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After reading last week’s column on the 50th anniversary of my election as mayor of Fort Lee, New Jersey, an old friend of mine suggested that I run for mayor in Malibu. (I understand you are running for the council and not for the mayor of Malibu, but since this is a humorous column, for now, let’s go with the premise.) I say “old friend” because I can’t begin to understand why a true friend of mine would want to expose me to the slings and arrows of public life again.

Even though it was fifty years ago, I remember my inauguration. My brother Phil, also my consiglieri, campaign manager and biographer, made me realize that my investiture was not a coronation, and put a wet blanket over my desire to enter the hall with the king’s entrance of Aida yelling into the speaker. Even then, my unhealthy humor tried to interfere with the solemnity of the work.

I suggested in my speech that my goal was to run every four years for mayor of any town immediately west of Fort Lee. I did some math and concluded that by 2020 I would be the mayor of Rockford, Illinois.

By this logic, I’m clearly not mature enough to be mayor of Malibu, but with some seasoning, I’ll be ready to toss my hat in the ring next century assuming I still have the strength to toss a hat.

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