Dinwiddie for Mayor!

On April 9 Spring Hill, TN is electing a new mayor.  I’d love to claim an opened mind, and promise to carefully weigh issues and qualifications carefully before rendering a well-informed decision at the ballot box.  It isn’t true.  My mind was made up months ago—before I even knew who was running.

During one of those “under-employed periods” I was at home with the kids when the doorbell rang.  Fabulous, I thought to myself, another “I’m so poor and black—please buy these magazines so I can win a trip to Bermuda and never do drugs again” sales pitch.  (Yeah I know, all my neighbors generously ordered 17 magazines, and I’m a cheap racist bastard because I won’t buy magazines I don’t want and can’t afford.  I have considered asking if they have the special “Jungle Fever” edition of Hustler, but I haven’t done it yet.)

Instead of the dreaded sales pitch, or an invitation to yet another church, I was met by a real-life politician.  I don’t remember much about our chat.  But I do remember this:  it was a long conversation for one vote, and ended with him giving me a card with his email and web address, so I could sign up for his newsletter.  Oh yeah, he was our alderman—whatever that is.

Shock and awe.  In fact the effect was more powerful than anything Jerry Spring could dream up in his wildest, uncensored imagination.

Our current mayor is “retiring” at the end of his term in order to spend more time with his family.  (I actually believe him, it’s not just a euphemism for “I got caught with an intern.”)  This had lead to the current mayoral race which pits Michael Dinwiddie against Cindy “Lou Who” Jobe and Derrick “The Artist” Merrill.  I’m voting for Dinwiddie.

Derrick Merrill has some affiliation with the Spring Hill Arts Center.  I’m sorry, but I cringe, even at the word “artist”—it’s a full-bodied experience, very similar to the feeling I get when I hear words like “panties” and “feminine napkins”.  Artists have no business in an executive office.  Obviously.  Otherwise “business” would be called “artness” and “executives” would be called “artecutives”.

Creative types should stick to singing their little songs, doing their dances, play-acting, making pretty pictures, and taking yet another creative-writing class.  While they are getting in touch with their inner-children, the rest of us “grown-ups” are living in a practical adult world of personal responsibility, bills, and real-life children who need a new pair of shoes.  Maybe we can all agree:  I’m hopelessly prejudiced against creative-types.

Cindy Jobe is an entirely different story.  Of the three candidates she is the prettiest.  Even her campaign signs are prettier.  So what does she bring to the table?  She’s been president, or chairman, or something of the Spring Hill Chamber of Commerce.  She runs her own consulting firm and has advised hundreds of small cities.  I admit it’s impressive, but I’m not moved.

We don’t need yet another politician with contacts, credentials, and connections.  We need a mayor who regularly connects with individuals; a politician who gives a voice even to those not affiliated with a political action committee.  I don’t expect to see Cindy Jobe knocking on my door anytime soon—it wouldn’t be an efficient application of her Six Sigma principles toward her political throughput initiatives.  An individual might not fit into her “just in time” group-politicking approach.

You know, I think I’ve changed my mind.  Maybe I will go take that creative writing class.  (Of course it would be more convenient in a satellite community college located in Spring Hill.  Just like Dinwiddie is proposing.)

New Man

I’m lying on the floor of my garage, smoking a Camel, and trying to figure out what to write in my blog.  I’ve always wanted a platform, and I’ve wanted to be heard.  Suddenly I have nothing to say.  Who cares anyway?  Last year people created over 300,000 NEW blogs on wordpress.com alone.

I guess saying something only counts if someone is listening—otherwise I should be content just thinking.  In order to say something, you’ve got to have something to say.  Right now I’ve got nothing.

Maybe losing my voice in cyberspace is no better than having no voice in life.  Maybe I wouldn’t need to be heard if I felt I had a voice.  Maybe my problem is that I’m lost in Dr. Seuss’ WAITING PLACE.

My childhood fantasy was that I’d grow up to be a MAN—then I’d be the boss.  I’d be a good boss though.  I’d be the most loving husband and father the world has ever known.  I’d be fun, and always—always—fair.  I’d always be nice to kids, and never forget what it was like to be one.

Of course I’d also be RICH.  I’d have a huge house on a huge farm with fields, forests, and a river.  I’d have motorcycles and guns and big dogs we’d never have to give away.
My children would bring their friends to my house because we were fun and friendly and liked kids.

I also had two main childhood fears.  First, that I’d be forgotten, and second that as a boy, I would eventually be obsolete—useless—in a new world run by women.  I hoped my wife would love me even if I was a boy.  My best chance was to be very loving and nice.  Maybe if I didn’t make her have sex with me for a couple of months after the wedding she’d know I was a very nice man.

Well, things haven’t turned out quite like I’d hoped.  Little Jimmy didn’t arrive until 7 months after we were married.  My three sons bring their friends to our small house in a nice neighborhood.  (Mostly I think they like the trampoline and the sandbox.)  Years later I’m still paying on three dirt-bikes.  One was stolen, one is broken-down, and the third still works alright.  You’ve probably figured out that I’m not rich.

We have three little dogs, two guinea pigs, and seven fish.  I did get my gun.  It’s a Ruger semi-automatic .22 rifle with a 25 round banana clip.  Sometimes I like to hold it and pretend it’s an AK-47; it makes me feel big and strong.

I don’t know for sure if my childhood dreams were silly or not, but dreams aren’t silly and children are precious…right?  Whether the dreams were silly or not, I do feel sad that they don’t seem to have come true.  That might be silly.

The worst of my childhood fears haven’t come true either.  Being a man didn’t make me the boss, college and graduate school didn’t guarantee a good job, and my kids don’t always think I’m fair.  My wife earns more money than me, but women haven’t taken over the world.  My friends and I have drifted apart, but we still remember.  It hasn’t hurt me one bit to get up in the middle of the night, change some diapers, make some meals, or help with homework.  At least the dogs still recognize me as the Alpha Male.