1:44 a.m. The topic this month: What are you disappointed about in your community? Loosely worded, of course. Loose enough for some wiggle room.

Those members of On Display who are of a political bent have been having a good old time with this topic; other members, myself included, are wiggling a good deal. I try to never, ever get disappointed in something as large and as grand as "community" and for the most part, I'm pretty successful.

Common sense often prevails and people more sensitive than I am often complain if it doesn't. And since all things change all the time, I know it's only a matter of time before car alarms are outlawed, smoking goes out of style, and people start holding doors open for each other again. I see changes already.

But there is one tiny little thing about the community I live in.

Venice by the Sea. The Coney Island of the Pacific. Venice of America. Venice = canals. Gondolas, rowboats, ducks, white bridges.

And there are, indeed, a few canals in Venice. There are exactly four streets that have remained brimfull of water, sluicing out to the sea every month or so, musical with wildlife and the gentle slapping of the occasional oar. If you walk along the existing canals and you're very, very quiet, you can actually hear the property values going up.

But the street I live on looks like any other street in the country and that is just plain wrong. The street that fronts my house used to be called the Venus Canal. There was once a Grand Canal full of gondola traffic, and there used to be trolley cars, strange little electric trams, an airport, and a miniature railroad. All that is gone, now.

Common sense didn't prevail. Trolleys gave way to buses and to individual cars and the canals were filled in -- sort of. As far as I've been able to understand, the canals are actually still intact under the concrete and tar, and I often wonder whether they could be resurrected one day.

If I ruled the world, I would start the backhoes chomping. If I had any say in the matter, we'd be collecting stale bread to throw on the placid waters right now. I have no say and I have no power, of course. I'm only one person with a romantic view of a little city. It makes no sense, I guess.

But it's ironic in the extreme because this particular little city is no stranger to dreams. Although they carted nearly 90,000 cubic yards of dirt into the canals in 1929. they never really managed to completely bury the dream. On top of the dirt, according to Jeffrey Stanton, author of the famous big picture book, Venice, California, there's only a 7-inch layer of "asphaltic concrete" between that rolled dirt and the vision of water flowing freely once again.

I say, let's secede and create a Free Venice and let's start digging. Then it's only a matter of time before the dreamy cacophonic quack of the ducks will replace the nightmarish wail of car sirens outside my front windows.

I could get through that measly little asphaltic crust in no time.