Coffeehouse Chronicles: The Steakhouse Incident, The Crocs Scandal, and The Dominoes Controversy

Morning shenanigans, on the bus ride into DT Cabo

Hey Chroniclers, gotcher cup?

I know it's afternoon coffee, but developments have occurred.

As a responsible journalist, I feel obligated to issue an addendum to this morning's reporting.

The lawyers say I don't actually have to do this.

The Kelley Brothers say I definitely have to do this.

More on that later.

Now, the kids—which is ridiculous because they’re all pushing 50 and have their own mortgages, retirement accounts, and lower back issues—still insist on showing us the ropes around Cabo.

Apparently, the HB and I are viewed as some sort of elderly exchange students.

The other day Nikki called down from upstairs.

"Mother! Father!" Looking back, those should have been warning signs.

Nobody says "Mother" and "Father" unless they're either asking for money or preparing a presentation.

She continued.

"We're going to the steakhouse. Dress appropriately."

Then she looked directly at me. "And DAD... don't embarrass me."

First of all, rude.

Secondly, I wasn't planning to embarrass anybody.

Not intentionally, anyway.

But to be honest, after hearing the word steakhouse, the remainder of the conversation became a blur.

My mind immediately filled with visions of ribeyes.

Sizzling ribeyes.

Perfectly marbled ribeyes.

Ribeyes the size of hubcaps.

I don't know what else Nikki said because by that point there was elevator music playing in my head.

Seven minutes later, I was standing at the front door looking sharp.

Ready.

Prepared.

Focused.

Hungry.

Nikki looked at me and said,

"DAD. Not yet."

"What do you mean, not yet?"

"It's 1:15."

"So?"

"Our reservation is at 6:30."

Friends. I cannot adequately describe the emotional devastation. Why mention steak at 1:15 if steak does not occur until 6:30? That is not information. That is psychological warfare.

I changed back into my pool attire.

Specifically my lime-green Speedo.

Because apparently if Europeans can pull that off, then by golly I can too. Whether anyone else agrees remains irrelevant.

Five long hours later, we finally headed out. Everyone looked fantastic. The HB & Nikki were elegant. Richie & I were polished. The entire group looked like they had stepped out of a luxury travel magazine.

Very stylish, Richard.

Then Richie looked down.

At his feet.

Silence.

The entire group followed his gaze.

Crocs.

Richie was wearing Crocs.

Not dress shoes.

Not loafers.

Not even sandals.

Crocs.

It turned out his feet had become so comfortable earlier in the day that he completely forgot to change shoes.

Commander McCroc immediately declared it one of the greatest vacation achievements he had ever witnessed. I believe his exact reaction was somewhere between admiration and pride. Richie had accidentally achieved a level of vacation enlightenment rarely seen in the wild. Some people earn status through discipline. Others through sacrifice.

Richie earned it by forgetting his shoes.

Which, of course, earned him an official Kankeret.

Kankerets, for the uninitiated, are awarded for extraordinary achievements in the field of accidental foolishness. Showing up to a high-end steakhouse in formal attire and Crocs is exactly the sort of elite-level performance that gets you considered for one.

This morning the gang gathered for another adventure.

That is not the way that I wanna go out. I prefer to go in my sleep, thank you.

Parasailing. Jazz was going. Brien was going. A few others were going.

Good for them.

Personally, I have reached an age where I am no longer interested in paying strangers to launch me into the sky with equipment purchased from the lowest bidder.

That seems like a younger person's hobby.

Somebody has to remain on the ground and tell the story.

I consider it a public service.

So while they prepared to soar hundreds of feet above the Pacific Ocean, I remained comfortably seated on Terra Firma.

I waited patiently to interview any survivors.

Fortunately, they all returned.

Though I maintain that the possibility of dramatic journalism was there.

And now...

The reason for this emergency afternoon edition.

The fellas are a little miffed.

After reading this morning's Chronicles, Richie and the Kelley Brothers staged what can only be described as an organized protest.

They stormed the press room.

Now, by "press room," I mean wherever I happened to be sitting.

They demanded an immediate correction regarding last night's domino match.

Apparently they took issue with my reporting that Greg had taken them to the woodshed.

Their position is that the contest was far closer than originally reported.

As a journalist, I listened carefully.

I took notes. I nodded thoughtfully. Then I explained the sacred principles of responsible reporting.

First, I must protect my sources.

Second, I must respect the historical record.

Third, I saw what I saw.

The delegation remained unconvinced.

The Kelley Brothers insist the score was much closer. Greg appears perfectly comfortable allowing the existing narrative to stand.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

Therefore, in the spirit of fairness, I hereby offer the following correction:

According to unnamed sources, the match may have been closer than originally reported.

According to other unnamed sources, it was not.

Greg thinks this is his.

Further investigation is warranted.

The Commission recommends an immediate rematch.

Preferably one with independent observers, a certified scorekeeper, VAR review technology, and perhaps a representative from the Hague.

Until such evidence is presented, this reporter stands by his original story.

Mostly.

Drink 'em if you got 'em, Chroniclers. 

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