Hip-hop to the hippie, Mr. Nutter

I LIKE Mayor Nutter. He's always been nice to me. Our kids go to the same school. We exchange pleasantries when we see each other. That's why I felt so bad watching city union members jeer him as he tried to deliver his budget address last week.

Maybe if he'd reprised his inauguration performance of the Sugarhill Gang classic, "Rapper's Delight," things would've turned out differently. Because, frankly, it's hard to boo a brother when he's delivering lines like:

"I said, a hip-hop the hippie to the hippie

The hip hip a hop, a you don't stop

The rock it to the bang, bang

boogie

Say up jumped the boogie

To the rhythm of the boogie, the beat."

Rhymes like these could stop even the most hard-core union member in mid-boo because, like the mayor and myself, many of them grew up in an era when rap was fun, when a few lines could get you on the microphone, and when a well-placed rhyme or two would get the ladies to give you a second look, no matter how nerdy you might be.

My rap name was MC Shock. I was good enough to get a record deal when I was 19 - and naive enough not to make a dime.

Nutter apparently was pretty good himself, though not at rapping. While some say he went by the name Mix Master Mike, others say he was the man who stood next to the man at Impulse, the dance club at Broad and Erie that everyone flocked to in the '70s and '80s. My understanding is that Nutter, who was young and single at the time, had lots of fun at the club.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

So why do I mention the Impulse? I mention it because I've got some advice for the mayor:

Mr. Mayor, if you're going to get contract-hungry union members to stop bashing you from the balcony, you've gotta go old-school. Grab back the mojo that made you so popular at the club. Turn on the disco lights. Put on a fat gold chain, and then go out and make it happen.

I know what you're probably thinking, Mayor Nutter. You're thinking, "What in the world can Solomon tell me about delivering a budget speech?" Well, Mr. Mayor, I saw my share of speeches while I was working in City Council, and I saw my share of union guys, too.

Here's what I know about union guys: They aren't listening to the stuff about property taxes, assessments and exemptions. The only thing they hear is the part where you say, "You're not getting a raise."

While it's never good to tell workers, "We've got $3.75 billion, but we don't have anything for you," there might be a way to make the message a bit more palatable. But you're going to have to take a risk, Mr. Mayor. You're going to have to deliver the message as Mix Master Mike. I'm thinking something like this:

"If you're on a pension

You'll get an exemption

Just try not to mention

A contract extension

Cause unions are hatin'

And there's no escapin'

The noise that they're makin'

The music is breakin'."

At that point, you should get on the one and two and start scratching. Not those sampled scratches, either. In order to get the union guys to put down those Bozo the Mayor signs, you'll need to use an actual turntable. Then you can grab the microphone and start rocking the party. I recommend this old standard:

"Throw your hands in the air

And wave 'em like you just don't care

And if you know

This city's broke

Somebody say, oh, yeah!"

By then every union member - from the rude desk clerk at the Water Department to the grizzled construction worker from the Redevelopment Authority - will be dancing. The firefighters will forget that little misunderstanding about trying to overturn their arbitration award. District Council 33 will forget that the administration tried to force them to accept a take-it-or-leave-it offer through the courts.

And at that moment, while everybody's in a forgiving mood, you can drop the jewel on them. You know, the one about hooking them up next year.

"I know we got billions

But we get a thrill when

We make you sit still, and

Just wait for some millions

We know you like waitin'

And anticipatin'

So maybe next year you can bring home the bacon."

With that you can throw up a peace sign, stroll to City Council's double doors and yell, "Peace! We out!"

It might not make you as cool as you were back at the Impulse, but at least it will get you through the speech.

Solomon Jones is the author of 10 books, including his latest novel, The Dead Man's Wife (Minotaur Books), and the humor collection Daddy's Home: A Memoir of Fatherhood and Laughter. The married father of three has been featured on NPR and CNN, and has written on parenting for Essence and other publications. He created the literacy program Words on the Street. His column appears Tuesdays. More at Solomonjones.com.