A Time to Celebrate, Reflect

At first blush, New Year’s Eve seemed another opportunity to show off Orange County’s disparate pursuits, to show that the county’s identity is that it doesn’t have one. Revelers sang “Auld Lang Syne” with Dennis Rodman in Costa Mesa, paid $100 for dim sum in Newport Beach, wished upon a star in Anaheim, testified to Jesus in Buena Park, sashayed at the Tu Tu Tango in Orange.

But by the dawn of the millennium, it was evident the night had meant far more.

Sure, it was an arbitrary holiday, another as-the-world-turns episode, a made-for-TV event that was in large part a bust. And Jan. 1 was a day for typical holiday fare: shopping, trying (often in vain) to score a movie ticket, eating leftovers and, for one nutty band of revelers, taking a chilly dunk in the ocean.

Still, for many, the turn of the millennium was an opportunity to reflect on who we are, to celebrate the fact that Orange County boasts a unique blend of cosmopolitan and adolescence.

Most days, it seems a fractious, transient place where guards monitor our community gates, where we drive with one hand on the horn and the other on our heart, where development has roared ahead, bluff by bluff, as the county’s population has doubled in 20 years.

Doris I. Walker, a Dana Point historian, will let the other urban areas have their identities. She’ll take growing pains any day--because these are rare days in Orange County, when everyone is looking in the same direction, when everyone is looking ahead with the same optimism, anxiety and uncertainty.

“In a weird way, Orange County is beginning to feel young and new,” she said. “We are kind of overwhelmed by the present, but we aren’t there yet. This is making people look backward and forward at the same time. We don’t know what’s going to happen. And that’s fun.”

Leslie Lewis, 42, rang in 2000 with her husband and three of her five children at Knott’s Berry Farm in Buena Park.

“It’s one of those moments, like when you were a little kid waiting for Christmas, that you never thought was going to come,” she said early Saturday. “Like at Christmas, there are gifts to be opened. But we don’t know yet what they are.”

By noon Saturday, Mary and Larry Horowitz were walking their dogs--Herbie Alexander the Scottie and Duncan McGregor the highland terrier--in Seal Beach’s Old Town. The middle-aged couple moved to Seal Beach from Long Beach four years ago, attracted by the charm, the sense of community, the fact that Main Street is lined with family-owned shops, not franchises.

Walking along the beachfront, they pondered what is to come as a bright sun reflected off the ocean and fought for attention with the dark storm clouds that had plagued new year’s celebrations from the start.

“You can look at the water and see the light, or at the clouds and see the darkness,” Mary Horowitz said. “I keep looking toward the light. It is important to have hopes and dreams.”

Here’s how Orange County rang in the millennium--and what Orange County was thinking about on Day One.

A Time for Many to Be Thankful

Folks who arrived for the 1:30 p.m. show of Walt Disney’s rereleased 1940 animated feature “Fantasia/2000” at the Irvine Spectrum found a line snaking through the courtyard--and learned that the day’s shows were all sold out.

It was a time for shopping--some malls were brimming with crowds that party organizers would have begged for the night before.

Like most of her friends, 41-year-old Carol Garcia was terrified of what was to come at midnight. When it didn’t happen, a little retail therapy was in order, said Garcia, who spent the day browsing shops at MainPlace/Santa Ana with her 8-year-old daughter. Like at most malls, stores were busy, but not swamped, and prime parking spots remained.

“This morning I got up and said, ‘Thank you, Jesus, for the warm shower,’ ” said Garcia, an analyst for a health care company. “[I needed] something simple, an ordinary day, after the excitement. And we had a nice, ordinary day at the mall . . . something we may have taken for granted before.”

It was a time for some to recover from hangovers, for others to figure out how to get rid of 30 gallons of water and 60 cans of beans they had stockpiled for a disaster that didn’t happen.

It was a time for the Balboa Polar Bear Club to take its ritual post-New Year’s dip. Club organizer Allen Cintron, dressed as Father Time, sickle in hand, delivered a fitting decree from a lifeguard stand, then stripped down to a giant diaper and led a somewhat nutty throng into the ocean. None were wearing wetsuits. All immediately bolted for the nearest warm towel.

It was a time for eating. Sixty-year-old Charles Lin, an Irvine engineer, spent a quiet evening at home Friday, but rang in the millennium with a boisterous meal Saturday.

