'Riley," my editor said with a devilish gleam in his bloodshot eyes. "I want you to cover the city council meeting tonight."

"Excuse me?" I muttered. "Am I in the right room? I don't cover city government. I'm the funny guy, remember? The comedian, the social misfit? Government is not my bag. Get somebody else to do it."

"Everyone else has been assigned," he answered with a smile. "Besides, you're the most abrasive person on staff, so it's perfect for you. I want you to go down to that council meeting and ask a few really tough questions. Light a fire under their political butts and let them know that the independent press is a force to be reckoned with in this one-Shuttle town. Oh, and get a picture of yourself being thrown out if you can."

To say the least, I was not happy. I've worked as a standup comedian, a freelance cartoonist, a radio personality, a runway model - okay, I made that last one up, but my point is this: I look at life with a somewhat different view than most people. I have never had even the most miniscule interest in politics (except for that time I ran for class president, but that was just to impress Mary Ann Kabowski). Besides, I'm a terrible cynic when it comes to politics. I think the true worth of a politician is best measured by a barometer. I think people go into politics because they're too lazy to get real jobs. I think, well, you get my point.

"Come on," I whined, "make somebody else do it. I was working on this really great piece about the recycling of baby oil at the city's strip clubs. It's gripping, it's hard-hitting, it's-"

Despite all my efforts, my editor was adament that I cover the council meeting. He used the old "for the good of the people" routine and when that didn't work, he threatened to fire me. Okay, I hate politics, but I hate unemployment even more. Besides, this could open up a whole new career path for me. Tim O'Riley, next on Face The Nation.

Leaving the meeting, I was at peace with my assignment, but in the end, I didn't go to the meeting. I just couldn't. I intended to. Honest. I thought, how bad could it be? I once watched an entire episode of thirtysomething all by myself and didn't suffer any irreparable damage (although now I do feel the need to cuddle sometimes). However, after much deliberation, I decided I was not going to waste an entire Thursday evening watching a bunch of good old boys and girls argue over potholes and budgets. Plus, I had read about that nasty "he's in my seat" fiasco at a recent school board meeting and had no desire to see a bunch of crybabies fighting over chairs. No, I was not going. Period. End of story.

I was about to break the news to my editor when his secretary suggested I just watch the coverage of the council meeting on the local cable access channel. Now that was an appealing idea. At least I could channel-surf through the really boring parts. But it was a good idea that died by the time I got home because while flipping through the TV Guide, I noticed that one of my favorite movies was going to be on at the same time as the dumb, old council meeting. Decision time.

Hmm, council meeting. Animal House. Council meeting. Animal House.

Not a tough choice, Scooter.

"Okay, here," my editor said when I brought up my dilemma. He shoved a wrinkled fax at me and nodded his head at it. "This is the agenda for the meeting. See if you can write something from that. Just make it sound like you were actually there."

As I read over the agenda, one word came to mind: BORING!! Politicians should make lots of money because they must spend a fortune on No-Doz. That's probably why they're always arguing. They're all hyped on low-grade speed.

The first thing on the agenda was a resolution from Councilman Chuck Saunders, recognizing October as "School Board Member Recognition Month." Chuckee, baby, what a dumb thing to do! The members of the school board are already beating the three-R's out of each other over seating arrangements and now you want to publicly recognize these whiners?

"Recognize me! No, me! No, me!" Chuck, do the words blam, splat, and kerplow mean anything to you?

Here's a thought, Chuck: let's introduce a "Let's Send These Bozos to the Principal's Office" resolution. Not a bad idea, huh. Maybe I should run for office. Course, I'd have to fight for a seat.

Reading through the council's agenda brought me to the conclusion that council members must sit around and dream up stuff just so they'll have something to say at the next meeting. I say this because there was a lot of fluff on the agenda. Such as passing a resolution to officially congratulate two guys who were retiring from thirty years of riding on the back of a garbage truck.

"Fellow council members, I have no earth shattering political issues to gripe about, but because I like to hear my own head rattle when I talk, I move that we pass a resolution congratulating these fine gentlemen for making it through thirty years of government service without getting laid off, fired, or run over. In that spirit, here are your watches, Earl and Bubba. Now both of you, go take a bath!"

Next month one of these blowhards will probably try to pass a resolution congratulating his mother on a speedy recovery after gall bladder surgery.

At this point, I was getting pretty bored with being an ace political reporter. No wonder Woodward and Bernstein got on each other's nerves. Just when I thought it couldn't get any more inane, I noticed that some Einstein from the Planning Department was going to present a resolution that would require all parking spaces in the city to contain a minimum of 180 square feet. Now I don't mean to nitpick here, guys, but I think you should clarify this item a little more before it comes to a vote. Are these spaces to be three-feet wide and sixty-feet deep, or is it ninety-feet wide and two-feet deep?

For some reason I got a mental picture of our beloved mayor and the other good old boys standing around their cars with a tape measure. "Alrightee, Steve. My Cadillac is eight foot wide and fifteen foot long. And I'll need a few extra feet on each side so one of the common folk don't open a car door on me."

I'm sure that if this resolution passes, every parking lot in town will have to be restriped. (Note to editor: check to see if any city official owns a yellow paint factory). This would cost us already over-taxpayers a mint, that is unless they make use of an idea I have: let's just give a bucket and paintbrush to each of those "will work for food" guys that stand under the Parkway overpasses.

"Here's a pizza, Shecky, go restripe Madison Square Mall."

Heartless, you say? Nah. Just good political and economic sense.

Next on the agenda was the election of officers. Boy, I'll bet arguing over chairs was a walk in the park compared to this melee.

"Mr. Mayor (read aloud with a Howell Heflin accent for full effect), I'd like to nominate a great American for council president. This man puts the good of his constituents above all else. He is a man who deserves to oversee this respected body of representatives. I nominate me!

More blam, splat, kerpow. Maybe even a kerplunk!

Well, there you have it fellow apathists. I give you an informative, objective accounting of last week's city council meeting. Boy, am I beat.

For those of you who say that I can't objectively report on a council meeting without actually having been there and that my journalistic career is over, I offer you the words of Animal House's own Bluto Blutarski when he said, "Over? Nothing's over till I say it is! Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor? Hell no! And it's not over now!"

Gosh, I love that movie. Now where the heck is that remote control?