It’s 6AM.

You are cawing like a Pterodactyl.

It sounds like start of “Immigrant Song” is blasting from your room.

“AWWW AHAHAHA OWWW! AWWW AHAHAHA OWWW!”

Since you immigrated from the womb, I’ve slept through your Zepplinesque din with a deadness only heroin addicts and hibernating grizzlies can truly appreciate.

Your mother tends to your needs.

Mrs. Wilson’s maternal instincts, and my lack thereof, are a constant source of wonder to me.

Eventually, I rise on Bambi legs, rub the sleep out of my eyes and ask if I can help.

 “We’re good” the missus tells me.

At twelve months, you only cry when hungry, tired or in need of diaper change.

Your needs are so simple that I’m envious.

Why can’t I be that way?

Now, I know that being competitively happy with a 1-year-old is misguided.

To attain your level of happiness requires hard work.

If being your Dad has taught me anything it’s that misery doesn’t love company, as much as it loves laziness.

A few years ago, I wrote letters to your cousins for their 1^st birthdays.

In them, I distilled important life advice I felt would serve them for a lifetime.

Initially, I wanted to impart some paternal wisdom to you on your 1^st birthday, but came to a startling conclusion:

At a year old, your emotional slash social development exceeds my own at thirty-eight.

In reality, you should be giving me counsel.

Sadly, deciphering your grunts, groans and inconsequential babbling into something meaningful or thought provoking is proving to be more of a challenge than I expected.

So in lieu of trying to translate your unintelligible baby talk, I’ll attempt to communicate what being your father has taught me.

The Dao of Joe, as it were.  

1. Never trust a diaper. Whether you are changing Joe Wilson or Joe Biden, always keep in mind the Gumpian principle of “Never knowing what you will get.”…. Ever heard of a blowout? I hadn’t until I had to deal with one of yours in a Costco bathroom.
2.  “To have a child is to give fate a hostage.” JFK said that. Even though, “Fate” might’ve been in reference to some concubine whose Grassy Knoll JFK accidentally discharged his magic bullets upon, the wisdom is true and ought to be heeded.
3. Life is like a Wilson…. Short…. The first year of your life flew by faster than a Deebo Samuel Jet Sweep.
4. A fart can be a question or a statement.
5. Babies are the world’s most expensive, yet totally unreliable Alarm Clocks.
6. The only thing that rhymes with Orange is “Trump is not guilty.” Wait…. What? …Wrong post.
7. It’s hard to sleep if you are standing up.
8. I’m ashamed to admit that a side effect of becoming a parent is scrutinizing your own upbringing. I constantly have to remind myself of Neil Strauss’s quote: “Feel free to blame your parents for everything that is wrong with you, but don’t forget to give them credit for everything that is right.” At this point in life, I should have that tattooed on my forehead because I’ve spent far too much time and energy focused on the wrong end of the credit-blame continuum
9. Whoever said, “Comparison is the thief of joy,” never felt the pure, unadulterated joy of comparing themselves to someone from Isleton. Well, you didn’t teach me that. I learned it from the Chiles Wilson School of Soccer Coaching…. Comparison, often, brings joy to the comparer.
10. 80% of all parenting advice is BS. Becoming a Dad has been more inspirational than snorting coke with Tony Robbins. Perhaps that metaphor was too on the “Nose.” (Ba dum ching.) What I am trying to say is that there are no mix of words or sentiment that could’ve prepared me for the beauty and terror of becoming a father. No one told me, but then again, no one could’ve.

I’m so grateful for these lessons, Joe.

Happy Birthday my boy!

Love,

Dad

.

I woke up in a cold panic.

I’m still not sure why.

Perhaps it was because I just crossed the treacherous Rubicon of telling my 8 ½ month pregnant wife that I’d be traveling to West Hollywood to grapple strange men.

Or maybe it was because I was overweight and needed to sweat out the excess lbs.

