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TIME: Almanac 1993
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TIME Almanac 1993.iso
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1992-08-28
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FEUDS, Page 80CALIFORNIAThe War Between The StateNorth to South: "Oh, stop whining!"
BY PAUL A. WITTEMAN/SAN FRANCISCO
Whew. Those of you who have read the splenetic outburst
about San Francisco on a previous page should understand one
thing: my colleague is a native Southern Californian. The few
people who can claim that dubious honor are drilled from
childhood to think of my part of the state as the evil empire.
Come to think of it, a former Governor once believed Northern
California was a far more dangerous place than that den of evil,
Grenada. Since most of the water coming out of the lawn
sprinklers in Bel Air and since all the ice cubes solidifying
themselves at this very moment in Beverly Hills' kitchens
originate in the north, Mr. Reagan, that quintessential Southern
Californian (nonnative variety), may yet be proved right.
Especially if the north ever loses patience and turns off the
spigot.
Not that we would. If one thing characterizes Northern
California and the city in which I live, it is tolerance for all
manner of human behavior that confounds and enrages folks in
other parts of the country. For example, I live next door to a
gay synagogue. During the gulf war, demonstrators against U.S.
involvement gathered at the synagogue before going off to
protest. Two women carried a sign saying LESBIAN ZIONISTS FOR
PEACE. Not my point of view, actually, but they're certainly
entitled.
Since I have some unorthodox ideas of my own (the
Cleveland Indians will rise again, to name one), it is
comforting to know that in San Francisco people feel
unintimidated about expressing such beliefs publicly. This
live-and-let-live attitude has frayed in recent years as gays
have flexed their new political muscle, often angrily, but
general tolerance is still intact.
As every tourist knows, this place is very easy on the
eyes. It's not just the little cable cars ever climbing and
clanging; it's not just the Golden Gate Bridge, the bay and
Alcatraz. The walk down the Vulcan Stairway and the view of
downtown from the corner of 20th and Connecticut are only two
of the thousands of arresting sights beckoning every single day
-- when the fog isn't in, that is. I happen to like cool, breezy
weather, especially in summer, so the fog and I have become good
friends. I will admit that it is an acquired taste.
Then there is the wine. Someone who was bred in New Jersey
doesn't naturally develop an affinity for the grape. But even
a brief residence in Northern California transforms the newcomer
into a wine aficionado. Now I can't get enough of those
Zinfandels, Syrahs and Pinots. Salut, Napa and Sonoma!
Frivolous, you say; self-indulgent too. Never mind, say I.
People who sneer thus are merely afflicted with geography envy;
they are wedded to the misconception that a glorious autumn
must be followed by a dark and dreary winter. There are those,
nurtured on another coast, who believe nothing great can be
accomplished where palm trees grow outdoors. The technical
innovations in electronics and biotechnology begotten by labs
at Stanford and Berkeley, not to mention the invention of the
Jefferson Airplane, put the lie to such wrongheaded thinking.
Important things do happen here.
Nothing important, however, happens in Southern
California. How seriously can you take a place where the leading
industry calls its place of work a "studio"? I went to a studio
last year where a bunch of grown men stood around for hours
watching another grown man repeatedly pout and grimace for the
camera, all the while straddling the back of a make-believe
monster. At length, a supervisor ordered an underling to fetch
a prop. The minion did not dash off to get it. Instead he turned
to the boss and said, archly, "Thank you for sharing that
thought with me." If this is productivity, be thankful the
studios are not in charge of taking in the crops.
Southern Californians are whiners. They whine about the
Rams. They whine about the Dodgers, who should never have left
Brooklyn anyway. Mostly they whine about the traffic and how
they can't get anywhere in their car. My advice to them: Stop
driving. That will give OPEC something to think about, save you
money and clean up the filthy air you breathe.
This does not mean that Southern California lacks
redeeming qualities and attractions. The beaches from Malibu
down to Mission Bay are peachy. There are even serious people
of substance who have their own reasons for living there. (John
Wooden, the greatest basketball coach in history, comes
immediately to mind.) My favorite place, however, after the San
Diego Zoo, is the airport everyone calls LAX. The attraction
isn't physical. It's just that when the cab drops me off there,
my spirits rise. I know that within an hour or so, I'll be back
where I belong.