While I Was Away . . .

It happened on my first day out of the house after weeks of recovering from the after-effects of coronary roulette.

I was in a doctor’s office. A kindly old man, long past the age of lust and sexual aggression, asked a young woman if she had the time.

Well, sir, she turned on him with a look that could wither a ranunculus and demanded in a voice that rattled windows, “Time for what?”

The response caught the poor old fool off guard and he said, “Well, uh, I don’t know. I just wanted. . . .”

She said, “I know what you want, filth! Someone call the police!”

I learned later someone did, and she accused the guy of sexual harassment. But in a fit of remorse, he threw himself on the mercy of the court and he was spared.

I was stunned by the incident, but it revealed how much L.A. had changed in the weeks I had been out of touch.

Sexual harassment has become deeply embedded in our civic psyche in the post Thomas-Hill Era.

In addition to its current application, incidents of past sexual harassment are being recalled by those who didn’t realize at the time what it was.

Imagine their surprise and anger when Anita Hill spelled it all out for them! Talk about your hot flashes.

I mention the incident only to emphasize how events can alter perceptions in a very short period of time. Look the other way even for an instant, and the whole world is somehow different.

For those who tuned in late, I have been sidelined by a double coronary bypass operation.

It was either surgery or, as one cardiologist put it, I might not be around for “the next ho-ho-ho.” I assume he meant Christmas. A cute cardiologist was exactly what I needed at the time.

At any rate, I was unable to comment on passing events, lying around as I was like a three-legged lion in mating season while the world went about its business on the periphery.

I am therefore taking this opportunity to catch up on events I missed, including the aforementioned Age of Sexual Sensitivity.

For instance, of lesser general interest but intense local concern, was the revelation of a new ploy used by urban terrorists to infiltrate middle-class malls: They are cleverly disguising themselves as Girl Scouts.

For those who missed the story, the device was discovered by quick-eyed security guards at the Northridge Fashion Center.

Twenty-five dangerous terrorists, posing as members of Girl Scout Troop 823, were stopped by security guards who accused them of being gang members, or possibly worse.

After a heated argument between the guards and six adult women terrorists, the little terrorists were allowed to continue through the mall, but only in groups of no larger than three and under constant surveillance.

It was after they left the mall that their leaders admitted they were indeed members of San Fernando Valley Jihad 823 and were armed with Uzis and peanut butter cookies hidden under their Scouting blouses.

The guards have since been honored with Mall Combat Medals and with personal prerecorded telephone calls from President Bush.

Space forbids lengthy comment on everything I missed. For instance, I regret being incapacitated on the day set apart by Mayor Tom Bradley to honor the fictional serial killer of Elm Street, Freddy Krueger.

It was a wonderful celebration with amusing anecdotes by the entertaining maniac on the delights of mass murder. The kids loved it, and there are plans afoot to make Freddy Krueger Day an annual event.

That depends, of course, on whether Los Angeles still exists next year. There were so many reports of a general exodus that I expected to leave the hospital and find millions fleeing the city, like the citizens of Tokyo in flight from Godzilla.

It was either Barbara Walters or Jane Pauley or maybe Diane Sawyer who had a television special on why everyone is leaving L.A.

The essence of the report was picked up by the lesser media, leading to the impression we were going to end up very soon about as populated as an Aztec ruin.

The state Department of Motor Vehicles subsequently reported that 1.5 million people had moved out of L.A. in the past year. One of them was heard saying he was glad to be leaving “this swamp of human misery.”

Well, I hope they’re happy in Beaver Crossing, Neb., or Squaw Lake, Minn., or wherever the hell they went to be free of human misery.

I myself am happy here in the swamp and intend to stay. I’d miss the smog, Freddy Krueger Day and the thrill of never knowing when I might become the victim of a drive-by Girl Scout attack.

There’s nothing like ducking chocolate chip cookies to keep a man alert.