“As the watering hole gets smaller, the animals get meaner.”- The DWR

A month ago, Lolo and I took part in the Great Migration.

No, we didn’t move to Texas like every other tax evading Californian.

What I’m talking about is the primal soap opera that takes place on the Serengeti Plains. What many call  ‘The Greatest Show on Earth.’

The Great Migration describes the millions of wildebeest, gazelle, zebra and buffalo that make the circular hajj back and forth between Tanzania and Kenya every year.

Twenty four years ago, my dad and I witnessed the migration from the Kenyan side. The terrain was exactly as I remembered. Outcroppings that look like Pride Rock. Oceans of Savannah. Heart breaking sunsets.

The only difference was the Safari Jeeps were equipped with WIFI. I found this thoroughly distasteful because I feel like the most important part of a trip like this is to escape WIFI.

Our first stop was Migration Camp.

Situated along the Grumeti River, Migration Camp had great views of Africa’s 2nd most dangerous animal, The Hippo. (The mosquito is numero uno most peligroso)

Initially, game viewing here was tame. Lolo was recovering from Ngorongoro related altitude sickness, so we took it easy. I rolled solo on a few game drives. I saw a Topi fight and massive herds of Cape Buffalo, but nothing else to phone home about.

Dinner was punctuated by a surprise visit from a harmless, but terrifying looking cat called a Genet. Genet’s are about the size of a normal house cat and spotted like a leopard. When the Genet arrived, unannounced and uninvited, he begged for my Tandoori Chicken.

I don’t mind sharing with the Genet, in principle. I’m a generous man, but this Cat scared us so bad I became stingy and the tandoori remained destined for my stomach.

The Genet wrought his own weird vengeance a week later, but that’s a different story for a different day.

As we broke camp from Grumeti, our guide spotted a big male Leopard on the prowl.

“It’s hunting” he told us.

We stopped and watched through binoculars. Perfectly camouflaged he’d disappear, then reappear, then disappear and reappear, off and on for what felt like an eternity.

After an hour of watching him stalk, we heard grunting in the distance.

A sounder of Warthog manifested between our jeep and the leopard.

I braced myself.

Pumba was about to get murked.

Minutes passed. Nothing happened. The Leopard ignored the Warthogs.

Our guide, the wise and all seeing Sevrini, was hip to the leopard bullshit.

He gauged it’s intentions were not pure and asked me, calmly, but sternly to lower the Jeeps canopy.

We were the ones being hunted! lol

Kubu Kubu was our last stop in Serengeti.

The camp was unbelievable.

On the first night we were chaperoned to our tent by a Masai warrior.

He pointed out that only fifty yards and thin canvas tenting separated us from a pair of Hyenas.

Most would consider this risk  ‘dangerous’ and ‘unnecessary’, but I’ve dealt with Labor Contractors for so long that Hyena’s are a rare and welcome guest.

Our last day at Kubu Kubu was epic. We started the day at 4AM and took game drive to the Seronera airport. A hippo blocked our path for the better part of ten minutes as he shuffled back to hydration.

At 6AM we boarded a hot air balloon with Nigerian and Spanish Honeymooners. Watching the sunrise from fifteen hundred feet gave a totally different perspective of the plains.

Hippo tracks crisscross the terrain like arteries. From elevation we spotted hyena, lion, giraffe, and elephant.

After ballooning, we returned to camp, worked out, relaxed, recharged, and then took off on our last game drive.

The animals, unaware it’s COVID, were in full form.

We motored parallel to the Seronera River, passing throngs of lion, elephant and giraffe. Eventually, we stumbled upon a pair of Cheetahs, lazily lunching on a fresh Wildebeest kill. Their faces were blood red and stomachs pregnant with murder.

Vultures circled.

Within minutes a cackle of Hyena’s arrived and scavenged the Cheetah kill. Appetites sated, the Cheetah’s didn’t really fight back.

The fastest mammal on earth just slinked off and fell asleep a hundred meters from the scene of the crime.

Seeing the Cheetah rounded out the Big 5 for Lolo and I. We were happy and fulfilled with our decision to travel to Tanzania. Returning to camp, we spotted another giant leopard in a tree, but I was too fired up to really take him in.