Nevertheless, I knew that in zeven hours I’d be boarding a flight and couldn’t go back to sleep.

3 A.M.: I stop fighting the restlessness, stumble into my office and step onto the scale.

151.8.

Although I was down from 180 lbs I weighed before cherry season started, it was three pounds shy of my desired 148.8.

I drew a 110° hot bath and begin sweating out the extra libras.

I made weight, then had a thought provoking revelation.

What if my scale is wrong?

To test this theory, I brought a 1.5 pood kettlebell from my garage and placed it on the scale.

The kettlebell, which weighed exactly 54.1 lbs, read 52.4 lbs on my digital scale.

This meant my scale was Labor Contractor adjacent.

Because the tales it told were accurate only to itself.

Suspicions confirmed, I drew another hot bath, submersed myself and made weight again.

9 A.M: I drove to the airport, parked and boarded a flight to SoCal.

In case Mrs. Wilson went into labor prematurely, I booked a return flight that allowed me to “Travel Anytime” and spent the first half of the flight Googling departure flights back to SMurF from all major airports within the Los Angeles basin(LAX, ONT, SNA, BUR.)

Little did I know that the little man would show up 108 hours later, but that’s a different story for a different day.

As we flew over Half Dome, the guy next to me noticed me shaking.

Out of concern, he asked, “Scared of flying?

“Terrified! But that’s not why I am shaking,” I tell him. “I’m mildly dehydrated.”

“Then drink some water,” he advised.

“Yes, about that…” I reply

We chat inconsequentially for the remainder of the flight.

Talking helped because conversation distracted me from how shitty I felt.

We land and I shuffle my exhausted ass to the Ride Share Area where I spent a small fortune to Über to UCLA.

An hour later, I arrive and aimlessly wander around campus until I see a statue of John Wooden.

“Pauli Pavilion can’t be far away,” I think.

Despite the recruiting violations, I’ve always respected Wooden.

His “Do your best” leadership philosophy really resonated with me because I come from a family with insane levels of competitiveness.

Growing up, winning and/or being the best (not your best) was prized above all things, including sanity. 

This probably explains why at the ripe old age of 37 I’m still competing in amateur grappling tournaments, but neither of us have time for a deep psychological analysis of the great PVW, do we?

If you do, keep reading.

*****

The biggest barrier to entry for me to compete in grappling tournaments has been my weight/diet.

I yoyo wildly.

Now, I know all effective dieters feel the need to proselytize, so here goes:

Over the past few years, I have gone from 180 lbs down to 145 lbs multiple times.

I seem to expand and contract in geometric progressions based on nutrition alone.

This is funny because even though my weight fluctuates my height stays the same.

I’ve competed, with limited success, in weight classes above my natural 149.

But if punching above my weight has taught me anything, it’s that there is a reason combat athletes hire nutritionists..

I’ve tried all the fad diets all to varying degrees of success and failure.

Calorie restriction, Vegan (for a day), Lo-carb, Carb cycling, Carnivore, Tim Ferriss’s Slow-Carb.

I tried Vegetarian, but it killed my hormones.

Tried Keto, but had no energy for training, plus the shits were awful.

When ballooned back up to 180 lbs the last time, I was intermittent fasting.

I’d not eat for 24 to 48-hour intervals, then break said fasts by feasting on sodium packed electrolytes, sweets, processed foods and drinking eight Bubly’s a day.

Despite exercising like a demon and burning 4k calories a day, the scale didn’t lie.

I was obese.

To add insult to injury, my sleep patterns/anxiety levels were all over the board.

After much consternation and frustration, I tried the Dolce Diet. and for the first time in YEARS felt great.

Turns out, eating food is good for you.

Who woulda thunk.

I think the Dolce Diet is commonly known as the Whole 30 diet, but call it what you want to call it, it worked.

I lost almost 30lbs in a month.

Now, as Paul Harvey said, “Back to the rest of the story.”

