32 reasons to hate PVW….

“I think Depression suffers from Paul Wilson.” – MG Dense           

Thirty Two years have passed.

I’m a little older and a little miser.

My girlfriend, Lolo found and named my first grey back hair today. Long Live Charles the IV!

But honoring another meaningless birthday is not why I write to you, dear reader.

My 32nd birthday marks five years of relative sobriety!

I use the word ‘Relative’ for a reason.

Years ago, at friends wedding, I was duped into ingesting a magic cookie.

In that intense, yet illuminating, confrontation with the Oracle, the Sun God Ra, various ancestors and assorted deities, I concluded that my digestive system doesn’t tolerate any form of depressant, plant based or otherwise.


Last week, while clutching a giant Moscow Mule copper cup in Al the Wop’s, a farmer approached me and said,

“Wow! That’s the biggest Moscow Mule I seen since Donald Trump.”

I told him, “It’s water. I don’t drink.”

The farmer cajoled, “DUI’s must be expensive!”

I guess that most non-drinker’s have some kind of salacious fuck up on their resume that justifies not drinking. A 502 would spare me the awkwardness of having to explain my relationship with Alcohol to people who really don’t care to begin with... (If you do care, read on)

Many others assume I am sober because I am descended from a long line of famous drunks and depressive alcoholics.

This too, while a promising theory, misses the point.

The real reason is far less complicated.

I don’t drink because it bores me.

When I drank, the same, predictable pattern played itself out over and over again, yielding the same cringe-worthy results.

Boredom breeds indifference. Indifference breeds objectivity.

I stopped drinking New Years Eve 2013 at EXP 10.

The day after I met Lolo.

Not needing to quell the anxiety of meeting girls helped abstaining this long. So Lolo, as per usual, deserves the Lion’s share of the credit for keeping of the sauce.

But even after five years of teetotaling, I don’t feel like it is much of an accomplishment. I never had a problem in the first place.

The accomplishment, and reason I write this, is in being honest with myself, the choices I make and not being thrown of by the masses. I know not drinking will hurt my career and social life, but I am not against it.

My best friends and heroes grow Wine Grapes. My grandfather was the last remaining commercial Hop Farmer in California. And my favorite part about sobriety is convincing others to get hammered and watching the subsequent spiral.

If the Boomer generation has taught me anything, it’s that hypocrisy has it’s merits.

So raise a glass of whatever and toast me….Here’s to another five years of sobriety! Here’s to another five years of Lolo putting up with me! And here’s to not ironically getting into a head on collision with a drunk driver on my way home tonight!

Feliz Año Nuevo!


When I was twelve, my dad and I went to Botswana.

A camp manager greeted us on arrival.

His name escapes me, but for reasons that will remain classified we’ll dub him, The WhiteWolf.

WhiteWolf was a red-headed, fifty something Afrikaans.

At dinner that night, WhiteWolf regaled the camp guests with tales about being a game warden in a park called Kruger.

The drunker WhiteWolf got, the more he revealed about himself.

He conspiratorially told everyone within a quarter mile earshot that his co-worker and best friend at Kruger was a Black Man (pronounced “Blek Man.”)

For the sake of the story, we’ll call him BlekSideKick.

Part of being a game warden means protecting Rhinos, Elephants and other Big Game from Ivory Poaching.

Meaning effectively; WhiteWolf and BlekSideKeck’s job at Kruger was to Poach Poachers.

Of course, my Dad was riveted.

Corporate Poaching is his favorite pastime.

So much so, our competition derisively calls us ‘The Rivermaid Traders.’

BlekSideKick’s job whilst Poaching Poachers  was to “Slap the Bullets in my hand” when WhiteWolf needed to reload.

One night, BlekSideKeck called in sick.

This left WhiteWolf all by himself on Poaching Poacher Patrol.

WhiteWolf patrolled alone until daybreak.

As the sun crested over the horizon, WhiteWolf spotted someone through his scope with a freshly harvested Rhino Horn.

When he focused his sights, he realized that the man who killed the Rhino was none other than BlekSideKeck!

“I had no one to slap the bullets in my hand!” WhiteWolf crescendoed. Tears welling in his eyes.

WhiteWolf went on to tell us that he was forced to shooting his best friend, BlekSideKeck, for Rhino poaching.

This sent my Dad and I recoiling in horror.

If the Weasel Warren has taught my Dad and I anything it’s that:

Et Tu moments accrue as your hairline recedes you.

“Batman’s real arch-nemisis is a good therapist who knows how to cope with loss.” -Michael Malice

Two weeks ago, we made that awful trip to the Vet that no good dog owner wants to make.

Until the last month of his life, our dog eyed me suspiciously as if he knew this day would come.

Initially, I didn’t want to like him.

He was a Six Pound-Six Ounce Yorkie. The Runt of his litter.

Eventually he won me over.

In a weird way, he was the crucial grounding point that formed the relationship between my girlfriend and I.

He was fiercely protective. I routinely watched him walk-down dogs ten to fifteen times his size.

He’d chase cats, chickens, possums, squirrels or anything that (his words) “Deserved to Die” for invading his territory.

I am a territorial man. I beam with pride writing this.

People say that they love their dogs for the unconditional love they receive from them. I disagree.

Unconditional love only gets you so far. Sometimes it even gets you into trouble.

People love their dogs because of their unconditional empathy.

Empathy without intention.

Last year, The Fear forced me into taking 10 minute 45 degree ice baths to calm nerves. The dog was my right hand man throughout the whole process.

He, like all dogs or real friends, appeared not when he needed you.

But when you needed him.

“Through him….With him…In him…..”

In 2018, the Catholic Church will unveil it’s new “Sin Forgiveness Program.”

It is an In-App Confessional Booth/Collection Plate that doles out varying sums of ‘Our Fathers’ and ‘Hail Mary’s’ based on atrocities committed.

It’s an effort, which I fully support, to keep Ol’ Padre’s tentacles from extending past The Rectory.

When I reached my majority, I developed an antagonism with The Church.

Catholicism put a definite, almost permanent, strain on my relationship with the Almighty.

For now, I’d like to clarify my stance.

I’d never publically shame an organization that subsidizes pedophiles or shelters cruel hypocrites.

What if I am Freddo Corleoned in a ‘Happy accident’ or given a terminal diagnosis?

That would destroy my eventual plan to baseball slide into spiritual home-base, returning to my predisposed religion just under The Almighty’s tag.

“You think dogs will not be in heaven? I’ll tell you they will be there long before any of us.”-Robert Louis Stevenson

It is said that Grief is so painful people that invented people invented religion to endure the emotion. I totally agree with this sentiment.

Grief avoidance or Grief repression is like holding your soul hostage. It leaves you dead on the inside.

For the first time in a long time, I felt real grief for my dogs passing.

Feeling feelings is Cathartic? Cazart!

In spite of the grief we are enduring, Lolo and I realize how lucky we are to have had him 12.5 years.

He left no lawn unanointed. No loved one unloved.

We are going to miss Lazy Saturday’s, W-Words(Walks) and going on adventures.

But most of all, we will miss missing him.

Which to me, is the hardest part of losing any loved one.

It is my one true hope that the Dogma that ‘All Dogs go to Heaven’ is real.

Because if I slip past St. Peter’s gate, I’ll get to say “Sorry, Skeety for being late.”


An open letter to my nephew Danny

(My sister asked me to write a letter to my nephew Danny for his time capsule.)