Minutes later, putting along the Seronera we came across two lionesses that had just taken down a Zebra and left it untouched.

Waiting for their cubs and a large male to feast first, the lioness’s were protecting the former Zebra from concentric circles of Hyena and Vulture that orbited the Lion Kill.

It was a gruesome scene.

The kill was so brutal Nature is Metal’s Instagram shared my post.

Normally, I’m squeamish about this kind of stuff. I look away during Grey’s Anatomy surgeries. I just can’t watch. Here I was filled with adrenaline. It’s a weird kind of thrill that words fail.

A big take away from the trip was thinking about myself as part of the food chain. The part I play in the Ecosystem. I asked myself questions like, Who am I? Predator? Prey? Scavenger? Bottom Feeder? All four? None?

I started thinking about my emotions as natural defense mechanisms that are part of nature.

That being said, the biggest take away from the Honeymoon, hands down, was getting to spend so much time with my wife

Despite all the intense poverty we witnessed, the only person I felt truly sorry for was seeing an older lady, all alone on Safari. We saw her at multiple camps, and I thought to myself how heartbreaking it must be to be alone in this magical place.

Also we were lucky enough to be uninterrupted by our screens.

Technological development outpaces our biological development, which is likely the source of our unease as humans today.

This is why I hate they idea of WIFI in Safari Jeeps.

I write this on a MacBook while listening on to Neomi on AirPods. Hypocrisy! I know.

*******

I left out a ton about our trip. Kilamanjaro. Manyara lions. Tarangire elephants. Coffee Farms. The Oldvai Gorge, which is the birthplace of man.

We got to dine next to some high-level diplomats who will remain nameless. Normally I’d name drop, but I’m positive they don’t want to be associated with some dipshit blabber mouth.

Moral of the story?

Tanzania is Metal.

I think you should go.

Every summer, I get deported to the Late District to manage Pear Harvest.

I hate the term ‘Late District.’ It is so lazy.

Mendocino and Lake Counties bolth deserve much better. Let’s change it to:

“Emerald Triangle District. Where Green Bartlett’s are even Greener!”

 With your encouragement, my dear reader, I’ll lobby aggressively to change the name at the next pear board summit. But I digest.This ETD harvest, I chose to stay Mendocino County.

Well, I guess I didn’t really choose. I was evicted from a house I’d rented for the past three harvests.

In 2017, I used Airbnb to secure a rental for a night. I’m not a rat, but I negotiated with the owner to cut Airbnb out of the deal and 6 weeks each year I had a home with Wifi dubbed “Forward Operating Base Lake County.”

Sadly, I got bait and switched harder than Amazon shipping by the owner of FOB Lake Co.. I got the heave ho and was forced to stay in Mendocino County.

I’m not complaining, because the median IQ is much higher in Mendocino County. But not by much.

I stayed in the Capital of Mendocino County called Ukiah. Ukiah proper is a very liberal city surrounded by very conservative farmers. It’s a lot like ATX. A Blueberry in the Red Tomato Soup, as it were. It is a strange ecosphere.

There are tie died boomer hippies limping around the streets. There are Trustafarians masquerading as relators. There are menopausal hippy men with opinions. And there are Trimmigrants. Ukiah is infested with Trimmigrants.

A Trimmigrant is an individual who seeks Fame and Fortune in the Dope Game in the Emerald Triangle. Trimmigrants can be male or female. Bolth sexes exhibit dreadlocked plumage. Imagine Jack Sparrow, but only more disheveled.

The females are perfect 10’s, despite hairy armpits, unfortunate tattoo desicions and ill advised piercings. The males drive brand new lifted trucks and make more money than most MBA’s I know.

I hated Trimmigrants forever, but after 17 summers of work within the Emerald Triangle, I’ve learned to embrace my inner Trimmigrant. I too court Fame and Fortune here.

There was only one downside to staying Mendocino County. Mask of Virtue enforcement was in full swing. This caused me a whole raft of issues. Namely, a rift between the manager of the Ukiah Comfort Inn developed and widened.

