Coffeehouse Chronicles: RVs, Retirees, and Restaurant Regret

On the Road Again!

What up, Chroniclers? Yes sir, it's time for the Chronicles. Everybody got your cup o’Joe? Got your readers so you can actually see your coffee? Alright, let's go.

This week, a few of us escaped civilization and headed south for some quality time together. Cmdr McCroc, however, was unconvinced about our route selection. He took the I-15, we took the 5, and somehow this became a matter requiring a full congressional investigation.

He grumbled because we didn't swing 20 miles out of our way to pick him up.

Twenty miles.

For a retired guy.

With nowhere to be.

He's such a diva. 

After a couple of hours on the road, we finally linked up with him at the site. It felt like months since we'd all been together.

Actually, now that I think about it, it was the Right Rev's birthday party.

Remember when the Professor strategically and diabolically planned McCroc's absence? The man was clearly making a play for Best Friend Forever status. Machiavelli would've been proud.

Anyway, we got settled and started planning dinner.

The RV resort itself is impressive.

We weren't exactly roughing it.

Some of these rigs have more square footage than my first apartment.

One coach has four TVs, three air conditioners, a fireplace, and better countertops than my actual house.

At this point, "camping" mostly means parking your luxury condo slightly closer to bugs.

The Captain and Tenille's site is so nice I'm pretty sure Zillow has it listed.

Meanwhile, McCroc spent twenty minutes directing people into camping sites he wasn't even assigned to.

We suspect he missed his calling as an airport ground controller.

For Night One, the HB picked the spot, but Mrs. Vuitton handled the reservations. Now everybody knows her government name is Winifred, but nobody has called her that in years.

Not since the incident.

She maintains that she was only borrowing the car.

Apparently the judge was less enthusiastic about the arrangement.

She claims she's no longer on parole. What raises questions, however, is the ankle jewelry she wears everywhere. It blinks constantly.

Why is it red?

Shouldn't success be green? Just asking for a friend.

At the restaurant, she confidently introduced herself as "Winnie," as in Winnie-the-Pooh. "Party of 14."

What she neglected to mention was that this wasn't a normal party of 14.

This was 14 people in their 60s with the maturity level of eighth graders on a field trip.

The poor server spent what felt like half a presidential term taking drink orders.

One can't have sugar.

One can't have gluten.

One can't have caffeine.

One can't have dairy.

One can't have salt.

One can't remember what they can't have.

Meanwhile, the rest of us were laughing as if we'd just discovered fart noises. Thank goodness it was a family restaurant.

We were loud. Our stories were loud. Our laughter was loud.

Half the group is hard of hearing, so conversations basically sounded like emergency broadcasts.

At one point, the server asked if anybody wanted dessert.

Three people ordered cheesecake.

Two people asked her to repeat the question.

One person thought she asked where he parked.

And Moe somehow volunteered to help bus tables. The server had refused to accept his EBT card.

The server earned every penny of that tip. In fact, by the end of the evening she wasn't our server anymore. She was our case manager.

Later that evening we returned to camp and naturally separated into two tribes.

The ladies went walking to enjoy the cool San Diego evening, a welcome change from the blast-furnace temperatures back home.

The fellas gathered around the smoke pit. Cigars were lit. Stories were told. Facts were optional. Some stories were true. Some were inspired by true events. Some had clearly been enhanced by decades of retelling.

As old guys and former gunslingers, we educated those who hadn't lived through our glory years.

We reminisced about roaming the streets of Los Angeles in the 1980s. Lives were saved, and some whoopsies occurred. The details remain classified.

Ah, the good old days.

The next day, several of us paid our respects to a dear friend who recently passed away. He lived a long life and will be deeply missed.

Those who didn't attend the service joined Moe for a bike ride. Now, if you've ever heard of Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, then you've got a basic understanding of any fitness activity led by Moe.

At one point, an older Asian woman casually cruised past him on an e-bike.

This was unacceptable.

Moe immediately stood up in the saddle and started hammering the pedals.

The chase was on.

For nearly a quarter mile, he pushed harder and harder, trying to catch her.

Then he realized two things:

1. She was on an e-bike.

2. She wasn't pedaling.

   
   

Meanwhile Moe was conducting his own personal Tour de France.

We laughed. Moe did not. At least not until his heart rate dropped below aircraft takeoff speed.

Every evening the group insisted on eating out.

Which makes absolutely no sense. We were surrounded by state-of-the-art kitchens. Every one of us brought with us a kitchen larger than a New York City apartment.

These aren't camping tent trailers. These are rolling gourmet food laboratories.

Every rig has enough cookware to cater a wedding and enough storage to survive a minor apocalypse.

Yet every afternoon someone would ask: "Where are we going for dinner?"

Apparently the whole point of owning a fully equipped kitchen is avoiding it.

Night One was the little Italian family restaurant.

Five stars.

Great service.

Great food.

And great prices.

Night Two was Korean barbecue.

Service was okay.

Food was okay.

Prices suggested the cows had received private tutoring and gone on to prestigious universities.

Night Three was Louisiana comfort food.

Service was good.

Food was okay.

The bill, however, caused several people to immediately check their retirement accounts.

For those prices, I expected the chef to sit at our table and tell us bedtime stories.

The HB finally declared that we were trending in the wrong direction. "We're paying more and enjoying it less." That's the kind of wisdom that only comes from age and repeated credit card statements.

Nobody argued. Mostly because we all knew she was right. Also because half of us were still recovering from the Louisiana menu prices.

Instead, everybody made shopping lists. There will be a Costco run.

The Captain and Tenille have a premier site with a built-in outdoor grill that looks capable of feeding a small nation. Naturally, we're assigning the Right Rev grill duty.

Technically, nobody asked him. But everybody knows Rev wants to cook anyway.

Give a man a spatula, and he's happy.

Give the Rev a spatula, and suddenly he's Bobby Flay with a sermon.

We fully expect him to bless the burgers before flipping them.

I'll let you know how it goes.

Until the next one, you know what to do!  Drink ‘em if ya got ‘em!

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