Mayoral race is all about relationships

L.A.’s next mayor has much to do -- besides eliminating traffic and rebuilding the Lakers. Note to James and Antonio: The real problem facing City Hall? No one here makes the effort to fall in love anymore. Nearly 4 million people in this town -- what are there, like, six decent relationships? Well, seven, if you include Angelina Jolie and me.

And who knows how long that will last?

Most L.A. couples I know don’t seem to stay together forever, the way they do in all those romantic movies. (Actually, they used to call them “romantic comedies” until Ben Affleck came along and removed the word “comedy.”)

A landslide victory just might await the first candidate to figure out why. Apparently, nothing about this city inspires healthy relationships. Don’t get me wrong. People can and do feel love in L.A. (Check out the Auto Show sometime.)

It’s just that L.A. love is not directed at other people. L.A. love generally involves selfish yearnings for things we won’t ever have. Sailboats. A house at the beach. Tons of voice-over work.

Look at us: A city of jaded, immature men and the frazzled, insecure women who attempt to love them (but generally run screaming).

Not even our enlightened therapists seem to make a difference. “Have you ever wondered,” they’ll ask one of these men, “ why you pursue unattainable women?”

“Ummm ... because I live in the most pretentious city on Earth, and I can’t even go to Albertson’s without bumping into models, and I feel oddly depressed if I’m not dating one?”

“I’m sorry. Our time’s up.”

“Hey, you’re pretty cute. What are you doing later?”

Los Angeles is so filled with ego, power, Zoloft, Botox, rejection and yellow-Porsche-driving Realtors that it’ll suck the life out of your romance by the end of your first date. You know -- the one where you make plans to have a second date, start a family and buy a house with a yard.

Ha! Good luck finding that house for under 600 large. And are you sure he wants kids? Will that leave him enough time to pursue his writing/acting/directing dream? And will you ever trust him enough not to hit on the model over in frozen foods?

Goodbye, cruel city.

Let’s all move to Kansas. (Apparently it’s one of those big rectangle states east of Hillhurst.) You can find big, cheap homes there. And nice, well-adjusted folks who haven’t written a single sitcom spec script. Don’t laugh. I once read some people in the Midwest can go months without taking a writing class.

Imagine not caring about the weekend box-office grosses. Or having no opinion as to who’s the cutest “Desperate Housewife,” even though any clear-thinking individual would have to agree that it’s Teri Hatcher.

So what’ll it be? Topeka? Wichita? If you’re a little reluctant about leaving the big city behind, there’s evidently a town in Kansas named Manhattan.

C’mon, who’s with me?

(Oh, on the off chance a well-connected TV producer reads this and develops a hip HBO comedy based on my life -- thereby enabling me to make good money and date significantly younger women -- I reserve the right to move back, live in Pacific Palisades and buy a new, fully loaded Range Rover. And what the heck -- make it yellow.)

Well, good luck to both men. I admire them greatly, but my vote Tuesday goes to a write-in candidate. The one L.A. resident who really knows a thing or two about men, women and love.

Can’t wait till Mayor Hefner’s election night party.

Howard Leff can be reached at weekend@latimes.com.