I won’t elaborate these issues in public forum, but I will tell you, that I ended my stay wagging a self righteous index finger and announcing to anyone within earshot “Airbnb will doom your business!..”

I’m calmer now. After some deep breath work and glaucoma medication I realized that Ukiah spelled backwards is Haiku.

With that in mind I’ll leave you with one.…

Highway Twenty? No!

More like Highway Four Twenty….

Amirite tho?

My syllable count might be off, but if Public School has taught me anything, it’s that my stupidity isn’t my fault.

There is a difference between a creek and a crick.

A crick is just a creek with a tire in it.

Steven Rinella taught me that.

By that standard, drought conditions aside, there are no creeks in Lake County.

Only crick’s.

The 2021 Lake County pear harvest was challenging. Drought. Labor was short. Tough market.

The crop was Wilsonlike. Small with maturity issues.

The highlight of my most challenging harvest to date, unequivocally, was getting paid a visit by the Executive Team for a night of Paella and General Revelry.

After Paella, my brother Chilito demanded I take the Executive Team to a casino for a night cap.

“I can’t. My Direwolf is with me.”

Without hesitation, Chilito casted aspersions to my manhood.

Chilito is a renowned swordsman and chocolatier. I take these insults personally.

Chilito apologizes. He switches to bribes and concessions. I relent. He can be persuasive when the fit is on him. The Executive Team and Direwolf pile into my pickup and we make the mile long trek to the Running Crick Casino under the cover of night.

As we pull into the casino, from the driver’s seat,  I get the bright idea to shout at the security guard standing in front of the casino,

“Do you allow seeing eye dogs?”

(For the sake of the story let’s call the security guard the Salutatorian.)

“Absolutely, sir” the Salutatorian shouts back.

We park.

I pull my Direwolf out of the truck, put on sunglasses, grab my brothers shoulder and go through security like I’m Ray Charles being escorted into a venue.

To my surprise, our Salutatorian does a temperature scan and lets me and the Direwolf into the casino, even though the he saw me DRIVING A MOTOR VEHICLE MINUTES EARLIER.

Direwolf in tow, unobstructed by laws and regulations, I waltz up to the Blackjack table and begin playing cards with a fervor that only a gambling addict like Michael Jordan can fully appreciate.

An hour hooting and hollering later, a different security guard approached our table.

(For sake of the story lets call him the Valedictorian)

Valedictorian: “Excuse me sir, but you and your dog are going to have to leave.”

I was busted. Not just for hitting on 17, but for my operational 20/20 Ocean Blues…

I tell the Executive Team I have to leave and inform them there are No Ubers in Lake County.

The Executive Team is comprised of skilled tradesmen. They embrace the idea of quitting while ahead. But some were ahead so much, they were forced to sign 1099’s. This slowed our retreat.

I, on the other hand, was ushered out of the casino toot sweet by our Valedictorian.

As I am being escorted outside, I confront the Saludatorian at the entrance.

“You told me you allow seeing eye dogs!” I chastise.

The Saludatorian turns to his intellectual and occupational superior, The Valedictorian, and says, “He said it was a seeing eye dog when he pulled in.”
Valedictorian: “Was he driving?”
Saludatorian: “Yeah”
Valedictorian: “What the F*** DuWayne. Blind people can’t drive.”

The Executive Team and Direwolf hustle into the Silverado. I pull thru the guard shack and yell,

“I’m not really blind!”

A meth addict that was sitting on a bench at the entrance, who was chewing with no bubble gum exclaimed,

“I knew it!”

I accelerate and glance into my rearview mirror. Looks of hopeless confusion washed over the faces of the Saludatorian and Valedictorian.

If  The Running Crick Casino taught me anything , it’s to never overestimate the IQ of a security guard with tattoos for eyebrows.

Lolo and I just moved to the Delta.

As the weasel burrows, we’re a quarter mile from the mighty Sacramento.

We tried to buy a home in Lodi, but Real Estate values are inflated. Every home we put an offer on, we were outbid by sums astronomical.

The best decision, we decided, was to fix up the 100-year-old house I grew up in. It’s a generational home that Wilson’s have inhabited for over a century. The structural integrity of the house is sound, but the home was due for some strategic upgrades. Lolo managed all these deftly.