If you are reading this, I am dead.

Just kidding.

I’ve always wanted to say that.

But seriously, in this, the year of our lord 2034, there is a distinct possibility that I am in fact dead.

If that is in fact the case, allow me to extend my deepest condolences and impart some wisdom I wish my Uncles had imparted on me before crossing over.

(Side note: If Führer Trump has changed our National Language to the more “Robust” German, my apologies for writing this in English.)

  1. Chiles Wilson will pay for anything he gets to name.
  1. Chiles Wilson’s idea of keeping a secret is telling one person at a time.
  1. Your brain will not fully develop until you are Thirty. I can say that, I am Thirty. Parts of this you will not understand. Be sure to re-read this in twelve years to thoroughly engrain my message. Gather, surmise and ye shall learn.
  1. Never drink Absinthe.
  1. Never drink Absinthe in Budapest, and claim to everyone in Buda and Pest that you are the starting tailback for the Alabama Crimson Tide.
  1. Nothing good happens at Al the Wops past 10 P.M.
  1. Horse’s are stupid animals. To paraphrase your namesake, Uncle Daniel, “Anything that weighs 1500lbs, and lets you ride it, is stupid.”
  2. Never brush your teeth with Preparation H.
  1. If you ever get arrested by Isleton PD. Shut your mouth. If you’re the gabby sort, just say nonono to every question they ask. Your father is an officer of the peace. He will reaffirm this message.
  1. Take baths, not showers. If you are the depressive sort, take Ice baths. If you need to sleep take hot epsom salt baths. Although not time expedient, the meditative benefits are enormous. Grandpa Chiles is a bath taker. So was Winston Churchill. Both Hitler and Trump took showers. Not together. At least not that I am aware of….

Remember, I too, had a weird Uncle Paul.

He used to drunk dial me and tell me how much he loved me. Then, he’d drunk dial your mom and tell her how much he loved me.

Weird. I know.

I would do this to you, but I am 5 years sober and you don’t have a phone or a sister.

For now this letter will have to suffice.


Your weird Uncle Paul.



A young African American mat coordinator approaches me and asks,

“White Masters?”

Under normal circumstances, I’d find this ironic.

But my sense of irony was lost five pounds ago.

I am White Masters.

White Belt, Masters division.

Even though I was competing at the Worlds, I was considerably less nervous than previous competitions.

The IBJJF Worlds, or Mundials as it is known to Brazillians, is the most prestigious Gi Jiu-Jitsu Tournament in the World.

The day before, I drove down with AW as my co-pilot.

He impressed me by being able to navigate the Sunset Strip only using knowledge gleaned from Grand Theft Auto.

We stopped at the Comedy Store, had front row seats ($40/ticket) to see Joe Rogan, Bryan Callen and Chris De’lia. De’lia roasted me for five minutes for using the restroom in between sets.

The next morning we awoke to our hotel being protested by a labor union.

Bullhorns, picketers and a giant Inflatable Bed Bug all were chastising our hotel.

It ended up being a blessing in disguise, because they allowed us to stay in the room until 4 P.M.

We drove to the Walter Pyramid in Long Beach. Checked our weights and returned to the hotel to sweat out the subsequent three pounds.

Only three American-born Black Belts have ever won gold at this tournament.

Which means our solidly Swiss-Irish lineage would be a disadvantage.

I say, disadvantage, because AW lost by an advantage point in his semi-final match to a guy who ended up winning the whole tournament.

An advantage is an extremely subjective ruling that determines the winner of close matches and is generally awarded to the competitor that demonstrates more Brazillianess or whose team has more clout within the IBJJF.

Wait? Did my tongue slip there? My fingers? Or did AW go up against a student of the most decorated IBJJF competitors in recent history, Rafa  and Gui Mendes?

The Mendes Brothers are to Jui Jitsu Competition, what the Menendez Brothers were to their Parents.


Ten World Titles between the two…..

And I had to coach my little brother against them, standing shoulder to shoulder with them.

The “Who the **** is this guy’ looks were palpable.



“PAUL VINCENT WILSON WHITE MASTERS!” my mat co-ordinator is excarbated.

I guess I just wanted to squeeze every ounce of irony out of the situation.

My division is being summoned. The white belt, masters division(over 30).

My first match was uneventful. I won on points.

The second match, more of the same.

I remember noticing that my opponent and I were wearing matching Under Armour Underwear. Which gave me pause.

Even though I dominated him, took his back, almost finished him….blah blah blah… I ended the match exhausted and wanting to vomit.

I remember clearly thinking to myself.

“Paul even your dog has the decency to puke under the couch. It can wait. ”

Fortunately, I had enough time to watch the other semi-finals between a guy from Kazakhstan and an American from Werdum’s gym.

I have a robust fear of anyone from an Eastern block country who is making enough money to travel to America.

So when the American won, I was naturally relieved.

My final match against the American was a rout.

I lost on points.

9-0. No excuses, the guy was better than me.

After my match I went to the sidelines, took my Gi top off and my ref yelled at me in Portoguese.

I understood him perfectly, but wanted to amp things up in the same vein of my White Masters dilemma an hour ago.

I left my shirt off, and repeatedly ask my Ref “What’s the problem.”

He got so angry and flustered that what little English he knew had escaped him.

It took him about 3 minutes to finally stammer, “Put. Shirt. Put Shirt on”

It was a small moral victory, in my otherwise Silver Medal effort.

Grappling with Grappling

“Jesus Man! You don’t go looking for Jiu-Jitsu! Jiu-Jitsu finds you when it thinks you’re ready” –Runter Chompson.

On the way to the tournament, AW and I fought like banshees over dominance of the radio.

AW was playing the sorriest excuse for rap music since Shaq dropped his mixtape.

Eventually, we settled on listening to the Joe Rogan Experience.

A colossal mistake.

The guests on the show were Joe Schilling and Yves Edwards and topic of discussion was on the side effects of head trauma.

My head hurt just thinking about it.

I inventoried all major and minor concussive events of my life.

Do I have CTE?

CTE could explain a lot of my bad decision-making.

The San Joaquin County Coroner is the man who the movie “Concussion” was based on.

I guess if I am murdered by some disgruntled farmer for channeling my inner George Washington(chopping down my Father’s cherry trees), I implore you, my dear reader, to inquire about the extent of brain damage I’ve incurred in the post-mortem.


AW, Miguelito and I arrived at the tournament two hours early.

The Kaiser Permanente Arena was ironically playing host to the 23rd U.S. Open Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu Tournament.

Ironically, because twenty-four hours after competing in the event, I’d be getting X-rayed for rib fractures at Kaiser Permanente of Elk Grove.

I had to pee every five minutes. Which meant that I was nervous.

Physical confrontation scares me.

At one point, I was nervous about not being nervous enough.

I had to remind myself that a trained, full grown man is going to try to strangle you in front of all my friends.

I’m nervous again.

AW and I weighed-in and warmed up together in the competitor bullpen.

AW was set to compete before me.

Which was good because watching my little brother compete is far more nerve wracking than competing myself.

AW submitted both his opponents handily.

“Now I can have fun,” I thought to myself.

The event coordinator called for my group, the over thirty, under 150lb pound division.

My first opponent looked like a Crossfitter’s wet dream. Heavily muscled and shredded with about five inches on me.

I was legitimately intimidated.

