Carnett: Mesa deserves more than sidekick status
I am, (ahem!), prepared to own up to it. Finally.
But I warn you. This will be a one and done. No drawn out mea culpas. Should there be further inquiries, I’ll clam up.
As I’ve noted over the years in this column, I’m the son of blustery Santa Anas and tumblin’ tumbleweeds. I’m a Newport-Mesa guy all the way, from the top of my comb-over to the soles of my sandals.
I have it on good authority that my conception took place in Newport Beach. I was born at St. Joseph Hospital in Orange in 1945, and lived the first seven years of my life on Balboa Island.
I’ve subsequently resided for 63 years — excluding three in the U.S. Army — in Costa Mesa.
In displaying my rather impressive Newport-Mesa credentials, I find I must emphasize the following: I’m a graduate of the Newport-Mesa Unified School District; I attended Newport-Mesa Christian Center for 17 years; I’ve worked out at the Newport-Mesa YMCA; and I’ve taken my dog a time or two to the Newport-Mesa Animal Hospital.
Can you get more Newport-Mesa than that?
Because of my long association with the Bluff above the Bay, I’m obviously more “Mesa” than “Newport.” For me, that windy plateau is existential. But, like my two grandmothers, I love both cities and consider myself a product of both.
By the way, I think I could just as easily put my foot in the Mesa-Newport camp, but I don’t believe such a camp exists. We Mesans are used to second billing.
When my wife, Hedy, and I hit the road for an extended trip, however, a strange behavior overtakes us. We seem conveniently to forget our home address.
While spending time with our daughter, son-in-law and four grandchildren in North Carolina, we meet lots of people at ball games, recitals and church. The conversation usually goes like this:
“Oh, y’all are the grandparents?” They deduce this when introduced to us by our daughter.
“Yes, we are,” we reply.
“We just love yer yungens. Thank you for sharing them with us.”
“Why (awkward pause), of course.”
“Where y’all from?”
“California.”
“Oh, we’ve been there! What part of California?”
“Costa … um, Newport Beach near Disneyland.”
“Oh, that’s lovely. We’ve been there. We’ve shopped at that big South Coast mall in Newport and that Rectangle/Triangle place, and we watched an opera in the music center. It’s all so beautiful!”
Yes it is. And it’s also … Costa Mesa! Newport gets credit for everything. As if it needs it. Poor, forgotten Costa Mesa. At least grant us the Balboa Pavilion and a future draft choice.
CM is ever Robin, never Batman.
Let’s be honest. Hedy and I are probably not the only Costa Mesans who fudge facts when telling strangers where we’re from. We’re not denying Costa Mesa. It’s just … easier.
Almost no one beyond a 20-mile radius of the OC Fair Pig Cam can tell you anything about Costa Mesa. This despite innumerable marketing campaigns carried out by our lovely city since its incorporation in 1953. Like Rodney Dangerfield, we “don’t get no respect.” Not many east of the Zzyxx off ramp on Interstate 15 can distinguish Costa Mesa from Bob Costas.
To my mind, Newport Beach and Costa Mesa reflect a rivalry much like that of a fair young sister (Mesa) living in the shadow of her glamorous big sis (Newport). Remember Joan Fontaine versus Olivia de Havilland. Now that was messy.
So taking into consideration this nation’s apparent disinterest in our beloved City of the Arts, Hedy and I have concocted a fib. We’re not proud of it. It just forestalls awkward situations.
Everyone has heard of Newport Beach: luxury shopping, the beach, sunshine, seaside cliffs, John Wayne, stand-up paddleboarding, the Newport Beach Film Festival, the Christmas Boat Parade, the Newport Pier and restaurants galore.
Costa Mesa? (Cue the crickets.)
To strangers on the road, Hedy and I live in Newport.
But to all-y’all (and you know who you are), we’re still the Carnetts from Costa Mesa.
JIM CARNETT, who lives in Costa Mesa, worked for Orange Coast College for 37 years.