Bill the Backstabber
The mayor disses a loyalist and Al Franken comes to town
Does Mayor Bill Purcell think at-large Metro Council member Chris Ferrell, whose aw-shucks demeanor thinly veils aspirations for higher office, is getting too big for his britches? Does that explain why the mayor is putting the diss on Chris, trying to cut the fair-haired Boy Wonder down to size?
The Crier hears that The Bill hasn’t seen eye-to-eye lately with one of his earliest and most ardent supporters, though he’s hardly up front about it either.
Long before anyone else jumped on the Purcell bandwagon, Ferrell, who has an uncanny Forest Gumpian ability to be everywhere at once, was out and about beating the drum for Purcell. At the time, Purcell was a mere blip on the city’s radar screen, despite his tenure as a member of the state House and position as a top wonk at the Vanderbilt Institute for Public Policy. Purcell lapped up the attention from the Metro Council’s young pup.
Once the votes were counted and Purcell took up residence as the city’s top dog, Ferrell, a soccer-dad extraordinaire, remained the loyal team player. To date, he has supported the few initiatives the mayor has put forward since taking up residence in the Courthouse: a new $1 million affordable-housing program and, more recently, the $170 million bond package for various city improvements.
So, does Purcell pay it forward, as the mawkish new film suggests? Au contraire, mes amis. The mayor instead has paid it back by criticizing Ferrell in front of the Council member’s colleagues—but behind the Boy Wonder’s back—for spending what the mayor thinks is too much time pondering a political future in Congress and not enough time on Council matters. That’s all because the Boy Wonder made an initial and rather innocuous comment that the Council might need more time to ponder the mayor’s bond package, which he voted for.
The Crier wonders if the mayor’s own precious time might be better spent leading the city, rather than on unseemly displays of unleaderlike behavior. The Crier is reminded of the old adage about meeting the same people on the way down as on the way up. As for Ferrell, The Crier is happy to pass along the name of a tailor who can make adjustments for that knife protruding out of the middle of his back.
Ouch.
The East Wing
They may be young, attractive, trendy, and stylishly-dressed—all the necessary attributes for prime-time exposure these days—but Al Gore’s twentysomething staff isn’t in imminent danger of being mistaken for the cast of The West Wing.
Last week, they rankled more than a few already cantankerous local reporters when they bungled a simple face-to-face with liberal comic/author/social commentator Al Franken. Initially, the media was told the talking head would be talking shop with college students at Fido, the popular coffeehouse and Boho hangout in Hillsboro Village. At the last minute, a low-level Gore aide informed the none-too-impressed press that the former Saturday Night Live cast member would instead be having coffee talk at Gore headquarters in MetroCenter. Only a handful of hacks decided to make the trip out of the inner loop to North Nashville, and Franken rewarded their diligence in true faux-celebrity fashion by letting them cool their heels for more than 30 minutes.
Brad Schmitt was in a snit, and the Tennessean gossip hound left in a huff, no doubt to nose down some scintillating wire reports. When Al’s pal Al did appear, after barking some lunch orders to another aide-in-waiting, he was at least in decent form. When the best-selling author of Rush Limbaugh Is a Big, Fat Idiot was asked about whether he thought George W. was, if not big and fat, at least an idiot, he replied: “Bush is not real smart. Ann Richards [former governor of Texas defeated by the current governor of Texas] used to like to say that G.W. Bush was born on third base and thought he hit a triple. I think he was born on third base and thought he hit a home run.”
Not exactly a grand slam of a joke, but maybe Franken’s saving his best material for election night, when his erudite comments on the results will receive more prime-time airplay.
The big chill
The Nashville Predators have no shortage of marketing ideas. Between the Puck Patrol, team mascot Gnash, the live band in the end zone, clever video bits on the Jumbotron, and let’s not forget the actual hockey game, there’s never a dull moment in the Gaylord Entertainment Center. But who knew that the Zamboni, the ice-cleaning machine that makes its plodding way ’round and ’round the rink between periods, would prove to be so entertaining—or controversial?
The Crier supposes it depends not on who’s behind the wheel, but who’s flashing the headlights. One of the many opportunities for fan participation is buying the shotgun seat on the Zamboni for a $100 donation to the Predators Foundation. Last season, state Rep. Tim Garrett’s girlfriend, Teresa Holt, gave it a whirl, climbing aboard the ’Boni in a white halter top, which became even more revealing once she hit the ice, where the chill factor is enough to raise chill bumps. That appearance provoked its share of fan comments.
At last Friday night’s home game against Florida, the blond Teresa was back on the ice. Like a Rose Bowl Queen perched on the back end of a Mustang convertible, Teresa waved and waved, while her designated driver, John Holmes, who also serves as manager of Centennial Sportsplex, was turning as bright-red as a fire engine. She was attired this time in a tight, green, cap-sleeved shirt and was flashing a brilliant smile, meanwhile holding a sign touting the post-game Haunted House—as she promoted her own undeniable assets. The Crier bets that some Predators fans would be only too happy to make a donation of their own: $200 to keep La Holt under wraps.
Surplus material
National media is all abuzz over the Nov. 7 issue of Rolling Stone, which features a full-body cover photo of a khaki-and-denim-clad Al Gore. What they’re talking about is, well, his crotch.
According to Inside.com and The Drudge Report, the Rolling Stone art department had to employ a bit of air-brush wizardry in the studly candidate’s groin region when photographs made it appear that Al was, um, even stiffer than usual.
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