PETER BUFFA -- Comments & Curiosities

So how did it go? Did you celebrate, commemorate, participate? All of

the above? Doesn’t matter. That’s the nice thing about the Fourth. It’s a

free-form holiday.

Parades, fine. The beach, be my guest. Picnics, have at it. Lay there

all day like a three-toed sloth soaked in sunscreen, done. Why is it

always a “three-toed” sloth by the way? Are there sloths that have two

toes or four toes? I don’t get it.

Anyway, this business of a Wednesday holiday was interesting, no?

People just weren’t sure what to do with it. A Tuesday holiday or a

Thursday holiday, that we can understand. Add one Monday or Friday, toss

gently and voila -- four day weekend.

Nobody makes a big deal about it, everybody understands what’s going

on -- have fun, see you next week, blah, blah, blah. But a Wednesday

holiday? Hmm. It’s hard to shake that twinge of, well, guilt. It’s always

there, lurking quietly, whispering in your ear. “It’s Wednesday. You

shouldn’t be doing this. You’re a bad person.”

As for us, this year’s Happy Birthday America party was a Fourth of

July/pre-wedding party/harbor cruise (it’s complicated, OK?) for Cyndi

Richards and Alex Kuffel -- two absolutely wonderful young people who

tied the knot, did the deed, said those magic words, etc., this very

weekend.

Talk about a perfect evening on the water. Not one degree too hot or

cold, a light breeze, nothing but deep blue sky and puffy white clouds in

every direction.

OK, that’s not true. There was no sky if you looked down. Just water.

But the other directions, very blue. Just before the sun disappeared, the

fullest full moon you’ve ever seen slipped out from behind the towers at

Fashion Island. If you’ve seen “Moulin Rouge,” it was just as big and

golden as the cartoon moon that popped up over Paris night after night.

It was poised just over the harbor entrance directly ahead of us and

looked as if it were floating 20 feet above the water. Which reminds me,

do you know where “harvest moon” comes from? (You may as well say “yes,”

because you know I’m going to tell you anyway.) The moon is closest to

the earth in late September and early October. The full moon in that

cycle is so bright, farmers who were rushing to get their crops in could

work long into the night -- i.e., a harvest moon.

Get it? Crops -- harvest moon? It’s a farming thing. Can you find this

kind of information anywhere else? Nowhere I know of. What were we

talking about? Oh yeah, Fourth of July.

Then, when the clock struck nine (a euphemism, there was no actual

clock) it was the rocket’s red glare. Now, you can always see the ka-boom

boom at the Dunes from just about anywhere. I don’t know if it was me, or

the conditions or solar flares, but I thought you could see a lot more

fireworks this year than usual. There was some major ka-booming going on

in Irvine, and you could see the whole show, almost, in Huntington Beach.

There was a big, big show going on way down south somewhere. My best

guess was Dana Point, but that’s just a guess. At one point, a volley of

shells went up, exploded in a blinding flash and spelled out “No

Airport!” I’m lying. Actually, it said “Surrender Dorothy!” Still lying.

I also found out what happens to all the fireworks that folks in

Newport Beach buy in Costa Mesa (legal) then take home (not legal.)

Apparently, something weird happens to the city boundaries for 24 hours

on July 4th. There must be some subtle shift in the tectonic plates that

reverses itself by the morning of July 5th.

Holy moly. Every other deck and patio and boat slip was sparking and

snapping, twirling and smoking. Amazing. It wasstraight out of

“Apocalypse Now.” It was like being on Martin Sheen’s patrol boat as he

glided past Marlon Brando’s base camp. And God bless those Duffy’s. I

give the people in the Duffy’s the Spirit Award every time I’m out there.

They are laughing and scratching and waving and having a blast no

matter what. Parade of Lights, Fourth of July, Groundhog Day, William

Penn’s birthday, doesn’t matter. It’s just another party to them.

It’s easy to pick out the people who have been over-served, though, no

matter what they’re in. They’re always hoisting a drink and shouting

something really loud but totally unintelligible as they pass, like “Hey!

Youwannachavouladora?”

I always wave and smile or give them a thumbs-up to be polite. God

only knows what I’ve agreed to over the years. One sight was notable even

to me, a pathetically ignorant landlubber. Before dark, I noticed a young

guy, with his presumed girlfriend beside him, in a tiny sailboat about

half the size of my car. Apparently, he had come across some spoiled

beer, which was making him dart between the larger boats, which included

us.

The Catalina Flyer was about 100 yards behind us, gliding along like a

teal blue behemoth, and the micro-boat with Captain Inebrio at the helm

was heading straight for it. At that point, the spoiled beer must have

really kicked in, because it looked like he was actually considering

shooting the cavernous gap beneath the Flyer, until his girlfriend

grabbed his arm and almost pulled him overboard.

One can only imagine the stories the Harbor Patrol has to tell. Well,

OK then. Done with the Fourth. On to Labor Day. And no, no one knows what

it means, but at least it’s a Monday. That’ll do just fine. I gotta go.

* PETER BUFFA is a former Costa Mesa mayor. His column runs Sundays.

He may be reached via e-mail at PtrB4@aol.com.