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Local government isn’t often glamorous; sometimes, it’s downright messy. But every leadership lesson has a story, and this one happens to involve that guy from The Partridge Family and a flying desk chair.
I spend a lot of time reminding people that local government is where the work actually gets done. It’s practical, hands-on and often humble. But, sometimes, it’s also completely ridiculous.
And, sometimes, there are even flying chairs involved.
Years ago, before I was a county commissioner, before I was even mayor of Tenino, I was a brand new city council member: young, motivated and determined to move the city forward by any means necessary. Tenino had been asleep for a long time, and a small group of us were working hard to wake it up.
It was a season of change, and not everyone liked that.
We had a new mayor at the time who came into office the same time as me, also as a change candidate. He was brilliant in his own ways: charismatic, street-smart and a natural at rallying people. At one point, he even had a legitimate New York TV production company following him around to film a reality show they were going to call American Mayor.
But the late-night budget meetings, policy manuals and steady leadership that local governance requires didn’t hold his interest.
At first, we were allies. We came in together, both in our early 30s, and the old guard didn’t want either of us there. We bonded through shared opposition. But cracks in our alliance formed quickly, as early every morning, I’d wake up to a new crisis.
The daily dramas started small. At first, it was calls about the mayor allegedly trying to drag race sheriff’s deputies at night. Another morning, I tuned in to The Danny Bonaduce Radio Show in Seattle and heard the mayor on air, hurling expletives at other elected officials. Then came the time I was driving to work and heard Bonaduce call me “Councilmember D-bag” on live radio while our mayor laughed along, baiting me to call in. My phone blew up with texts from friends: “Did you hear what Danny Bonaduce just called you?”
The questionable decisions escalated, and tensions spread across the Stone City.
Small-town politics are intensely personal, and when people feel backed into a corner, it can get spicy. As the council member closest to our mayor, I was left holding the bag, trying to maintain public trust while managing chaos inside City Hall.
What many didn’t know at the time was that he had been moonlighting at Tacoma comedy clubs, hoping to launch a new career. After frequent guest spots on Bonaduce’s show, he was invited to perform in Seattle in front of thousands, courtesy of the radio program.
The last straw came when he “borrowed” a police car, stripped off all its decals and took it out on an infamous joyride that ended badly and made headlines statewide. This launched a big investigation and additional scrutiny.
The night it all came to a head, we had a packed council meeting. People were angry, confused and curious. To address the elephant in the room, I made a tactical move: I amended the agenda at the last minute to include an item titled “Mayoral Conduct Unbecoming of Office.” It was calculated, just enough to get his attention and force a conversation, but not so aggressive as to seem unfair.
The mayor was visibly uncomfortable. When it came time to address the item, I played a clip of him performing stand-up under the stage name Mayorjuana (yes, you read that right).
The clip was of his show in Seattle. By any account, the act bombed. In it, he mocked city residents, staff and the very problems we were trying to fix. Hearing him ridicule our community was the final breaking point for me.
In that moment, I made a choice I’m not entirely proud of.
As the video ended, I looked him dead in the eye, in front of a packed room, and said:
“I don’t know what’s sadder: the jokes you made, or the fact that you don’t realize you are the actual joke.”
That was it. The moment.
He exploded yelling, calling out the council, accusing us of disrespect. The room was tense. People shifted in their seats. Staff looked down. Community members leaned in.
Then he stood up to storm out, passing behind me at the dais. As he passed, I pushed my chair back into him, pinning him against the wall. Already upset, he reacted, grabbing a nearby rolling chair and throwing it at me. It wasn’t a hard hit, but I took a fall like a soccer player looking for a penalty, minimal contact, maximum theater.
Everyone saw him throw the chair. No one saw me bump him first.
The incident made the news. The Washington State Patrol investigated the chair toss as possible assault, but charges were never filed. It was messy, dramatic and unnecessary, but it broke the deadlock. The mayor resigned shortly afterward, and the city was able to move forward.
Why tell this story?
Sadly, that mayor passed away in 2022 under difficult circumstances. I think about that sometimes. He was a complex, intelligent and caring person, and even though our time working together was complicated, I’m grateful I got to know him. It reminds me that people are complex, and leadership as well as life, can weigh heavily on us all.
I tell the story because it’s important to recognize that leadership isn’t always polished. Sometimes it’s frustrating, petty and raw. We’re human. We lose our cool, get fed up and push when we should pause.
But leadership is also about learning. That night, I learned the power, and the cost, of escalation. I learned how the pressure of responsibility can twist your judgment, and how easy it is to justify bad decisions when you feel righteous.
I also learned that communities are remarkably forgiving if you own your mistakes and keep showing up.
That moment didn’t define my leadership, but it did shape it. It made me more cautious, more patient and more aware that public service is as much about emotional intelligence as it is about policy and vision.
Today, nearly two decades later, as a county commissioner, I still get frustrated. I still see dysfunction. I still feel the weight of decisions that affect thousands. But I’ve learned to take a breath, ask questions instead of making accusations, and channel frustration into constructive action.
That night, chairs were thrown. These days, I’d rather pull up a chair and invite conversation.
Final thought: Leadership isn’t about being perfect. It’s about learning, adapting and staying grounded enough to laugh at yourself along the way.
Because at the end of the day, the work we do in local government matters, and I wake up every day knowing it’s a privilege to do this work. It’s worth the hard conversations, the tense meetings, and yes, even the occasional flying chair.
Let’s keep building, keep learning and keep showing up.
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Wayne Fournier is a Thurston County commissioner, former Tenino mayor, firefighter and lifelong community advocate. He believes that small towns are the last frontier of big ideas. He shares stories of civic creativity, leadership and community-building in his regular newspaper column.
