Coffeehouse Chronicles: Five Hours, One Fan, and Zero RSVPs
Sunday began the first full week of football, but after the Dodgers game I had a crisis: what do you do after baseball but before football? Apparently the answer was “build a patio cover with The HB while ignoring the instructions.”
We bought a fan. A fan that was… let’s say optimistically sized. This thing was so big it could cool the entire neighborhood. Not a problem, though — too big for the patio cover, but the bedroom fan needed replacing anyway. Perfect.
Now, I remember installing the old bedroom fan 15, maybe 20 years ago. It didn’t seem that hard. This new fan? This fan was designed by NASA engineers who hate people but love to confuse them with fan assembly instructions.
I put it together.
Realized I forgot a piece.
Took it apart.
Put it together again.
Forgot another piece.
Took it apart again.
Put it together again.
Realized you can’t attach that piece without attaching the fan blades first.
Took it apart again.
Attached the blades.
Put it up.
Attached the light kit.
Missed the tiny little button holes you can’t see unless you have X‑ray vision.
Took it apart again.
By the time I finished assembling, disassembling, reassembling, and spiritually disassociating myself from this fan, I had done it at least four times. It took me 5½ hours. It was dark outside. I was one mistake away from calling an electrician, a therapist, or both.
And yes — I left one “non‑critical cosmetic piece” in the den. It can live there forever. It has a new home now. I don’t care.
Enter Mark — The Wizard of Washington
Now, before I go any further, Chroniclers, let me introduce a new character: Mark, the Wizard of Washington. Mark and I go all the way back to elementary school. While the rest of us were learning multiplication tables, Mark was already halfway to becoming a tech sorcerer. Later he ended up at EarthLink when the internet was basically being born.
Ever since then, he’s been my unofficial, unsolicited, and occasionally unavoidable tech support. If something breaks, Mark knows. If something might break, Mark knows. If something is working perfectly but he thinks it shouldn’t be, Mark sends me a 14‑step diagnostic flowchart.
Monday morning, Mark emailed me explaining why Yew Slash and his iPad weren’t talking to the Android phones in our text group and why we now have three identical text groups on our phones that confuse En Gee and me. Ryan Anthill doesn’t care; he’s too busy looking at himself in the mirror, admiring his shiny captain’s bars and straightening his tie bar in his Class A uniform. Did I mention that he went back to work?
Anyway, Mark started with “iMessage communicates with the iPad…” and from that moment on, everything turned into Charlie Brown’s teacher:
“Wah wah wah… wah wah.”
I don’t have an iPad. I don’t care. But Mark? Mark is committed.
Where was the Cmdr. on Sunday?
Meanwhile, Commander McCroc was MIA all day Sunday because he was out having lunch with Panda and Moe. These two guys will follow Panda everywhere — and Panda will drive across the entire city just to try a taco. On Sunday, they went all the way to Los Feliz for Mexican food. Does that sound crazy to anyone else? Yeah, me too.
Yesterday, the Cmdr spent four hours in the dentist’s chair because he “forgot” to go for a few years. Then he had to drive two more hours home because — although he lives in the Inland Empire — his dentist is in East L.A. This man crossed three ecosystems and a time zone for a cleaning.
Wedding Panic, Softball Origins & The RSVP Revelation
When I was telling you guys about the wedding, I forgot to tell you how another whole wedding panic thing started — because The HB, Jr.’s worry didn’t come out of nowhere. It goes all the way back to a dusty softball field.
Years ago, The HB got invited to play on a co‑ed softball team at night. I was still working nights myself, so I didn’t know any of these people. They were just names The HB mentioned between innings.
Then I promoted to a job with normal people’s hours — daylight, weekends, the whole civilized lifestyle — and suddenly the team started playing on Sundays. That’s when I finally met them.
After every game, there was food.
Not snacks.
Not “grab a bite.”
Food.
At first, The HB and I didn’t even realize we were invited. We’d start heading to the car, and someone would yell, “Hey! Aren’t you coming?”
And just like that — you’re in.
What started at a softball field turned into friends who turned into family. And once you’re in with this crew, you’re in. They pull you close, feed you, celebrate with you, and before you know it, you’re part of birthdays, anniversaries, quinces, christenings, and the famous question:
“Will you be our godparents?”
That’s how The HB, Jr. grew up like a big sister to the Avilas — our godchildren — which makes her the cousin. And cousins don’t miss weddings. Ever.
So when The HB, Jr. started panicking because the Avilas hadn’t RSVPed, I had to explain something important:
RSVP is French for “Répondez s’il vous plaît” —which means “Please respond.”
But here’s the thing:
Our people don’t speak French.
They don’t RSVP.
They just show up.
And sure enough — the table she thought would be empty?
Packed.
Tíos Arturo and RC, our Godson Anthony, and Lala his sister their spouses, plus Uncle Dav and Aunt Dolly, Lala's Godparents, Steph Dave & Dolly's daughter, and her husband were all there! — everyone was there, smiling, celebrating, filling the seats she thought would be empty.
Because once you’re in the family —
blood in, blood out.
And cousins don’t miss weddings.
Chroniclers… you know the drill.
Drink ’em if you got ’em.
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