An Angel, a Chicken and Us

I had a dream the other night that I was present at the unveiling of a red, 100-foot-high statue of the Chicken Boy in the center of Pershing Square.

Dick Riordan was there and Eli Broad and all of the other downtown swells, along with Angelyne, the kewpie-lipped billboard girl, Gloria Allred, who manages to be everywhere, and Jack Nicholson with a golf club.

I don’t usually dream in color but there it was, a gleaming crimson statue in the hazy afternoon sunlight. Its covering had been pulled away moments earlier and a band was playing that old Randy Newman piece, “I Love L.A.”

Riordan gave a speech which was mostly unintelligible, but I do remember him saying that this was the 436th rebirth of downtown. He also proudly proclaimed that in addition to the Chicken Boy statue he was personally backing a replica of Goofy, Walt Disney’s retarded man-dog, for the top of City Hall.

I awoke in a cold sweat shouting “No! No!” and had to be calmed by my wife who wondered if I was dreaming about Kim Basinger again, chasing me along Pico Boulevard, lusting after me.

When I explained what the dream was all about, she sighed and rolled over and said, “It probably wasn’t a dream.”

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What was on my mind, I think, was a trip I took last weekend through the downtown area, checking out construction at the Staples Center sports arena and that area on a hillside where an armed angel will be built.

The angel is part of a $3.55-billion project known as Angel City and will be visible from the Harbor Freeway to bless the commuters stuck in miles of traffic due to an overturned semi blocking all lanes in both directions.

It is the imagery of the angel that haunts me most, a figure atop a 750-foot tower holding a sword and looking a little like Julia Roberts trying to decide if she should go through with another marriage.

The idea, according to its planners, is to create a symbol for L.A., the way Paris has its Eiffel Tower, New York its Statue of Liberty and Oakland its Jerry Brown.

We’re the City of Angels, they were probably thinking, so why not a giant angel, baby? The sword is no doubt symbolic of our drive-by shootings and gang warfares. If so, an assault rifle, while less classical, would probably be more derivative, but who am I to judge art?

The reason the Chicken Boy emerged in my dream is probably because it was the symbol of downtown when I first came here 27 years ago. I can recall it standing atop a sleazy Broadway restaurant of the same name and thinking, I came from urbane, sophisticated San Francisco to work in a city whose cultural logo is a rooster head on a boy’s body?

But maybe the Chicken Boy is still somehow symbolic of L.A., although an animated statue might be more fitting. The Fighting Angel is supposed to rotate every 36 hours so why not a Chicken Boy that constantly moves both arms, beckoning tourists to y’all come to downtown, heah?

Well, we’ll think about that.

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There have been dumber ideas, I guess, than the Fighting Angel when it comes to what passes as civic art. Eleven years ago, you might recall, some unfortunate person came up with the idea of a giant sculpture faintly resembling a trash heap of toothpicks and Popsicle sticks that would rise over the Hollywood Freeway.

It was called “Clouds of Steel” for a reason no one could fathom and was intended to celebrate L.A.’s cultural diversity, which also left many of us bewildered. How an aberrant Tinker Toy edifice related to the city’s diverse racial and ethnic mix was a puzzle no one ever managed to solve before the idea was finally dumped.

And now, citizens of L.A., a Fighting Angel.

I understand that everyone is trying to jazz up our sleepy downtown but do they really need an armed angel? Santa Monica’s Pier and its Third Street Promenade have managed to pack ‘em in without the towering replica of Saint Monica overhead packing a sword, a spear or any other type of medieval weaponry.

Our thinkers and planners have given us buildings and sports palaces and plans for weird statues. Maybe it’s time for them to stroll through Santa Monica and discover why everyone goes there and no one comes to downtown L.A. unless they have to. Otherwise my dream will become a reality and we’ll keep proving to the world that we are a chicken-headed kind of place after all.

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Al Martinez’s column appears Sundays and Wednesdays. He can be reached online at al.martinez@latimes.com.