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.

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.

Lodi.

My disdain for the Irish began at thirty.

By blood, I am half Irish.

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

Why?

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 my beautiful Mexican girlfriend.

OR….

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What’s this Fenian’s agenda?

Hostile takeover?

I’ve seen propaganda like this before.

Hitler.

Goebbells.

McGregor.

McGoebbells.

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

.

“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

Barstow

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.

Once, while crossing the Canadian border, I had explain the practical uses of white 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 The Nick Diaz Academy 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 here, here, 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. The girls that flock to him are decidedly underage.

To put it 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 that 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

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

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, Manmountainthurd joined us, fresh off a “Corporate Retreat” near San Quentin…

AW, Manmountainthird and I arrived 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.

HE BLINKED FIRST!

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.

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.

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´
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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.

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.”
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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.

Noon.

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.”