I repeat the simple, yet effective advice my coaches Randy and Lucas had given me,

“Get grips” and “Wait for the other guy to screw up.”

Neither Randy nor Lucas were there, but in their place was Olin.

Olin is eighteen years old and a Blue Belt at our academy.

Normally, I don’t take advice from eighteen year olds, but Olin isn’t your average eighteen year old.

He’s a trained killer with the maturity and bearing of someone twice his age.

I’m lucky to have him in my corner.

The referee signaled for my opponent and I to meet in the center of the mat.

We bowed and shook hands.

The ref said  “Combate” and we were off.

I circled around him and got dominant grips.

The second I got grips, I knew I would win.

It was a very instinctive, almost primal feeling.

The knowing.

My opponent shot in for a take down and I sprawled fracturing my rib in the process.

A flurry ensued and somehow, I took his back.

The match ended.

I won on points, but had to hobble back to the sidelines.

The pain was so bad I couldn’t breathe.

PVW “Tell me I will be okay”

Olin “You will be okay.”

The placebo worked.

Olin and I discussed strategy for my next match. We decided that my rib was broke and I should pull guard.

I felt like I was Daniel-Son in the Karate Kid.

Injured, yet soldiering on.

I used to tell people that my Grandpa Tim taught Mr. Myagi how to prune.

The best kind of lies are the believable ones.

Pat Morita (Mr. Myagi) grew up 10 miles from our hometown and Grandpa Tim was an avid pruner.

Karma is a ……


I used to tell people that learning Jiu-Jitsu is the hardest thing I have ever done, but I have to amend that. Watching my mother die, and learning to live without her was the hardest thing I have ever done.

Waiting on the sidelines for my next match, agonizing in pain, I silently wished that my mother could see me.

Broken. Powering through the pain.

I closed my eyes.

For the first time since my mom’s passing sixteen years ago, I felt her presence so acutely that my rib pain went away.

It was such a beautiful moment that I started to cry, being sure to face the opposite direction of my teammates, so I didn’t look like a wussy.

If being raised Catholic taught me anything, it was how to suppress negative emotions.

A feeling of invincible calm came over me about the time that the ref signaled for me to come to the center of the mat for my next match.

The match went by pretty quickly.

I remember pulling guard and sweeping him, but can not remember much else.

The referee yelled “Paro”(Portuguese for stop) and like every clichéd sports story, my hand was raised.

On the ride home, Miguelito and AW were forced to listen to me make complaints about my rib and absurd statements like “Man, I think I could do this shit for a living.”

But I really should know better.

Marry your mistress and you create a vacancy.

The last time a gun was pulled on me…

I have had three guns pulled on me in my lifetime.

Once by a buddy in the Special Forces.

At 3AM, I accidentally slept-walked into his master bath, needing to see a man about a horse.

The second time, was by a friend in The Business who needed to “Help me understand” and make sure his message was thoroughly engrained.

(Enter a guess as to his identity in the comment section below.)

The third time, my very own attorney pulled a gun on me.

And as the Irish proverb goes….. the third times the charm.

February 13, 2016

AW’s 21st Birthday Party….

Walnut Grove.

“86 degrees!”

I announce, while pointing a laser thermometer at my attorney’s forehead.

Some laugh. Others don’t.

If the Dragons Den has taught me anything, it’s that my jokes are funnier when people are paid to laugh at them.

My attorney, a known Irishman, pulled a Sig Sauer from his coat pocket and pointed back at me with a laser of his own.

I froze, contemplated my existence and ducked behind a file cabinet.

Screen Shot 2016-03-19 at 3.23.06 PM

PVW and Lee Chris Oswald. My attorney.

Even though my attorney no longer practices the art of law, he remains, at all times, prepared to enact swift country justice.

This calms me.

Who ever gave my attorney a conceal to carry permit deserves an award.

The attorney (name redacted by editor) holstered his weapon and the party limped back to life awkwardly.

I rose from behind cover, looked down and realized,

“I am wearing a Hunter Thompson for Sheriff t-shirt.”

In my head, I file this under “Preposterous”….

Not “Foreshadowing”….

February 22, 2016

8 P.M.


My disdain for the Irish began at thirty.

By blood, I am half Irish.

In spite of my racial handicap, I identify as Mexican.


Quiz time!

Is it that….

A. I speak fluent Spanish.
B. I work in Ag.
C. My great-great-great grandfather Joseph B. Chiles, was granted Mexican Citizenship in 1844
D. I love with my beautiful Mexican girlfriend.


E. All the above

If you answered E, you are correct…

You win a Dolores Huerta T-shirt.

¡Si se puede!

I hate to be a turncoat Irishman, but I don’t even drink.  Subtracting liquor from the Irish diet dilutes your inherent Irishness.

Like starving a fire of air.

I didn’t even want to bring race into the equation in the first place.

It’s when McGregor tweeted “I see a fajita.”,  that I lost it.
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What’s this Fenian’s agenda?

Screen Shot 2016-03-23 at 10.32.15 AM

Hostile takeover?

I’ve seen propaganda like this before.





Did McGoebbells want to solve the Blonde-Burnette problem?

A ginger master-race?

Trump the new führer!

Ed Sheeran!

A disturbing pattern indeed.

The Fourth Reich was upon us.

If you subjugate a sub-sect of the world long enough, eventually, they will rise to challenge you.

Allow me to explain….

Rafael dos Anjos, UFC lightweight champion, broke his foot in preparation for his upcoming fight against Irish Megastar Connor “The Notorious” McGregor at UFC 196.

Leaving a vacancy, I knew only one man could fill.

We needed our own final solution.

We needed to fight propaganda with more propaganda.

We needed our own Winston Churchill.

And when Dana White announced McGoebbell’s next opponent on ESPN that night, I knew we had the man we needed.

And they call that man……

Nate Diaz

.Screen Shot 2016-03-22 at 9.06.33 AM

“Every now and then when your life gets complicated and the weasels start closing in, the only cure is to load up on heinous chemicals and then drive from Hollywood to Las Vegas … with the music at top volume and at least a pint of ether.”-Hunter S. Thompson

March 4. 2016

5:30 AM


My trip to Las Vegas would not resemble outlaw journalist Hunter S. Thompson’s savage journey , in the least.

No bats.

No attorney wildly waving a gun at me.

I did, however, have a fine drug collection.

I had one bottle of Alpha Brain, 90 pills of Shroom-tech sport, five pills of 3mg extra strength melatonin, fish oil, 5-htp, ZMA’s, Vitamin D, a gallon Ziploc bag full of sweet potatoes(Thanks Miller! #QuailHFarms), a bag of protein, a jug of Bulletproof Brain Octane MCT Oil and a can of Glutamine. . 

Not that I needed that, but once you’ve fallen victim to Joe Rogan’s clever marketing, the tendency is to push it as far as you can go.

Imagine having to explain the practical uses of glutamine powder to U.S. Border Patrol.

Imagine a cinder block interrogation room …..

Flourecent lights ……

One ominous drain on the center of the floor…..

Imagine one cop putting on latex gloves …..

The other cop telling you to put your hands against the wall ….

Imagine having to mentally prepare yourself for a cavity search….

Imagine THAT feeling….

You’d think once you’ve experienced THAT FEELING….

I’d stop driving around with what amounts to a supplement lab in my backseat….

But common sense has never been my thing…..

Lack of common sense is WHY I needed to remind myself, why I hated Las Vegas….

