CITY HALL SKETCH - NSFW

The January 27th City Council meeting began with an announcement: Mayor Pro Tem Mike Detoy would be joining remotely due to "contagious illness."

One imagines Detoy at home, wrapped in a blanket, mug of tea in hand, watching his colleagues descend into a nearly five-hour marathon of architectural mysteries, financial confessions, and one very public airing of grievances.

Spoiler alert: he didn't make it.

A Touching Moment Between Colleagues

During council comments, Councilmember Michael Keegan decided to get something off his chest.

"At the end of our last City Council meeting on January 13th, after the adjournment, I was leaving the chambers walking down this aisleway here, and I was confronted by Councilman Jackson in front of City Manager Napolitano," Keegan said. "And he yelled towards me that there's that racist prick."

Keegan paused and the room held its breath. Luckily it wasn't one of those evenings where the entire second grade class was waiting in City Hall to pick up a prize.

"And I just wanted to also say that he followed up that conversation a few seconds later calling myself and the City Manager butt buddies." At least one jaw dropped in the audience.

For those unfamiliar with the term, Urban Dictionary defines "butt buddies" as "two or more guys that are friends in more ways than one," The more detailed definition describes activities that would definitely not be part of City manager Napolitano's 2026 Performance Objectives.

The chamber fell silent. Detoy, one assumes, reached for more tea and a couple of Aleve.

"I won't tolerate this kind of bullying by my colleagues," Keegan continued. "I am not a racist, and I'm not a prick." No further mention of butt buddies.

Jackson offered no response. No apology. No denial. Just silence and a quick smirk.

A Floored Argument

The 901 Hermosa Avenue project offered its own surreal moments.

Staff explained that the building's second floor featured "movable floors"—sliding platforms that provide access to storage units. The space between these platforms, staff said, shouldn't count toward the building's square footage.

Mayor Rob Saemann, a 52-year veteran of the construction industry, was perplexed.

"I have never heard of a movable floor," he said. "So if there is such a thing, I'm very interested in why we aren't counting it as floor space. It's the only way to access the storage rooms, movable or not."

Keegan, who had toured the building, was less diplomatic.

"What I see in the building is illegal construction. I think it's a fire hazard. I think if the fire inspector walked in the building, he'd shut the building down."

He described a second floor with no fire protection, no sprinklers, illegal stairways without handrails, and storage units that were "essentially furniture strapped to the floor."

Fireman Detoy briefly rallied at the mention of sprinklers, but Keegan pressed on.

"It doesn't have any cross bracings. It has no shear value. The floor is unsafe," Keegan said. "I mean, it's a liability that I'm shocked the owner puts any bodies into that area of the building."

The movable floors, it turned out, do move. "When you walk on it, the whole thing moves," Saemann confirmed. "That entire second floor is wobbly. Very wobbly."

And yet, according to city records, this wobbly wonderland was permitted in 1998.

Somewhere, a building inspector's signature haunts the archives. Peering through his little Zoom window, Detoy now looked even wobblier than a 1990's era floor, and seemed to be in danger of faceplanting his keyboard.

The Chamber's Confessional

Then came the Chamber of Commerce, green bowler hat in hand, asking for $51,000 to keep the St. Patrick's Day Parade alive.

Notably absent: Chamber Foundation President Katie Vernon, the head of the organization that actually produces the parade. She had been in the chamber earlier in the evening but slipped out before the item was called. Lucky Charm, indeed.

Perhaps she, too, had caught something contagious. It was going around.

Chamber CEO Michelle Crispin took the confessional approach. She seemed to have kissed the Blarney Stone shortly before standing at the podium.

"Questions about fiscal management are fair and not wholly unwelcome, believe it or not," she grimaced.

The Chamber lost $100,000 in 2025. And $125,000 in 2024. The parade alone is bleeding money, to be sure to be sure.

Erika Newman, the Chamber's new volunteer Vice Chair of Finance, introduced herself as a forensic accountant of sorts. She spoke earnestly of her 'transaction-based approach' to unravelling the mess.

Newman promised "100 percent transparency" and said there is "nothing to hide." One almost expected her to pull $51,000 and a couple of white doves from her sleeve.

Crispin and Newman continued with their talk of a 'hard reset'. Detoy was now absent from our screens, presumably undergoing a hard reset of his own.

Man Down

Somewhere around the three-hour mark, the council took a ten-minute break. When they returned, Madam City Clerk called the roll.

"Mayor Pro Tem Detoy?"

Silence.

Detoy had logged off. Too sick to continue. The mystery contagious bug had won. Snore-O-Virus ? Or maybe he just couldn't face the Chamber's mea culpa or the looming debate on Land Value Recapture.

He joined Ms. Vernon in the ranks of those who saw what was coming and got out while they could.

One pictures him collapsing into bed, the distant sound of his colleagues debating barricade costs fading into merciful silence.

The council pressed on without him. They still had a quorum. They still had hours to go.

The Prescription

Saemann proposed a beer garden to save the parade. Jackson was momentarily stirred into action by this idea, wondering about the possibilities. Live music? Alcohol profits? No - he began to discuss "cute girls in their outfits". The 1970's then called in and asked for their meeting back.

Keegan called it "risky and poor judgment", but by this stage it wasn't clear if he was discussing the commercial prospects or Jackson's turn of phrase. The council authorized the money anyway, directed staff to look into using dump trucks as barricades, and left the beer garden as a maybe. The Chamber agreement? One year only. Come back after Labor Day and show us the receipts.

Trust, it seems, is on a movable floor of its own.

The meeting finally adjourned at 11:46 p.m.

Detoy, presumably, was already asleep—the only council member wise enough last night to know when to quit.

The camera and microphones were switched off. I guess we will have to wait until next time to hear what was said immediately afterwards.