“That is what life is all about: food,” he said, waiting for his wife to finish grocery shopping as a cold drizzle fell in Irvine. “This is a new beginning for us all. The rain is not good for the Rose Bowl Parade. But it washes away bad luck for us all. This is a good way to start.”

More than anything else, it was a time to take stock.

Denise McIntyre, 32, a Newport Beach personal trainer, says she has her life plans all mapped out, to the point where she no longer stoops to making New Year’s resolutions. That didn’t stop her--and scores of others--from heading to Main Beach in Laguna Beach on Saturday morning to reflect on the past and muse about the future.

“A lot more communities, from Los Angeles to Orange County, are pulling together, trying to watch out for one another a little bit more,” she said, plopped on a boardwalk bench.

“We’ve come so far. I hope things keep going in a positive direction . . . but time will tell. Will people go their separate ways in the millennium? Or will we pull together?”

Ronald and Constance St. Jean set out Saturday for a three-hour walk around Bolsa Chica, the largest wetland refuge left in Southern California. An egret soared overhead, and pintail ducks paddled across the marsh, diving toward the bottom and leaving their tufted tails pointing toward the clouds.

These are heady days for the couple. They had been neighbors and friends for years--but husband and wife for only a year.

Ronald St. Jean’s first wife died recently after a harrowing bout with cancer that required four surgeries and the amputation of both her legs before she would succumb. After she died, Ronald, 67, married Constance, 66. They are planning to sell their home, buy a motor home and travel to Yellowstone, Florida and Texas.

“We are beginning some big changes,” he said.

“Our changes,” she said, “are tied to life.”

Just Like Boy Scouts, Many Were Prepared

Of course, that didn’t guarantee a lively evening on Friday.

One Huntington Beach neighborhood was typical of New Year’s Eve in Orange County: The corner gas station was the hot spot, not the bars or the clubs.

“I have been thinking about this for quite a few days now, and it dawned on me that I’d better do something about it,” said Victor Ahmed, 44, as he pumped 13 gallons of unleaded into his Volkswagen Vanagon--just in case a Y2K meltdown led to a run on gasoline.

Louis Abiles, 36, of Costa Mesa maneuvered a shopping cart through an grocery store aisle, collecting fruit, vegetables and milk. He had 20 gallons of water in the car and 25 more at home, and hoped to stockpile enough to last his family of five for a month.

Many concerned by Y2K were not impressed by initial reports that their fears were unfounded. A number of studies have determined that problems might not be detected for weeks or months.

“It’s a smart thing to do,” Abiles said.

Not everyone was stocking up on water. Costa Mesa resident Reggie Williams was loading his Honda with Kahlua, tequila, beer, orange juice, cranberry juice and two types of vodka.

Crowds were sparse compared to the crush officials had braced for. Disneyland reported about 56,000 people, far short of the 80,000 expected. Organizers at First Night Fullerton initially estimated that 16,000 revelers were in attendance, but downgraded that to 6,000 as midnight neared. About 5,000 were at the Block in Orange, the complex of restaurants and stores, which featured live music, jugglers and stilt-walkers.

In Newport Beach, about 500 young professionals--half the expected turnout--gathered for a black-tie gala under a white tent at Bloomingdale’s of Fashion Island. The Moroccan-themed party--replete with camels, though most people passed on invitations to take the beasts for spins around the parking lot--benefited the Orangewood Children’s Foundation.

Of the several hundred revelers who failed to show--something blamed on millennial jitters and rain--event co-chairwoman Sue Carter said, “They chose poorly. This is a little more intimate, but it’s still an amazing event.”

For 11 years, Loalynda Bird has marked New Year’s Eve at Disneyland. As midnight neared, she stood outside the Haunted Mansion guarding three strollers full of sleepy kids while 10 family members and friends screamed through a spin on the “Doom Buggies.”

She lifted her yellow Mickey Mouse rain poncho to show off her 1988 Disneyland New Year’s Eve T-shirt, part of a growing collection.

“I’m going to make a quilt when the kids are older--cut squares out of all the shirts,” she said. “We have at least 15 more years of this to go.”

She had expected terrible crowds.

“I thought it was going to be crowded,” she said. “But this is just another New Year’s.”