I hate Vegas because I haven’t left a winner since playing hooky, super senior year with a known Cherry exporter.

This was, of course, before he blocked me on Facebook for reasons that will soon become obvious to the reader.

Telling someone “My dads cluster cutter can beat up your dad’s cluster cutter” is grounds for unfriending someone in the Cherry Business.

Who knew.

My second favorite brother, AW, was set to arrive in Vegas at High Noon.

He had “class” at Modesto JC (Dr. Gonzo’ s Alma Mater).

AW would never play hooky for a last second Vegas trip.

(Full disclosure:

I don’t train drop….

Nate Diaz taught me that….

But AW and I have been “training” Jiu Jitsu with the Diaz Brothers under Black Belt Instructor Randy Spence since 2013.

In 2015, AW ears finally cauliflowered.

I say “training”, but I mean learning to survive.

Learning Jiu Jitsu has been a deeply stoic/savage exercise in violence and humility.

I have learned more at about empathy, mastery and the human condition at GracieFighter Lodi than just about anywhere, save Albert dal Porto and Robert Greene.

Sadly, by training there, I have incurred a lot of negative feedback from the landed gentry of my hometown.

Nothing strikes fear in the heart of a Boomer Fox News enthusiast more than two cage fighters with more money than they can realistically spend and no real reason to fear any person or thing that walks around < 200 lbs…

Boiled down to their essence, the Diaz Brothers are two hard working athletes with the courage to tell the truth, who enjoy the occasional Marijuana cigarette.

Nothing to fear really…..

Unless you have to fight them.

I could write books about why I love Jiu Jitsu or  Gracie Fighter Lodi so much, but these guys did a much better job herehere, here, here, here , here and here.)

March 4, 2016.

High noon.


MGM Sports Book.

My attorney once told me,

“In blackjack or life: DON’T HIT ON 17.”

This advice would serve me well because AW looks like a cross between Justin Beiber and Human Growth Hormone.

Put simply, if I had his body, I wouldn’t own a shirt.

Once AW arrived, we made a beeline for the sports book.

For reasons still unknown, AW chose to do two separate ATM transactions.

When asked why, AW replied,

“Less risk.”

Nate Diaz was the +450 underdog, going into this welterweight bout.

Training partners of ours, were all betting the under.

One friend, in an attempt to channel the stoner gods, bet $420 on Nate Diaz.

AW put $200 on Nate Diaz.

When asked why,

AW replied,

“I have big Conejos.”

(English Translation: I have big rabbits.)

That’s the great thing about AW.

He combines, in beautiful measure, actual stupidity with feigned stupidity. You never know which is which.

I ended up parlaying a consequential amount of money on Thatch, Tate and Nate.

Which would have netted me THREE large, off an initial investment of $100, but the Nevada State Athletic Commission didn’t allow Thatch, the notorious party animal, into the octagon on ecstasy, thus losing me my initial investment….

I knew that McGoebells never faced anyone with Nate’s Boxing and Jiu jitsu pedigree. Plus the fight was at 170.

For me, it should’ve been easy money.

But I would never tell anyone what to do with his or her money.

No room for risk in the Cherry business.

Plus, I prefer to prophesize after the event has taken place.

Just like Churchill.

March 4, 2016.

2:30 PM

UFC 196 Weigh-ins

Richard Perez(Nate Diaz's striking coach), Layzie, PVW, AW

Richard Perez(Nate Diaz’s striking coach), Layzie, PVW, AW

Through dumb luck, we passed Nate Diaz on his way back from cutting weight..

He invited us up to his room, and gave us a couple of the most comfortable t-shirts I own. 

AW tried to find a youth small, but had to settle for bulging out of an adult medium.

Not sure how I could re-pay such a generous gesture, especially to someone who just got done cutting weight ahead of the biggest fight of his career.

If I were in his shoes I wouldn’t be in any mood to be generous with my energy.

But that spirit of generosity is why Nate is, as Roosevelt said, “…in the arena marred by dust and sweat and blood,” and I am in the stands.

Ten minutes later, I found myself being escorted with AW and the posse, through the bowels of the MGM, up to the weigh-ins.

As we entered the arena, I noticed more Irish fans than feral pigs in Texas.

If you leave a domesticated pig in the wild, it takes six short weeks for them to grow tusks, long hair and become fully feral.

The same logic applies to Irish fans.

It takes just two beers and they grow tusks and start acting like wild pigs.

If my swine reference doesn’t translate, I’ll put it to you this way:

“The Irish were in no mood to see Diaz supporters.”

They expressed that sentiment by hurling unintelligible insults in a drunken mix of Gaelic and English that none of understood.

After AW and I watched the weigh-ins, we spent the rest of the night either running into comedian Tony Hinchcliffe or knee deep in various other forms of debauchery

Tony Hinchliffe

Tony Hiinchcliffe

March 5, 2016.

MGM Grand Garden Arena.

The Fights. 

“History is written by the victors.”

Churchill said that.

He was half-American, half-English.

Churchill’s money would be on Diaz.

He loved a man who grinned while he fought, he loved the underdog and   hated the Irish for crimes against the crown.

At the fight, our third Wilson brother, Manmountainthird joined us, fresh off a “Corporate Retreat” near San Quentin…

AW, Manmountainthird andarrived to the fights early.

We felt like Hunter Thompson at the DA’s conference.

Totally out of place.

Three of us, in Nate Diaz Represent T-shirts, swimming in a sea of White and Orange and Green and Ginger.

Even the chairs at the MGM were lime green.

I saw about thirty Nate Diaz fans, in a stadium of 17,000….

Statistically, we were the Spartans at Thermopolaye.

Yet, instead of Persians, they were Irishmen.

I started googling derogatory terms for the Irish, just in case we needed fodder for smack talk, but the Irish fans were corgile compared to the savages at the weigh-ins.

Apparently paying > $300 a ticket has a marked effect on your behavior.

Who knew.

The fights began and I quickly lost money on my parlay because Thatch got strangled by Afgani Siyar Bahadurzada.

During the Holm-Tate fight, a buddy of ours, Layzie, walked out of the tunnel.

He snuck in with his camera equipment, but without a ticket.

There was an empty seat next to us the entire night, so we prompted him to come sit with us.

Because Layzie  was wearing a matching Represent shirt, the usher didn’t even check for a ticket.

He sat next to us, in one of the best seats in the house at the biggest UFC of all time…..for FREE!

You truly are a Savage, Layzie.

After the Holm-Tate fight, Gunnar Nelson, McGoebbell’s jiu-jitsu training partner and ADCC standout, walked by us in a finely tailored suit.

Gunni!” I announce.

Forgetting that this man was technically a Persian at the gates.

Gunnar looked at me confused.

“Why does this Diaz fan want to shake my hand?”  probably ran through his head.

I am just a Jiu-Jitsu fanboy, but Gunnar didn’t know that.

He extended his hand. I shook it.

We share a moment.

It was then, when I looked deeply into his Nordic Blue Eyes , I realized…

NATE DIAZ was going to win!

There was hesitation in his soul.

Awkwardness in his posture.


As Gunnar walked away, thoroughly shaken from our interaction, the lights dimmed, piano keys banged and Tupac’s voice boomed over the loud speakers.

Nate Diaz came on the big screen and made his entrance.

In my mind, the fight was a forgone conclusion.

I leaned into AW and told him, “I feel like Nathan is going to win. I don’t know how. But I feel like he will.”

