I lived in California for 36 years, so you would think I'd know at least one person running for governor. One crummy person. But no. The governor's race out there resembles one of those horrible Hollywood parties where everyone has to be someone and people walk away when they find out your agent dropped you.

Sure, this is a deadly serious election (hitting the beleaguered state with an unbudgeted expense of $30 million to $67 million, according to The Associated Press) and many candidates are professional statesmen. But at least 18 of the 135 certified candidates are in some branch of the entertainment industry – musicians, actors, authors and, of course, one middleweight sumo wrestler. One of them also is rumored to be planning a TV or movie project about running for office.

The county that has contributed far and away more candidates than any other is Los Angeles, seat of the movie industry and of all those trying to be in it. In the pre-final list of candidates as it stood Monday night (when it still included some who wanted to run but whose petitions ultimately failed, thus more closely reflecting the kind of people who wanted in), 72 of 247 had registered for the race in L.A. County.

Sure, it is the most populated county, with about 9 million people, give or take a few hundred thousand who swear every day that they're sick of the phonies and they're really going to get out this time. But 72 is still more than the five next-most populated counties put together, and it doesn't even include Gary Coleman, who was registered in Alameda County.

It does, however, include Arnold Schwarzenegger as well as Angelyne, a woman famous mainly for renting billboards in Los Angeles and pasting up huge pictures of herself. You've got to be a player in this game, where the presumed front-runner in the race also happens to be the biggest movie star. The more securely entrenched my friends are in show business, the more exposure they've had to the gubernatorial candidates – and none of the non-show business friends I contacted have met any of the contenders.

“I've met both Gary Coleman and Arnold several times, but that's as far as it goes,” said Kevin Fortson, my best friend from junior high school. Kevin used to work for Geraldo Rivera and now turns up in the production credits of about half the new TV studio reality shows I see.

“I know Angelyne!” writes Kurt Weldon, a friend who writes and produces TV cartoon shows. But … it's a false alarm. “OK, I don't really know her. Years ago I worked with a guy who played bass in her band. I never met her, but he was pretty cool, as I recall. So I may vote for her based on that.”

Also, way back when Kurt worked at an ice cream parlor, he met Larry Flynt. “He ordered pistachio, except he pronounced it `pistachia.' ” So Kurt won't vote for him.

David Feldman, a friend who writes for comedian Bill Maher, announced his own gubernatorial platform on his Web page, but never actually put out a petition. It's just self-promotion – as if that makes him any different from Angelyne.

Another friend, comedian Will Durst, got the paperwork to join the race. But when it came time to spend $3,500 for the entry fee, he and his wife Debi decided to get the house painted instead. “Besides, way too many clowns in this circus,” he said. (As Kurt pointed out, Will’s choice in how he spent his money “showed exactly the sort of judgment we need in a governor.”)

One friend of Durst's, though, actually went through the entire process – Don Novello, aka Father Guido Sarducci from the original Saturday Night Live. He's my only bona-fide friend-of-a-friend who turned in his money and his petition – and he's been disqualified.

“I didn't get the required number of signatures,” he said. “I got 94. I only needed 65, but too many were invalid, they told me.”

Man. The governor's race is like a great big show business club, and, as usual, none of my friends are cool enough to get in.