2 P.M.: I enter Pauli Pavilion

Legendary names like Bill Walton, Russell Westbrook, Reggie Miller, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and now Paul Vincent Wilson have all graced it’s storied halls.

The tournament I was competing in was billed as “The Largest Indoor Jiu-Jitsu Tournament in the World.”

I’m unaware of a larger “Outdoor Tournament”, but I stopped fact checking Jiu-Jitsu Tournament Producers two belts ago. 

I’m not saying all Tournament Producers are full of shit, but sometimes their decision-making processes can be described as questionable.

Take Worlds for example.

Open to Amateurs and Professionals alike, Worlds is the most prestigious Jiu-Jitsu tournament on earth.

At Worlds competitors compete in the classic martials arts attire, the “Gi” or “Kimono” if you want to be Japanese about it.

Now, Worlds takes place in June, and if you’ve ever been to South America you’d know that June is Wintertime in the Southern Hemisphere.

So it makes sense to train in the warmth of a five-pound Gi.

NoGi Worlds (without a kimono) traditionally takes place in December.

Which, if you are south of the equator also makes sense, it’s warmer. Less fabric necessary.

In 2007, Worlds made the move from Rio de Janeiro to Long Beach.

Despite changing weather patterns and the hemispherical flip flop, the Tournament Producers chose to host Gi Worlds in June and NoGi Worlds in December.

Why does this matter?

First off, I think it demonstrates the Grand Wizard of Jiu-Jitsu mindset:

Things change, but they remain the same.

Second, training in the Gi in the 209 during summer months is hot as fuck. .

Third, training NoGi in the wintertime is colder than a Clinton Foundation hitman.

Fourth and finally, I really want to compete in Gi Worlds again, but it coincides with peak Cherry Harvest.

Traveling to the Eastside of the LBC, as it were, remains impossible for me while we are picking..

WTF.  I’m drifting again. Back to Westwood.

I weigh in at the tournament.

I’m .8 lbs under.

Tournament scales are notoriously inaccurate, so I chide myself for not drinking more H20 on the flight down.

After stepping off the scale, I pound water and electrolytes to facilitate the rehydration process and put on 7 pounds.

I could’ve avoided cutting any weight by starting my diet sooner, but alas I’m a Black Belt procrastinator.

Before stepping onto the arena floor, a young Brazillian girl stops me to measure my Gi for symmetry and theology.

She grabs a fistful of my undershirt and with the accusatory tone of a TSA agent asked,

“Is dis a Hash Guard?”

I laugh and ask, “A Hash Guard?”

This provoked our Brazilian to yell “IS DIS HASH GUARD?!!!”

As many of my readers know, I have yet to master feigning respect for hollow authority, but this woman could in fact bar me from competing.

I bit my lip and reply, “Yes. This is a Hash Guard”

My Brazillian amiga meant to say “Rash Guard,” a common undershirt worn while grappling, but Brazilian’s pronounce certain R’s as H’s.

This makes life extremely difficult for Brazilian Pirates, who instead of giving the traditional ‘Arrr…” are forced to hiss like an exasperated Wilson.

After clearing tournament customs, I walk down to the bullpen.

It’s about this time at every tournament the doubts start to creep in.

I start wondering myself, “What the fuck am I doing here? I’m 37. Have a kid on the way. What’s my end game?”

A few years ago, Ryan Holiday mind fucked me with these two pieces.

And my only counter to those Stoic Koan’s is that competing makes me feel alive.

That said, once I shake hands for my first match, all feelings of nervousness or excitement go away.

I feel like I enter a time warp of adrenalized tunnel vision.

I won my first two matches by taking my opponents down and controlling them positionally.

My third match was against an Adonis who was athletic as all get out, but lacked technical skill. 

For the initial two minutes the match was back and forth, but I eventually reversed him, took his back and sank in a rear naked choke

Unfortunately, I left too much wiggle room with the Gi fabric and he wormed his way out of the strangle.

