Coffeehouse Chronicles: Catalina, Card Tables, and Things That Shouldn’t Fly

Whaddup Chroniclers? Got yer cup?

I think I've mentioned this in the past. I love flying. Not in the metaphorical sense—like “spread your wings.” I mean actual flying, in an airplane. Preferably with snacks and questionable decision-making involved. 

If you ever want to fly somewhere, the Ruski is your guy. He’s always down. 

“If you ever want to go, let’s go.” That’s his whole business plan. 

And I’m thinking, perfect. I’ll go with the Ruski anytime—because worst case scenario, it’s still a good story. 

So naturally, Catalina was the destination. 

The trip itself was easy. About an hour in the air, over the Pacific. Smooth ride, wheels down. No drama. Which, as a guy who enjoys a good story, is both comforting and slightly disappointing. 

But then… I saw her. 

Sitting there like aviation royalty was a DC‑3. And not just any DC‑3. A 1944, Air Force–born, privately owned, fully restored, “polished-so-much-it-could-see-its-own-reflection" DC‑3.

They say it’s one of the prettiest DC‑3s still airworthy. 

Now, I’ll be honest—I don’t know how many DC‑3s are still airworthy. Could be dozens. Could be six. Could be one, and this is it. All I know is the thing is 80 years old and still flying, which already makes it cooler than most people I know. 

Not long after our Catalina jaunt and the prettiest plane I ever did see (I’m starting to get why they painted showgirls on them in the Big War), the Ruski introduces me to someone I’d actually met before, which is always fun because now you both have to pretend this is the first time. Then one day Ruski calls and says, “Hey, I’ve got a buddy who wants to fly to Vegas.” 

Vegas… by plane? 

I love to fly. I love to play 21.  

This decision required no committee. 

So it’s me, the Ruski, and Captain Elmer Fudd. 

We do Vegas exactly the way God intended: 

• Dinner 

• A little blackjack 

• Then we fly home a couple of hours later, as if nothing had happened. 

Afterward, Captain Fudd says, “If you ever want to go flying, let me know,” and rattles off his digits. 

Funny thing—I already had it. Turns out we’d crossed paths years earlier through a mutual friend. Proof once again that Southern California is just three people wearing different hats. 

Captain Fudd keeps the invite open, but I’m not the type to push myself on people. I won’t ask. But if invited? I’m packed before the sentence is over. 

A week later, he calls: “Hey, bro, I’ve got to go to San Francisco. Need a copilot.”  Now, when he says copilot, what he really means is company. Someone to talk to. Someone to nod at important-sounding things. I can do that.

We fly up to the Bay, have a great trip. While he meets with a client, I sit at the bar and eat one of the best ribeyes of my life. Then we fly home. 

Perfect. 

The best part of flying with Captain Fudd—even when the Ruski comes—is that the Ruski sits in the back and I get the front seat. 

Which sounds impressive… until you try to get into it. 

The Ruski is 6'8". He physically cannot fit up there. I’m 5'9" and still have to fold myself like a lawn chair to get into the front seat. 

I’m sitting in the copilot seat, as if I might actually help fly the plane, which is terrifying for everyone involved. 

After San Francisco, I get the open invite: again, anytime. 

Which made me realize something—Captain Bunny and Captain Carmen San Diego have never offered that. Apparently, I need to find a better class of friends. 

Captain Fudd is hard to nail down, though. Business on both coasts. Sometimes Florida, sometimes here. 

Then he texts me: “I’m getting a helicopter.” 

A helicopter. I don’t know anyone else who owns a helicopter. This is just not a normal sentence. 

A couple of days ago—tax day, of all days—he texts again: “Want to go flying in my brand-new helicopter?” 

Let’s go. 

I’ll admit it—I was a little nervous. Helicopters aren’t supposed to fly. They’re mechanical bumblebees powered by spite and physics denial. 

But it was incredible. 

We went up after the Dodger game and toured all over the city: 

• Flew over Dodger Stadium, saw the team buses loaded and probably heading to the airport 

• Flew through DTLA 

• Flew over Universal and did an orbit 

• Flew over Hollywood and toward West Hollywood 

• Flew through Century City and out to Santa Monica 

Now, since we’re both ex-cops, we’re nosy by nature, just like the album, but we’re not naughty, just nosy. Every time we saw red and blue lights going somewhere, we followed them. Not officially. Just… interestingly. 

Over West Hollywood, we orbited over 90 Sam, just to see what he was up to. He flashed us a with his flashlight—a buddy of Captain Fudd's—since he gave us the C-4, we knew that he didn't need our help anymore, so we mosied on over toward Beverly Hills. 

We even flew out to Riverside to check if their brush fire had any more hot spots. We weren’t equipped to help. We were strictly professional looky‑loos. 

On the way back, I’m pointing out landmarks, talking nonstop, sounding like a seven‑year‑old who just got a bike for Christmas and refuses to stop riding it. 

After we landed, I couldn’t wait to get home and tell the HB everything about my evening and our flight. She was clearly just as excited as I was… She was just hiding it behind her“I’m watching paint dry” face. 

I talked to Captain Fudd again this afternoon. He texted: “I’m going up again tonight. You interested?” 

Absolutely. 

I’ll tell you about that one later. 

You know what to do.  Drink ’em if you got ’em. 

#coffeehosechronicles