The California Diaries - Day 6: The Long And Winding Road

Dad added some brake fluid to the car this morning before we left Monterey. He figures all those hills and grades in Yosemite probably gave the brakes more of a workout than usual. The brake light was slow to go off, so we took precautions.

This is the second time I’ve cruised with my parents down the PCH (Pacific Coast Highway). You can see the ocean from dozens of vistas.




The wind is intense... and cold. In some spots I can barely stand up, much less hold the camera steady.



We try to do some store and gallery browsing in Carmel-By-The-Sea, but Dad couldn’t find a place to park. Worse, delivery trucks keep blocking the streets. If only Clint Eastwood, former mayor and former Dirty Harry were still running things here…



And tonight we’re back in Upland, after a long and slightly sunburned day on the road.

The California Diaries - Day 5: From The Lake To The Ocean

Emerald Bay is bringing back memories for my mother, of vacations long ago when she was a Lawson, not yet a Francis.



Up the road from the state park, a roadside motel triggers another flashback.

“There it is.”

Dad quickly pulls over. We take a couple of photos.



“We had a nice two-story room with a fireplace,” she says. My cousin kept trying to start a fire in the fireplace by wrapping logs with toilet paper.

“Did it work?” I ask.

“No, but we used all the toilet paper.”

Most of the day is spent on the road, on I-80 through Sacramento and then down through San Jose to Monterey. The pines and redwoods and mountains vanish from my car window, turning into a parade of highway exits.

This is yet another time I separate myself from the outside world with my iPod. Mom and Dad might have the cheesy AM standards station on in the front, but in the back I have at least six hours’ worth of classic rock, classic soul, movie scores, a couple of show tunes and oodles of Genesis tracks, pre and post Phil Collins.

With a lunch break in the middle, we roll into Monterrey around 4pm. Finding the motel becomes a problem. We make one turnoff, then another, but can’t find Fremont Street. Mom finally calls the motel and asks for directions.

“We’re a little lost,” she says.

It’s almost like saying you’re a little intoxicated.

We find the motel and then find our way to Cannery Row. It’s my first trip here, but it’s the second for Mom and Dad.



The water is too cool for me to want to dip into, but I have some moments to stand in the sand and meditate on the gulls and waves and sailboats in the distance.

We hit the shops. Dinner comes from an Italian place down the street from Bubba Gump’s.

Our server leads us out to a table overlooking Monterey Bay – a table for two.

“Oh, I didn’t know he was with you,” the perplexed staffer says, even though I was standing right by Mom and Dad.

Am I vanishing?

She scoots a couple of tables together and solves the problem.

Some more window shopping comes after the meal, poking around the unique establishments of Cannery Row. It’s getting cooler and Mom still can’t believe I’m not wearing a sweater.

“I have a thick skin,” I explain to her. Actually, it’s not as thick as it used to be, but that’s another blog post...

The California Diaries - Day 4: O Beautiful For Spacious Skies

O beautiful for spacious skies, for purple mountain majesty in the northeastern quadrant of Yosemite National Park.



O beautiful for waters clear, for tufts of snow in summer.



O beautiful for family dear.


O beautiful for roadside restaurants. The Mobil Restaurant overlooking Mono Lake must be northern California’s best kept secret. Yes, Mobil once had restaurants.

We dig into sandwiches from the Whoa Nellie Deli. Mom swears she’s had the best chicken sandwich ever. It’s all good. And while you dine in the lush green picnic area and watch the cooks grill just outside the kitchen door, you can feast your eyes on the lake and puzzle on why a trapeze set is next to the unleaded pumps.

The Mobil restaurant is indeed a dying piece of Americana, just like Stuckey’s, just like Nickerson Farms or Sambo’s or Howard Johnson’s.


I’m proudly wearing my tricorn hat this Independence Day, but a lot of people still don’t get the reference to American heritage.

“Arrrrrr,” says a gentleman wearing a pith helmet as I walk for the deli entrance.

I repeat the standard correction: “It’s not a pirate hat. It’s a patriot hat!”

This would be one of at least half a dozen corrections I would make throughout the day to people shouting “Where’s the booty?” and other piratical compliments. Only one woman -- one -- correctly surmised the colonial connection.

The road trip continues into the mountains of the Inyo National Forest.


We also pass through several small towns with cottage motels decorated in flags and red, white, and blue bunting. Crowds gather outside the town hall in Mono City. This is the America of Frank Capra, of George M. Cohen and Norman Rockwell. This is what we imagine it should be, and indeed, for just one day, it is.

The beach on the south end of Lake Tahoe is unsurprisingly packed. So are the casinos just up the way, across the state line in Nevada. I’m unable to win any decent money on slots or video poker. But when you play only pennies, you lose only pennies. Dad goes through $10 at the blackjack tables in a flash.

We all return to the sand and surf and scout out a location for the fireworks show. Every square inch of sand is occupied by blankets or people. An armada of boats fills the lake. As Captain Bartholomew Burgundy would say, “Lahst time ah soir that many boats, we was about to boye raided!” We wait until 9:45 for the big bangs.