I retained back control, but accidentally crossed my feet (a rookie move).

His coach made him aware of this by shouting, “HIS FEET ARE CROSSED.”

My opponent put me into the above submission and extended his hips.

The pain was excruciating.

I’d definitely submit to this in the gym, but there was no way I would in a tournament.

I never thought I’d be the kind of guy that would allow a limb to be broken, but I didn’t care.

“Break my ankle for all I give a shit.” I thought.

“I’m not tapping to some super athlete with the douchiest submission next to buggy chokes.”

Moral: If you’re gonna be dumb, you better be tough.

And at this point in life, I’m so far down the dumb-tough continuum I might as well move into a trailer park in Isleton.

Eventually, I escape the submission, time ran out and I won the match.

This was a pyrrhic victory because while getting my hand raised I was so tired I couldn’t tie my belt, my gas tank was on E and my ankle fully sprained.

I was so filled with adrenaline that I couldn’t feel the sprain, but I’m sure it didn’t help my performance in the finals.

My finals match was against a Judo guy from some Brazilian School.

Stupidly, I tried to wrestle him and got taken down.

 I swept(reversed) the guy multiple times, but every time I did this my opponent would roll out of bounds and the Ref would restart us in the standing position.

In Jiu-Jitsu terms, this is known as getting “Brazilianed.”

Most Brazilian-Brazilian Jiu Jitsu Refs are so fiercely nationalistic that when it comes tournament time their ethical matrices descend to the level of your average Federale.

If two gringo’s are competing against each other and a Brazilian Ref can interfere in anyway possible, the gringo who is affiliated with the most Brazilian team will win the nod of referee approval.

Perhaps, I’m being conspiratorial and my opponent knew the rules and I didn’t.

Either way, it’s is a lame way to lose, but even lamer way to win.

This isn’t sumo.

Losing in the final sucked, but I need to keep in mind that my coaches would’ve submitted all my opponents without breaking a sweat.

Which not only means that I need to improve, but I should focus exclusively on submitting people rather than winning positionally.

Now, I know that coming to this obvious conclusion sounds a lot like Happy Gilmore realizing he should hit a hole-in-one every time.

Alas, I’m a product of the River-Delta School System.

This is to be expected.

All in all, I’m proud of my performance

For a twelve-hour out and back mission, I learned a lot.

My most important lesson?

It’s that even though I’m El Segundo on the podium, I’m still Numero Uno in Tu Corazon.

The most courageous men and women in the world aren’t Soldiers, Police Officers or First Responders. 

They aren’t the Lobster Boat captains you see on Deadliest Catch, X-Games Competitors, Russian’s who free solo massive towers, Astronauts, Political Dissidents or those who sacrifice for others for like Mother Teresa.

The most courageous humans on earth are the Spandex Cyclists who brave River Roads during Pear Harvest.

Expecially, the wannabe Lance Armstrong’s who fearlessly traverse the stretch of double yellow lines between the bustling metropolis of Courtland, California and the Joe Green Ranch.

Flanked by popular trees on both sides of the road and blind corners that provide no turn out, these two miles of pavement, to me, are the most treacherous on the River Delta.  

If you are leisurely peddling your $2500 set of carbon fibre wheels at the same time as two big rigs pass each other, what may seem like an idyllic ride, can turn into a horrifying tragedy in about two seconds.

These cyclist’s sense of entitlement is mind bogglingly millennial.

Imagine having the gall to think you are going to compete for lane space with Bay Area drug addicts, guard rails and speeding truck drivers, who are paid by the load, not the hour.

In this scenario, I sympathize with truckers.

Share The Road?

Fuck that. 

Imagine being presented with the options of running into an orchard, driving into the river, slamming into an oncoming forty-ton Peterbilt or gently encouraging a 250lbs menopausal man to finish his once-a-week workout prematurely.

The choice is easy. 

“Let’s see, should I lose my job and or my life? ….Or run a Fat Boomer off the road?”

