The Coffee House Chronicles: Lifestyles of the Rich and Military-Grade

What’s brewing, Chroniclers? Got yer cup? Good. Pour a strong one, because today we are diving into the absolute logistical circus that was our recent weekday getaway.

The HB (Honored Boss/Highly Beautiful, depending on who is asking) and I decided to take a quick, two-night trip down to San Diego. We were graciously invited by none other than The WCOs—short for The West Coast Obamas—because hanging out with them is the closest the HB and I will ever get to a presidential motorcade.

Case in point: They booked us at a luxury resort in Chula Vista. Beautiful? Stunning. Pricey? Holy hell, yes. My bank account took one look at the nightly rate and started weeping. But hey, that’s just how the West Coast Obamas roll.

The 0430 Standard Time

The plan was simple. Check-in wasn’t until 2:00 PM. So, being a normal human civilian, I woke up around 7:00 AM, poured some coffee, and casually texted Mr. WCO at 8:30 AM to see when they were hitting the road.

My phone buzzed instantly: “Bro, we’re already in San Diego. Getting new valve stems on the limo.”

Of course they were. And by "limo," I mean their Mercedes Sprinter van. It is entirely murdered-out in matte black with windows so dark you’d swear they were transporting a high-ranking cartel leader or a minor deity. You cannot see inside.

I don't know why I was surprised. I completely forgot who I was dealing with. Mr. WCO is up at the crack of dawn every single day. He is a Jarhead to his core. This is a man who celebrates the Marine Corps Birthday on November 10th with a level of religious fanaticism that borders on a cult.

Since birth, his poor kids have been forced to wake up on November 10th at exactly 0600. They have to stand at rigid attention in front of the backyard flagpole, salute the colors, sing the Marine Corps Hymn at the top of their lungs, and toast the birthday with a shot glass full of IPA. I’m pretty sure his kids were seven before they realized beer wasn't juice. By age ten, they actually looked forward to it because it was the only day of the year their dad actively encouraged underage drinking. "Semper Fi, pass the pretzels."

This is also a man who operates exclusively on a 24-hour clock because he claims "military time builds character." It certainly built confusion. When his kids were in kindergarten, the teacher told them school let out at 2:30. The poor kids threw a tantrum, wondering how they were supposed to stay awake past their bedtime, which was 1930 hours.

"What Are You Smoking, Sir?"

So, while the WCOs were already rolling down toward San Diego by 0430, the HB and I finally started rolling around 11:30 AM.

As we're driving, my phone dings again. Another text from Mr. WCO: “Hey, want to meet for chow in Julian, bruh?”

I stared at the phone. I looked at the road. I looked at the HB.

"Is he serious?" I asked.

Chroniclers, let me paint a picture for you. The HB and I are currently piloting a forty-foot motorhome with a toad (tow-vehicle) hitched to the back. We are basically a rolling train. And Mr. WCO wants me to navigate the treacherous, winding, tiny two-lane mountain cliffs of Highway 78... for a slice of apple pie?

Look, I love apple pie. But I do not love plunging a 40-foot house over a cliffside into a fiery abyss just for a flaky crust. What are you smoking, sir? Needless to say, we bypassed the pie.

Petco Park vs. Chavez Ravine

The main event of the trip was hitting Petco Park for the game, and let me tell you, I really enjoyed it. It’s magnificent. It’s less like a stadium and more like a gourmet food truck festival that happens to have a baseball diamond in the middle. They have food everywhere. AND THEY HAVE WINE!!!

But the best part? The ushers. They were incredibly friendly. They smiled, they welcomed us, and they practically guided us by the hand to our seats.

It was a complete culture shock compared to Chavez Ravine. I actually have a friend who works up at Dodger Stadium, and "friendly" is not a word in his vocabulary. If you ask him for help, you don't get a smile. You get a fluttering hand waving in your face to distract you, and while you're watching his left hand, BOOP! His right hand comes down on top of your head.

If you don't instantly blade your hand over your nose to block it, he will straight up poke you in both eyeballs with his index and middle fingers like a maniac.

He thinks this is the height of comedy. It’s exactly how he earned the nickname Moe. Everyone thinks his name is Maurice. Nope. It’s because he is a living, breathing Moe Howard from The Three Stooges. If you value your vision, you don't ask Moe for directions.

FOMO, Crocs, and the Bitter End

Meanwhile, back at home, our buddy Cmdr. McCroc was absolutely drowning in his feelings all week. Every time I checked in on him, he was completely butt-hurt. Why? Because he didn’t get an invite to our San Diego glamping excursion.

I told him, "McCroc, you don't even like baseball!"

He snapped back, "That's not the point! I wanted the chance to say 'No, thank you'!"

On top of that, he cried because he missed the opportunity to debut his brand-new Mater Crocs (yes, Cars-themed Crocs). He proudly informed me they were brown "to match the Padres."

The trip finally wrapped up with the WCOs asking if we wanted to join them for lunch at Harrah’s on the way home. Once again, I had to remind them of the laws of physics.

"Motorhome. Toad. Small roads," I texted back.

Until next time, Chroniclers—keep your coffee hot and your friends away from your eyeballs.

You know what to do: Drink ‘em if you got ‘em!

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