The first night in the home, the Yorkie’s alerted me to a presence in the orchard. I staggered outside to find a couple hooligans smoking dope by our pump. (Pumps have copper wire, which is often gleaned by drug addicts for meth.) 

“What are you doing here,” I ask.

“Just passing through,” they reply.

“This is private property.”

“We know, but what are you going to do about it?”

Hmph.

If being a Wilson has taught me anything, it’s when you find yourself in conflict and ambiguity:

Escalate.

**************

I’ve had plenty of death threats over my career. Disgruntled courtiers. Labor contractors. Resentful locals. The list is long and varied. Technically, I qualify for concealed weapons permit, but know I’d fail the subsequent background investigation.

I can hear the interviewer now…

“He’s been arrested for aggressive eye contact? ….He slapped a customer?….He almost beat up a seventy year old competitor who made racist comments to his team?”

Perhaps, gun ownership is a bad idea for someone with a volcanic temper like mine.

But Lolo and I live in bumble fucked Egypt.

Sheriff response times are upwards of 45 minutes.

A Glock 19’s response time is 200 ft per second.

What does a guy do when he needs to fortify his compound, but doesn’t want to own a gun?

He calls Kentucky and ships in a Direwolf.

*********

Direwolves aren’t real. I learn this on The Google.

Direwolves are CGI and exist only on Game of Thrones.

The closest thing I could find to a Direwolf is a Turkish Kangal.

We bought one for a variety of reasons.

First, Kangal’s are an LGD.

Which means they only respond to commands once learning their preferred pronouns.
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Kidding.

LGD means Livestock Guardian Dog.

The Kangal was bred to defend livestock from the predators who roam the Turkish Countryside.

Lions, Tigers, Kurds, Oh My.

I don’t have livestock, but I have two yorkies, a wife, and, god willing, kids, who need protection from the coyotes, raptors and Labor Contractors that orbit my area of operation.

The Kangal is the most Antifragile dog breed of which I am aware.

They thrive in harsh climates, chaos and unpredictable situations. At twelve weeks, our Kangal outweighs my 5-year-old nephew. At a year she’ll outweigh your average Wilson. By the time she’s full-grown she’ll have a stronger bite force than any other domesticated canine.

Yes, you read that right. Kangal’s have a more powerful bite force than even Pit Bulls.

This disappointed me.

Dixie and Rambo

I took pride in the fact that I’ve survived four pit-bull attacks by three different pit bulls. This includes Grandma Dixie’s pit Rambo, who bit me twice.

When I told Dixie,

“This is the second time Rambo has bit me, time to put him down!”

Dixie shot me a look I’ve seen only from professional Cage Fighters and Serial Killers and menaced,

“Put him down and I’ll put you down.”

I believed her.

The second reason I bought a Kangal is jealousy.

My Dad’s Pearynees

I’ve wanted a sheepdog for years, but once my dad bought a giant Pyrenees this winter, I couldn’t contain the urge to one up him.

The third reason is lifespan.

Kangal’s live forever. Upwards to 14 years, which is rare among large dogs. When my last dog passed, I was sidelined for months with grief unbearable.

Lolo, chief of the naming committee, is in charge of naming the hound.

Here is the shortlist:

1. Dixie. She’s big, white, eats a lot and is very dangerous.
2. Kamala. She’ll be protecting a senile old man (me).
3. Grey. She’ll take your life, or save it, just like Meredith Grey.
4. Pava – Spanish for Turkey

The interim name is Grey, unless you, my dear reader, can up with a better one.

Comment or DM your choice or idea.

Legal Notice: All names will be taken into consideration, but the Naming Committee is a benevolent dictatorship ran with an iron fist

Don’t tell my wife.

But last week, I conducted an accidental clinical trial..

Using the Scientific Method, here are my findings:

Question: If a Yorkie ingests a coffee bean, how long will it go berserk with dog zoomies?

(Dog Zoomies are the technical term for Frenetic Random Activity Periods (FRAPs), those unmistakable explosions of energy that dogs have on occasion)

Hypothesis: If a 7-lb Yorkie ingests a coffee bean it will go berserk with dog zoomies for 15 minutes, then a 2-lb Yorkie will go berserk with dog zoomies for 45 minutes.