The show, synchronized to music from a local radio station, includes several types of blasts I’ve never seen before, including smiley faces and sparklers that descend slowly on parachutes. It all lasts about fifteen minutes.

The walk back to the motel, the streets filling up with drunks. It may be a night punctuated by the screams of drunkenness and revelry. We can only hope we’re far from the madding crowd.

The California Diaries - Day 3: Take A Walk

Dusty morning light cuts through the Mariposa Grove trees as we start our second day at Yosemite. We aren’t a tenth of a mile into the trail when nature comes out to greet us.

Deer me! A mule deer and a doe cross in front of us, coming out for some breakfast.

“I think I would want to live in a National Park,” Mom says. “People take pictures of you instead of pot shots.”

But out of earshot, in the woods…

“Are those people gone yet, Jane?”

“Nope.”

“Crimony, can’t we go anywhere without being watched?”

“We’re on retainer here.”

“Yeah, but I would like to get a decent meal without looking over my tail and seeing yet another fat tourist with a Sony CyberShot.”

“Just do what I do, Sal, put your butt to the camera. They don’t take butt shots.”


The walk up the Mariposa Grove trails to the top measures at least five miles, with winding muddy paths. We make our way from tree to tree.



Our destination is the museum up the hill. It’s closed. But at least we find the restrooms and a drinking fountain. Mom, Dad, and I wait for a tram to take us back down. When it doesn’t come, we start the long walk back down.

The return trip is more treacherous: a steep grade, dropoffs, narrow shoulders on the trail and way too many muddy patches. A log bridges a hairpin turn, something out of a Roadrunner cartoon, where you can walk slowly on the path or try the log and risk plunging into the depths.

“Go out there and I’ll take your picture,” Mom eggs me on.

“If I slip, I’ll rack myself,” I point out.

“Well, Dad can go out there.”

“He’ll break the log.”

Mom and I successfully dodge mud patches using logs and branches somebody has laid over them. Balance is everything. Mom credits Girl Scouts. For me, it's the poise of a few 18th Century dance moves.

I can’t understand why, but Mom says I’m kicking up too much dust, more dust than Pig-Pen. My shoes don’t have much tread left on them. I figure they’ve gone at least 40,000 miles.

Dad is going to make his 10,000 step goal early. He hits it before we get back to the parking lot.

The wait for the shuttle bus after lunch takes 20 minutes.

Boarding time takes three minutes more, with sucking it in and moving to the back of this rolling sardine can on the day before Independence Day.

And not two minutes into the trip to our next destination – Curry Village – we have an unscheduled stop.

Our bus driver has just clipped the mirror on a car. You can’t blame her. People are parked sloppily in parallel all over the shoulders of this park, with the lots, like the campgrounds, full.

Another minute or two of waiting and the doors swing open again. We’re back on our feet, as is everybody else while traffic clogs up behind this bus. We’ll be lucky if we can catch another one anytime soon.

Five minutes later, we’re on another bus, still packed like fish. Mom and Dad are standing in the aisles. I’m crouched up on some sort of plastic riser over the wheel well. I don’t know what it’s for, but it’s sure not a seat. I pull my legs up so other people can get on and off, so I end up riding in something resembling a fetal position. Majestic sights do bring out your inner child.

We finally make it to Curry Village, where the game plan is to rent one of those rafts Mom talked about yesterday. We see them stacked up and waiting. And we see a line. It doesn’t take us long to find out that all the raft trips have been sold out for the day.

Now Dad’s frustrated. All that walking, all that messing around with the busses, all that waiting and all for nothing. And it’s only 3:30. I guess we get back to the sights on foot. Time to get back on the bus again.

We do some shopping at the Visitors’ Center, get some refreshments and decide to check out Bridalveil Fall from a closer perspective.


I can’t resist the mist.

Maybe we can’t float down the river, but this will work. No paddle needed. Just put your face into that spray and absorb the awesome power of nature and evaporative cooling.

And maybe we've relearned that lesson about visiting a popular tourist attraction on the day before the Fourth Of July. Don't. That was the message when we were jammed packed into Walt Disney World in July 1986. But we're optimists, aren't we?

The California Diaries - Day 2: Getting The Picture At Yosemite

I’m really not awake until I see the view of the Yosemite Valley. Now my eyes are open, marveling the trees and mountains that lead off into the hazy distance, as if the Promised Land lies beyond them. I could spend all day here wandering in the wilderness with my eyes and two cameras.



I would have plenty of company and plenty of lenses following me around. More cameras are at this particular pullout than at a presidential news conference as tourists take turns busting off shots and the obligatory group photos. Mom gets a request to shoot a couple of shots.

Down the road stands El Capitan, accompanied by the whisper of tumbling water from Bridalveil Fall.



“Why don’t you wear sunglasses?” Mom asks. “You’ll look all squinty-eyed.”

“Well, so does Clint Eastwood.”

People are pulling over again, whipping out cameras and camcorders. My Sony Digital8 and my Canon PowerShot A520, thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. But Dad’s heavy artillery, the Mamiya 645, won’t fire off. This time, it’s not the crank; it’s the battery.

