From the Belly of the Beast

I DON’T LOVE L.A., OK? Century Boulevard. I don’t love it. Victory Boulevard. I don’t love it. Sixth Street. I don’t love it.

I’m not sure anyone here really loves L.A.

As for the attitude of outsiders, there’s no doubt. I was talking to the owner of a gift shop in Virginia City, Mont., and when she found out I was from L.A., she reminisced about attending the 1984 Olympics.

“You know,” she said, still somewhat amazed. “I’d been warned about people in L.A. But they weren’t bad at all! Some of them were real nice.”

I thanked her on behalf of my neighbors.

Even at home, we’re used to hearing L.A. rapped, often by infiltrators from the Big Apple. There’s even a group here called DENY--Disgruntled Ex-New Yorkers. I think part of their animosity toward L.A. is guilt over enjoying the pleasant weather here. (For outsiders, substitute “jealousy” for “guilt.”)

What was it Bay Area columnist Herb Caen once said? “Knock San Francisco to a San Franciscan and you’re starting a fight; knock L.A. to an Angeleno and you’re starting a conversation.”

Rapping L.A. is part of the fun of being an Angeleno. L.A. is an antihero among cities. We’re not so insecure that we can’t admit our faults and joke over the grimmer aspects.

An Encino company has published “The Official Earthquake Preparedness Guide,” every page of which says, simply, “Get the hell out of California.”

I just received a fake press release from an individual who drew up “The Official Southern California Freeway Schedule”: “Monday--Small Arms Only (.38 caliber and under), Tuesday--Ladies Shotgun Day,” right through “Sunday--Gun Cleaning--Off Day (gestures of profanity only).”

Only L.A. would take to heart, as its city song, a parody of the form: Randy Newman’s “I Love L.A.,” which features such provocative lines as, “Look at that bum over there, man. He’s down on his knees.” Not exactly Chamber of Commerce stuff.

That’s what’s unique about L.A. It has a sense of humor about itself. And that’s what Orange County lacks, a failing that might be expected of the region that produced Richard Nixon. Irvine’s civic motto is “Another Day in Paradise.” No joke intended.

You know what constitutes a crisis in Orange County? A nude photo of John Lennon at a Fullerton art exhibit. Or a garage door left open more than 15 minutes, violating the law in one of those “gated communities.” Can you imagine Orange County hosting a gala, as L.A. did, for the opening of the world’s first Bra Museum?

I admit I’ve pondered moving there. After all, it may be another 20 years before it catches up with L.A.’s smog and overdevelopment. But you can see Orange County going through the early stages of smoggy buildup: denial. Orange County has no smog. Orange County has no smog. Orange County has no smog.

That haze over the mountains east of Irvine must come from the smudge pots heating the orange trees. San Diego released a study that found that more than half of its smog blows in from L.A. It must leapfrog over Orange County. Or perhaps L.A.’s smog heads to Denver and then catches a connector flight south.

But back to orange trees for a moment. Ever notice how easy they are to knock down? You can get a firsthand view along the roadways in Orange County. You think Medflies inflict damage? When the developers are finished, orange trees will be as scarce as seals at Seal Beach. And then the only thing orange about Orange County will be the interiors of Denny’s restaurants.

It’s often said that Orange County has no history, no roots. That isn’t so. Its Spanish heritage is lovingly reflected in city names such as Mission Viejo. True, the name’s misspelled and grammatically incorrect--it should be Mision Vieja--but what did those Spaniards know about attracting home buyers anyway?

Still, the area does hold certain attractions for me. I detest gardening, so the postage-stamp-sized front lawns down there would be a plus. And I go to bed early, so I wouldn’t mind the fact that nothing is open after 10 p.m. I’d miss foreign movies, which seem to be banned there. Until it recently erected a big arts complex, culture in Orange County consisted mainly in naming an airport after John Wayne.

I’d also miss college football--Cal State Disneyland’s grid action doesn’t quite measure up to USC’s or UCLA’s--as well as pro basketball. In the ultimate insult, the Clippers, L.A.’s second-string pro basketball team, refused to move to Fullerton. Or Anaheim. (That’s another thing about Orange County: It doesn’t seem to have a center--except for South Coast Plaza.)

Talk about an identity problem. The Rams play in Anaheim Stadium but still call themselves the Los Angeles Rams. And when the Angels moved there from L.A., they were also afraid to adopt a local name, calling themselves California Angels instead. One thing about Anaheim Stadium, though: If I ever had a hankering to be among clean-livin’ folks, I could sit in its Family Section, where drinking and cussing--but not smoking--are forbidden. The Angels were one of the first to introduce this approach to watching baseball, which sort of sums up the G-rated view of life in that other county.

Move to Orange County? I’d sooner get the hell out of California.