State’s a Tough Audience for Riordan

Here is a curious bit of California political trivia. Only one Los Angeles mayor has ever gone on to become governor of California, and that isolated case happens to be overgrown with asterisks. William Dennison Stephens was appointed in 1909 to replace a Los Angeles mayor who had quit under threat of recall. Stephens’ tenure lasted only nine days--just long enough to organize a special election to select his successor.

Seven years later, the serendipitous Stephens was picked by Gov. Hiram Johnson to replace the lieutenant governor, who had disqualified himself for office by dying. Shortly thereafter, Johnson was elected to the U.S. Senate, leading to Stephens’ automatic promotion to the office of governor.

Since then, several L.A. mayors have attempted to vault from City Hall to statewide, or even national, glory. The late Tom Bradley came closest, losing the governorship by a whisper in 1982 to Republican George Deukmejian. Still, Stephens remains the exception that underscores the rule: Los Angeles mayors have had trouble moving up the political ladder.

And now, of course, comes Dick Riordan, former Los Angeles mayor and would-be unseater of California’s fund-raiser in chief, Gov. Gray Davis. At present, Riordan would seem well-positioned to go where only William Dennison Stephens has gone before. Polls show him far ahead of his two rivals for the Republican nomination: Bill Jones, the earnest but underfunded secretary of state, and Bill Simon Jr., son of William Simon.

Riordan’s got plenty of money to buy commercial air time and advisors. He also has a swell slogan: “Tough enough to turn California around.” This battle cry might sound familiar to Los Angeles voters who recall Riordan’s 1993 campaign for mayor. In that effort he touted himself as the candidate “tough enough to turn around” Los Angeles.

As he geared up to run for governor, I imagine Riordan reasoned that, since “tough enough,” etc., worked so well in Los Angeles, why not trot it out for the California race? In a larger sense, though, such thinking goes to the fundamental premise of the Riordan candidacy: What worked for Los Angeles also will work for California; Riordan can “turn around” the state in the same way he “turned around” its biggest city.

In short, he’s running on his record as L.A. mayor. And here, I would suggest, is where Riordan bumps up hard against what might be called the William Dennison Stephens factor. There must be a reason no Los Angeles mayor but Stephens has advanced to the governor’s office, but what?

Does the city elect defective mayors? Is there something about the job that saps political strength, rendering mayors too weary and weak to take the good fight to the next level? Or could it be that Californians who live north of the Tehachapis still resent the water that flows down the state?

Now, before this goes any further, a couple of distinctions must be made. There are many Los Angeles-based politicians who have won statewide office--Gray Davis, to cite an obvious example. The discussion here is limited to mayors. It also should be noted that mayors from any California city, not just Los Angeles, seem to have trouble following the yellow brick road to Sacramento.

“Sunny Jim” Rolph, the researchers tell me, was the last San Francisco mayor to be elected governor, and that was in 1931.

More recently, Pete Wilson pulled it off, but only after he served first in the U.S. Senate. Besides, Wilson had been mayor of San Diego--something of an innocent bystander in California’s great north-south rivalry. This, I would submit, might be a clue.

The working premise here is that the political fortunes of L.A.’s mayors have been undercut by the way the rest of California tends to regard the city--which is to say, as something less than the urban ideal.

Before World War II, Los Angeles was dismissed by Northern Californian snobs as an overgrown cow town. With the postwar boom, Los Angeles gained power, prosperity and, more than anything, population, and yet it still was looked down upon by the rest of the state.

L.A. was--and arguably still is--seen beyond the basin as the demon city, a sprawling, besmogged lesson in the many ways a metropolis can stumble. Drop in on City Council meetings in any California town or burg. Eureka, Turlock, El Cajon--it doesn’t matter. Almost without fail, sooner or later, someone will rise up from the crowd to sound an alarm: Mark my words. If we approve this (housing tract/strip mall/freeway extension: pick one) we’re going to become ... “another L.A.!” At which point, everybody gasps.

Now I know, I know, this is patently unfair and often rooted in ignorance. L.A. bashers tend to be Californians who judge the city based solely on what they see from car windows while blowing down the Golden State Freeway en route to Disneyland. Forget about a Getty; many of them would be happy if their hometown could attract just one lousy Krispy Kreme franchise.

Nonetheless, this is what Riordan faces in his effort to knock William Stephens from the record books. Before he can win a shot at turning around California, Riordan must first turn around Californians’ perceptions about Los Angeles.

His candidacy is built on the presumption Californians believe--or at least can be persuaded--that L.A. “turned around” in his time as mayor. It further assumes that they will see in his Los Angeles experience solutions for all of California. A tough sell.