Results: The 7-lb male Yorkie humped a couch cushion and fell asleep. The 2-lb female Yorkie went berserk with Dog Zoomies for 3 hours, then kept me up half the night by digging an imaginary tunnel through our comforter.

 Conclusion: Don’t give Yorkie’s coffee beans.

***************

I know what your thinking.

How could you be such an irresponsible dogfather? Should I call Animal control?

Perhaps.

But those aren’t question’s you should be asking.You ought to ask,

“How did you buy a 2lb Yorkie?”

I asked myself the same thing, when I found myself deep in the heart of a Stockton Favela unarmed in a Prius C, just to put a down payment on a 4-ounce puppy.

She’s a pure bred, but the breeder’s home was so ghetto, I felt like we rescued her.

Six weeks later, we brought her home. She took to livable, lovable Lodi smoothly, but stayed true to her Stockton roots. Biting Winston’s ankles, gnawing on his mustache, Stockton slapping him, pouncing on him while sleeping…. etc.
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Lolo and I fell in love instantly.

Winston? He’s petrified.

Chief of the naming committee, Lolo named her Remington.

Which is apropos because Remi has the authority of a Remington 12-gauge, the fighting skills of Remi Bonjasky and the hunting abilities of Remi Warren. The name fits.

After three months, her hair was so long and mangled that burrs, sticks and various undergarments got stuck in her hair. We knew her hair was protecting us from an uncomfortable truth we were too scared to confront.

All it took was one trip to the groomer to reveal a kitten sized dog and the truth.

We didn’t just buy the runt of the litter in a litter of runts.

We bought a Teacup Yorkie.

This would concern me, but upon further investigation (Reddit) I learned  that there is no such thing as a Teacup Yorkie. Only progressively smaller and smaller Yorkies.

Which means that there are no Teacup Wilsons either. Only progressively smaller and smaller Wilsons.

The effect Remi has on women is shocking.

Normally, my 2 year old niece Ellie shuns me. Her only words to me have been “No” and “Bye. ” She refuses to learn my name.  When introduced to Remi, niece Ellie, accepted me with open arms

I brought Remi to last weeks Farmer’s Market and left lamenting how my short-lived my single life would’ve been, had I had the foresight to buy a small dog in my twenties.

The only downside to owning Remi is that when we just moved a place in the country where raptors, snakes, labor contractors and coyotes are known quantities.

But all problems have solutions.

Stay tuned.

I broke my leg Monday.

I shot a double leg takedown on a well-known female mixed martial artist, planted on my left leg, and heard “POP, POP, POP” in rapid succession. I wasn’t sure if it was my ankle, my knee or my opponents.

But once I stood up and tried to put weight on my left leg, I realized that the structural integrity of my ankle was in fact compromised.

I rolled off the mats, thoroughly disappointed that I’d be missing what promised to be an epic training session.

A lifetime ago in Spain, I had sprained it severely, and the symptoms were eerily similar.

I had no urgency to get medical attention aside from stealing a pair of crutches and CBD cream from my brother Alex, a freshly minted EMT.

I attended meetings the next day. When asked what happened, I had a few stock answers.

“You should see the other girl.”
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“I’m faking an injury to get out of a celebrity boxing match”

“I identify as paraplegic now. My pronouns are now hobble and hops.”

Eventually, I sought medical attention. My doctor agreed with my sprain hypothesis, but wanted imaging to confirm. I got x-rays, hobbled my way to my truck, but by the time I hit Southbound 99, I got a call from the doctors office.

“Um… so, your fibula is broken and we need you to come back.”

15 minutes later I was in a knee to toe traction boot, thankful I had made the jump from Kaiser to Sutter. For a negligible amount of money, the standard of care is shockingly better. If I’d been at Kaiser the treatment would either be “Walk it off” or amputate.

I’m out for 4-6 weeks. Which is good because it lets me focus on cherries.

