It’s a free country, but please shut up

I am writing in my underwear today, the dark blue boxers that match my socks, and I am not listening to any background music as I compose this column in protest of the latest definition of who we are in L.A.

It came in the most recent evaluation of the journal that employs me from a man who presumes to know all about newspapers and all about the population in Southern California that reads this one.

His name is Charles K. Bobrinskoy and his primary interest is money, working as he does for a capital management company. His views were aired recently on the PBS series “Frontline,” in which, among other comments, he declared that pretty much all we care about in Los Angeles are style and entertainment.

Therefore, he went on to say, The Times should forget stuff happening in, oh, say, places like the Middle East and Washington, D.C., and concentrate on local occurrences, such as, I suppose, whether Britney Spears is still dancing without panties on and whether Lindsay Lohan is back in alcoholic rehab and, if so, for how long.

More advice on how to “save” The Times also came from one R.J. Smith in the authoritative Los Angeles magazine, whose main purpose until now has been to list the 10 best of everything in L.A.: the best lawyers, the best hot dogs, the best service station toilets, the best shoe stores, et cetera and ad infinitum.

Among Smith’s advice for us is to “find a bar,” pointing out that every “great paper has a great bar,” and the current reanimation of the Redwood, just a stagger away from The Times’ building, doesn’t fit in that category.

I don’t know how many newspaper bars Smith has visited, but the ones I have frequented, including the old Redwood, have hardly approached greatness. Their gourmet offerings rose mostly to the level of cheeseburgers, but that was OK because we didn’t go there for the haute cuisine.

My favorite newspaper bar was the Hollow Leg, just across the street from the Oakland Tribune, where Nels poured extra strong drinks for those he considered his friends and thus helped launch a generation of drunks, most of whom died in their 40s and 50s. A drinking companion speculated after Nels died that he was actually sent from hell on a mission to destroy the Tribune, drink by drink.

There was also Hanno’s, a dark and crowded place, for the guys at the San Francisco Chronicle and Jerry & Johnny’s for the Examiner staff, both of which I was pleased to frequent on occasion while socializing with friends who worked for those newspapers. Reporter Paul Avery, who is depicted in the movie “Zodiac,” was one of them. He survived into his 60s only because the high alcohol content in his blood preserved him the way formaldehyde preserves body parts in jars.

Back to Bobrinskoy. I take offense at his implication that we are obsessed with who’s wearing what, or who isn’t wearing what, not only in Hollywood but in the ‘burbs that comprise this sprawling megalopolis. Many subjects of vast importance occupy our minds in Greater L.A., such as, well, lunch. Only New York in the contiguous 48 states seems to care more about lunch than we do.

I’m not talking about power lunches between agents and studio heads or actors and their dealers, but just ordinary people who have saved their money to dine at places where the presentation of the food is more important than its taste. If their menu even included, for instance, a hamburger, it would be listed as viande de boucherie, served in miniature, offered with truffles and surrounded on a large plate by decorative lines of red stuff squeezed from tubes. And it would cost $75. At least.

I am especially upset at the notion that we care so much more about clothes than we do about world events. I suggest that Mr. Bobrinskoy journey down to one of our local beaches and listen to the surfer dudes, who wear nothing more enchanting than wet suits, discuss everything from the application of the Malthusian theory on immigration control to the impact of Paris Hilton on global warming. Sometimes their beach bunnies, who care less about what they wear than what they don’t wear, will spend entire afternoons arguing the virgin birth theory in relation to Anna Nicole Smith’s baby.

Although we certainly understand that there is a segment of our circulation area that lives and dies by Hollywood news, it is hardly a standard for producing a good newspaper, which we are and will continue to be as long as we ignore the advice from those ill equipped to offer it. I must add, however, that I am concerned about the quality of the new Redwood and whether it will eventually measure up to

being a great bar, thereby determining whether we will rise on the R.J. Smith Saloon Scale to that of being a great news-

paper.

I’ll leave it at that. But do me a favor: To show Bobrinskoy how little we care about clothes in relation to world events, join me in an Underwear Day in L.A. Flash your scanties to the world. Gucci shoes and Parisian hats are optional.

Al Martinez’s column appears Mondays and Fridays. He can be reached at al.martinez@latimes.com.