Coffeehouse Chronicles: Meet the Crew Behind the Nicknames

If you’ve ever wondered why I toss around nicknames like confetti, here’s the deal: they’re earned. These aren’t random labels—they’re badges of honor in the most chaotic, caffeine-fueled club you’ll ever meet. Welcome to the Coffeehouse Chronicles, where family, friends, and camping buddies collide in a swirl of inside jokes and personality quirks.

HB – Head Barista: Everyone already knows who that is; she’s the queen of caffeine and CEO of our household coffee empire. HB runs the place like Starbucks—minus the Wi-Fi and with way more sass. Her motto? “Life without coffee isn’t life—it’s a crime.”

HB Jr.: Our daughter and HB’s clone. If cloning were legal, she’d be Exhibit A. She’s got her mom’s charm and her mom’s ability to make me feel like an unpaid intern in my own house.

The Associates: Our two sons. No benefits, no PTO—just chores and sarcasm. They’re basically interns who never leave. 

Pretty Boy Floyd: Our oldest son. Joined LAPD because blue uniforms matched his eyes better than tan and green. Fashion first, law enforcement second.

Junior Crime Fighter: Our other son. Basically me, but with better hair. Followed my career like a sequel nobody asked for.

Junior Associates: Nine grandkids. At this point, I’m running a coffee empire. Punch card coming soon: buy nine lattes, get one grandkid free.

Commander McCroc: McCroc has been my BFF for 40 years. Started as McDuck because he’s got Scrooge-level cash and probably a vault he swan-dives into daily. Then Goodie Green renamed him McCroc because the man wears Crocs like they’re formal wear. Crocs at weddings, Crocs at funerals—if Crocs had a tuxedo line, he’d be the model.

Mrs. Scrubbles: McCroc’s wife. Cleans EVERYTHING like a Scrubbing Bubble. If dirt had a restraining order, it’d be against her. We go camping—she’s scrubbing the forest. I once saw her clean a rock. A ROCK!

The Doctor: He started as Mr. Francois, then went full Jekyll-and-Hyde during a dominoes game. One minute he’s chill, next minute he’s flipping tiles like he’s in a Vegas showdown. We call him “The Doctor” because he has two personalities, and neither one takes insurance.

Mrs. Mayor: She's married to The Doctor. She got her name because, at a Virginia camping rally, she was shaking hands, kissing babies, and introducing herself as if she were running for office. “Hi, we’re from California!” Lady, your shirt already says that. She’s basically the mayor of every campground we visit.

The Professor: Plans EVERYTHING. Spreadsheets, mileage, gas costs, and probably which driveway we’ll turn into. If Excel had a dating app, he’d be its top user. He’s so organized that he makes Google Calendar look lazy.

Yoko Uno: She's married to The Professor. Always trying to split from the group. Total Beatles-breakup energy. If we’re all singing “Kumbaya,” she’s already halfway to a solo album.

The Right Reverend Doctor: Talks like he’s giving a sermon every time. Deep booming voice, hand on your forehead—instant revival. You ask him for directions, you leave baptized.

The First Lady: She's married to the Reverend. Always dressed to the nines. Matching sneakers, nails, glasses—she’s so coordinated, she makes Pinterest cry. If color-blocking were an Olympic sport, she’d have gold.

The Captain and Tennille: She’s the captain, so obviously, he’s Tennille. They’re the yacht rock of our crew—smooth sailing and probably humming “Love Will Keep Us Together” while we’re trying to light a campfire.

Mr & Mrs McRib: Started out quiet—so quiet, that Cmdr McCroc, the Doc, and I initially suspected they might be serial killers. We had the ladies checking out reruns of America’s Most Wanted, Snapped, and Dateline, just in case. It turns out they own a rib joint. Moral: never judge a book by its silence—judge it by its BBQ.

Teach and KC: Teach drops knowledge like it’s hot (she’s a third-grade teacher). KC never shuts up about the Chiefs and BBQ. If you’re near him during football season, I suggest earplugs and a bib.

Ryan Anthill: I've known him since day one at the academy. Got his name because he makes a mountain out of an anthill. Ryan’s basically Al Bundy with a badge—always talking about his glory days. Claims he could beat Usain Bolt in a three-yard dash. Sure, Ryan. Sure.

The New Guy: Showed up for one campout with his beautiful wife, D-Nice. We call him “The New Guy” because… well, he was the new guy. He’s been trying to shake that name ever since by inviting more people, but sorry, buddy—you’ll always be The New Guy. It’s in the bylaws.

The West Coast Obamas: Their lawn is bigger than the White House. Their house? A sprawling estate. You need a phone call and a security clearance to get in.

Moe and Winnie: They artrived already with nicknames, but I’m waiting. They’ll slip up and earn mine. It’s only a matter of time.

Teddi from the Block: Straight outta New York. An accent so thick that Marisa Tomei is jealous. You don’t need GPS—just follow the sound of “cawfee.”

TP: Teddi’s crush and her ball & chain. You can tell when he’s near—she gets all dreamy-eyed. TP will eat ANYTHING. He’s like Mikey, except without the Life Cereal endorsement.

And that’s the Coffee House Chronicles crew—part family, part cult, all chaos. If you’re confused, good. That means you’re not in deep enough. Just remember: in this group, you don’t earn respect—you earn a nickname. And trust me, yours is coming.

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

#coffeehousechronicles