Coffeehouse Chronicles: Raiders, RVs, and the Curious Case of McCroc's Sock Drawer
Good afternoon, Chroniclers! Got yer mid-afternoon cup? Good. Because we're gonna need caffeine for this one.
For the past couple of weeks, the HB and I have been doing our own thing. Now, a lot of working folks might call it a vacation. But when you're retired, it's not really vacation.
It's just... Wednesday somewhere else.
So let's call it what it was:
Time Away.
Week One found us in Las Vegas.
Week Two found us in Palm Desert.
And somewhere in between, I learned that Commander McCroc may actually be powered by obsessive-compulsive tendencies and premium espresso.
The Raiders Pilgrimage
The first stop was Sin City.
The HB dragged me to Vegas. Actually, that's not accurate.
If somebody says, "You wanna go to Vegas?" and you're already carrying your suitcase to the car before they finish the sentence, that's not being dragged.
That's called enthusiastic participation.
We headed to Allegiant Stadium with the HB, the West Coast Obamas, and approximately 70,000 of their closest Raider friends.
Everybody was decked out in silver and black.
Everybody.
Except me.
The lone Niner fan.
Folks, I felt like a vegan at a Texas barbecue.
Walking into Allegiant, you hear it immediately:
"RAAAAAAAAY-DERS!"
Then, from somewhere across the stadium:
"RAAAAAAAAY-DERS!"
Then another group.
"RAAAAAAAAY-DERS!"
At some point it's not even a chant anymore.
It's echolocation.
I think that's how Raiders fans find each other in the wild.
Meanwhile, everybody's streaming through the tunnels and escalators looking for nachos, hot dogs, tri-tip sandwiches, gourmet barbecue, wine bars, artisan tacos, or whatever stadium food now costs the equivalent of a small mortgage payment.
Some fans were painted head-to-toe.
Some were wearing shoulder pads.
Some appeared ready to invade a neighboring kingdom.
And then there was the HB's younger brother.
The KC Fanatic.
The Kingdom of Kansas City
This man isn't a Chiefs fan. He's a Chiefs museum.
Ever since Marcus Allen defected from Raider Nation, this guy has been waving the red-and-gold banner.
He has an entire room devoted to Kansas City.
I think if Patrick Mahomes called needing a spare bedroom, he'd clear one out in under an hour.
His daughter is just as bad. Family traits are strong.
The game came.
The game went.
The Raiders lost. Which meant:
The HB was sad.
The West Coast Obamas were sad.
Raider Nation was sad.
KC Fanatic?
That man looked like he'd won Powerball.
If he'd smiled any harder, his head would've split in half.
The Family We Chose
The second week was spent with our other family.
The family we chose.
The Cruiser Family.
Our RV Club.
Folks, when 35 motorhomes pull into the same location, it isn't camping anymore.
It's a mobile city-state.
We rolled into Palm Desert with 35 of our closest friends.
The hugs started immediately.
The stories started immediately.
The eating started immediately.
Some people hadn't even put their leveling jacks down yet.
The BFF Controversy
Now before we go any further, let's address the elephant in the room.
My BFF.
Commander McCroc.
I know.
I know.
The Professor is lobbying hard.
The campaign signs are everywhere.
The Professor believes seniority shouldn't matter.
Unfortunately for him, Commander McCroc has approximately forty-two years of tenure.
The Professor has four.
That's not a competition.
That's an internship.
The Commander and I have been hanging out since Ronald Reagan was still giving speeches.
I've spent so much time carrying him emotionally over the years that I could probably file a workers' compensation claim.
"Lower back injury.
Cause: Friendship."
The Discovery
Now I've always liked Commander McCroc.
Still do.
But recently I've begun noticing things.
Behaviors.
Warning signs.
The man may be a little...
quirky.
For example, when leaving the house, he locks the front door.
Three times.
Not checks it.
Locks it.
Three separate ceremonies.