Dad digs around in his camera bag -- no spare. He’s getting irritable. I’m getting irritable of his irritability. Let’s move on down the road.

We get our first glance of Yosemite Falls, more spectacular than what I just came from.

Dad switches to the Nikon 8008 35mm SLR, and while he fools with that, Mom and I are off to the foot bridge over the Merced River, walking down the bike path as waves of cyclists pass us by, forgetting they need to show a little speed restraint on a shared pathway.

The river flows briskly but not raging, enough to draw several rafts along without paddling. Mom is convinced she wants to rent one. I wonder about the three of us in lifejackets playing Row, Row, Row Your Boat while trout swim beneath us in the clear water.

Dad catches up with us. He’s doing better now that his Mamiya has come back to life following a battery jiggle. He’s enjoying the scenery so far but lodging one objection: “Too many people.”

“You guys are stopped on an active road! Please step aside!” yells some guy on a bike as we walk on the shared foot-bike path back to the car, obviously not a park ranger. He’s riding at the front with three people behind him, barreling through like he’s Homeland Security. How I would love to throw a tire iron into his front wheel right now and marvel at the resulting physics.

A stop at the Visitors’ Center is next, giving us some time to poke around in the Ansel Adams’ gallery, get cooled off a little and get some lunch.

Mom suggests renting a raft and Dad doesn’t seem enthusiastic, especially with him lugging around two different cameras and three different lenses and having to protect them from getting wet.

“What would be the point?” he asks.

“The fun of it,” Mom responds.

It’s time for a hike. The roar of Yosemite Falls lures us in, and it’s not more than half a mile before we stand on the creek bridge, in the wonderful wet mist alongside dozens of tourists. Just a slight change in the wind is enough to reward you with an extra helping of water vapor.


Mom and I climb up the rocks, slipping a little but getting an extra dose of the cool spray. Here’s another place I wouldn’t mind staying all day.

The walk to Mirror Lake is three miles. Dad’s doctor says he needs to get 10,000 steps a day. So we step to it, through the alternating dark and light of the woods, spotting a chipmunk or two and passing a few others. We find another stream, one with water clear enough to bottle and sell.

I keep wondering what the heck I’m going to do if we run into a bear, besides run. The more we walk, the deeper into the woods we get, and I’m thinking the lake has to be just up the way. Eventually I spot a glint of civilization and the silver shine of a row of parked cars. We’ve hiked all this way to get to a parking lot.

The crows are laughing above us.

To be sure, the lake is still up the trail. But this is where we get off. It’s after 4 in the afternoon, and it’s time to get rehydrated and back to the car.

Dad puts his gear in the back, only it’s taking a lot longer than it should. What should be a two-minute job blossoms into five minutes and then ten. Turns out he’s missing something.

“Two lens caps lost. I hate it when two caps get lost.”

He’s been poking all over the back of the car, looking for these two lens caps while we’re waiting to get on with it.

“Did you check your pockets?” Mom asks.

“Yes I did check my pockets,” Dad replies in that tone of annoyance he used to use with my brother and I when we were kids. “Give me credit for a little bit of intelligence. Not much, but a little.”

He keeps going through stuff in the back. Good grief, we’re never going to get out of this parking lot.

“You didn’t leave it at the creek up there?” I inquire.

Eventually he finds the caps… in his camera bag… just like he’d put them there.

“Note to self,” Mom says with amused exasperation. “Must kill your father.”

We drive up to Glacier Point, and it’s the big picture, the money shot. That Mamiya gets a roll-full.


While Dad collects images, Mom and I take in the scenery.

“9,000 steps,” announces Dad’s belt pedometer, the talking one from Brookstone. He’s getting there. The goal is in sight.

We spend about an hour wandering about the various views. I’ve ditched my cap back in the car, and my wild curly hair doesn’t want to behave for any pictures. Not that I care, anyway.

“Hey, it’s over 10,000!” I announce, pointing to Dad’s pedometer as we wrap things up.

The sun sets into the trees as we make our way back to the hotel for the night. Evening fades into a deep dark night as we roll back into Oakhurst. Again, the passing trees nearly lull me to sleep in the back of the car.

And Dad’s final step count: approximately 11,300, a new record for him.

The California Diaries - Day 1: Into The Woods

Let us cast aside the smog of southern California for the mountain majesty up north in the Sequoia National Forest.


Dip your toes into the Kaweah River and the water is perfect. I could still feel it rushing by my toes hours later.

And then you start seeing the enormous trees as you drive into the Giant Forest. They’ve been here ten times longer than you have. They will be here long after you’re gone. I marvel at the sheer size and height, the deep reds. Fire, insects, drought, broken branches don’t harm these beings. They keep growing, invincible to adversity, almost thriving on it.

We roll on to the path leading to the General Sherman tree. The air is cool and calm. A few steps down the newly renovated walkway, the pine scent hits me. I remember to look up this time, up at the crowns of the trees and the majesty of the forest, up at the blue skies.


