The HB & I got our party on last night! Dateline: Saturday Morning (Recovery Mode) If you weren’t at the clubhouse last night, safely tucked under the jurisdiction of the Right Reverend’s birthday blessing, I deep-down pity your soul. It was a Friday night for the books. The company was elite, the drama was subtle, and entry to the buffet line required strategy. First of all, the guest list was a masterclass in "You Can’t Make This Up." Mr & Mrs McRib and the Right Reverend D

"No, I'm fine. I promise" The oddest thing happened to me last night—one of those moments that jerks you straight out of sleep and leaves you wondering if reality just glitched. I was deep asleep, probably somewhere in my third REM cycle, minding my own business, when suddenly I heard a voice: “THIS IS 9-1-1. HELLO. THIS IS 9-1-1. Do you have an emergency?” Now, there is absolutely no graceful way to wake up to that. One second you're dreaming, the next you’re trying to decid

Happy Father’s Day, Chroniclers. How did you spend your weekend? Because mine? Mine had everything. Baseball. Family. Heat stroke. Emotional betrayal. Illegal levels of excitement over a bobblehead. So it all kicked off June 19th — which for me has somehow turned into the Annual “Doctor Game” pilgrimage with my oldest boy, The Erb-ster. It’s tradition now. You know, one of those things where if you miss it once, suddenly you’re not on the Christmas card list anymore. Now Mik

Good morning, Chroniclers. Yes, I said good morning with confidence—despite the fact that I had just survived what can only be described as the Great Western Region Rally Extravaganza, featuring equal parts camaraderie, chaos, and airborne pollen intent on personally ending me. The regional rally shenanigans are, at long last, over. And like any respectable gathering of caffeinated enthusiasts, it had everything: announcements, mild disasters, suspicious pastry theft, and at

Hello, Chroniclers! Got yer cup? We’re still here—yes, still—at the Western Region Rally. Spirits are high, beverages are cold (when they’re plugged in), and as expected, no trip like this is ever completely incident-free. So far, we’ve only had two minor… let’s call them “character-building experiences.” Incident #1: The Case of the Phantom Air Conditioning This actually happened on night one, but I couldn’t remember it at the time—which, frankly, already sets the tone. We p

Keith Saffo was no help whatsoever Good morning, Chroniclers. Well, we’ve officially made it to Coos Bay, and whoo‑whee!!! —Was that last leg a challenge or what? That final stretch had everything: suspense, confusion, terror, and one well‑meaning hose jockey named Shannon Saffo who managed to lob a verbal hand grenade into an otherwise calm morning. Saffo called me early and issued what he clearly thought was a helpful warning. “Don’t take Route 38S.” That was it. No cont

Good morning, Chroniclers! How’s the caffeine situation? Cup full? Half full? Emotionally dependent? Excellent—let’s proceed. It’s my favorite time of year, which means the HB and I have once again pointed ourselves north and declared, with great confidence, “Let’s go see a couple hundred of our closest friends.” By “closest,” of course, I mean the kind of friends where you recognize faces, forget names, and spend the first hour pretending you absolutely remember where you me

Good afternoon, Chroniclers! Pour yourself a fresh brew and pull up a chair, because we need to talk about the absolute masterclass in weekend survival I just endured. I went into battle against indoor trampolines, erratic meteorologists, and the ultimate culinary betrayal: stealth veggie burgers. If you think your weekend was action-packed, trust me, mine and the HB’s gives you a run for your money. Saturday: The Great Divide & The Sky Zone Circus Saturday kicked off with an

What’s brewing, Chroniclers? Got yer cup? Good. Pour a strong one, because today we are diving into the absolute logistical circus that was our recent weekday getaway. The HB (Honored Boss/Highly Beautiful, depending on who is asking) and I decided to take a quick, two-night trip down to San Diego. We were graciously invited by none other than The WCOs—short for The West Coast Obamas—because hanging out with them is the closest the HB and I will ever get to a presidential mot

Good Sunday morning, Chroniclers. Got yer cup? This is no ordinary Sunday morning—this is a birthday edition of the Coffeehouse Chronicles. It is hard for me to believe that my daughter, HB Jr., is forty-seven years old today. Forty-seven! That seems impossible, mostly because in my mind she is still young enough for me to offer advice she did not ask for and old enough to dismiss it with the calm confidence of a woman who has already figured things out for herself. Still,