Hmmmm….Decisions, decisions.

In principle, the cyclists should stay off River Roads entirely and invest in a Pelaton for God Sakes. 

I’m surprised more of them haven’t been Darwined.

 Or perhaps I haven’t heard out about it. 

Unfortunately, these Spandex Cyclee’s weren’t the only thing to interrupt my harvest commute this year.

A few years ago, Waze and Apple Maps introduced Walnut Grove to this pesky thing called “Traffic.” 

Bay Area drivers looking for a scenic short cut have flooded our Island communities with aggressive driving and Riff Raff. 

Adding insult to injury, Cal Trans, in their infinite wisdom, decided to start road work on Twin Cities at the end of July, which coincided nicely with the height of Pear Harvest

The most trafficked time of the year.

Finally, bridges were forced to open multiple times a day to accommodate the Dutra barges that were moving enough rocks to plug up Hunter Biden’s left and right nostrils.

All along the mighty Sacramento, these rocks are used to reinforce levee systems. 

Though these bridge openings caused severe traffic jams, at least they served a necessary purpose.

I can’t say the same about Cal Trans, Spandex Cyclists or Bay Area Commuters.

*****

As per usual, the highlight of my harvest had nothing to do with Pears. 

My harvest highlight was accidently inciting a bank robbery with my little brother, Big Al.

Now, I know it’s not polite to make fun of mental illness in public forum, but no one actually reads this far.

If you have, I trust you will keep it between us girls. 

To tell the abbreviated version, a disgruntled former sub-hauler pulled up to our farming HQ driving a Semi with no trailer in tow.

Driving his horse with no cart, as it were, he wagged his finger at us like a Middle Eastern Tyrant.

With a wild SSRI gleam in his eye, he demanded,

“I want $1 dollar or $10 million dollars!” 

 A wide variance indeed, but I felt like the chasm represented both poles of his love and hate for our organization.

Both graduates of the Nick Diaz school of conflict resolution, Big Al and I offered to enlist our services to our Uncle. 

Our Uncle politely declined the generous proposal and instead, counseled us to call The Authorities.

 This meant we were forced to pacify our lunatic friend until the cops showed up.

Though our crazed amigo veered wildly down the fuck around and find out continuum, I took solace in the fact that my brother packed a heater.

Forty-five minutes later law enforcement arrived and politely escorted our troubled friend off the premises. 

I thought the story would end there, but I was wrong. 

Enraged and penniless, our desperate amigo drove his inconspicuous Power Unit straight to the Bank of Alex Brown, where he parked and ran up to a teller with a note that read, 

 “I have gun, give me $$$$…”

The teller obliged and our Walnut Grove Bandito made off with $182 hard-won American dollars while driving my favorite getaway vehicle since a White Bronco raced down the 405. 

With a classic sense of bureaucratic urgency and high levels of interagency coordination, it took three days to capture El Bandito de Walnut Grove.

I hopes he gets well, but in the interim, will be applying for a CCW tootsweet.

*****

After the 2023 harvest, the California Pear Advisory Board has put me on Double Secret Probation.

As Grand Vizier of the River Pear Estimating Committee, I misestimated the crop worse than the British misestimated the Turks at Gallipoli.

I should really get better at my estimating skills, but if corporate farming has taught me anything, it’s that the best way to abdicate responsibility is to blame mistakes on factors outside of my control. 

Phases of the moon, wet winter, drought, floods or high heat are all fine petards to foist my stupidity upon. 

In my defense, estimating a Pear crop is harder than explaining the difference between Wi-Fi and Bluetooth to a Boomer. 

Pear tonnages depend entirely on how they are picked.

Market, pre-harvest intervals, availability of labor and weather are some, of many, factors that must to be taken into consideration before our green friends are plucked from their respective arboles. 

Nevertheless, having such a discrepancy between what amounts to an educated guess, and reality, proved my own incompetence.

Hindsight is 2023.

Selah.   

