Hooray for . . . er . . . Bellflower?
Civic pride can be an ugly emotion, elevating the territorial imperative to plateaus of brutal conflict.
Poke fun at a home town and you run the risk of a counterattack vastly exceeding the tone or intent of the original comment.
Angry ladies hit the phone, editors of community newspapers hit their battered old word processors and almost everyone writes a letter.
Not that I am unfamiliar with abuse. Just yesterday I received a note from a woman who attacked me for my views on mountain lions. She called me what Zsa Zsa Gabor is said to have called Officer Kramer.
I was ready to defend myself when it occurred to me I hadn’t even written anything on mountain lions. Defending an action I hadn’t taken would be like Poland apologizing for World War II.
When I telephoned the lady to tell her there had been no mention of mountain lions in my column, she chewed me out for having ignored an imminent peril to an entire species of animal. Then she hung up.
Which leads, however circuitously, to Bellflower and Hollywood.
I made fun of both cities recently and am busy ducking the outraged response. I said no one of importance ever goes to Bellflower, and there’s nothing to do in Hollywood that doesn’t require a condom.
Katie, bar the door.
I heard first from Bellflower, which is just south of Paramount and not to be confused with Bell Gardens, which is near Cudahy.
Proud citizens telephoned, civic leaders wrote and a local poet tried to rhyme Bellflower with hell’s hour in verse intended to glorify the town’s ecumenical spirit.
Of special note, however, was an editorial in the tabloid-sized Paramount News Tribune entitled, “Importance of Being Al.”
I knew I was in trouble with the first line: “How easy it is to make fun of something decent.”
The editorial refers to me as “Call-me-Al” and says I fancy myself a second-rate David Letterman. I’m not sure why the Call-me-Al, but that’s all right. It’s better than being called Elmer Teenez.
“Bellflower,” the editorial fumes, “is better off if the likes of Charles Manson, Sirhan Sirhan, gang chieftains, Tom Bradley, drug kingpins, organized crime figures, talk show hosts, shallow movie stars and other ‘important’ people stay the hell out of town.”
Well, I . . .
“That’s not what matters in Bellflower.”
I didn’t mean to imply . . .
“Church matters in Bellflower.”
OK, so I wasn’t . . .
“Families matter in Bellflower. Good schools matter. Friendly neighbors and responsive local government matters.”
The message comes across like the drums of Gotterdammerung. The editor loves Bellflower. It could be worse. Some editors have never known love at all.
Fly now on the wings of incredulity to Hollywood where, I have learned, not everyone is involved in erotic industry. There are, for instance, cobblers in Hollywood.
I heard this from Oscar and Nyla Arsianian who are both members of the board of directors of the Hollywood Chamber of Commerce.
They spoke for an hour on the abundance of art and human decency in their home town, giving lie to whoever said, “Strip away the phony tinsel of Hollywood and you find the real tinsel underneath.”
The Arsianians, who are man and wife, run a public relations business out of a ship-shaped building in Crossroads of the World, a unique complex of offices built about the time Errol Flynn was entertaining teen-aged girls aboard his yacht Sirocco.
Oscar and Nyla are the driving force behind a campaign that extols the virtues of Hollywood, from its movie industry to, well, its cobblers.
“Crime, prostitution and filth didn’t stop the ‘I Love New York’ campaign,” Oscar said. “They chose to point out the city’s positive aspects. That’s what we’re doing.”
Urban squalor, he adds, exists in Hollywood, but so do upbeat industries and decent little people who whistle as they work, much like the Seven Dwarfs around Snow White.
Another booster heard from was Ken Schessler, whose book “This is Hollywood,” offers plenty of activities that do not require condoms.
You can visit the place where John Belushi OD’d, where silent film star Lou Tellegen killed himself with sewing scissors or where Clara Bow made love to the entire USC football team. Maps provided.
Well, OK. I was wrong. Bellflower is a swell little town, and Hollywood is perfect for hookers and cobblers.
Now I’m off on vacation for a month, so tuck your causticities away until October. I won’t say where I’m going, but I’ll tell you this. It won’t be Bellflower.