Beyond the Valley Girl

Why Sandra Bernhard loves suburbia

I could kill Moon Zappa for misrepresenting us out here. It's really nothing like that.

It's a quick hop over three different canyons, Laurel, Coldwater, and Beverly Glen, a fast escape from the ugliness of West Hollywood and the dangers of Beverly Hills. The San Fernando Valley is where you can formulate your own point of view, because it isn't demanding, or jam-packed with hustlers and actresses looking for sugar daddies.

When I tell people I live here, there's always a moment of stunned silence. There's a look of disdain: "But, Sandra, you're so cool, how could you possibly live in the Valley—it's so boring." I don't argue. They can't possibly know the hipness of Sunday brunch at Art's Deli, with portraits of chopped-liver sandwiches adorning the walls.

People here are just a little bit "geeky," but they mind their own business in great little Spanish houses off Moorpark. When I drive home through Studio City at night, I get old, familiar, safe feelings, and I pull into my garage without looking over my shoulder.

I watch from my bedroom window as cars and trucks with good values head west on the Ventura Freeway, crisscrossing the nighttime, spewing out their particular hopes and disappointments, practically on my doorstep, as they glide by. Even in my sleep I hear these insane conversations going on between drunk drivers and the highway patrol over loudspeakers: "Get off the freeway. Take the next off ramp. No, don't stop. Get off at Coldwater. Slow down. Get off now. Did you hear me? Now!" Sometimes I wake up crying, thinking I've done something really bad and I'm going to get arrested. I lie there too terrified to get up and go to the bathroom or get a drink of water.

Here in the Valley, in North Hollywood, I have uncomplicated feelings, and the farther north I drive the simpler they become. It's mile after mile of people who don't have a bone to pick, who aren't waiting to sell a script or star in a TV series. We live in buildings with names like the Presidential Terrace, with spacious living rooms and dishwashers. I know in my heart I must eventually head back over the hill, but I just can't seem to let go of the security and innocence.

With Gelson's glamorous grocery to the left and Mrs. Gooch's organic whole grains to the right, with the coolest surf gear at Val Surf, right around the corner on Whitsett, my needs are completely met—why would I want to venture away? Farther out on Victory, where it starts to get a little on the "white trash" side, I work out at the Holiday Spa, the one Cher advertises for in one of her big, scary hairdos.

Joan Jett is from the Valley. I think all of the Runaways, the forerunners of all the girl groups of the eighties, were. How could they not be? In shag haircuts, blue eye shadow, and platform tennis shoes, these girls tore up the Valley, really lived it their way, at underage clubs like the Sugar Shack when it was really cool to be "bisexual" and get nasty on Quaaludes.

The Valley is the most romantic part of L.A. Everyone looks like they're ready to fall in love—the surf boys with darling haircuts on skateboards, nonchalant, kicky girls in postMadonna outfits, some on Honda Elites, with hair that blows just the right direction, renting videos on "the Curve" and gossiping at Dupar's over a short stack of buttermilk pancakes and Diet Coke.

The Valley stretches on for a thousand miles in each direction. You can leave the country on Ventura Boulevard. I've driven for fourteen hours and never reached the end. Of course, all roads lead eventually to the beach, where even the most staunch Valley-ites end up every weekend. But you always know, even in June, when Santa Monica is socked in with fog, that the Valley will be sunny, and you wonder why you bothered to drive that far in the first place.

Just south of Ventura Boulevard, in the hills, you'll see the panorama that seduces me to stay. From the convenience of the Burbank Airport, as far as the eye can see, past Encino to the Fatburger near Tower Records, I gaze in awe, blurry-eyed, deeply committed and content.

Far away from midwestem morals and East Coast sophistication, without the guilt or remorse of old family money, I am one of the anonymous.

Sandra Bernhard