Mayoral dreams dancing through the head

REPORTER’S NOTEBOOK by Chris Karmiol: The prospect of being mayor of his own town has our reporter thinking about ways to deal with politics and the press.

   Since newspapers are a dying industry — and I have that from an excellent source; a newspaper editor himself told me — a friend and I recently put our heads together to consider future employment possibilities.
   My friend had a great idea that came from an aging hippie who told him about a small northern California town about to go under. It seems that the town, with no industry, no influx of funds and no resources, is soon going to be no town at all. That’s where we would come in.
   All my friend and I would have to do is to bring a few people and some piles of money into the area and simply take over the town. We could become mayor and police chief, change the town’s name and slogan and, instead of complaining about things, change them.
   My friend said that he would be police chief — because I’m too short — and I could be mayor. Me, the mayor? But I’m no politician. I couldn’t stand there smiling, shaking the sweaty palm of every kid that rescues his family from a burning building or his cat from a tree. But then, I thought, why not?
   Imagine … me, the mayor of my own town. I’d be the big man in charge. I’d decide whether parks or shopping centers get built, roads get repaired or open space stay open. I’ll be the one flashing my sexy smile for photo ops, shaking hands with anyone who does absolutely anything of note and even some who don’t. I’d give keys out left and right (they still give out keys to the city, don’t they?) and I could proclaim anything I damn well please. And believe me, I’ve got quite a bit to proclaim.
   I’ll be the one flanked by a town council that agrees with everything I say — nodding on cue, my political puppets, singing my praises in letters to the editor, their agreement with every fine idea I have reflected in the minutes of meetings, forever inscribed in public record, my minions, my peons, my lackeys.
   Finally, and most important to my legacy, I would wrap newspaper reporters around my finger, ensuring they use me and only me as a source for all their news stories. I would see to it they didn’t interview any of my municipal workers — from the street sweepers to the sheriff’s deputies.
   If a newspaper wanted any information at all about the public’s business, they could talk to me and only me. After all, this would be my town. Some towns may handle their business differently, I would tell my critics, but in my town I’ll make the rules. No reporter will do something as inappropriate as attempt to gather information from any source other than yours truly, or report something that in my opinion doesn’t need to be reported.
   Then again, newspapers are a dying industry anyway, so I’m told, breathing their last desperate sputtering breaths, barely hanging on in a brave new universe of high technology and fully integrated remote controls. Reporters shouldn’t be too much of a hassle by the time I’m sworn in.
   Now where do I want to put that shopping center …
Chris Karmiol is a staff writer for the Windsor-Hights Herald.