Nate Diaz was on what Robert Greene calls “Death Ground”.

Meaning Diaz had nothing to lose.

McGoebbell’s walkout music was a remix with Sinead O’connor’s Foggy Dew and The Game’s El Chapo.

A thought provoking choice of music.

Connor, if you’ve read this far….

A. Congratulations! I have trouble listening to myself ramble for this long.
B. If you are going to pretend to be “El Chapo”, don’t be surprised when you get caught.

Screen Shot 2016-03-19 at 1.05.44 PM

McGregor as El Chapo

When Diaz and McGoebbell touched gloves, I noticed Nick Diaz, Nate’s older brother, standing in the breezeway of the tunnel.

He approached us, shook all of our hands, and in typical Nick Diaz enigmatic fashion, returned to his place in the tunnel.

Even though I was confident Diaz would win and that he was the better fighter, seeing his brother right next to me made me think to myself:

“Man…I really hope Nate doesn’t get hurt.”

It was then I realized a clear and distinct difference between; watching a friend fight on TV versus watching a friend fight in person.

In person, they are no longer a caricature, but a human.

It humanized McGregor too.

The fight itself was a blur.

I clearly remember Diaz landing a one-two combination, stuffing a takedown, mounting and transitioning to McGregor’s back.

Lethargy put his arm around me and started jumping up and down yelling,

“Holysh*t! HolySh*t! HolySh*t!”

A surge of adrenaline washed over me.

I felt like I was chewing on Pineal Gland.

This was what Hunter Thompson called “The Heart of the American Dream.”

I turned to the crowd of mostly McGregor fans, and started yelling “Stockton! What! Stockton!” …

Time slowed down as Diaz sank in the rear naked and McGregor tapped.

I looked to my left, a mosh pit had formed around Nick Diaz.

Layzie turned to me…hugged me and shouted some thing unitelligble.

The next few memories are jumbled mix of flashes of high-fiving Alistair Overheem and Edmund Tarverydan, hugging Tyron Woodley and Julianna Pena and hurling insults at the Irish.

Sometimes I wonder about the tactical decision to flash gang signs at a crowd of drunk Irishman who just lost their William Wallace.

But in that moment, I didn’t care.

Nate Diaz, had just become the most famous man in the fastest growing sport in the world.

Thank you Nate, not only Representing the 209, but for single handedly preventing the Gingerpocalypse.

For now.

The Bulls Running with Me

A day after the Spanish beat the Dutch in the World Cup, I was on a train to partake in the second dumbest thing I have ever done. (First Place goes to the Wilson-Cook Gunshot Extranaganza)

I strike up conversation with the guy seated next to me, JoshER.

JoshER, a newly minted ER Doctor, just finished his residency at (for the sake of anonymity) some school.

He must have felt like I was some blonde trying to get a perscription for codine, because I sucked up to him for the entire train ride to Pamplona. (If I get gored the last thing I want is some Spanish Doc asking making procedural desicions based on my distaste for Futból.)

JoshER asked “What is that book you are reading, about?”
PVW “It is a linguistics book. It talks about how you think with words as symbols.”

It was not until I dissected our 3-hour conversation, that I realized he took note.

He casually peppered in words like trample, carnage, gore, horny, into his languaging. By the end of the train ride I felt like I was going to be one of Maximus’s next victims.

It wasnt until an hour after I was off the train, throughly shaken from our interaction, that I realized that I had succumbed to this man`s intellectual superiority.

Next Morning….

5:00 AM

Running of the Bulls.

I am getting a peptalk from the group leader, NutBar.

NutBar was like Crocodile Dundee mixed with Mike Tyson. Not the most stable guy, but for some reason the Aussies revered him.

A group composed of forty aussies and one American(Yours Truly) were staring at him in rapt, eyes glossed over, hypnotized.

He was explaining to the group, ” 10 seconds prior to the bulls coming around “Dead Man`s Corner” we are going to charge the herd, and maneuver behind them all the way into the arena.”

He insuiated instead of Running with the Bulls; We run AT the Bulls.

Little Voice “Um, I need to get away from this dude.”

I make my way up the block. The street is as narrow as the hallways at Delta High School.

Haphazardly, I run into JoshER. and sigh in relief of the logic that: If I get gored, it won´t be with the Steve Irwin wannabe down the block.

8:00:00 AM. First Gun goes off. Signifying that the first herd of the Bulls are released.

Breathing Normal. Heart rate slow. Crowd is at a slow trot.

8:00:31 Second Gun, goes off. Crowd lolly gaggin´

I have no visible exit for at least 400 yards.

I can not see cattle behind or in front of me.

All I hear are feet.

I look up at the people on the banisters

All I see are jaws dropping.

The bulls are close.

8:00:47 Crowd is at a full sprint. JoshER is nowhere in sight.

I look behind me and the crowd opens up directly behind me.

Wall to wall concrete for the next 150 feet.

8:00:49 No one is behind me. Except for a 650KG Orange Brahma Bull named Gavioto. He is not happy.

I am at a full sprint. I have 100 feet to go and no other options, but straight.

I pressed CTRL+Z five times, but I can not go any faster. He is closing in…

8:00:53 He is 2 strides behind me and I am weaving through the crowd, ducking, dodging.etc.

Wilson athletic prowess is completely untapped until our lives are on the line.

8:00:59 The corner is in sight.

8:01:00 I Reggie Bush Gavioto the Bull. Stop-Start and cut across the median and jump onto the fence. I am the victor.

8:01:01 While celebrating my victory, a cop pushes me off the fence and  back into the stampeding crowd. I am not the victor.

8:01:09 Gavioto trips, gets disoriented and starts charging my general direction. I hop on the fence and another cop pushes me off AGAIN! I push the cop back and and he falls off the fence. I smile.

8:01:20 Gavioto is disoreinted and I want to make it into the arena, before they close it off.

8:01:21 I am getting assualted by herdsman stick to get back. This is on the video . (3:44-3:48) Black Shorts, Red bandana)

8:02:00 I am in the arena. Victorious.

La Bamba del Fuego

In the span of ten minutes, I had six missed calls from Chilito.

Usually, this means someone is either dead, pregnant or arrested.

PVW “Chilito, SLOW DOWN, You what?”

Chilito “ComeToTheOffice. RIGHTNOW! YouAren’tGoingToBelieveThis.”

PVW “What is it?”

Chilito “HURRY UP. You won’t believe it. I have to show you.”

I walked into the office and found him looking at an ad on Craigslist.

It was so seductive, no man could resist.

My emotions were everywhere.

The opportunities were endless.

For just $700 I could be the proud owner of:



La Bamba del Fuego (LBDF for Short)

Mania set in.

A minute later, I was on the phone with the owner.

Negotiating terms and conditions and getting the price cut in half.

I would have gone lower, but the InvestmentTeam had ethical issues with paying less for something with such potential.

The next step was procurement.

The InvestmentTeam was skeptical about purchasing a vehicle that needed 24-volts to jump, had no seats and required vice grips to turn the ignition.

In typical Wilson fashion we bickered for a solid two hours.

Imagine Dale and Brennan from Step Brother’s debating, then multiply that by four.

PDub finally sprinkled in a little wisdom.

PDub  “Guys, we are supposed to regret this decision AFTER we make it.”

InvestmentTeam in unison “I’m in”

Everything after the purchase got hazy.