“I’m suspicious of people who don’t like dogs, but I trust a dog when it doesn’t like a person.”

– Bill Murray

When Mrs. Wilson and I moved to the country, I knew we needed a sheepdog.

I wanted to keep The Yorkies safe from birds of prey and myself safe from Labor Contractors with an ax to grind.

So I called Kentucky and shipped in a Kangal.

Without Mrs. Wilson’s permission.

If buying a giant sheepdog without my wife’s permission taught me anything about the institution of marriage, it’s that this is what is known in certain military circles as a ‘tactical error.’

In a feeble attempt to mend the rift, I encouraged Mrs. Wilson to name the pup.

She decided on “Grey” ala Meredith Grey from Grey’s Anatomy.

For the first year of Grey’s life, Mrs. Wilson remained miffed at me for buying the animal and lovingly referred to the sheepdog as our “step-child.”

It wasn’t until Grey saved Remi, the smallest yorkie, from a circling vulture that plotted Remi’s three-pound demise that Mrs. Wilson fully accepted Grey as family.

3 years later, Grey has become a hundred pounds of goofball.

We nicknamed her “The Donkey” because her personality is so off the wall and shall I say, “Communicative” that she reminds us of Eddie Murphy’s “Donkey” character from Shrek.

Grey is super gentle with kids, loves air conditioning and does this weird thing where she bares her fangs when happy.

The grin terrifies children, but is hysterical to watch if you know her. The only way she could hurt a child is by accidental tail wag.

Grey remembers and is kind all my loved ones.

On the flip side of the coin, Grey has issued a permanent fatwah against anyone I’m unsure of, don’t trust or have the slightest inkling of skepticism about.

She wages an eternal jihad on anyone who makes me or Mrs. Wilson even a little nervous.

For any unwelcome person or thing that enters her territory swift country justice awaits.

Grey picks up on changes of mood, eye contact, breathing patterns or posture and goes from 0 to 100 without either of us saying a word.

She is like Luca Brasi.

Not even the Godfather can call her off.

Anytime we have guests over, I preemptively lock Grey up because who she deems worthy of trust is unpredictable at best.

People have told me it’s unsafe, dangerous and irresponsible to have a pet like this.

Maybe.

But she’s working dog. A sheepdog. Not a pet.

People tell me to train her, but no matter how much I try, instructing a sheepdog has limits.

When I bought Grey, the breeder tried to talk me out of it because Kangal’s are so difficult to manage. If you think about it, Kangal’s are descended from dogs whose instincts were developed protecting flocks from Wolves, Bears and Lions alone in the Anatolian hills.

They were bred to make decisions independent of their owners, which I imagine, explains Grey’s mule like stubbornness.

I guess the ‘The Donkey’ nickname is fitting…

“Those who give light must endure the burning.”-Viktor Frankl

If upper management (or being managed by my uppers as my Starbucks bill tells me), has taught me anything it’s that some people have a certain capacities and other people don’t.

I know what you’re thinking.

Duh.

But hear me out.

Pressfield is write.

Pop culture schools us into believing you can be whatever you want to be.

 You can’t.

Spud Webb, Rudy and Mugsey Bogues were exceptions that proved the rule.

Those short kings filled the 7-year-old me with the same “false hope” Christian McCaffery is currently peddling to millions of unathletic whites across the lower forty-eight today.

What I am trying to say is that my desires have limitations.

Unless a trampoline is involved, you’ll never see me taking off from the foul line and dunking.

No matter how much I want to be Rivermaid Führer, throwdown a tomahawk jam in traffic or be a mercenary in the Walnut Grove arm of the Wagner Group, my calling is to be an anteambulo.

When you’re a kid, the tendency is to fight against this theory, but I think the definition of adulthood is understanding that the more you go against your true nature, the more unhappy you’ll be.

True birthright differs for everyone, but in my ecosphere:

Louie has diesel in his veins. He is a born trucker.

