HEAVEN HAS ANOTHER ANGEL- As my alter ego of Count Sauguslavsky, I have been fencing with Clyde Smyth for about 40 years. It certainly isn’t any “noble opponent” match. We were never opponents. Come to think of it, I don’t think we were ever on opposite sides. Clyde was this dear soul and we both were lucky to have the same fencing school. What a gem of a fellow. How lucky was this Santa Clarita to have him.

More than a little while ago, The Signal used to have a personality a little more rakish than its current braindead concrete bus bench advertisement. I remember getting the go-ahead from editor Ruth Newhall (back in 1975 I think it was) to go and throw a cream pie at Clyde. Not a real one. One of those little satirical pokes that former great, wonderful, madcap and kind newspaper used to toss at those they loved. (The ones they didn’t care for got mind-altering 8-layer cakes made of concrete and were heaved by a high-torque catapult.)

I wrote this spoof about how Clyde was actually Howard Hughes and that he had a billion dollars he might give to the Hart District and how the cash-strapped babysitting service might use it. Even threw in a doctored photo of the poor administrator made up to make him look like a wrinkled Howie.

Clyde, in his patented Call You Aside Dry Delivery, held me by the shoulders, shook and threatened me in great detail with violence seemingly below a high mucky-muck official. (And for those poor souls reading who are plagued this lifetime with being literal — Clyde was kidding.)

You can share a town with people, and, if you’re lucky, there will be those who — every darn time — bring a smile to your face when you see them. Clyde Smyth was one of those folk. I knew him as superintendent of the Hart District, as mayor, councilman and tribal elder. But what I just adored about the guy was that there was the calm radiance, this right mixture of wisdom, patience and monkey business that made him so divinely special. He had the nerve to poke me roughly in the sternum once to kiddingly complain about teasing him about some long-forgotten comedy about the school district. Text books too small. Text books too large. Who remembers. Who cares. But there was this wonderful twinkle in his eyes.

That is so very rare in politicians and leaders.

That genuine humility and mirth.

Most politicians are rarely in the moment, lost in the fog of their often perverse fantasies, contemplating the next step up the career ladder. Not Clyde Smyth. He was centered. A simple and noble quality.

Clyde Smyth did the absolute damn best, as he called it: “Guy At The American Legion Bar At 10 In The Morning” imitation. It was minimalist. It was priceless. He’d just sit down, sigh, finger an invisible whiskey tumbler and hold his head up with thumb and forefinger, then stare off into space.

For five minutes.

Cracked.

Me.

Up.

Forget all the nonsense of helping to create the City o’ SClarita. He made what could be indistinguishable yuppie concentration camps into a home. He was one of those community leaders who wasn’t a father figure. He was a father. Why? Because he was there. He suited up. He showed up. He acted with class. Reservation. Dignity. Light-heartedness. Courage. And, he acted with something so rare these days in our alleged leadership class: practicality. Clyde Smyth was a methodist. Small ‘m.’ His moral compass always pointed True North. Unless it involved a joke, there was no guile to this man. No calculations or searching for the political correct non-speak. He spoke his heart, but he did it with class and reservation.

If he said it, I trusted it to be gospel.

There are people we meet who rub off on us, who stay with us forever in a quiet, wonderful and foundational way. I’ve been more than lucky to know more than a few. Clyde certainly was one. What a darn peach of a guy. Imagine saying that about the superintendent of schools and the mayor. What a peach of a guy.

I thought about writing these thoughts out as an entire column.

But, no.

This is the proper venue, the gossip column, read by a half-dozen or so, a gossip column which Clyde pretended to hate being in. Another rumor peddler, one a smidge more lettered than I, used to kid Clyde long before I did. Old School royalty Ruth Newhall surely loved him. I remember laughing — never ever forgetting — what Clyde Smyth said once about the paper, back when it was what it was. I’m paraphrasing from memory, but what the heck. This is a gossip column. Clyde said:

“You used to rush out to the front porch first thing in the morning and quickly run through every page. If your name wasn’t in The Signal, then it was going to be a good day.”