The Fuego took hold.

By the time I mustered the psychic energy to extract myself from the situation….

It was too late.

The damage was done.

In red spray paint, an investor had rudely written “I am the Pope” on  LBDF’s roof.

My half acre of grass was decimated into a perfectly spun donut.

Thirty construction cones, that lined, what used to be an obstacle course, were now lying on their backs and La Bamba del Fuego was missing a right front tire.


Before LBDF: After LBDF

After extensive treatment, she still remains in my front yard.


For just ten cents a day LBDF will be back to spinning donuts in no time.

To make a donation or become an investor in the Wounded LBDF Fund please contact members of the LBDF Board:

Chilito Wilson-CEO
Paul Wilson-   Silent Partner
Isaac Wilson- Key Grip
Jerry Colombini- Senor Limpio
Vic Rigas- Principal
Pedro Craig-Vice Grip
Nick D- Honorary Member/Mechanic

I Thomas Crowned her

My disdain for the French began in the eighth grade.

Twenty Walnut Grovian prepubescents were shipped off on a weeklong adventure in Paris.

Parental supervision in tow.

The trip represented an chance for kids, who otherwise would not have the opportunity, to spend an entire week in Paris for just under $600.

The group was travel weary.  90% of the group had never experienced a time change.

Walnut Grovians are not renown for high Travel IQ’s.

One morning, I stood in front of the Louvre.  Silent.  Patiently waiting for the rest of the group to exit the building.

Out of the corner of my eye I see a shoe.

Heading directly where?

The corner of my eye.

A perfectly executed karate kick hit me square in the temple.

I am dazed, but still manage to recover and scream at my attacker.

In typical French surrender monkey fashion, my attacker took off running towards the Siene.

I must of sounded German.

Long story short: Unprovoked, I was roundhouse kicked in the face by a complete French stranger.

Little did I know, that this would be the metaphorical shooting of the Archduke Ferdinand that would start a war between the French culture and yours truly.

At one point in everyman’s life he seeks to gain the attention and approval of his father.

The men who deny this are usually the guiltiest of them all..

I am not innocent of this “Crime.”

In fact, I am the posterboy for it. If trying to get your Dad’s Attention was cool, you could call me Bear Pascoe.

Turns out impressing my father was not following in his footsteps…like I assumed.

There are three simple steps to impressing him…..

  1. Be French
  2. Be Gay
  3. Steal Something really cool.

If you think otherwise, you haven’t done your research..

Let’s run through each category.

1. Be Gay

As much as my High School career would have liked it, I am not gay.  Fortunately, an American tradition known as CO-Ed Dorms  solved that issue.

2. Be French

My dad loves to eat expensive French Food.

Not because of the taste, ambiance or overall experience. He eats French Food because the French waiters are rude to him.

I took the time out of my busy schedule to do a Pavlovian experiment on him.

Stimulus: A French waiter turns up his nose and rolls his eyes at one of my Dads simple requests for…bread, water, a new fork…etc
Response: My Dad starts cooing like Hans Landa when he finds a Jew and  makes statements like “They are so French.”

That leaves one option.

3. Steal something really cool.

Paul Harvey has nothing on this transition into…

The Rest of the story….

Paris June 12, 2011

I in my standard workout attire: Underarmour Shorts. Tangerine Bandana. Val Kilmers 1980’s Oakley’s.

I am now ready to start my run.

I press start on my Timex Ironman Watch.

0:04 Damn I feel good. I am going to crush this 10k..
0:45 My forearm veins are making a guest appearance. This thoroughly scares the shit out of pedestrians.
2:15 Cazart! Do I have my passport on my person?
2:30 Yes I do. This God damn this Passport Paranoia will never quit.
9:38 Is that… No… It cant be!
9:45 I Stop. Turn around . Yes it is.
9:46 She will be mine, Oh yes. She will be mine
9:48 Must keep running. Handle this later.
40:10 10k Finished. I am god.

She was seated on the sidewalk, leaning up against a cafe. The only reason she was there was because of the construction workers doing work above her.

She is being protected by a crew of ten construction workers, but that will not stop me.

I mouth the words, “Come with me.”

She whispers, “Rue de Dunkerque.”

I slide up next to her and casually order an Espresso. The construction workers pay no attention and continue working on the Cafes Overhang.

I order 2nd Espresso. I want to make picking her up look natural.

She won’t fit in my bag.

I will just wait for the Construction Crew’s lunch break.


Everybody eats their Baguette while Welding, Sawing, Screwing…etc.

It was time to Thomas Crown Her

I put my backpack over her.

I wrap the shoulder straps of my backpack around her.

She is completely hidden in between my back and backpack.

I stand up, and we walk out of there unscathed.

Now, she can’t speak.

She can only SIGN .“Rue De Dunkerque.”

Ladies and Gentleman, This is the Official Story of how I finally impressed my Father.

I stole a  French Street Sign.

Her name is “Rue de Dunkerque.”

The last time I tried to dig my way to China…..

The last time I tried to dig my way to China, I was four.

Shovel in hand, I renounced my family, marched into the backyard and started digging.

I dug until my parents distracted me.

They told me that the next episode of Zorro was on TV, thus putting my travel plans on hold.

That instance, marks the only time I have ever tried to go to China…. on purpose.

Twenty-five short years later, I found myself on a China Southern A380 Airbus, scheduled to lay over in Guangzhou, China.

While taxiing on the LAX tarmac, I sang my own highly annoying, out of pitch version of “In the arms of an angel” to my girlfriend, Lolo.

As I crescendo to the chorus,  the PA system  unceremoniously interrupts me with squawking Chinese.

In unison, the Chinese-speaking passengers in sardine class unbuckle their seat belts.

Very unsettling.

A voice translates “We have minor technical with engine.”

I am infuriated for three reasons.

1. I know that we will miss our connecting flight in Guangzhou.
2. How on earth did they find an issue with the engine 15 seconds before take off. What kind cheap-jack of operation is this?
3. Are we going to be the next Asiana Flight 214 meme?

Turns out that flying on Google flight’s cheapest airline has it’s decided drawbacks.

Two hours later, and a great deal of muffled cursing on my part, the Rolls Royce engines are fixed (allegedly) and we start our trek across the Pacific.

A strong tailwind brought us into Guangzhou as scheduled, leaving only thirty minutes to connect. Enough time to get on our connecting flight.

We thought.

My girlfriend and I grab our carry-on, rush up  the boarding ramp, turn a couple corners  and find ourselves in line with at least a thousand other passengers.

It appeared to be some kind of communist/make-work/we check your passport and boarding pass line.

If we get into this line, we will miss our flight.

I notice a security guard’s back is turned, dip underneath the velvet ropes, Lolo in tow, and gain access to  Business-First Class queue.

I tell Lolo conspiratorially to follow my lead, and plan to explain that we were upgraded mid-flight to first class.

“There must’ve been some kind of terrible misunderstanding.” I practice in my head, preparing for my eventual interrogation.

The communist/make-work/we check your passport and boarding pass lady didn’t notice our Coach stamp.

She checked our boarding pass and shoed us away.

We made our flight to Singapore and arrived in Singapore four hours later.

Unfortunately, our luggage wasn’t so lucky.

Teaching us the old “If you have a connecting flight, carry-on all your bags lesson.”

Screen Shot 2015-12-13 at 8.32.31 PM

Top of Marina Bay Sands

We made it through Singaporean customs with no luggage.

