Borderline famous

HALLS OF FAME can be divided into three basic categories. There are those for interest groups so small that they amount to subcultures, and they establish halls to cement their internal bonds and to ensure their survival in a hostile world. (The International Cleveland-Style Polka Hall of Fame falls into this category.)

There are those for entities, industries or phenomena well past their prime, clutching tightly to their storied pasts to squeeze them for meaning, purpose and a few bucks. (The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum comes to mind.) And there are sports halls of fame that have become quasi-religious shrines for fans of baseball, football, basketball and a host of lesser athletic endeavors, such as snowmobiling.

California is neither a sport nor a tiny interest group. So what does it mean when a hall of fame is established in its name, as has been done by First Lady Maria Shriver and the California Museum for History, Women and the Arts? Is California in decline? Are we basking too much in past glories? Has the state jumped the shark? No, no and no. But for a state that is a byword for creativity and change, and one whose influence is so pervasive that it’s nearly impossible to describe just who is or is not a Californian, a hall of fame seems, well, out of place.

Take, for example, the inaugural inductees, a set of 13 individuals and families. It turns out Amelia Earhart of Chicago, Boston and Canada is considered by the hall a Californian, and why not? She took her first flight near Long Beach, and often returned to the state for business. But if the Kansas-born flier belongs in the hall, then so does Charles Lindbergh, whose famous transatlantic flight actually began in San Diego, where his plane was built. And if we can claim Walt Disney -- and we can -- then we should also claim Charlie Chaplin, whether the British agree to give him up or not. Same for Stan Laurel.

There’s nothing wrong with celebrating the contributions of great Californians. But everyone’s a Californian. If you want to be elected president or become a rock star, plan a revolution or make a mint, you’re going to have to come here eventually.

Deciding who does and who doesn’t belong in a hall of fame is the sort of categorizing, line-drawing, criteria-listing exercise we’d expect from a state with an insecurity complex, such as Texas or New York. In California, anything goes, or should. If you want to be famous, this is the place. Your ticket to induction is talent, whim, energy, genius or crazy luck. It’s not a well-intentioned board of experts in Sacramento.