What a delightful, razor sharp blade, this Clyde Smyth, this master fencer. I owe you much. It’s one of those debts you can never pay back. But, I have a daughter who is nine.

I shall pass on the lessons of character, good will and community responsibility to her, that you, by a lifetime of example, have taught me. Hopefully, she will pass along this growing chain of wisdom to others, perhaps her own children.

That’s how life works.

An obituary?

Hah.

Good adventures and fresh starts to you, dear friend.

THE CAT’S MEOW — We were most surprised that this one slipped past not only us, but The Time Ranger as well. All the way back in 2001, Kirsten Dunst starred in “The Cat’s Meow.” It’s a semi-fictional account of how silent film producer and director Tom Ince may have been accidentally murdered by William Randolph Hearst. Gossip goes that WRH suspected his squeeze, Marian Davies, of having an affair with Charlie Chaplin. When he tried to set up a trap on his boat off San Simeon, he accidentally shot Ince instead, then had it quickly hushed up. Local importance? Ince was William S. Hart’s close friend and the man who gave Two-Gun Bill his start in show biz… Anywho. Check it out. It’s on Netflix…

YOU HAVE TO WATCH THIS! — One of our spies, the fetching Desert Doll, sent us this YouTube link to Tim Hawkins, a conservative comedian. Tim wrote, sang and dance “The Government Can,” a hilarious take-off on the Sammy Davis Jr. song, “The Candy Man Can.” Click on this link and enjoy: http://youtu.be/5u03KAcEbEo. Brilliant and then some.

TALK ABOUT GETTING SOME SERIOUS MILEAGE ON A REAL ESTATE LISTING — Local hubba-hubba house selling fox Liliana West (that’s her above with her husband, Whatzizname… er — BILL )was watching the new Matt Damon movie, “We Bought A Zoo,” which was filmed up here in SClarita. She spotted a local house in the background with her Troop Real Estate for sale sign on the front lawn. Wonder if people were leaving the theater to call the number… Oh. Check out the flick: ‘We Bought A Zoo’ Trailer

WE’RE THINKING IT’S WORTH AT LEAST $15,000 — Someone called the Boys & Girls Club recently with a pretty fetching idea. The completely unique B&G Auction item would be to have the Canyon Theater Guild offer a table for two — ON STAGE — during one of their performances. We’re guessing it would be for something a little lighter than say, oh, “Schindler’s List” or “Glengarry Glen Ross.” The couple would be right on stage, off to the left or right, and get a rather unique view of live theater. Come on, guys. It would be fun!

WHAT ABOUT ‘SANTA CLARITA — TOTALLY TUBULAR’?  WAS THAT TAKEN BY COMPTON? — As if to rub our faces in it, the unasked-for nickname of Awesometown greets northbound travelers on Interstate 5, just before Calgrove. It’s in the form of a faux HOLLYWOOD sign, resting on a formerly pristine hill. Certainly one of the most annoying, mall rat, brain dead surfer lexicons in the English language is “awesome.” It is the early 21st century version of the 1960’s term: bitchin’. All that is missing is someone from City Hall uttering the word, followed by a Bill & Ted air guitar solo. “Awesome” recently made several lists of much-hated and overused words. (As of press time, we JUST noticed, the sign seems to be gone. Was it blown over by kindly wind gods? If so, THANK YOU! We shall set out some vestal virgins or fresh beefhearts by the side of Interstate 5 for you.)

IT COULD HAPPEN AT YOUR DOCTOR’S OFFICE — Seems Denise, the hubba-hubba nurse at The Doctor’s Office (24355 Lyons Ave., Newhall; 255-9355) burst in to see Dr. Greg Jenkins, who was already with a patient. “Doctor! Doctor!” said Denise, breathlessly. “There’s a midget in the waiting room who really needs to see you!” Without looking up, Dr. Jenkins replies: “Just tell him he’ll have to be a little patient.”

OK. WANT A SECOND ONE? — Next day, Denise runs in to see Dr. Jim Weagley. “Doctor! Doctor! You’ll never guess what! The Invisible Man is outside in the waiting room!” Dr. Weagley responds: “Tell him I can’t see him right now.”