A short taxi cab later,  we checked into my favorite hotel in the world,  The Swissotel Stamford.

Thanks to a sweet Expedia deal, we stayed at The Stamford for  less than it costs me to see my General Physician.


It was really great getting to share the experience with my girlfriend. This is the first time I have traveled outside the country with anyone, let alone Lolo. She was a total trooper and powered through the jet lag to explore the city with me.

By the time we ate Beer Chilli at Brewerkz and took the elevator to the top of the Marina Bay Sands, our lost luggage arrived. After that we slept like we had drank out of the fountain of Bill Cosby.

Stockholmed in Lodi

Two. Four. Six. Oh. One……

I may have fallen in love with my captors.

The last month of my life has been spent off-setting the sh*t out of my carbon footprint.

I have planted 6,000 Cherry and Pear Trees.

Well, I haven’t planted them, but I have supervised.

I have the “Super Vision.”

(SideNote: I visited a warehouse in Washington where someone handed me their business card. It read:

John Gorton
Chief Visionary Officer

This man obviously shares my “Super Vision”

My business card should read

Paul Vincent Wilson
Overcompensated Overcompensator.)

Hauling trees was the daily mission for the last two months

I capped of last week with a small load of 400 trees.

As I loaded the truck, I climbed atop the load and deadlifted the tree box from a small plastic strap. I overestimated the structural integrity of the strap.

It broke.

I launched backwards and back fliped onto the pavement.

I landed  in catlike perfect pushup position.

Saving my nose and teeth just in time.

Thanks to PDub, it is now available for you’re viewing pleasure on YouTube,
complete with premature victory celebration, punctuated by sprained wrist realization.


The Linden Dissertation

“If your last name ends with a consonant, you don’t belong in the Cherry Business.”
-Sil Gandolfini
Chief Magistrate
California Cherry Board

People think that I hang out with Linden-Italians too much, but they are wrong.

There is a big difference between merely “Hanging out” and learning to respond to them aggressively.

This difference, in the Cherry Business, is the difference between SUCCESS and FAILURE.

If you listen to a Linden-Italian, and all you get is the jumble of disconnected information they impart; then you are doomed for a career of fear and confusion.

You will feel like Dorothy skipping through Oz:

“Spotted Winged Drosophila….Glossy Winged Sharpshooter….Tom Gotelli…Oh my”

The lesson I teach is simple, but must be learned.

Once, I was verbally accosted by a Linden-Italian.

David meets Goliath. PVW meets Colombini.

I threateningly ended the argument with

Colombini, when I take this company over, the first thing I will do is fire you”

Mind you, I was seven years old at the time.

Five minutes later, and some desperate negotiation on his part, I reconsidered because
A) He grows cherries
B) You don’t fire my Italian Consigliere

As Consigliere, he has the tough job of smoothing out my non-existent rough edges.

Also he has been charged with giving me perspective on the Cherry Underworld.

Turns out, the average Cherry season and Sopranos Season are quite similar.

Only, in the Cherry Business, there are more guns, less killing, equal time at strip clubs* with just enough cuckoldry and back-stabbing to make it exciting. Was that a run-on sentence?

Well, if we must run-on , I guess we shall.

Until next weeks fellas….

Yours in Christ,

Suitcasing in Europe

“So, your going packbacking around Europe?” asked my best friend, who happens to be the World’s foremost expert in Jean Shorts.

I pondered the question. Then replied, “No, I am suitcasing around Europe.”

I felt that painted a more accurate potrayal of my travel style. I feel like backpacking insinuates that I will be sleeping underbridges, not showering for weeks on end and traversing rugged terrain.

I spent the last week with Frenchman. I don’t want to smell like one too.

Unfortunately for me, Skype did not allow video.

I am sure his head was hung low, occilating disapprovingly. He was thinking to himself, my friend thinks too much.

All I could get out of him was, “Your are retard. I hope you don’t come back.”

Some of my friends are about as supportive as Macually Culkin’s Parents. It healthy though, they keep my ego balanced.


“Your Suitcase is overpacked!” said Leslie, my favorite step-mother as I was humming Leaving on a Jet Plane

I should have taken note.

After spending countless hours confined to the Fedex London, the next time a female tells me I overpacked, I will take heed.

We say our goodbyes and I am off to New York.

I am slated to have a window seat, but notice there is a family with a newborn, in my row and seat. We make eye contact and the lady instantly starts pleading me with me Virgin Mary Style. My spine evaporates, and I ask where her seat was located?

Middle Seat. 5-Person Row. I am an anchoive until NYC.

Reluctantly, I take my middle seat in the empty row.

Then in comes the silver lining. 6′, Burnette, with a mischievous grin.

“There is a god.” the little voice inside my head tells me.

My friends and I have discussed this, and if my father had married for height, I would be in the NFL.

It is only fair to my kids to take this into consideration while prospecting.

You might be thinking, “Paul, don’t set unrealistic expectations for your kids.”

I can’t think of any releatstic reason to have them, unless that brat gets drafted out of High School. That’s early retirement baby!

The Stewardess, then approaches me and tells me “You are such a gentleman. You get free alcohol the whole flight!”

With the inner knowledge that I have the same tolerance for alcohol, Fred Goldman has for OJ, I spread the love to my rowmate.

Immediately, I launch into telling the most fasicnating version of the “Paul Wilson Gator Finger Story”.

Unfortunately,  I killed Utah and Brandon Lawson will never walk again.

We lost a lot of good guys out there. She bought the whole story, hook line, sinker

I arrive at my hotel at 0600 hungover and exhausted, I hadn’t slept for 32 hours.

The front desk girl informs me, my room won’t be ready until 1100.

I inform her that I am going to watch the game.

While watching some African Country vs. Some Asian Country, I slip into a deep coma.

2 hours later, my room is ready and I rest my weary head until 1600.

The details of my night are confidential and hazy, but I do remember being at a house party on a block Jay-Z mentions frequently while describing the hood.

Fast-forward, Day 2…High Falls, New York.

Wedding of Monica Signorotti (cousin) and Darus Zahm(new cousin).

I am drunk. My little voice commands me to start drinking like a Russian after the 1980 Winter Olympics Hockey final.

I find cousin Jose.

We had an immediate bromantic connection. Jose and I have had about as many interactions as I have fingers on my left-hand.

(Interactions with Jose = < 4.75

Jose is built like a vending machine. It seems to be Wilson Instinct to seek back up when you think you might need it.

I had the the opportunity of putting him through the Signorotti Rite de Passage. It consists of getting your cousin wasted, especially if his parents tell you not to get him drunk. (Sorry middle namesake)

Domino intiated me, I intiated Jose, and it was now time for Enjamin(name altered) to join the Legion of the Signorotti.

Enjamin is a good kid.

Well Spoken and Mature for his age. He seems to have transcended some difficult circumstances life has dealt him. I liked the kid,but first he must cross the path into manhood.

HBefore we had to force him to drink he had already penetrated the bartenders watchful eye.

8 Jack and Cokes later, we were confident in calling him a man. Well, he was confident in calling himself a man and we were amused.

My present to the Bride and Groom were 10 Fresh Macanudo Cigars. I awarded them to those who displayed courage in the face of adversity, valor in the face of Catholicism or a 0.20 BAC.

Enjamin sauntered over and asked the elders for a puff of their Signorotti Stogi.

We girl code each other and approve.