The General Sherman tree stands before us huge, but we don’t realize how huge until we see it closer and from every angle. I’m shooting off digital pictures and video. Dad, the camera guy, is armed with his bulky box shooter and it won’t fire off. The battery-powered winder is dead and he’s forgotten the hand crank. So I’m implored to shoot more pictures while he stews over what he’s missing.

Ah, digital photography – just point it, shoot it, preview it, laugh at it, delete it if you must.

We do some more walking and admiring of this enchanted forest. It’s a holiday weekend and tourists are all over the place, mostly speaking Japanese. Mom and Dad are thinking about taking out a giant pine cone. We’re not sure if we can. She grabs a couple and a little up the way we run into a ranger.

“Can we take these?” Mom asks.

“Only if you can eat ‘em,” comes the reply. “And they’re really not good.”

Another ranger gives the same message to a kid up the way from us, albeit less whimsically.

Step away from the pine cone! I think.

We hike all the way back up to the car so Dad can get the camera crank and then drive down to the disabled entrance to the path, which is closer to the tree so Dad can get the money shot. Mom and I sit in the car and wait. Fortunately, everything worked.

All of us grab some lunch up the road and then venture on to the General Grant Tree, the national Christmas tree. But I’ll be darned if anybody’s going to try and decorate it. Why would you want to, anyway?


It’s late in the afternoon and the sun’s rays are dodging the branches, cutting through them, slicing through the forest. Shade is everywhere, making a hat happily unnecessary.

We stop at a couple of mountain overlooks. Snow actually dots a few mountain tops. Snow in July. I picture what all of this must look like in the wintertime. Atop a rock I can see it, the ground in the two feet of slow, white powder crowning every needle of every branch. I look into the mountains and see the forest in a portrait of white and green with grey skies above. It’s all in my head but it’s amazingly beautiful.


Whole families are getting out to take a look. This one group has at least six kids and four adults. How in the heck did they fit them into that mid-size SUV?

The trees passing by me in the car almost lull me to sleep. Everything’s so green...

The Lightning Round:Old Glory Be!

As we approach the Fourth Of July, your patriot producer wishes to declare independence from several disturbing and silly legislative actions surrounding our Grand Old Flag.

DOWN IN FLAMES. A constitutional amendment banning flag desecration -- burning it, stomping on it, and other ghastly acts we've heard about but won't mention -- failed in the Senate by one vote.

The proposed alteration: "The Congress shall have power to prohibit the physical desecration of the flag of the United States."

Letters to USA Today illustrate the problems with such a vaguely worded amendment. Who defines what desecration is, and how far do they go? Do we punish people for flags that get hung up on poles, torn up by the wind, or wet in the rain? If I wear a flag t-shirt and spill mustard on it, is that a crime now? Especially if it's French's?

Here's the worst part: if the amendment was ratified, the Supreme Court couldn't throw it out. You can't declare a constitutional amendment unconstitutional.

Add some irony: the U.S. flag code clearly states burning is considered an appropriate way to destroy a worn or soiled flag.

Stir in some teapot tempests: flag burning rarely happens in this country. The Citizens Flag Alliance points to only four known acts so far in 2006, and 12 in 2005. Compare that to the thousands of violent crimes in this country every year, and flag burning is less than a pockmark on society. Further, the people burning flags are not walking away unpunished when they're caught. They're being charged with arson, destruction of property, criminal mischief and vandalism, according to CFA's own web site. We already have laws to deal with the problem.

And still, some people think it's necessary to amend the Constitution -- and the First Amendment -- over this.

STARS AND STRIPES FOR EVERY ROOM. Here in Arizona, Governor Janet Napolitano just signed a bill requiring the flag be displayed -- along with the Constitution and Bill of Rights -- in all public classrooms. That includes charter schools and universities.

No money is provided for this mandate. KOLD News 13's J.D. Wallace quotes Arizona Representive Russell Pearce, the new law's sponsor, as saying private businesses will help pick up the cost. But curiously, no discretion is given to the use of each classroom, meaning a flag, Constitution, and Bill Of Rights might have to appear next to the Periodic Table Of The Elements in your child's science lab.

"Students, what did our framers say about splitting atoms?"

However, things should get interesting in Biology I, especially when talking about reproduction.

NATIONAL PRIDE. Both the Arizona and federal measures seem predicated on the notion we're not patriotic enough, which a new study proves is hogwash. The University of Chicago found Americans are the most patriotic of any nation on earth.

Venezuela was number two, although saying Marxist regimes are patriotic is like saying blood is red. Be proud or we'll shoot you.

FLUFFY STUFF. Apparently, marshmallow fluff is just as American as apple pie, especially in its birthplace of Massachusetts. So when a Massachusetts lawmaker proposed curtailing fluff from school lunches, he felt the fury of fluff loyalists.

And you thought your lawmakers wasted time on fluffy subjects... (rim shot).

IT AIN'T CHEATING WHEN YOU SIT AT THE BIG DESK. Teachers frown upon students who buy research papers over the Internet. But now we hear teachers are selling lectures, course outlines and study guides to each other on an eBay-like site.

