Who could walk the Walk?

I can’t tell you what size shoe Johnny Grant wore. If it really matters, go find the concrete impression of them at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre and measure them against your own, the way the tourists do.

Whatever their size, those are symbolically large shoes that need filling, the ones Grant left when he died in January. How do you write a help-wanted ad for the job of emcee on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, the head cheerleader for the city’s top tourist ZIP Code?

HONORARY MAYOR. Personable, gift of gab, unflappable. Must have Google-like recall of faces and names, and strong knees for sidewalk star unveiling. Hollywood’s face to the world.

Grant’s memorial service at the Pantages is only two weeks past. The Hollywood Chamber of Commerce is in no monster rush to replace him. It recognizes the complexity of its task, says it has no set schedule and will let us know when it does.

Already someone’s lobbying for the job. The self-promoting Angelyne, “famous for nothing,” as she told The Times herself, is trolling for “votes” on her MySpace page, where she also says she is 28 years old, the same age she gave The Times in 1987. Those 2,536 votes she got in the gubernatorial recall must have gone to her blondined head.

My colleague Bob Pool, who wrote about the renegade Grant-replacement stakes, heard from Marc, who thinks Grant’s successor should be chosen “in the true Hollywood way: A reality series! ‘Who Wants to Be the Next Mayor of Hollywood?’ Definitely a laugh riot!”

Definitely, Marc. But it’s no laughing matter.

Grant held his job for 28 years. He made it the public position it is. It grew around his personality and style. Now, like the Hollywood he had a hand in restoring, the job too needs to be rebuilt -- this time, around a retooled job and job description.

Whatever the tourists think, Hollywood hasn’t been its own city since 1910, when the locals voted 409 to 18 to become part of Los Angeles. L.A. owns the Hollywood sign. It owns the Walk of Fame. And the Hollywood chamber holds the licensing rights and trademarks to both attractions. The money they make is for the upkeep of what is, after all, city property. In the early 1990s, the chamber settled a state investigation into its finances, and it managed to hang on to control of the two landmarks and their trademarks, over L.A.’s initial objections.

It’s a murky, messy custody divvy that makes the Balkans look orderly as a pie chart, and now it needs to be tidied up.

Chip Jacobs is a writer and a former news producer who worked on an expose about the Walk for CNN about 10 years ago. He agrees that this is the perfect moment for Hollywood to get right with the city, and vice versa.

The Walk seems like “an undervalued and over-commercialized attraction that turned into a pay-for-tribute laughingstock,” he says. “It needs somebody with hard-core financial sense who knows how to bring in money and get attention from City Hall.... Johnny should get his due, but we’re in a different age.”

The star nomination and selection process -- until 1999 as secretive as the College of Cardinals -- needs big, well-regarded Hollywood names and its own permanent money trust kick-started with fundraising, just like the Hollywood sign.

Now, about 20 Walk of Fame nominees are chosen each year, and the $25,000 fee required for star installation and maintenance gets paid by whoever sponsors the candidate, often a film studio. To Jacobs and a lot of other people, that looks like pay-to-play fame. With a permanent trust, no fee would be required, and the world would know that any honoree -- like TV wrestling promoter Vince McMahon, who got his star last week -- is recognized on artistic merit alone.

So, to rewrite that job description, the next Johnny Grant needs political chops, civic and fundraising know-how, along with Grant’s bonhomie and love of Hollywood and history.

I have just the man: City Councilman Tom LaBonge.

He was born in a hospital overlooking the Hollywood Freeway. He’s worked at City Hall since he was an apple-cheeked lad. He knows everyone, and no one is off his radar, waiters or CEOs. He happens onto wandering visitors and gives them whirlwind tours. In January, as a bunch of journalists dined at Musso’s after the Democratic presidential debate, LaBonge pulled on a waiter’s red jacket and ceremonially served us a plate of bread. He’s not the council’s policy brain -- “I’m not a statesman, I’m a councilman,” he’ll say, but he believes that L.A., not Disneyland, should be the happiest place on Earth.

He’s termed out in 2011, but maybe he could be tempted from his dream job to this even dreamier one.

One question, councilman -- have you got the knees for it?