The War Between the State

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.