We at The Lightning Round realize the difference between cheating -- an avoidance of learning -- and selling techniques for learning. We also realize how much educational toiling goes unappreciated and ridiculously undercompensated.

But I can still hear the complaints from students: "Miss Betty, did you copy this homework assignment from somebody else? I'm gonna tell Mom!"

LYING DOWN ON THE JOB. Motivational reading, massages and bed rest actually qualify as work under some states' welfare-to-work programs. But not for much longer as the Bush Administration tightens welfare rules.

What? No more paid nap times?

DRUNKEN DIALING. A new cell phone with a built-in breath analyzer hits shelves later this year. Not only will it tell you if you're too loaded to drive, it can prevent you from dialing certain numbers in the address book if you're legally skunk-drunk -- handy for preventing embarassing calls to your mom, boss, girlfriend, etc.

The Lightning Round is still waiting for the phone smart enough to keep you from dialing in restaurants.

The Pirates Of Prescott

Raising the Jolly Roger and getting “jiggy” with We Make History!

Log of the “Wayward Star”
Capt. Bartholomew Burgundy
June 24, 1699

Ah… such wonder rattles me brain. Never in this life of mine 'ave I witnessed such merriment 'an revelry! Word came to me via reliable courier that I was invited to a large get-together of seafaring folk.

Mind you, I had me suspicions. The location, for starters: not a navigable drop of water in sight, at least according to the charts of the Wayward Star. And what dangers might be lurking for me? Ye never know who's after you nowadays, with all sorts of scoundrels out to plunder ye best privateering efforts. Used to be th' business was honorable... well... honorable to the best degree possible in these things, but I digress.

So now I gotta think like a landlubber. I arranged suitable transport by carriage, which saved me the unpleasantries of confronting somebody at the point of me cutlass for a lift like yer common amateur highwayman.

The hall of this fair shindig quickly be fillin’ with a stew of pirates and their wee ones, and a few landlubber ladies and gentlemen are joinin’ in. I spot a few familiar mates. I think, is that Cap’n Hook over there? And over there be that pirate star Cap’n Jack Sparrow, always the life of the party!

“We declare a truce!” say Dread Cap’n Scott, our gracious host in the red coat, a big red rose decorating ‘is hat. He immediately pushes all rivalries aside. This is to be a night of song ‘n dance and no pullin’ knives out of ye pants. No swordplay, no lootin’. Good fer me, as I come unarmed anyhow.

I be goin’ in style, as they say. For many pieces of eight, I’m dressed to th’ nines. Although I do get to thinkin’ about me cocked hat. Tis’ hard finding what I consider a suitable cockade, so I decide to improvise with a lil’ something I found in me trunk. Blimey, that bow is as big as the bow of me ship, but ya gotta look good to charm th’ ladies.

It’s been a long time since we las’ did this, declares Cap’n Scott. Too long, almost. “Maybe some of you have been dancin’ a jig in the mirror!”

Well enough waitin’. Time to get down to th’ business of pleasure. The good cap’n suddenly asks me for a lil’ help.

“Give us a cheer!”

“HUZZAH!” shout I at the top of me lungs, me hand in the air as if I was about to storm a Spanish warship full o’ galleons.

Photo by Michael Cynecki

The fest begins wit’ a promenade, and here’s me problem. Not only do I be unarmed, I be unaccompanied. Never fear! I spot a young lady standin’ in the middle of the floor, flanked by two of her fine friends. I kinda get this feelin’ they be looking for a partner, but ‘tis hard for me to pick from one from three and disappoint the other two.

Fortunately fer me, that decision resolves itself quite swiftly when one of the ladies nudges her compatriot forward. She be volunteered!

I could sense she was a lil’ nervous as we paraded ‘round the hall, but I made sure she got me best words of encouragement: “Yer doin’ just fine!” say I with a smile, and she returns it. I must a’mit I still be a little rusty with showin’ a lady a good time, but I’m learnin’.

Me pirate papa once told me, “No matter what ye do, son, when ye go out into the world, always be a gentleman!”


As for the rest of the evenin’, it flies by faster than the swiftest current I ever seen! If time were the ocean, I could’ve sailed from the West Indies back to me home port in England in just one night!

We dance all manner of sets an’ circles like the landlubbers do, and granted not all of us know th’ steps called out by the gracious Bahama Becky with the Plankwalkers at her command. But we keep on dancin’, makin’ things simpler for ourselves if need be.

At one point, we get to jiggin’ out there on th’ floor with the ladies, cuttin’ in nice and polite like. I see an opportunity to cut in, an’ great gusts! Several of the fair ones take turns cuttin’ in to share a dance wit’ me. Nearly lost me hat as it flew off during a few steps. I wound up finishin’ the caper wit’ a young lass who had quite the fancy footwork.

Now I said some of th’ dancin’ was tricky like. So we do this one number that involves us mixin’ things up so we pass hand to hand through seven partners so tha’ we all end up with new ones, see? Only some of me mates I’m thinkin’ are countin’ off pieces of eight and when some of ye do the math like that, a fella’s gonna end up marooned. So pirates ‘is runnin’ trying to find new partners on the other side of the hall.

