STEVE MARBLE -- Notebook

Long before the freeway came, long before the abrupt architecture of

Niketown took root, and long before the gentle hiss of fountains mingled

with the sounds of traffic in downtown Costa Mesa, there was the parade.

It came clomping down Harbor Boulevard on a Saturday morning, marching

bands and floats and neighborhood kids dressed up in their Boy Scout

uniforms.

It made a right turn at 19th Street and then a quick left at Park Avenue,

ending in the shade and emerald green of Lions Park.

As parades go, it was a small-town affair. Fathers who had marched in the

parade smiled with pride when their kids did the same. Local merchants

purred down the street in cars borrowed from area auto dealers, smiling

and waving.

Bringing up the rear -- after the cops on their motorcycles had gone by

and the last clown had padded into the distance -- was the street

sweeper. It was a crowd favorite and kids vied for the distinction of

riding on it.

“I have kids that have already grown up who have swept and I’ll probably

take their kids,” the owner of the street sweeper proclaimed -- with a

brimming sense of pride -- in a 1991 newspaper article.

But the parade doesn’t come this way anymore.

It simply ran out of steam. Attendance dwindled, interest waned and that

one Saturday morning that had been reserved for an annual dose of

Americana -- out of date and out of time though it might have been -- was

retired without fanfare or even many tears.

***

It’s called the Fish Fry, though nobody seems quite certain why a

landlocked city like Costa Mesa would stake its reputation on a slab of

Icelandic Cod dipped in thick, gooey batter.

The yearly carnival at Lions Park was a piece of the past. There was the

beauty pageant -- once known as Miss Mermaid, but now simply making do as

Miss Costa Mesa. There was a freckle contest. There was a contest for

identical twins. Little children danced on a sound stage. And in the

background, deep in the curling and greasy smoke, the cod sizzled on the

grills.

When the sun went down and the long shadows from the trees swallowed up

the park, the carnival rides ruled the night. There was the Zipper. There

was the Tilt-a-Whirl. Clattering and jarring and appealing in a menacing

way, kids waited in line for each and every ride.

But one day, the carnival -- huge grills and all -- packed up and moved

away from the tired-out downtown park. The Fish Fry now does business on

the other side of town.

***

The old Pacific Federal Plaza, its fountains now dry and its parking lots

chained off, is still graceful. Lonely and empty, but still graceful.

It’s been eight years and then some since the building was vacated, first

by the savings and loan that built the sprawling structure and then later

by the National Resolution Trust Corp. that moved in to help sort out the

failed S&L;’s affairs.

Though touched by the years, the building is still arresting with its

terra cotta tiling, its Spanish mission architecture and its wood and

marble interior. There is a grove of palms -- nearly 100 in all -- that

surround the structure.

And it stays the same. Empty.

There was a rumor that Whittier Law School might move in. But it located

on the other end of town, up by the freeway. There were plans for a

hotel, but they fizzled. A Newport Beach life insurance firm eyed the

land, but ended up agreeing to move its overflowing staff down to a

start-up town in South County.

And now the city itself is thinking about moving in, though the momentum

to pack up City Hall and bring it downtown has picked up precious little

steam.

Once hailed as the “cornerstone” of Costa Mesa’s revitalization effort,

the plaza now stands wanting, waiting for someone to come downtown.

* STEVE MARBLE is the managing editor of Times Community News. He can be

reached at o7 steve.marble@latimes.comf7 .