Ringing in 2000 and Praising God

Knott’s Berry Farm in Buena Park held a “Praise 2000” party--a devout celebration tailored for families and featuring top Christian music acts--and became the site of an odd mix of millennium metaphors in the process.

As midnight approached, the pulsating sounds of “1999” by the Artist Formerly Known as Prince--among today’s most tawdry, sexually charged performers--floated through the park at the same time evangelical Christians shouted praise to Jesus.

“My resolution is to lock in the spirit every day so I can meet the Lord,” said Mark Miller, 44, a Fullerton contractor who spent the evening at Knott’s with a gold cross dangling from his neck.

“I believe Jesus is coming soon. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon enough. I believe the old is gone and this is going to be the start of a new age.”

For most of the last six years, Jamie Aguirre lived in a haze of drugs and alcohol. Several times, she nearly died, once from alcohol poisoning, once when she overdosed on Ecstasy, a hallucinogenic stimulant that fuels all-night “rave” parties. Friday night, Aguirre--now an 18-year-old student at Riverside Community College--still looked the part, with funky earrings and a ski cap yanked down over her long brown hair.

But the Bible in her backpack gave it away: Her life has changed.

“I once had a boyfriend who said you always know how your year is going to go by who you spend it with,” said Aguirre, who lives in Montclair and ushered in the new year at Knott’s Berry Farm with her younger sister and two friends.

“I’m bringing it in with God. God turned my life around.”

For three months, since her religious conversion, Aguirre has been alcohol-, drug- and tobacco-free.

As the clock hit 12, the electric sign above the Buffalo Nickel Penny Arcade flashed “2000” and green, red and blue fireworks showered from the sky.

Members of the crowd donned neon green crosses, many of them praying. As the crowd swayed in unison, Aguirre threw her arms around her 14-year-old sister, Sunny, and began sobbing. She pledged to join the ministry.

“When you’re with God, it’s a peace that surpasses all understanding. My heart goes to the lost souls of the world.”

Many Did Their Share of Partying Heartily

Some of them, it seems, could be found down the road in Newport Beach.

As a neon sign above one bar announced “Y2K SUCKS,” revelers stumbled along the boardwalk and the pier area. In a flower box, a once-celebratory noisemaker was jammed, idle and broken, in a bed of cigarette butts stained with ruby red lipstick.

By 2 a.m., the faint smell of vomit filled the air, as a bartender swept confetti and streamers out of a bar and into the street. A young couple was coupling in a lifeguard stand.

“I was just dumped,” one young woman announced, seven plastic leis festooned around her neck. Not “dumped” as in broken up with. “Dumped” as in: One of her fellow party-goers had stolen a grocery cart and was charging around the streets with his friends inside. She had taken a spill.

“I was so on the ground,” she said.

Boyne Kim, 24, a Dallas man visiting a college friend in Newport Beach, could be found on the sidewalk in front of the beachfront party he was attending. He was wearing camouflage pants, a sequined disco shirt and sunglasses, and he was thrilled to be with his friends.

“The craaaazy new millennium,” he shouted. “It’s just big hype, but it’s an excuse for people to get crazy. I was alone last year. Last year, I kept saying: ‘Happy New Year! Do I know you?’ Now I’m with my friends. And I’m happy. I’m having the time of my life.”

He was not alone.

At midnight, the young, hip and physically gifted rang in the new year singing “Auld Lang Syne” with Rodman and Carmen Electra inside a Costa Mesa building that had been vacant just a week before.

Grand Ball 2000--as the party at the Hacienda, an empty building across from Triangle Square in Costa Mesa, was called--was the brainchild of a team of 30-year-old party promoters who may have been one of the few entertainment entrepreneurs to make a profit off Y2K. It wasn’t easy.

Promoters Alton Aksu, Jaime Munoz and their team spent six months planning an alternative-rock New Year’s blastoff--for “young, flashy, risque, mostly single club types with good style,” Munoz said--at Irvine Meadows. Then they heard in mid-November that the city of Irvine wouldn’t give its stamp of approval. They had to scale back the size of their dream and scramble to find another venue.

Weeks before the big night, Aksu and Munoz decided on the Hacienda. Its 20,000-square-feet ballroom and vast outdoor courtyard, featuring five fountains and cubbyholes that serve as “love lounges”--could attract the crowd they wanted.