It happens to me, too. I get caught without me partner, and here I am, runnin’ into the middle of the ring like we’ve been told to do, wavin’ about like me ship is sinkin’ as I try to signal a lady in the same boat. It takes a bit longer than I bargain for, but I find me new partner, and by stroke of luck she be the same lass I originally asked to start the dance with!

Photo by Michael Cynecki

Our hearty host Cap’n Scott announces somethin’ to raise all our ears: booty! We’ve all agreed on a drawin’ to share the wealth, but the Dread Cap’n adds a twist: recite a historical fact relatin’ to the year number on ye ticket, or ye dancin’ the jig alone in front of ye mates if they gives the thumbs down!

Well, some hearties ‘ave boned up on their history between voyages. But a few hadn’t, and we take great delight in orderin’ them jig for ten ticks of th’ watch to the fiddle to earn their share. One mate in particular impresses us with his high jumps! Might he actually be one of those Cossacks I hear ‘bout?

All this dancin’ puts all our feet to quite th’ test, a perfect time to take a few breaks, raise a glass of tropical ale or two, enjoy th’ pleasantness of the evening and sing a few shanties, one praisin’ tha’ old sailor Noah. Gotta honor any captain who has t’ work with a crew of such animals.

Photo by Michael Cynecki

Many times these shindigs woul’ end with a final pirate waltz. But ‘tis not over yet, for after th’ last dance, a few scores of us set a course for the local alehouse. Feasting with friends provides a wonderful diversion from th’ usual seafaring fare.

I must say, we might not ‘ave looted an enemy ship this night, but all of us surely found treasure!

Arrr... Click ye here for more on the festivities!

A Meeting Of Chance?

Several hours before the ball, I’m walking the streets of Prescott, peering in the windows of the antique and western shops and enjoying the hint of rain to come from the bubbling grey skies above. Bluegrass music floats over from the square in front of the town’s historic courthouse, a beautiful stone building I regretfully can’t enter. Families dot the lush green grass, children dancing and chasing each other about. Heads nod to the rhythm of the banjo as the musical moments sink in with nary a distraction.

Everyone is hitting life’s pause button. They sit on benches for blocks, sipping on coffee or latte or just staring into the street or in the windows of some store, silent and almost contemplative, as if they were in church.

Butterflies fill my stomach this afternoon, and I have no idea why. I’m walking it off as best I can, occupying my mind and feet before the time comes to slide into my privateer persona. Maybe it’s the effect of the long journey from Tucson, the mileage catching up with me. I can’t allow it to happen, not now. Captain Bartholomew Burgundy is inside of me, with his cockney working-class British accent, waiting to come out.

I’m walking up Gurley Street near the old library when I exchange nods and smiles with a stranger. We pass each other. But then I meet up with him again a few moments later, and to my amazement… he knows me and he greets me.

Turns out he attended the 1861 Remembrance Ball two months ago, and somehow he’s recognized me without the CSA uniform, kepi, and that wide yellow sash. Many times I can't remember faces and names to save my life. Turns out he knows a lot of faces and smiles -- he’s a dentist.

He’s waiting for his Buccaneer Ball companion to arrive in town. She’s driving in from Salt Lake City, but she needs a little guidance to link up with him and he doesn’t have a cell phone on him.

Fortunately, I do. And what’s more, I don’t usually carry one on me when I’m strolling around. I offer it to him without hesitation.

“Do you have long distance?”

“Yeah. I’ve got plenty of free minutes. Don’t worry about anything.”

He makes the call and we stand around small talking until his companion rolls up.

“Gimme a hug,” he says in a most friendly manner, and we do so before parting.

We would meet again on the dance floor in full piratical attire, and then again at the feast afterwards up the street. He and his companion generously offer me a seat next to him.

Through salads and sandwiches, we pick up where we left off, talking about We Make History, our other lives and times and future balls and adventures in the past to come. The Highland Ball approaches. So does the American Heritage Festival, where I plan to march with the Continental Line, I explain. We talk about past balls. And then the conversation drifts back where I know it’s going to go… to my first ball. That wonderful first ball. The ball that changed my life for the better.

I’m trying to resist the inclination to wear my heart on my sleeve, but it’s impossible to talk about it without relating how much it uplifted me.

“I was awake for hours,” I said. “I was so happy.”

I have to state my conclusion. “In every life there’s a turning point, and this one was mine. I made the decision I wanted to be a different person.”

Inside, part of me groans. What am I saying? What am I doing? Why do I have this urgency to relate this? Here? Now?

“Thank you for sharing that,” my friend across the table says with a warm grin.

I chow down and finish up, sharing a few more conversations with a some new friendly faces before everything wraps for the night.

And in the darkness of the motel room, I find myself with another old friend: afterglow.

My mind keeps darting between the ball and that chance encounter on the street. Only it seems too good to be the work of chance. I’d call it Providence.

