Just Plain Folks Run for Mayor

It would have been a sight to behold: Wayne “T-Bear” Crochet, a candidate for San Fernando Valley mayor, toddling down the campaign trail in a polar bear suit.

But Crochet, nicknamed Teddy Bear for his love of children’s books and music, failed to qualify for the Nov. 5 ballot. Several signatures on his nominating papers were deemed invalid, sending T-Bear’s campaign into hibernation.

That leaves 10 other contenders for an office whose very existence remains questionable. If voters reject Valley cityhood--which must win majority approval both in the Valley and in Los Angeles as a whole--the mayor’s post would evaporate along with the city it would represent.

That creates an unusual political dynamic, and even without T-Bear, the race already defies many political conventions.

Most of the candidates plan to raise little or no money. Hardly any of them have hired campaign workers or lined up endorsements. Only two--Assemblyman Keith Richman (R-Northridge) and Mel Wilson, a real estate agent--say they have collected more than $30,000 in contributions.

By and large, the candidates are just ordinary folks, hoping to make the Valley a better place. They’re polite but unpolished, excited by a call from a reporter, not really expecting to win.

In part, the field has been shaped by the political calculations of secession. Municipal labor unions have threatened to never support those who run in the proposed city, chasing some possible candidates from the arena. And much of the city’s business and political establishment is lined up against the idea as well. As a result, many big-name politicians have elected to sit out this race.

Left are mostly novices with an array of views and campaign techniques.

Computer Campaign

So far, Marc Strassman is proud to report, his biggest campaign expense has been the six bucks he paid Kinko’s to copy some fliers. Strassman, a 54-year-old computer consultant whose mayoral platform includes solar energy and Internet access for all, directs his campaign from a Dell laptop in his Valley Village apartment.

It’s a one-room operation, with a rumpled bed and 15 paper bags crammed with books (Strassman’s version of a bookcase) alongside his computer table. Strassman pecks away at the keyboard so often that most of the letters have worn off.

Every morning, the Harvard graduate runs his name through an Internet search engine to see if he has been mentioned in the news. If so, he creates links from his Web site to the articles.

“The laptop is mightier than the lawn sign,” Strassman said. “If one person with no money and no help can get himself elected, imagine how much more efficiently the city could be run.”

A few miles away in North Hollywood, Gregory Roberts has yet to start actively campaigning. He’s still miffed that the county registrar refused to list his occupation on the ballot as “Public Corruption Fighter.”

“I fight corruption,” said Roberts, a former freelance writer who said he has been sidelined for several years with epilepsy. “Sixty-five percent of that whole City Hall operation is corrupt.”

Asked for an example, he pointed to what he considers the totalitarian rule of the guards at the County Hall of Administration (which, as a county building, is beyond the reach of City Hall.)

“They got a ‘No Food or Drink’ sign there,” Roberts said. “Their main obsession seems to be telling elderly ladies they can’t have orange juice in their purse. They’re a law unto themselves.”

Gadfly on the Stump

And then there’s the 82-year-old Leonard Shapiro, a longtime (and loud) government critic who has spent much of the last two decades bellowing into a microphone at the City Council and county Board of Supervisors during public comment periods.

“I’m the only guy in the whole city who knows what the hell is going on,” said Shapiro, who keeps five filing cabinets filled with newspaper clippings and city audits. “Richman’s up in Sacramento. He means well, but he has no idea what’s happening.” Richman is a likely front-runner with modest name recognition and more than $100,000 in contributions.

Most of the candidates have yet to hold a single campaign event.

One notable exception is David Hernandez Jr., an insurance adjuster who is also the Republican candidate in the Valley’s 28th Congressional District. (He’s pretty sure he’s going to lose that race--he’s running against Howard L. Berman, who has held office for 20 years.) Hernandez, who wore a sombrero to one secession news conference, has spent the last eight months traveling across the Valley to attend community meetings.

On Thursday night, he showed up in Lake View Terrace, where residents had gathered to hear filmmakers describe a plan to shoot an action flick (working title: “Helldorado”), complete with a cattle stampede, at Hansen Dam. One woman asked whether the plot included any explosions.

“We have the idea of doing something that might entail a fireball,” conceded Murray Miller, the movie’s location manager. But he said it probably wouldn’t be so loud as to rattle people’s windows.

Hernandez sat quietly throughout the hourlong meeting. Another mayoral candidate, Jim Summers, a real estate salesman, slipped in near the end and stood in the back, chewing gum.

Finally Hernandez piped up: “How does this particular project benefit this community?”

Afterward, Nina Royal, a local activist who helped start the Sunland-Tujunga neighborhood council, scolded him.

“It benefits the people who work here, David!” she said. “One of the problems with the city of Los Angeles is, they’ve made it almost impossible to do business here. That’s why people are fleeing.”

Hernandez said he just wanted the community to get accurate information about the project.

Summers ambled over and started chatting with Hernandez and Royal.

“I’m just one of those guys who listens in the back of the room,” he said. The only reason he’s running for mayor, Summers added, is to urge more local control over land use.

“If somebody takes my platform, they can gladly be mayor,” he chuckled.

The First Big Chance

Far from hitting the ground running, some candidates seem to be waiting for invitations to appear. Their first big chance came last week, at a Granada Hills seafood luncheon hosted by the Valley’s United Chambers of Commerce.

All the mayoral candidates were asked to give three-minute speeches, but only seven showed up: Hernandez, Shapiro, Strassman, Summers, Wilson, alarm company manager Bruce Boyer, and auditor Henry Divina.

Earnest enthusiasm abounded. Candidates fumbled for the microphone, praised the secession group Valley VOTE for bringing them this far, and vowed to fight for accountable government, Internet access and all the rest.

Boyer, casual in black jeans and a fanny pack, told the audience: “I want a new city so we’re a new city. Not just a different name. A new city.” He said he hopes to bring the Valley freedom, security and prosperity.

He was followed by Divina, who promised to slash the city’s business tax, hire more police and set up a telephone hotline “directly to the mayor’s office,” so all 1.35-million Valley residents could voice service complaints.

Wilson, a favorite of many business-minded secessionists and the last to speak, grabbed the mike and strode closer to the crowd. “Quality leadership, strong neighborhoods,” he said. “That’s the theme of my campaign.”

Wilson was the only candidate to appeal for money--a much-needed resource for the cash-poor secession movement. Separatists have collected only a tiny fraction of the $4 million they once vowed to raise, and they’re counting on candidates to help make up the difference.

The Valley mayoral field also includes Benny Bernal, a bus driver and union activist. (He missed the luncheon, he said, because he was mediating a gang dispute in the northeast Valley.)

No matter who wins the election, most of the would-be mayors seem delighted with their moment in the spotlight.

“I calculate that I’m in fifth place, based on the news stories,” Strassman said, his eyes lighting up behind his thick glasses. “It’s the classic existential quest.”