Leaving the Grind Behind--Sadly

We have to stop meeting like this.

I mean it. I’m not kidding.

It’s over.

If you come looking for me here in my usual spot these coming Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays--and I sure hope you do--you won’t find me.

Took them awhile, but they’re on to us. And so, after 5 1/2 years and some 700 columns, my thrice-weekly presence will be no more. I’m thinking that, after those occasional notes that said “Scott Harris is ill” or “on vacation” or “has the day off,” a transitional message is needed, something like: “Scott Harris is history, kaput, outta here.”

But I exaggerate. (Columnists are entitled, so I might as well make the most of my last chance.) Truth is, I’ll still be around, but in a different role. You may catch my byline now and then, but you will be spared the picture and punditry. They tell me my stories will be much longer, the deadlines fewer and much farther between.

But after all these years, I can’t just walk away without saying why. You deserve an explanation.

The problem is: How to explain?

Well, perhaps it’s best to start by explaining what it’s not.

Sorry, but it’s nothing scandalous.

Nope, unlike certain media miscreants this year, I never tried to fool anybody into thinking fiction was fact.

I never committed plagiary, never got sued for libel, never sought or accepted payola.

There is no truth to the rumor that I am actually a 19-year-old actress posing as a newspaper hack in his 40s (early 40s, mind you). And now that I’ve admitted my advanced years, I’ll probably never be able to write for TV.

Nope, not a hint of scandal. I am not being stripped of my column because blood tests detected traces of cocaine or other controlled substances. I have never used performance-enhancing steroids.

I never starred in a porno, or even appeared as an extra. Nude photos of me, or taken by me, are not appearing on the Internet.

I never embezzled a small fortune and dreamed of fleeing for Brazil with a mud wrestler from the Hollywood Tropicana.

I am not becoming an international terrorist or replacing Kenneth Starr’s $400-an-hour ethics consultant. I never committed murder, never had sex in the Oval Office.

There is no bloody glove, no stained dress.

Come to think of it, I haven’t cavorted with an intern since those youthful indiscretions in my 20s. But maybe that depends on how you define “cavort.”

And “intern.”

Which brings us to the definition of “is,” because saying what it isn’t isn’t saying what it is. So now let me give that a try.

The lyric of a love song comes to mind: It was just one of those things . . .

That’s the theme song of the long story--and there’s not nearly enough space for that here. On the bright side, it’s some consolation knowing that I finally have the life experience to write the kind of darkly comic novel that I like to read.

The soundtrack for a short story may require a mangling of Bob Dylan: The Times Valley Edition, it is a-changin’.

What this is, I am assured, is strictly a business decision. Today marks the unveiling of a “new model” for the Valley Edition, resulting in a “new opportunity” for yours truly.

This is, I am assured, a rather nice new opportunity that will bring greater glory to the corporation that employs me, while also relieving me the stress of my current gig.

But I’d be lying if I didn’t say I have mixed emotions. To think back over these 5 1/2 years is to embark on a sentimental journey. Writing a column has at times been the most frustrating job I’ve had in the news business, but it is also the most rewarding.

It has been a privilege in so many ways.

Part of the job description, as I saw it, was to criticize and satirize L.A.’s pooh-bahs and institutions and causes, whenever they had it coming. Among many others, I must express gratitude to Mayor Riordan, the City Council, the Board of Supervisors, the MTA, the Church of Scientology and those pesky Valleyistas for supplying so much material. It was a privilege to express opinions, even those opinions I might later wish I’d kept to myself.

In retrospect, however, the commentaries seem more ephemeral and less memorable than the stories about people from other walks of life.

The greater privilege, certainly, was to meet so many people who, amid L.A.’s oversupply of celebrities, seem much more worthy of celebration.

I think here of Scott Miller, the Los Angeles firefighter nearly killed by gunfire during the 1992 riots, who returned to the job; of the late Linda Luschei, whose search for love in the time of AIDS inspired a stage play; of the indomitable Bob Horn, the former CSUN professor, whose life with Lou Gehrig’s disease should make all who meet him take stock of their own.

I think of Catherine Mulholland, defending her grandfather William’s embattled memory; of Dr. Paul Hackmeyer, back delivering babies after he was nearly murdered in a follow-home robbery; of the Huling family and their encounters with racial discrimination in establishing their popular Chatsworth restaurant Les Sisters; of the late Allen Edwards, the psychologist and folk historian, who divined that rustic Franklin Canyon was the geographic center of L.A.

I think of B.J. Hansen, driving force of the intellectual soiree that is the Valley Culture Club and proud mom of “L.A. Confidential” director Curtis; of the late stand-up comic Christopher Sylbert, the ex-junkie, ex-con with multiple sclerosis, whose life was testament of redemption; of Mathew Rudes, the 12-year-old boy who fought the pain of Marfan Syndrome by writing an adventure novel.

I think of my father, whose memories of the attack on Pearl Harbor I shared with you Dec. 7. That was seven months before he died at age 81 and we, the loved ones he left behind, agreed he should be buried in an aloha shirt.

And I think of the readers who shared their condolences then, and who also shared so many story ideas, observations and opinions, not all of them friendly. I opened hundreds of letters that arrived the old-fashioned way and clicked open hundreds of others. They weren’t all love letters--some were not even close--but they made me feel like you cared. The opposite of love, they say, is not hate, but indifference.

So let the record show that I didn’t want it to end this way. All considered, I’d have rather moved on after winning a Pulitzer Prize and having collections of my columns go to paperback. Or maybe I’d have written a best-selling novel that had the public clamoring for more.

Instead, it turns out to be just one of those things. A business decision. Oh well. By my standards, 5 1/2 years counts as a long relationship. And while I know it meant more to me than it did to you (if not, you really should consider professional help), I like to think we shared not just a few laughs, but something more meaningful.

I must admit, fewer deadlines has a certain allure. Perhaps it’s all for the best.

Still, I hope you miss me.

Because I know I’ll miss you.

*

Scott Harris’ column is history, kaput, outta here. Readers may write to him at The Times’ Valley Edition, 20000 Prairie St., Chatsworth, CA 91311, or via e-mail at scott.harris@latimes.com. Please include a phone number.