Tin Pan Alley Ain’t Got Nothing on County’s Charms

It won’t be long now.

No more solo lunches in the corner of the cafeteria. No more driving myself to work every morning. No more readers saying, “Where’d you get a crackpot idea like that?”

Nope. This cookie is on his way.

I’m in the music business, baby.

See ya.

Call me for Grammy tickets and I’ll see what I can do. Yeah, right, leave your number.

The breakthrough began with what can only be described as divine inspiration. Paul McCartney has told the story many times of how he awakened one morning with the melody to “Yesterday” in his head.

Same for me on April 10--an otherwise ordinary Saturday--until suddenly the words flowed from me like runoff into a storm drain:

From San Clemente to La Habra,

Jamboree to Seal Beach pier . . .

People like to put us down,

They like to stick it in our ear.

You know the rest. Six verses and a chorus later, “O, Orange County” was born. Penned as an anthem--Orange County’s answer to “My Old Kentucky Home”--the lyrics appeared the next day in this edition of the newspaper.

A few days later, Rick Founds, a music man from Aliso Viejo and my new best friend in the whole world, sent me four copies of “O, Orange County,” to which he had supplied the only things the song had been lacking: a melody and someone who could sing.

The CD single clocks in at a neat and tidy 5 minutes, 55 seconds. The disc sports a leafy orange on the cover, reminiscent of the Beatles’ Apple label.

The similarities don’t stop there. Founds may well have written the best melody ever. It has a beat you’d have to describe as “hauntingly funky.”

Two weeks after sending me the CDs, Founds phoned to say he was submitting the song to ASCAP, the American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers.

“I’m listing you as the author and me as the composer,” he said. “All I need is your Social Security number, if that’s OK with you.”

OK by me.

One day I’m an ink-stained wretch and the next day I’m in the same business as Johnny Mercer.

Founds, who has lived in Orange County since 1960, owns a small music publishing business and says he’s written other tunes.

When I say he’s my new best friend, I need to qualify it a bit: Actually, we’ve never met. So far, we’ve only communicated by telephone and e-mail.

So what? Lennon and McCartney did a lot of work by phone, too. Oddly enough, brothers Ira and George Gershwin never met. You think Burt Bacharach gave Hal David the time of day?

For now, we have no other collaborations planned. When I mentioned to Rick it’d be fun to “write” with him again, I thought for a moment the phone had gone dead.

Whatever.

Founds says I shouldn’t be surprised if “O, Orange County” finds its way onto local radio.

Obviously, he’s the dreamer on our team. No problem. Let him play the sunny optimist to my dark brooder. You find that a lot in the music business.

But, frankly, I can’t imagine a licensed station playing a song with this lyric:

But we’ve got sushi, chimichangas

International cuisine.

We may not be Vienna,

But we sure ain’t Abilene.

On the other hand, what’s so great about, “Moon River, wider than a mile. . . .”

All I know is, I’m not a chump anymore.

I see cell phones in my future. Poolside conversations. Sleeping in and partying late at the Viper Room in West Hollywood. I see relatives’ phone calls going unanswered for weeks at a time.

Naysaying friends tell me not to give up my day job.

Ha.

Let me tell you, I’m this close.

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Dana Parsons’ column appears Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. Readers may reach Parsons by calling (714) 966-7821, by writing to him at The Times Orange County Edition, 1375 Sunflower Ave., Costa Mesa, CA 92626, or by e-mail at dana.parsons@latimes.com.