The great gala block party in Cayucos

October 20, 2025

By DELL FRANKLIN

Editor’s Note: The following series, “Life in Radically Gentrifying Cayucos by the Sea,” to be posted biweekly includes the notes, thoughts, and opinions of an original American voice: author Dell Franklin. 

Franklin’s memoir, “The ballplayer’s Son” and “Life on The Mississippi, 1969” are currently on Amazon.

Cayucos is still a very wholesome place, family-wise, and the people holding a block party are among our top citizens in getting important shit done and conducting themselves like mature, well-meaning, responsible adults at all times, a good thing for sure. Nevertheless, as an invitee, I toted a near half-full fifth of Chopin’s Vodka on my three-block trek to the spacious cul-de-sac not far from Schooner’s Wharf –what we call “perfectly positioned for all sorts of options.”

There used to be small, spur-of-the-moment block parties in Cayucos, usually involving a keg and a BBQ. They were often raucous affairs that extended into darkness and aroused neighbors, and the participants ended up at the now closed Cayucos Tavern around ten or eleven, its participants usually closing down the bar at two.

No more.

This block party was sort of a casual-clad gala, celebrating somebody, and whom I haven’t yet discovered. Nobody seemed to care. But it was a great block party, if not the kind I’m used to, like the ones I participated in when I first moved to Shell Beach in 1986 and lived on Boeker Street, seven houses down from Alex’s BBQ and about another ten or twelve houses from the cliffs overlooking the beach.

Bob Munoz, a pipe-fitter, always clad in white T-shirts and Levi’s, lived in one of ten little one-bedroom apartments all in a row, and the first thing he did was introduce himself to me and invite me to a block party conducted by those living in the apartments—two greyhound drivers, a construction boss, a retired school teacher, a secretary with a golden retriever, a salesman, a waitress, etc.

But most of the block showed up—around 20 people all toting something—and within a month I had friends and people to visit with, to help and be helped by, to meet at Alex’s bar, to coddle pets.

At that time I had a ferocious cat named Popeye, sans tail, who commingled with dogs and feared no one and was soon a big personality on the block. Moving to Cayucos, I felt fairly sentimental about leaving behind all the people I’d met. It was an intimate block.

But those little apartments soon disappeared anyway, replaced by bigger homes with occupants too busy for such shenanigans.

So it was with great gusto that I attended this Cayucos block party. There were tables and chairs and a tent and as delicious a display of food as one could find anywhere. I sat with the old guys from my book club and big Nick sipping my vodka.

I ran into a fellow my age whom I’d been saying hello to for over twenty years, and we talked for an hour. I knew so many people yet did not know them. They waved and said hello. I waved and said hello.

This was not the perfect setting for me, admittedly, but I ate and lollygagged, shared some of the vodka with beer-drinking Nick, who brought food and a six-pack and had to go surf-fishing at 6 and said he would be at Schooner’s at 8. Well, by 6, the old guys were gone, the youngsters were just starting to warm up and dance, and I started home after a couple abbreviated visits with neighbors before being interrupted by a young fellow-40s-who had a car and offered to drive me home.

We talked. I’ve known him since he was 15 and a delinquent. He once played basketball. He has grown up, in a way.

“Let’s go to Schooner’s,” he said.

“Nope, I’m going home. If I go to Schooner’s right now, I might die. Nick’s coming down at 8. I’m watching a movie and baseball.”

He continued urging me to Schooner’s. I told him I’d make my decision at the post office. If I turned right, it was toward Schooner’s; left, it was the path home. I started out. I had a good glow, as the vodka was totally consumed.

I could find nobody to share it with but Nick. What a disappointment. Lightweights. Organized adults. Tamed turkeys; though there were a handful of guys I’d boozed with in the past who were currently saddled with wives.

These kinds of wives have always feared me. I don’t know why. They are good gals and always nice to me, yes, but, well, let’s say they have a lot at stake and I understand that.

Good old Nick—a confirmed bachelor like myself—though much younger and still on the hunt, poor guy. He will be better off when invisible like me.

Anyway, I came to the post office and turned left, headed home. I was not a few yards on the way when Julius, the former delinquent, pulled up and offered to drive me home. I shook my head.

Then he offered to drive me to Schooner’s. Why do people do this to me? It’s just not fair. All I want to do is live a little longer and publish two more books – “Trying To Get Laid in America,” and “Last Call at the Shipwreck Saloon” – and keep half my brain cells so I can keep composing these piffles.

Schooner’s was packed upstairs and downstairs, but by some miracle there were two stools at the end of the main bar. And I don’t know why they always have to give me such a strong pour when I come in? Is it because I’m an ex-bartender?

In any case, the ex-delinquent Julius, who is married with kids but seemingly not henpecked, joined me in a very meaningful conversation I can’t remember much of, except that we don’t agree on politics but laugh about it.

Just as he left, Nick showed up. Now we got down to business. What kind of business? Try and guess.

We made new friends. Big Malcolm joined us. Conversations with locals and out-of-towners flourished. Did anybody else from the block party show up? Hell, no.

All I remember is that somebody offered to drive me home. It wasn’t Nick, a professional who always walks. I trudged home on a well-worn path I’ve negotiated with success for decades. Once inside ,I was surprised it was midnight and managed to eat left over chicken and swallow two Aleves before crashing.

Did I have a bad hangover? Uh-uh. Always drink your vodka straight with a lime squeeze. It’s the mix with sugar that kills you. Citrus is a health cure, I think.