They spent $60,000 assembling a staff, setting up a dozen bars and hiring a caterer to serve jumbo hot dogs and grandma-style cookies. And they replaced hundreds of burnt-out light bulbs on the property. They needed to sell 1,200 of the $50 tickets to break even, Aksu said.

They almost doubled that, making about $55,000. The ballroom was so packed that eyeglasses steamed upon entry. And the love lounges were overflowing. Magnums of champagne were being raffled off to benefit the Children’s Welfare Foundation, which sends inner-city children to summer camp.

About 800 people paid $100 for sushi and dim sum at Aysia 100 in Newport Beach and 500 snapped up tickets to sold-out Bistro 201, which offered casino-style games. At Diva, a disco theme was tied to “Fame--The Musical,” which was showing across the street at the Orange County Performing Arts Center.

David Duncan, 67, and his wife, Rachel, came from North Carolina for Saturday’s Rose Parade and found themselves at the Block, thrilled to discover thousands of fellow revelers.

“We didn’t know that people partied this well in California,” David Duncan said.

It Was Another Night on the Job for Many

It wasn’t all fun and games, of course.

Akbar Ahuja, a night clerk at a Garden Grove 7-Eleven, hadn’t had a good year. Seeing in the new year was turning out to be just another eight-hour shift that would make his feet hurt and his back act up.

Garden Grove is where the 55-year-old Ahuja lives, but it’s not home: His heart remains in India, where his wife and family remain. “I talk to them every day. Every day,” he said.

Shortly after midnight, two New Year’s revelers--a young man with red spiked hair and a tipsy girlfriend--strolled in to buy Swisher Sweet cigars and a pack of cigarettes, then rummaged through the beef jerky jar for the best chunk.

“I think it’s all humbug,” he said after the couple left.

At the surgical intensive care unit on the fifth floor of UCI Medical Center in Orange, nurses kept an eye on their life support machine.

“Happy new year!” shouted Mindy O’Bric, a registered nurse who spilled into the hallway wearing maroon scrubs and a party hat. “The ventilators are still working!”

At midnight, Anaheim Police Lt. Joe Reiss could be found driving his squad car at Kraemer Boulevard and La Palma Avenue, searching for armed revelers who were spraying gunfire into the air. While other officers took cover under concrete structures, Reiss had little more than his cruiser’s thin metal roof protecting him from the bullets he suspected would soon be raining down.

This was no game of chicken little. Earlier in the evening, a bullet fell from the sky, apparently fired in celebration, and struck an 11-year-old Los Angeles boy in the head. The boy was reported in fair condition.

Back in Anaheim, a series of gunshots crackled two blocks away.

“You hear ‘em,” Reiss said. “If it’s your time to go, it’s your time to go.”

As the clock struck 12, it came with more of a whimper than a bang at the San Onofre Nuclear Generating Station, the plant that creates about 20% of the energy used in Southern California. As a faint cheer wafted down the hall, security guard Dan Whitman, 36, stood in a gray hallway that reeked of an industrial world, an automatic rifle slung over his arm.

“I said my ‘Happy New Year’s’ before I left home and I’ll say them again when I see my wife in the morning,” he said. “I’m just happy I made it this far. I’ll see how far I make it into the new century. I’ll live life the best I can.”

* YEAR 2000: For more stories and photos on how Orange County and the nation rang in the new millennium, see pages A32, A33, A34, B1, B3, B15

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Contributing to millennium coverage in Orange County were Times staff writers Marc Ballon, Mike Boehm, Tim Brown, Leslie Earnest, Janet Eastman, Matthew Ebnet, Robin Fields, Kate Folmar, Elaine Gale, Megan Garvey, Scott Gold, Jeff Gottlieb, David Haldane, Greg Hernandez, Meg James, Jack Leonard, Scott Martelle, Dennis McLellan, E. Scott Reckard, David Reyes, Lisa Richardson, Peter M. Warren, Tracy Weber, Phil Willon and Daniel Yi; correspondents Kathryn Bold, Sue Doyle, Kenneth Ma, Greg Risling, Louise Roug and Judy Silber; and researchers Lois Hooker, Sheila A. Kern and Lois Stuart.