The Lightning Round:More Proof Real Minutemen Wear Tricorns

THE JOBS AMERICANS WON'T TAKE. The Minutemen Project is turning to an outside contractor to finish building a U.S.-Mexico border fence on private ranchland near Bisbee, Arizona. The Project cites two reasons for the outsourcing: 1) quality control 2) lack of volunteers to finish the fence.

From the Douglas, AZ Daily Dispatch:

Cecile Lumer of the local humanitarian aid group Citizens for Border Solutions said she had seen no more than four people working at the site during her trips to fill migrant water stations in the nearby desert. She thought the arrival of the contractor suggested that the group had bit off more than it could chew. "The Minutemen have always been good at promoting themselves to the media," she said. "And from the beginning the numbers they have projected have always fallen very short of the reality."

Mind you, this makeshift border fence project -- one comprised largely of wires and stakes -- was more about symbolism than security, a message to Washington that if you don't build it, we will. And if you build it, others can cut through it... and by golly, somebody did.

The contractor hired by the Project pledges only to hire legal help. But I'm sure one of the Minutemen will now be training their binoculars on the local Home Depot, just in case.

WE OWN YOU. AT&T is making it clear that if you sign up for any of their services -- long distance, Internet or otherwise -- they have the right to disclose your account information to the government if need be. It can also be disclosed to protect "legitimate business interests."

From AP:

AT&T said the account information, including the customer's name, address, phone number and e-mail address as well as information about the customer's services, is owned by AT&T. The company said account information doesn't include usage information, such as how a person uses the Web or what TV programs a person watches.

But wait, it might, according to Reuters:

In the policy update, which applied to AT&T’s more than 7 million Internet and video customers, the company said it could collect usage information from subscribers, including the Web pages they view, the programs they record, and the games they play.

Lenny Bruce once said, "Communism is like one big phone company." Now we can scratch out the word "like."

BLESSED BE THE QUEER. The Episcopal Church, trying to heal thyself, passed a resolution discouraging the consecration of more openly gay bishops. You'll recall the church -- the American arm of the Anglican church -- upset Anglican leaders when it consecrated the first openly gay bishop, V. Gene Robinson, in 2003.

From Reuters:

The non-binding resolution adopted at the convention calls on those in authority "to exercise restraint by not consenting to the consecration of any candidate (for bishop) whose manner of life presents a challenge to the wider church and will lead to further strains on communion."

By that wording, half the world would probably be disqualified.

More interesting, though, are the comments of the Reverend Cathy George, who said, in a paraphrased AP report:

The Reverend Cathy George believes homosexuality is a God-given trait that shouldn't prevent gays and lesbians from serving in every aspect of church life.

"God-given" -- we're not sure if we can translate that as a blessing, but you gotta admit, saying The Man Upstairs created gays does tend to short-circuit debate. It's sort of like claiming God created Evolution.

In a related matter, the Episcopals are also seeking to pass another resolution defining "gay" once again as "happy, lively and vivacious."

WE HAVE WAYS OF MAKING YOU TALK SENSE. A judge in Salt Lake City says accused Elizabeth Smart co-kidnapper Wanda Barzee can be forced to take antipsychotic medication against her will to make her competent for trial. KTVX-TV reports, "Doctors have diagnosed her with paranoid schizophrenia and a delusional disorder."

One of the drugs that might be forced into her is Zyprexia. According to the drug's official website, common side effects include drowsiness, increased appetite, and weight gain. The Lightning Round wonders if Barzee does stand trial, will she sleep through it or continuously beg the court for Lay's potato chips?

BLUE STATE BLUES. Doug Duncan, one of the candidates for governor of Maryland, says he's dropping out of the race after being diagnosed with depression.

From WRC-TV, Washington, D.C.:

"At first, I attributed this to the stress of the campaign," Duncan said. "But over the past couple months, it became clear to me; my wife, Barbara; our family; our closest supporters that this was more than the usual wear and tear of the campaign trail."

Not to mock those who suffer from depression, but consider this: he's a Democrat -- a member of the party which twice lost the White House to George W. Bush and actually believed Howard Dean was an electable candidate. Yeah, I'd be depressed too.

SADDAM'S STRIKE. Saddam Hussein is going on a hunger strike, along with his seven co-defendants. This comes after another of his thankless defense lawyers bought the bullet.

Sources tell us Saddam recently ranted in the courtroom, "American troops get Burger King! We want Burger King! I am Iraqi President! I want it my way!"

UPDATE: Turns out the hunger strike lasted only one meal. Wimp.

SO NICE, THEY NAMED IT TWICE. New York, New York is at the top of the Reader's Digest list for most polite people in the world. The magazine went undercover to 36 cities around the world looking for courtesy.

From Reuters:

Reporters for the magazine conducted a "door test," to see who would hold open a door, a "document drop" to see who would help pick up dropped papers and a "service test" to measure if salesclerks said thank you for a purchase.

Four out of five New Yorkers passed the courtesy tests, the magazine reported.

Having recently met many of New York City's friendliest, I don't doubt the findings for a moment.