Dal Porto was meant to farm.

The Spence’s have a genius for training people how to fight and making it fun.

Mrs. Wilson’s purpose is to create a family.

And our Kangal, Grey was destined to protect that family.

“Those who give light endure the burning.” -Viktor Frankl

Conversely, I believe that those who ignore their instincts(purpose) are doomed.

Take my mom for example.

I know she loved us, but she wasn’t meant to be a mother. She was pressured into it. Marian should’ve/could’ve been a professional artist, but lacked the emotional capacity to get there.

Marian was a concert pianist, registered nurse, held 2 master’s degrees, spoke 7 languages fluently (mostly self-taught) and so widely loved within her community that over a thousand people showed up to her funeral.

Sadly, her kids were deprived of a mother because she never learned to control her demons and succumbed to a whole host of vices (fear) before self-actualization.

To quote Pressfield again, “She never turned pro.”

But who am I to judge.

 Neither have I….

“It is similar to one brother asking another, “Why did you grow up to be a drunk?” The answer is “Because Dad was a drunk.” The second brother then asks, “Why didn’t you grow up to be a drunk?” The answer is “Because Dad was a drunk.”

-Gavin De Becker, The Gift of Fear

When my son was born, I needed an escape from hospital induced claustrophobia.

I decided to take to the streets of Downtown Sacramento.

On foot.

Now, I’m jealous person and at times envy gets the best of me.

As I cruised the midnight streets, I walked past a sign with the name of a frenemy on it.

Over the years, with increasing severity, he has been particularly douchey to me.

But nonetheless, I envy him.  

Normally, I’d see his name on a building and feel simultaneously envious at this guy’s success and disappointed in myself.

This time was different.

High off the successful delivery of my son, the feeling reframed itself to me.

Envy became the square root of inspiration, as it were, and I thought to myself,

“Oh, he just he loves Real Estate more than I do. Just like I like trying to strangle people on a daily basis more than he does. My frenemy is just doing what he was born to do and I lack his instinct (love) for the corporate world.”

A massive weight fell off my shoulders.

My ego dissolved.

What I am trying to say is that the correlation between love, fear and instincts are the only reliable magnetic compass that can point you to toward your true north.

My Dad is a serial entrepreneur, who built multiple million-dollar companies through instinct, love and chasing fear.

Do I need to compete with that?

No.

I need to embody that.

Does the world needs ditch diggers?

Yes.

But the world needs people who love to dig ditches even more.

Focus on the latter, not the former.

This begs the question, “What was I born to be? What is the meaning of my life?”

 Legendary psychotherapist and Holocaust survivor, Viktor Frankl reframed the question.

Frankl said,

 “We’ve been asked this by life and we must answer with our actions.” 

In my home, there is hostile debate over the superiority of Raley’s supermarket locations.

My wife is a Lodi Raley’s sympathizer, while I champion Galt Raley’s.

Lodi is farther.

Galt is closer.

Lodi is cleaner.

Galt is bigger.

Lodi has two entrances.

Galt has one.

Lodi doesn’t need a security guard.

Galt does.

In Lodi, we always run into acquaintances.

In Galt, we are unknowns.

Six weeks ago, we decided to go to Galt Raley’s.

My wife’s pleas of “I’m pregnant,” (usually an argument ender) were no match for my calm, mercenary analysis of space and time.

This decision, to go to Galt Raley’s, turned out to be the lead domino, the snowball turned avalanche, that precipitated the weirdest fifteen minutes of my life.

*******

My wife volunteered to drive. So exhausted from a full day of yard work, the idea of an 8-month pregnant woman operating a motor vehicle seemed rational.

We turn right onto Twin Cities Road.

As we approach the Twin Cities bridge, we observe slowing in the distance. I see my pal Humberto, an off-duty volunteer fireman, jogging gingerly up the levee and onto the bridge.

I get out of the car and follow Humberto onto the puente.

The scene was a motorcycle laid down, missing its front end completely.