I pass my cigar his way.

We watch on, proudly, as he takes his first inhale of the death stick…. From the WRONG END!

I drop to the ground, laughing so hard that my abdomen starts cunvulsing. Enjamin backs away from it, staring directly at the electric fence he just pissed on.

Everyone else is so embarassed for him no one makes eye contact. Enjamin blurts angrily, “What just happened?”

Silence from the crowd. Not a word.

“Nothing happened!” He demands, trying to recover while getting the ash out of his mouth.

Crickets. No one will answer him.

“OK, what happened?” he asks again.

From the ground I rolled over and answered,

“You trusted us.”



There are no chopsticks in Thailand

Greetings from Phuket, Thailand,

You all must miss me feverishly.

Allow me to  give you a detailed synopsis of what has been happening.

Tuesday night, My dad , Leslie and I went to SF to drop me off.

As of recent, my dad searches for any excuse to go to SF, like my Grandma Dixie searches for reasons to go to the Big Store.

“Oh…. we just need desert for our guests.”

Ya Ok Dixie.

Fortunately, the trip was a healthy win-win for all of us and we aren’t diabetic.

Leslie, my dad and I go to eat, have a beer, a cigar and send me on my way.

Apparently when I am traveling I have an air of approachability, that I seemingly lack when I am at home. Maybe it was my Cal-Trans Orange Trucker Hat, my mis-matching sandals or my huge smile, but as soon as I got on BART(Bay Area Rapid Transit) some dude decides to come chat it up.

He introduced himself as an Average Joe Blow.

He was an advocate for being  black man  and being from Boise, Idaho.

The blue turf on the Bosie State Field must be hypnotic. As I got less and less interested in the conversation, he had less and less energy and got into the fetal positon to take a nap.

I get into the airport, and being the suave sophisticated traveler I claim to be. I waited to be the last person to board the plane.

I had forgotten about the most important part of overseas travel “Elbow Room”.  Elbow dominance can make the difference between success and failure. A middle seat without elbow dominance is like the middle east without oil…Useless.

Upon arrival to Hong Kong, I was consumed by an overpowering need to devour anything remotely edible.

I dwarfed any of Dixie’s most recent attempts at digestive stardom. I had a whole pizza, plate of noodles, Starbucks, then an insulin crash. I felt guilty before my food coma, after I felt revitalized.

When I arrive in Thailand, I transfer in planes Bangkok to Phuket.

After arriving in Phuket, I see a sign that says William Brown-Tiger Muay Thai. Immediately, I run to him, put my gear in his taxi and tell him “DRIVE.” With the inner knowledge that organization and booking rooms is not a Thai strong point.

Fortunately, I arrive to the hotel, get checked in, then I check out for a few hours.

I wake up the next morning, eat breakfast and argue with the hotel staff about the legitimacy of my room reservation.

At 9:00 AM my MMA ( Mixed Martial Art) training began.

I am a complete beginner to this entire world.

Most fights I had been in, consisted of me antagonizing someone, then pointing to a friend bigger than me to handle it.

By the time 10:00 rolls around, I am exhausted. I would rather have ran a marathon, then gone through that.

Mind you, at this point I have recieved a total of 1 hour of instruction. They then decide it is time for a grappling tournament.!

First up,
Paul vs. Canadian Girl.

This gal was about 21, 110 lbs. She told me her father was in the Canadian Special Forces. That is like being the best student at Delta High School. As I am about to wrestle this girl, I think to myself “This girl knows Jui-Jitsu, I am dead unless I get her on the gound first.” So bell rings and I spear her Sheldon Brown style.

I get off of her slowly, she is not moving. I think “What the HELL did I do?” I look behind me the instructor is nodding at me approvingly, then all of a sudden my neck gets grabbed and I am being choked from behind by this girls calves. Apparently, the instructors smile wasn’t intended for me. When I regain conciousness 10 guys are laughing their faces off, with two canadian girls trying desperately to revive me.

I like my ratio.

Next mission: Rent moped. As I am go through the rental process, the office lady asks for my passport.

“I’ll give you ‘California Passport’.” I tell her. 

She approves. This works for two reasons.

A. I have a new driver’s license in CA. This one expires in two weeks.
B. If I crash, get it stolen, or don’t have a ride to the airport. Problem Solved.

Mission Three, attend Muay Thai Training. I thouroughly enjoyed this because of the lack of scrotums in my face. MMA is cool, butnot that cool. Right off the bat I am singled outas a beginner and sent to the ring for “Techinique.” We learned a variety of punches, kicks, elbows and knees.

As I am listening to this guy, I start thinking to myself “I am having the worst case of Deja Vu”( or Rendevous as Utah would say).

“I have seen this guy before.”

The trainer was older (about 50), weathered, slow, deliberate.  

A Muay Thai master.

Everything from his tone to his body language was the Thai reincarnation of Max Monzo.

For those of you who don’t know Max Monzo, he works for Kay Dix.

He is the Mexican Don Corleone of Walnut Grove.

He might be in the mafia.

Max drives a 1969 Datsun with close to a million orchard miles.

My Muay Thai Instructor had the same strange ability the Max Monzo has the ability to project the idea that “I am the master and I can teach you.”

Then the instuctor turned around and his name was written on his shorts, “Kru Max.”

Translated instructor Max.


The next day, I recieved private lessons from Max.

Afterwards, he introduced me to his 4 year old son.

Hilarity ensued.

His son looked like on of those kids you see on the commercials.

” For just ten cents a day you can feed this tiny boy.”

Fortunately for this kid, he was dirty by choice.

I asked his name. He replied, “Min.”

Min and Max.

Together they were speed limits.

Then, with perfect Muay Thai Technique, he kicked me in the shin.

Maybe it should have been,

“For then cents a you can train Min to be a High Speed Death Machine.”

Even though he attacked my shin, I felt a common bond with Min.

Min and I were both first borns not named after our father (Max Jr. was 2).

It’s like we came out of the womb and Sr. said “You are not

Next, I decide to take my moped for a ride.

I roll up to the Big Buddha
and decide to roll down to the tourist trap of Patong. Bad Idea. Patong is dirtier than a Las Vegas confessional booth.

Immediately, I get pulled over for being white and not wearing a helmet. 

The only way to ride a moped properly is with a White Bandana, iPod and Military issue Oakley’s

I agree the fine is justified and agree to pay, but they say “Follow me to Police Station” pronounced “Politician.”

The cop drives around the city aimlessly for about 20 minutes, with me following behind him.

Finally, we arrived to the Police Station (Pronounced: Politician) which is the size of a telephone booth and tinted on all sides

No way am I entering that thing, I have seen pornos that start out like this.

Did I say pornos, I mean horror movies.

I start making a scene, yelling, screaming shouting because to me this was the first sign of shady behavior.

Soon as I start making a scene, the cops ability to speak English went from Walnut Grove Farm Laborer to James Lipton.

Another Cop arrives on the scene and makes it clear to me “This time we go to Politician.”

As we are both pulling out on our scooters the cop, I get a healthy reminder. This reminder was a concept that I had been living my life by for the past few monthes and had produced enormous results. I asked to the heavens WWCWD? (What would Chiles Wilson do?)

The heavens replied, “Evade arrest.”

So I waited until the cop went through an intersectiion and I busted a hard left and floored it. I am now officially a Thai Outlaw and have the documentation to prove it.

Swadasee and Merry Christmas.