PETER BUFFA -- Comments and Curiosities

So how cool is this? You’re there, we’re here and it’s Sunday! Yes, it

is true. There is a seventh day. They called it “February 4th.” And it

was good.

From this day forward, the Daily Pilot is truly daily. Never again

need you endure that gnawing, uneasy feeling of something amiss on a

Sunday morning. This bright, shining, mid-winter’s day will be forever

etched in your mind. “Sunday” and “February 4th” -- very important.

Is this the only Feb. 4 of great social consequence? Of course not. It

might interest you to know that Charles Lindbergh, Byron Nelson, Rosa Lee

Parks, Ida Lupino, Betty Friedan, Dan Quayle and Alice Cooper were all

born on Feb. 4. Then again, it might not.

What about historical events? Well, my inquisitive friend, I’ll have

you know that in the towering library stacks of history, Feb. 4 is a

red-letter day. Do you know where the term “red-letter day” comes from?

Neither do I.

Be that as it may, on Feb. 4, 1783, England said “Done, stop, no more

Revolutionary War. We’re history.”

On Feb. 4, 1789, the very first electoral college chose the very first

U.S. president, who also was named “George W.”

On Feb. 4, 1861, the arrest of the Apache chief Cochise triggered the

25-year Apache Wars. The arrest was thrown out in court, however, because

they didn’t read Cochise his rights. (Not really. I made that up.)

On Feb. 4, 1926, John Giola of New York City became the national

“Charleston Marathon” champion by dancing the Charleston for 22 hours and

30 minutes nonstop. When they handed him the trophy, he said, “Where’s

the men’s room?” (I made that up too.)

On Feb. 4, 1939, Kansas track star and world-record miler Glenn

Cunningham predicted his 4:01:66 record time would last forever and that

“running a four-minute mile is beyond human effort.” Years later,

Cunningham also claimed there would never be an airport at El Toro.

On Feb. 4, 1962, the Soviet newspaper Izvestia claimed “baseball is an

old Russian game.” Oh sure, now I remember -- Boris Ruth, 60 home runs,

the Odessa Yankees. No wonder their government collapsed.

On Feb. 4, 1957, Smith-Corona introduced the first “portable”

typewriter, which weighed a mere 19 pounds. Isn’t this exciting? I knew

you’d be thrilled.

On Feb. 4, 1964, Newsweek published the first cover story in the

United States about a rock group called the Beatles.

On Feb. 4, 1974, Patricia Hearst was kidnapped by the Symbionese

Liberation Army.

Wait, here’s one that really is important: On Feb. 4, 1996, Rob

Pilatus of the mercifully defunct Milli Vanilli was arrested in Los

Angeles for trying to break into a car and force his way into a house.

Don’t ask.

OK, so maybe Feb. 4 isn’t the most important date in history. But

Sunday is a very important day. It is a day of worship, of course. But

it’s also a day of hope.

When it comes to Sunday, I always have great plans and eternal hope. I

am a true believer in the words of American architect Daniel Burnham:

“Make no little plans. They have no magic to stir men’s blood.”

By Friday evening, my Sunday plans are complete. And they are not

little. We’re not talking about wimpy, girlie plans like “plant impatiens

and go to store.” We’re talking about big, manly plans like “move 30-foot

ficus to other side of yard, resurface driveway and paint upstairs

bedrooms.” That’s the morning. In the afternoon: Play nine holes. Visit

friends in La Jolla. Go to movie at Big Newport.

I remain hopeful well into the morning. By 9:30 a.m., about the time I

finish reading the Sunday papers, my plans begin to evolve. I should get

started on the ficus, but the remote control whispers to me from across

the room: “A couple of minutes. It’s Sunday. No one will know.”

After a few laps around the channels, I settle on HBO 3 and the last

45 minutes of a 1965 comedy with Sandra Dee and Fabian. I doze off for a

moment, then try to act awake when my wife walks in the room.

“You were sleeping,” she says.

“No, I wasn’t,” I say.

“Yes you were,” she says. “What are you watching?”

Trapped, like a rat, yet again.

“I don’t know,” I say, quietly.

She leaves. I doze off.

Some time later -- I’m not sure how long -- the phone rings, jolting

me upright like a cattle prod. I answer, trying to act awake. I hang up,

then gasp when I see the time: 12:15.

My plans evolve further. My wife calls out from the door, “Be back in

a little bit. The light in the upstairs hall just burned out. Can you

take care of that, at least?”

“Of course,” I say with great indignation. As she drives off, I

stumble across an interesting show on the Discovery Channel about ancient

fertility rites in the New Hebrides. I doze off.

Some time later -- I’m not sure how long -- I’m jolted awake by a

noise more frightening than the telephone: the garage door opening. I

jump up and run around the room in small circles, desperately trying to

remember where the light bulbs are.

And so it goes. Another Sunday fades into dusk. The ficus is safe, La

Jolla is forgotten and, pathetically, the light in the upstairs hall is

dead and cold. But I have learned my lesson.

Next Sunday, I will be better planned . . . and more hopeful. So there

you have it.

“Sunday, Sunday. Can’t trust that day.” -- The Mamas & The Papas,

1965.

Wait a minute. Maybe it was “Monday, Monday.” Whatever. The important

thing is now we get to spend them together. This is exciting.

I gotta go.

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

Sundays. He may be reached by e-mail at o7 [email protected].

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