So far, I’m healing like Wolverine by ingesting enough collagen to make your yoga teacher jealous. No doubt I will miss training, but have to remind myself that in a sport where the goal is to break limbs and strangle arteries, injuries are a small price to pay for invincibility.

“To each there comes in their lifetime a special moment when they are figuratively tapped on the shoulder and offered the chance to do a very special thing, unique to them and fitted to their talents. What a tragedy if that moment finds them unprepared for that which could have been their finest hour.”

-Chris Healy trying to inspire me to get my shit together

 –also Winston Churchill

 When my brother texted me that there was a stranded goat on the Bean Ranch, I replied.

I spent my adolescence obsessed with the sport of Team Roping. I roped competitively throughout High School and into my freshman year at Fresno State. Eventually, I graduated from Strangling Cattle to Strangling People, but the lessons have stayed with me.

Here’s a partial list of things I have roped.

• Thousands of Cows.
• Dogs
• A warthog
• Donkey’s
• Sheep
• Every member of my immediate, and most of my extended, family
• Chris Diaz.
• Street signs, while driving 70 mph in the bed of my brothers truck with the other end of the rope tied to a ball hitch. (Bonus points if you can guess which brother.)
• Every Fresno State Sigma Nu Pledge between 2006-2008

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People say roping is animal cruelty, which it is, but that it doesn’t detract from it being a beautiful art and integral to our history as American’s.

Jesus, does that sound like I am trying to defend the Confederate Flag?

“Because my story was true. I was certain of that. And it was extremely important, I felt, for the meaning of our journey to be made absolutely clear. We had actually been sitting there in the Polo Lounge—for many hours—drinking Singapore Slings with mescal on the side and beer chasers. And when the call came, I was ready.”

-Hunter S. Thompson Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

Reclamation District’s use goats for levee maintenance, as opposed to the widely disparaged Herbicides.

That is how our goat became stranded between blackberry bushes above and the river below.

My brother-in-law, an officer of the peace and master of weaponry suggested a 22-cent solution.

But Wilson’s are forgiving gods. The goat had done nothing to provoke us.

The goat, was stranded on, what is known to locals as the Bean Ranch.

During Winter months, it becomes inaccessible by dry land. If we were to rescue our goat before the pending high tide and certain death, our mission would be a maritime one.

I have my own intimate knowledge of the danger of maritime rescues. I once rescued(stole) a Parisian Street sign that said Rue de Dunkerque (translated: Road of Dunkirk.) and mailed it home, but that’s another story for another day.

I am an EMT, though to my eternal shame, am not a member of the local Fire Department.

Fortunately, my brothers are fire fighters, which gave us access to pontoon with an outboard motor and fire hose.

Known to many as Boat 96, we repurposed her as Goat 96.

Sadly, Goat 96 had the turning radius of Chris Christie after a muckbang.

We bumped and nudged houseboats exiting the marina, quickly learning that living on water doesn’t exactly lend itself to sober living. No one noticed.

The team sped our way along the mile long journey, down the Mokelumne and through the Deadhorse Cut. The wind blew cold, but the promise for adventure warmed our hearts. We violated many laws of the sea, except for the most important, not abandoning ship.

We spotted the goat, she seemed frozen like a deer in headlights as our spotlight enveloped her. We docked and I thought I wouldn’t have to put my finely tuned roping skills to use. I tried to casually toss a rope over her, but she bolted along side the embankment. Our goat had 25 yards of wiggle room each way.

She would need to be roped to be saved.

Nighthawk threw the pontoon into reverse, then forward and recharged. I started swinging, delivered and got hold of the Goat. I immediately realize the goat was stronger than most trained men I grapple with and had to enlist my brother-in-law to restrain the beast.

We loaded the goat by the horns, as it were, onto Goat 96 and commanded NightHawk, our captain, to return to port.

Then the motor broke down.

It’s hard to describe the helplessness feeling of being stranded in the middle of Deadhorse Cut sober, with a Goat, wet shoes and socks and no desire to paddle your way home.

Fortunately, Nighthawk is an expert mechanic and restored Goat 96 to glory with expedience.

10 minutes later we docked and escorted our captive by the neck to the truck.

It reminded me of El Chapo’s extradition back into the United States.

