Coffeehouse Chronicles ...and Tenille, the Staples, and the Cohiba on a String

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 fancy, The Vuittons. They had no interest whatsoever in hanging out with us this week. None. Instead, they were off at a steakhouse with TP and Teddi from the Block. And because subtlety has never been their strong suit, they felt compelled to FaceTime us mid‑meal to make sure we knew exactly where they were and exactly what they were eating. 

This wasn’t a “Hey, thinking of you” call. This was a full‑blown culinary hostage video. 

Now let me be clear: Panda is the actual foodie. The kind of person who knows where the cow was raised, what it listened to, and whether it had therapy. The Vuittons? They’re more like enthusiastic groupies. They follow Panda and Teddi around, nodding solemnly, repeating phrases like “mouthfeel” and “notes of oak,” and pretending they didn’t stop at In‑N‑Out on the way home. 

And good lord… they are foodies. Or at least foodie‑adjacent. 

Look at Tenille, scheming to get at my BFF.

Meanwhile, back at home base, there’s the Captain and Tenille. Well—Tenille. Tenille is currently camped out at home, milking sympathy like it’s a renewable resource, following a recent knee replacement surgery. He now refers to himself as the Six Million Dollar Man, despite the fact that insurance did most of the heavy lifting. 

He finally got his stitches out this week. Except—plot twist—they weren’t stitches. They were staples. Industrial ones. The kind you’d expect to see holding together a shipping crate or a condemned fence. 

As the nurse was removing them, Tenille began to wonder aloud why no one had given him any amnesia, because he could feel every single snip as they cracked through the metal. Apparently, there was some confusion. 

What Tenille wanted was anesthesia. What he asked for was… something else entirely. 

“Yeah, that’s what I said,” Tenille insisted afterward. 

The nurse, it seems, was not fluent in Tenille. 

Me? I’m of the opinion they should have operated on an extremity higher than his knee. 

The Captain and Tenille were also spotted loitering suspiciously close to the on‑duty whereabouts of Commander McCroc in Downey. McCroc himself wasn’t there, but that didn’t stop Tenille—who is evidently short a BFF at the moment—from going prospecting. He has been actively attempting to steal mine. 

Tenille has been plying Commander McCroc with expensive cigars and quality brown liquor. And let’s be honest: the Commander can be bought off with shiny baubles and the promise of a good pour. 

In fact, just last week, some weirdo in a 1972 Chevy van nearly made off with him. The guy was allegedly “looking for his puppy” and was dangling a Cohiba on a string tied to a stick. McCroc was heard whining, “…but he has Cubans,” as the scary man was escorted away in handcuffs by Corona PD. 

This, apparently, is what happens when I leave town for a week, unsupervised, with the coffeehouse CEO, trying to enjoy Spring Training like a normal adult. 

On another note, I am increasingly convinced that Tenille is really leaning into this whole knee rehabilitation thing. While we were on Zoom, I watched him spring up from his seat and bolt into the kitchen because he thought his whiskey tumbler was sliding off the counter. That did not look medically tentative to me. 

The Captain, for her part, is just happy she’s no longer Tenille’s Uber driver. His driving privileges have officially been reinstated. He’s been cleared. He can drive again. There was rejoicing throughout the land. 

Interestingly absent from all of this chaos were Steve and the Right Reverend Doctor. Our Devil Dogs had other things going on and wanted no part of the coffeehouse shenanigans. Still, everyone is wondering which stove the Right Reverend is going to show up with next. He's not fooling anyone; he says that he needs another stove. No, he doesn't. 

Rumor has it Steve was camped out near the corner, waiting for the high sign from the Right Reverend, hoping—praying—that the First Lady would be cooking her famous chili. 

And let’s not kid ourselves. We’re all looking forward to her chili. I don’t even go to Wendy’s anymore. I make the drive to Jurupa Valley with my own bowl and a big spoon. Priorities. 

The First Gentleman on his NEW trike!

Then there’s the Mrs. Mayor and her husband, the First Gentleman. Formerly known as “the Doctor,” but once you become Mayor, I believe the bylaws require you to issue a First Gentleman. 

The First Gentleman is very excited right now because he has acquired a new gadget. And for those of you unfamiliar with him, he is absolutely a gadget guy. If it has buttons, lights up, or requires an app, he needs it. 

He owns a pair of radios that can talk to each other from California to Florida. Personally, I think that’s impressive, and I’m now casually shopping for a set myself. 

But his latest acquisition is an e‑trike. He’s already attached a seat on the back for Mrs. Mayor. The only problem? It faces backward—like the third seat in a 1970s station wagon. Which means Mrs. Mayor will be waving goodbye to her dignity and possibly yelling directions over her shoulder. 

And speaking of needs—let’s talk about my very real, very reasonable need for another hat.

What hat? This hat? Oh, I've had this hat for ages!

Now, when we were headed to Spring Training, we were going to be gone for five days. Five. Which, by any rational math, clearly means I needed six hats. That’s not indulgence—that’s planning ahead. That’s just how my brain works. My mouth agrees with my brain, and together they make decisions swiftly and without outside consultation.

Apparently, though, The HB felt the need to step in and announce that she was placing a moratorium on hats. A moratorium. Like I’m some sort of rogue nation-state with an unstable headwear economy. I don’t remember appointing her Head of the Department of Brims and Caps, yet there she was, laying down policy. Who does she think she is? She is not the boss of me.

Anyway.

One of the hats was clearly for Mr. West Coast Obama, because if you’re going to Spring Training and don’t bring a hat with presidential swagger, you’re doing it wrong. Another hat was, of course, a course hat—because you always need a course hat, even if you don’t yet know what course you’re talking about. You don’t wait for the course to appear; you prepare for it.

But then—then—there was the 49er hat.

Now listen carefully, because this part matters.

I had been looking for this particular 49er hat for three years.THREE. YEARS.

Not casually looking. Not “Oh, that’d be nice if I find it” looking. I’m talking about intentional searching. Mall kiosks. Airport shops. Random stops “just to check.” Online searches that ended in disappointment and regret. This hat had achieved mythical status. Frankly, I wasn’t even sure it still existed in the wild.

And there it was. Right in front of me. Like it had been waiting. Like destiny had finally clocked in for its shift.

Of course, I had to get that one. At that point, it wasn’t a purchase—it was a reunion.

The HB remained unmoved. I believe the phrase “You already have enough hats” was used, which is just irresponsible language. No one has ever had enough hats. That’s like saying you’ve completed your wardrobe or reached your final opinion.

In the end, a compromise was reached in the traditional manner: I didn’t get all the hats I wanted, but I remain spiritually convinced that I was correct, history will vindicate me, and that 49er hat, and I were always meant to find each other.

Finally, to my extreme disappointment, it is no longer February. And if you were hoping for red velvet cupcakes from Commander McCroc, you—and I—are going to have to wait until December. 

That’s right. Not happening. 

In order to snake the recipe from C‑Moe, McCroc had to enter into a blood oath. Red velvet may only be made and distributed in the months of December and February. There are rules. Ancient ones. 

Dang it. 

Not to worry, though. He was last seen in his kitchen making another dessert: hummingbird cupcakes. Between you and me, I sincerely hope they taste better than they sound. 

According to The HB, who Googled it, the main ingredient is not a fast‑moving, meatless bird. It’s just a nickname. There’s fruit involved. Pineapple, among other things. 

So yes—I’m cautiously optimistic. And hungry. 

You know what to do!!  Drink ‘em if you got ‘em! 

#coffeehousechronicles