Click.
Unclick.
Click.
Unclick.
Click.
Pause.
Nod.
Walk away.
I thought maybe it was coincidence.
Then we got to the Croc-Mobile.
Same thing.
Key goes in.
Key comes out.
Tiny pirouette.
Key goes in.
Key comes out.
Tiny pirouette.
Repeat.
Three times.
I'm standing there watching this ritual unfold like I'm observing a National Geographic special.
"Here we see the Southern California McCroc preparing his vehicle before migration..."
The Sock Drawer Investigation
Eventually it hit me.
The man might be OCD. A little. Maybe
And now I need answers.
Specifically:
I need to see the sock drawer.
I haven't seen it.
But I know it's magnificent.
It has to be.
Next to his espresso machine are rows and rows of coffee.
Different roasts.
Different flavors.
Different bags.
All arranged in perfect groups of three.
Color-coordinated.
Even spacing.
Measured with NASA-level precision.
You could land Captain Qantas on that countertop.
You could forecast weather from it, Captain Carmen San Diego style.
You could probably calibrate Colonel Energizer Bunny's flight schedule off it.
Costco with the Wrong Driver
Then came the Costco run.
The cast:
Me.
Commander McCroc.
Moe.
This should've been easy.
It wasn't.
Because Moe volunteered to drive.
Now, Moe fires up Android Auto.
The GPS comes alive.
The nice lady begins giving directions.
"Turn left in one mile."
Simple.
Clear.
Understandable.
But Moe doesn't trust her.
Instead, he's holding his phone and staring at the map.
While driving.
While the GPS explains everything.
I finally asked:
"Why are you looking at the phone?"
He shrugged.
"I don't trust her."
You don't trust her?
Buddy, she's been directing satellites, aircraft, shipping traffic, and 97% of the population of Los Angeles.
Meanwhile, you got lost in Costco looking for paper towels.
Trust the lady.
The Palm Desert Migration
Now Palm Desert was supposed to be around ninety degrees.
Comfortable.
Warm.
Pleasant.
Instead, Mother Nature apparently confused Palm Desert with the surface of Mercury.
Triple-digit heat.
Every day.
The official RV Club activity became:
Coach Crawling.
For you rookies, Coach Crawling is where you leave one motorhome because the AC is losing the battle and immediately invade another one.
Pro Tip: If you walk into an RV and there are more than six people sitting inside...
Leave.
Immediately.
The AC has already surrendered.
Move to the next coach.
Somebody will hand you a cold Pepsi, a Gatorade, or something involving ice cubes and survival.
The Night Shift
The only saving grace was sundown.
By evening, temperatures plunged all the way down into the tropical paradise known as "mid-80s."
Folks gathered outside.
Movies played on outdoor TVs.
Stories were exchanged.
Cigars appeared.
Friendships were renewed.
And every now and then somebody quietly produced a bottle of single malt that had apparently been aging since the Carter administration.
Life was good.
Tropical Storm Rachel
Then Rachel arrived.
Not my niece.
Not my neighbor.
Not somebody's cousin.
Tropical Storm Rachel.
For five days we'd been living inside a convection oven.
Then overnight Rachel showed up like an angry weather intern assigned by Captain Carmen San Diego.
Rain.
Wind.
Clouds.
Cold.
Actual cold.
People ran indoors.
The next morning everybody emerged wearing hoodies.
Hoodies!
In Palm Desert!
The same people who'd been melting all week were suddenly walking around saying:
"A little chilly this morning."
Human beings are weird.
Now we're finally home.
The Raiders lost.
KC Fanatic won.
Commander McCroc probably locked his front door twelve times.
Moe still doesn't trust GPS.
The Professor is still filing BFF appeals.
And somewhere Captain Carmen San Diego is undoubtedly impossible to locate.
Just another couple of weeks in the Coffeehouse universe.
Until next time, Chroniclers...
Drink 'em if ya got 'em!
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