A wee drive later the team put goat to pasture in an undisclosed location, where she will live for the remainder of her natural Goat existence.

The Goat remains unnamed, but we are actively taking suggestions.

Larry: “What kind of dog is that?”
Paul: “A Yorkie.”
Larry: “Yorkie?”
Paul: “Yorkshire Terrier. They were bred to kill rats in World War One.”
Larry: “Bred to kill rats?”
Paul: “Yup.”
Larry: “Then why are you still alive?”

World’s Largest Rodent and a Capybara

If Mickey and Minnie have taught me anything, it’s that there is a profound difference between mouse and rat.

A billion-dollar difference.

No. 10 Downing Street, has a Chief Mouser.

No Chief Ratter.

Little Bunny Fufu, despite the food safety violation, bops field mice, not field rats.

Banksy draws rats, not mice.

Why?

Rats are harder to kill.

“Even if you win the rat race you are still a rat.” -Jackie Gleason.

The Thai restaurant on Lower Sac and Turner has these Chinese Zodiac Calendars for placemats.

Is there Chinese collusion with my Thai Food?

Perhaps.

But the Chicken Satay is better than anything I’ve ever tasted in Thailand.

Eating satay last month, I learned 2016 was the Year of the Monkey.
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Which means Chinese knew Trump would beat Hillary the whole time!

How? Why?

Because it’s impossible to take your eyes off an animal that screams like a banshee while throwing fecal matter everywhere. An animal whose sexual conquests are on full display behind bulletproof glass.

Monkeys are equally entertaining.

2020 is Year of the Rat.

Which means Trumps reelection is certain. Our swamp is too toxic to drain. And the people who navigate the sewage of our political process best are rats.

Ask anyone in The Grove of Walnuts. Sewage dilemma? Call River Rats. Don’t trust yelp reviews.

River Rats manage excrement better than anyone.

“Anyone can rat, but it takes a certain amount of ingenuity to re-rat” – Churchill.

If you’re young and not a liberal you have no heart. If you’re old and not a conservative you have no brain.  I love that quote because America is one of the few places where heart and brain are mutually exclusive. My heart says Tulsi. My brain says Donald. My instincts say neither.

America is the disease. Trump is just a symptom.

Tulsi is not shameless enough to defeat The Donald.

To win the millennial vote, Tulsi would have to get a tattoo of the Hawaiian Islands across her forehead or accidentally release a tape… alà Kim Kardashian. 

The only way for the Dems to win an election would be a tag team ballot of Dwayne Johnson and Michelle Obama:

“The Rock- Obama!”

That’s a ticket!

Near as I can tell, that won’t happen until 2024.

So will The Donald Keep America Great?

Only time and the S&P 500 will answer that question.

I can’t ignore the ignorant racist rhetoric that got him elected.

I am set to marry into a Hispanic Family, and despite my racial handicap, have identified as Mexican long before I understood the concept of ethnicity.

Perhaps, Family and Identity are the exact reasons, I should vote Trump.

Who can hate a guy that keeps Eric Trump around despite that blue blood, incest smile of his? There soviet collusion in that paternity test, Ivana? Quien sabe.

Despite all of my issues with the Donald, I will probably vote Trump.

Not because it’s in my best interests- which it is- but for the same reason The Donald ran for President in the first place:

Boredom.

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.

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, “Double U’s”(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.”

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

Danny,

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.

2. Chiles Wilson’s idea of keeping a secret is telling one person at a time.

3. 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.

4. Never drink Absinthe.

5. Never drink Absinthe in Budapest, and claim to everyone in Buda and Pest that you are the starting tailback for the Alabama Crimson Tide.

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6. Nothing good happens at Al the Wops past 10 P.M.

7. Horse’s are stupid animals. To paraphrase your namesake, Uncle Daniel, “Anything that weighs 1500lbs, and lets you ride it, is stupid.”
8. Never brush your teeth with Preparation H.

9. 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.

10. 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.

Love,

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.

Murderers.

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.

Unreal.

***************

“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.

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.

“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 23^rd U.S. Open Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu Tournament.

I use the term “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 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 should know better.

Marry your mistress and you create a vacancy.