My life As an Animal

City officials, as everyone knows, spend half their time in office hiding and the other half clumping about, like gorillas in the mist, searching for safe issues.

These have ranged over the years from advocating close family ties to supporting the presence of spring flowers.

And now Councilman Michael Woo has come up with another issue bound to annoy practically no one: peace and quiet. He’s for it.

The councilman is not seeking urban serenity by attempting to eliminate anything as awesome as motorcycles, for that would precipitate a roar of disapproval equal to the noise of the machines themselves.

Nor is he suggesting we clamp down on the shrill whine of jets and helicopters, whose blended cacophonies have driven whole neighborhoods functionally mad.

The prey of the day is the Party Animal.

It works this way: Under an ordinance suggested by Woo and patterned after one in Palos Verdes Estates, the first time police are summoned to a house party they deem raucous, the host is only warned to quiet things down.

The second time police are called, however, the host is cited to pay the cost of the time required to quiet the disturbance. At a pre-established rate of $1.25 a minute, this can add up to a maximum of $500.

I don’t know what happens if the police are called a third time, although pistol-whipping the host or machine-gunning the guests seem likely alternatives.

Forgetting for the moment that there are more serious matters the City Council might concern itself with (the homeless, thank God, are rarely noisy), I am basically in favor of Woo’s proposal to damp the decibels of parties that get completely out of hand.

He is, after all, not condemning those relatively contained post-Oscar soirees de couture that Swifty Lazar hosts at Spago’s or the sedate, cold salmon suppers that conclude a Beethoven festival.

Woo is gunning primarily for the ear-splitting, hell-raising, house-wrecking calamities that teen-agers host while daddy is out of town with his secretary and mommy is having a little party of her own with a tennis pro.

It was, in fact, one of those so-called “flyer parties” up a winding road in Studio City that stirred Woo in the first place. Such parties, as the name implies, grow in size relative to the ability of the party-givers to saturate a community with flyers that advertise the upcoming orgy, and this one was an effort of record proportions.

A hustling group of teens summoned hundreds to the fold and, high on booze and who knows what else, their communion wreaked havoc on an otherwise peaceful neighborhood, whose residents were marching to Woo before the sun had reached its zenith.

I sympathize with those caught in the eye of a teen-age maelstrom, partly because I was a teen-ager myself once, though not for long. My life as a party animal was similarly blessedly short due to a tendency to throw up in crowds.

I do recall times, however, when I was able to overcome my physical handicap long enough to terrorize a neighborhood, and while I may have had one hell of a good time it did nothing to sweeten the neighborhood’s attitude toward its young.

On the other side, my experience as an Outraged Neighbor embraces both teen-agers and adults, just to prove it isn’t only a pubescence of spirit that causes parties to get out of hand. Well, maybe it is, but that spirit isn’t confined to those in their teens.

On more than one occasion, adult summer parties held al fresco under the stars have rent the vivid air with chaos, and while the music may have been Mancini rather than Twisted Sister, its impact at high-decibel range was no less severe.

In one instance, in response to my complaint, the host explained in a proud whisper that his party was catered by Wolfgang Puck, which placated me not at all. Unless Mr. Puck was stuffing his coq de bruyere with amphetamines and aphrodisiacs, food had little to do with the raucous nature of the party.

I did nothing on that occasion other than complain to the host because there seemed nothing else to do. Upon passage of Mr. Woo’s ordinance, however, I will summon the law at $1.25 a minute to deal with the matter as only, shudder, The Law can.

So doing, I will join the councilman’s efforts to achieve a quieter Los Angeles, free of the bacchanalian blowouts that shatter the serenity of our neighborhoods. . . . Unless, of course, I happen to be invited to attend the bacchanalian blowout in question.

I say better the enemy drinking within than the enemy standing at the gate screaming for the cops to come. I really do make quite a pleasant party guest now that I’ve outgrown my tendency to sicken in crowds.