Hey, Chroniclers, got yer cup? Okay, well, I guess it’s my turn. Many of you know that in my previous life, I rode the two-wheeled stallion for work and for play. Play was usually fine—unless you count that one little driveway incident where I hit loose gravel like it had been planted there by my enemies, laid the bike down in full view of a neighbor, a Hose Wrangler, and had the HB come flying out of the house because the sound convinced her I had just cartwheeled into glo

Happy Mother’s Day, Chroniclers—and a Venti, extra-foam, cinnamon-sprinkled Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms out there. Got your cup? Good. Pull up a chair, because today’s special is moms, memories, and a double shot of pure family chaos. I’ve had a front-row seat to some wonderful mothers, especially the HB. But my own mom? She was not the June Cleaver, pearls-and-casserole, standing-on-the-porch kind of mother. Not even close. My mother was the opposite of a helicopter

He should thank his old Explorer DI A tale of gravel yards, devil-tech, and a 25-year-old car held together by spite. I was posted up at my usual coffeehouse table—the one with the chair that wobbles like it’s doing calf raises—when I made the mistake of telling someone, “Yeah, I know a guy.” Because when you say that out loud, the universe hears it and immediately drops a guy into your life like a piano in an old cartoon. My guy is my buddy Papi Churro—an Arizona original

My Dad Yesterday, I was talking about BFFs, and it just hit me that I forgot to mention my very first bestie: my dad, Frank B. Today’s his birthday. He would’ve been 86. And let me tell you—this man did not age quietly. He arrived on this planet cool, stayed cool, and exited cool. Frank B. was smooth. Not “trying to be smooth.” He just was. He had all the ladies. Not because he chased them—because they noticed him standing there, existing. They were all looking at him. Even

Papi & me Have you ever actually sat down and counted your really close friends? I don’t mean acquaintances. I don’t mean people you wave at. I mean the ones you can call without a reason. The ones you talk to almost every day. If you’re honest, that number is usually pretty small. One. Maybe two. Right now, I’ve got two. Many of you remember my pal, Eddie . Eddie was my best bud and my battle buddy in the academy. We went through it together—same days, same stress, same c

Right here, you can see Cmdr McCroc, jonesing for a Cuban Good Day, Chroniclers! As most of you already know, I roll with a small but colorful cast of characters. It’s not a posse so much as a roaming ensemble, and The HB, being the responsible one, likes to check in on them regularly. This week’s check‑in, however, turned into something of a live documentary, and frankly, I’m still processing it. So. Louie and Louise. Or, as they prefer to be known when they’re feeling fan

Let's go! Whatcha doin, Chroniclers? Gotcher cup? We’re in Arizona . Spring Training, baby! That magical time of year when hope springs eternal, pitchers lie about being “a little tight,” and I remember why baseball is the thinking person’s sport. Meanwhile, The HB and Cmdr McCroc thrive in the fall and winter, commiserating over how their teams heroically achieved a 3–14 record , or how someone’s squad “barely missed greatness” at 9–8 . I, on the other hand, cannot for the l

The Two Amigos, circa 1985 just before graduation Happy Friday, Chroniclers! I have another real-life Gomer Pyle story for the Spaniards. I have a bunch of good ones about my pal, Eddie. This story takes place after we were probably about two-thirds of the way through the Sheriff’s Academy. I’m not sure of how long we were into it, but based on the following events, I’m gonna guess that we must’ve been getting pretty comfortable with the routine. During the first several week

Me, HB, and the Spaniards Whaddup Chroniclers? The HB and I had breakfast with the Spaniards this morning. They’re not expats yet, but it’s coming. Anywho, Carrie says to me, “Love your story about us. Ya got anymore?” “Have I?” So I thought it was a good time to reprise one of my tales about my former roommate, carpool partner, and academy classmate, Eddie Levy. If you knew Ed, you had to love him. He was always smiling. He could find the silver lining on any bad day. Eddie

The Commish & Mrs. Commish, and Pastor Brian, who has been our family pastor for 40 plus years... and he's officiated many of our weddings Hey Chroniclers! We’re in Vegas! The HB’s oldest brother, the Commish, is celebrating 50 years of marriage to his bride. Holy Toledo! FIFTY YEARS! Married to the Commish. I hear Mrs. Commish is up for sainthood. Most of us showed up to the party just to catch a glimpse of the first American Pope. Sadly, we were disappointed; apparently, he