Jefferson "Zuma Jay" Wagner sails up Latigo Canyon Road in his Dodge minivan.

He is complaining about the "beautiful people" marring Malibu with their egos -- building colossal homes on this iconic stretch of coast.

He has a wry, low-lidded gaze and bears such an uncanny resemblance to Clint Eastwood that he once did a beer commercial in Japan as Dirty Harry. His van has 275,000 miles on it and smells of unwashed wetsuits.

"I have a mega-mansion myself, 4,000 square feet," he says. "I don't even see parts of my house for weeks. Now, 17,000 square feet: What do you do with that?"

Wagner is owner of Zuma Jay Surf Boards, an institution of 33 years that has become a cultural crossroads in Malibu, drawing tourists, celebrities, workaday folk, billionaires and mom-driven surf groms from the Valley. He slept in the back of the shop for more than a decade and now holds court behind the counter, dispensing quips and esoteric commentary along with the leashes, wax and ding-repair kits.

The store has never been profitable enterprise so much as point of departure.

At 54, Wagner has been a hobo, Hollywood stuntman, pyrotechnician, weapons expert, Marlboro man, champion sailor, model for Ralph Lauren and Banana Republic, reserve sheriff's deputy, lover of several supermodels and actresses, surf instructor to Britney Spears, author of a book on surf wax, owner of six acres of shaded canyon land just off Pacific Coast Highway and a man whose life story has been optioned by Universal Studios.

Now he is running for City Council in Malibu -- because he is angry.

On Latigo Canyon Road, he pulls up next to a telephone pole riddled with bullet holes, testament to a rural lifestyle that refuses to make an exit. Across the road is a wood bungalow from the 1930s, set discreetly beneath a canopy of oaks.

"These are the houses that Malibu used to be about," he says. "This is the lifestyle Malibu used to be about. The owner of this is a schoolteacher."

A silver car rounds the bend. "Right up the street is this guy," Wagner says. "That's a Bentley."

Wagner wants to restrain what many see as an inexorable force: the transformation of Malibu's end-of-the continent ruggedness into a gaudy version of Palm Beach.

Malibu has struggled with this tension over identity for decades, in the meantime evolving into a strange mix of contradictions.

Homes worth more than $20 million sit steps away from the likes of McDonald's and KFC on a bumpy highway in constant need of repair. Trailers and modest houses lie hidden among eucalyptus and oak, while cantilevered castles loom on the ridges. And the environmentally conscious populace, surrounded by so much nature, produces some of the most polluted waters on the coast.

"There's all this talk about green here," Wagner says. "You know how much gets done: zero. We have all these wealthy people here who have failing septic systems. How is that possible?"

His detractors in Malibu's small-town politics often describe him as "colorful," conjuring the friendly surf bum stepping into an arena outside his realm. Even Wagner puts up a surfer's front of insouciance, saying he just drifted into the many interesting circumstances of his life, like Forrest Gump.

And then he launches into a long discussion of economic theory, in which he nonchalantly and correctly uses the word "geosynchronous."

His longtime girlfriend, Candace Brown, says he is as tortured and serious as anyone. "He lost his first wife in a plane crash," she says. "He hasn't gotten over it."

She says he follows a rambling curiosity wherever it takes him, be it learning the ancient Chinese game of go, taking courses in gemology or becoming an expert in the use of explosives for special effects.

The state fire marshal regularly calls on Wagner to train firefighters how to inspect movie sets.