A Note from the Chairman
I was advised to introduce myself, though I assumed my name on the letterhead would suffice.
I am Langford T. Highcroft, Chairman of The Brock Boheme Club—by tradition, not desire. What follows is not a diary. It is not for entertainment. It is a record. A log of the things I see, hear, and am forced to endure within these once-disciplined grounds.
You may read it. You may even recognize yourself. If so, I suggest making peace with that privately.
— Langford T. Highcroft
Chairman
The Brock Boheme Club
Journal Entry: April 2025
The gates opened this morning. Against my better judgment.
They came in droves. Laughing. Hugging. Wheeling in overnight bags far too large for a weekend stay.
Someone brought a goldendoodle wearing a bandana. Someone else brought a ukulele. Neither were approved by the Board.
I watched from the upper balcony with a double espresso and the kind of grim determination normally reserved for wartime generals.
One member attempted to “cheers” me from the courtyard. I did not return the gesture. I do not “cheers.” I endure.
They call it "Opening Weekend". I call it the start of my seasonal migraine.
Still, I suppose it’s tradition. A few months of sunburnt elbows, barefoot brunches, and long-winded stories about “healing trips to Tulum.” Then, if I’m lucky, they all go home and leave me with what really matters: silence, smoke, and the last good chair in the library.
Until then, I remain your unwilling host.
Journal Entry: May 2025
Goldendoodles. Everywhere I turn. Like a designer plague.
There were four on the terrace this morning. Four. All panting, wagging, and shedding a fine mist of entitlement across the antique teak furniture. One wore a bowtie. Another had a bandana that said “Who Rescued Who.” I nearly choked on my espresso.
Let me be clear: these are not dogs. They are Instagram content in fur form. Purpose-bred to have no personality and low-maintenance opinions. They bounce. They frolic. They smell vaguely of lavender and vanilla.
And their owners — dear God. Always talking about their dog’s "emotional vocabulary" and how Cooper “just gets them.” You know who else got you? A licensed therapist. Bring them to brunch instead.
This is a Club. Not a farmers market in Aspen.
One member asked if we could install a “puppy popsicle station.” I told him no. I also told him to leave.
Journal Entry: June 2025
Someone touched the thermostat.
Not metaphorically. Not figuratively. Physically. With their bare, unworthy hands.
It was set—perfectly, I might add—at 72 degrees. The temperature of reason. Of restraint. Of civilized conversation. Then, sometime between my second espresso and the sound of someone yelling “Marco!” near the pool, it was bumped up to 76.
Seventy-six. That is the temperature of poor judgment and undercooked poultry.
I entered the lounge and was hit with a wall of heat and peppermint vape fog. Members were lounging around like it was a Florida retirement community in August. One man had unbuttoned his shirt to his waist and declared it “a tropical vibe.” I nearly resigned.
The thermostat is not a communal experiment. It is not a mood ring. It is a delicate instrument calibrated by me and a man from Zurich named Klaus.
I’ve removed the dial. No one will touch it again.