I was advised on one of the tour buses to always wave back to the locals who wave to you -- otherwise you might get pelted with something.

"Hey, youse, get ya hand up! This is New Yahk! We gots a reputation to protect!"

Acting Rather Strange

An Open Letter To The Management Of CBS News:

Congratulations, folks. You won't have Dan Rather to kick around anymore. Not that any of you really wanted to be seen with him, anyway. After 44 years with the network, a long and distinguished career, he morphed into something as attractive to you as quills on a porcupine -- something nobody wanted to get stuck with. It used to be four decades of service at a network meant you were the seasoned veteran, someone to be respected and consulted like the wise guru on the mountaintop. But silly me, this is television. Forty years means you're too old.

I won't rehash the Memogate mess. But I'll ask you this -- if you really wanted him gone, why didn't you just request him to leave? Instead, you put on this charade of valuing his reporting skills while slowly pulling the rug out from under him. You took 60 Minutes II off the air while he still had a gig there. You squeezed him into the Sunday night broadcast and then squeezed him out when you needed to make room for your newfound savior Katie Couric. So much for thoughts of a deeper bench. Apparently there's just not enough room at the Sunday evening newsroom dinner table.

Mr. Rather is far from blameless in this sad, sorry state of affairs. He fronted a flawed story instead of tearing it up. That's the risk you take when you put too much faith in a producer to do the heavy lifting. How can Mary Mapes live with herself knowing she helped bring down a giant? And I have to give you some props for not cowtowing to conservatives carping for Rather's crucifixion. As Dan would say, "Courage." Still, that doesn't justify treating him like a human stain.

Poor Dan. He should've seen this coming the moment he stepped off the anchor desk following his final Evening News broadcast, when he was surrounded by crew and colleagues cheering and applauding him. Even that landmark moment was soiled by a Wal-Mart ad between his final words and the newsroom's display of affection. You think the world would've ended if you told the big-boxer "no way" for just one night, so this expression of gratitude could be shown without commercial interruption.

But anchors are anchors and business is business. Just days before Les Moonves kissed Dan goodbye he was crowing about how much ad money Katie was raking in. She's already paid for herself, he says. I'm withholding judgment on whether Couric can cut it at Dan's old desk. I hope I'm surprised. I hope she makes a long, productive and valuable contribution to the network. I hope she earns respect. And I hope she earns a better exit, when the time comes, whether she sails or sinks.

The King And I

My father has this aura of persistence, one surely passed down to him from Grandpa Francis, World War II veteran and cryptographic specialist who helped us defeat the Axis in ways he took to his grave.

It is the persistence of battle, the press for the next victory. Dad's always fighting something.

Inept supervisors. Broken promises. Glitches with his PC. High cholesterol. High blood pressure. Stress. Crummy cable TV service. Greying hair. This is after thirty years in management at four different corporations and one business handed down through family ties. His tour of duty in Vietnam is a distant skirmish now.

We'll not even talk about the past three years, a series of heartwrenching difficulties and shattered expectations, except to say they are over and the Kingdom of Francis stands intact.

The Queen may fret, but His Majesty refuses to surrender -- even in the darkest hours.

I got a call from Dad on the morning of September 11, 2001, when an surreal, gigantic tragedy dominated America's thoughts. We talked about the World Trade Center and the Pentagon and what we were doing at the TV station. But he was on the road, not glued to the TV. And he had other things on his mind.

"I think we're going to do that deal with McKesson," he said. Life goes on. Business goes on. The fight is not over.

Some of his management genes passed into my brother and I. Michael's overseeing theatre production at UCSD. I'm overseeing a TV news broadcast. We both became bosses to varying degrees and got tangled in our own top-down tussles.

"I want to say I'm proud of both my boys," Dad said more than once at the dinner table, although I forget the occasions. But the message still resonates after all these years, surviving the angst of teenage rebellion and the bickering that goes with it. So many of those arguments were just plain silly, like the one over finding reel caps for a old tape deck. That one had me wanting to end my Christmas break early and head back to the University of Missouri. We made up and I stayed.

We talk on the phone every weekend. Many times I'm his tech support representative, having put together his customized PC with parts we picked out at a computer fair. Dell would connect him to India. Every visit home now involves some degree of debugging. While some fathers and sons bond over sports or fishing or camping, we bonded over personal computers, going way back to a Radio Shack TRS-80, and then a malfunctioning Sanyo, a behemoth Sanyo, a Timex-Sinclair 1000, two flavors of Mac, various IBM clones and an Apple //c. The Queen has often rolled her eyes at such geek indulgences.

The Queen also watches The King's weight, even if he doesn't. We're all watching it for him.

"I don't eat that many sweets," he once said.

Mom and I burst out laughing. "Who's the one who always says, 'What's for dessert?'" Mother jibed.

Size matters. Exercise matters, but I don't worry about that. I swear he's the only person on our street who's mowing his own lawn instead of following the Southern California trend of hiring the nearest convenient minority. The Royal Grounds have never looked better. The battles continue, but the castle stands strong.

Long live The King... my father. And later, let's go to Fry's.