About 25 yards from the downed Harley is a large African American woman clutching her leg in agony ala Peter Griffin after hurting his knee..

With her leathers ripped and leg strawberried from Road Rash,  she shouted, “The mother fucker jumped out in front of me!”

“What happened?” I ask Humberto.

Humberto says, “The Motorcyclist had a head on collision with a Pedestrian who was jumping off the bridge.”

Now, I’ve jumped off the Twin Cities bridge more times than I can count, but have only done so off the top of the bridge like a real man.

Sadly, this Bridge Jumper didn’t possess the same foresight and completely missed a two-hundred fifty pound black woman on a Harley barreling down from the opposing sideline.

Noticing there was only one victim on the bridge, I ask Humberto, “Where is the Pedestrian Bridge Jumper?”

He tells me that the Motorcyclist facilitated the Bridge Jumping process by launching said Pedestrian into the river.

Fortunately, a concerned citizen rescued the launchee via watercraft ala Mycroft Holmes saving Mary Mortsan in Game of Shadows and boated him to safety at a nearby marina.

I make the joke “Upon further review, the rusher was down at the point of contact.”

No one laughed.

Then I upped the ante and asked if the Bridge Jumper was playing “Chicken” with the Motorcyclist because she was Black.

That got at least an amused chuckle.

I wait for first responders to arrive, then jump back into the car with my wife. As we pull away from the scene, I begin to chastise Mrs. Wilson for not maneuvering her way through the emergency situation properly.

We start driving down Twin Cities, past the spot where my mother made her final ascension as it were, and I’m giving the love of my life unsolicited driving advice.

As we summit the I-5 overpass, I start questioning whether getting into an argument with a pregnant lady was a wise choice. We descend from the overpass and my wife and I stop bickering.

We see a White Dodge Charger pulled over and a couple, male and female (assumed genders) arguing in the Wilbur Ellis parking lot. My wife slowed to rubberneck and I ask, “Should I get out?”

My wife says “No. They’re ok.”

Then Homeboy starts hitting the woman, dragging her by her hair and trying to bring her back into the White Charger. She pulls away and tries to escape by running across the gravel, barefoot with Homeboy in pursuit.

I ask my wife again, ‘Should I get out?”

She says, “Yes. Absolutely.”

I tell Mrs. Wilson to call 911.

I’m wearing blue Havianna flip flops, pink board shorts and a USA Tank top. Not exactly the most intimidating attire when trying to resolve a couple having a domestic.

As Homeboy is flailing around and trying to hold onto the victim, I approach from about 30 yards away yelling, “You can’t hit women.”

He is enraged, but gangly and unarmed.

I am not a fighter. I hate confrontation, but whatever instincts of self-preservation I possess told me, “This guy is no threat.”

If my ten-year tenure at the Nick Diaz Academy has taught me anything, it’s that I can fuck up 99% of the untrained and unarmed populace.

(Later I’d learn that thinking someone is untrained or unarmed is more dangerous than assuming someone’s gender at a Nancy Pelosi Dinner Party…)

Homeboy starts walking toward me.

I think to myself, “Welp, I’m getting into a fight.”

Just as I am about to make contact with him, Homeboy says “Shit, I’m about to get another strike,” turns and bolts back to the White Charger.

Worried his next strike involves grabbing a gun and shooting me, I hustle the abuse victim into our car.

The battered woman tells me, “I have a restraining order against him! He kidnapped me.”

Holy Shit.

I tell Mrs. Wilson, “Drive.”

Thinking Homeboy was about to come back with a gun for a life sentence, we motor toward Duane Martin Jr.’s round pens on the corner of Franklin and Twin Cities Road.

Thankfully, the White Charger peels out, spitting a wake of dirt and gravel across Twin Cities road and speeds toward I-5.

I’m naturally paranoid. I knew we still weren’t safe.

As we pull up to the intersection, I see a friend of mine passing in the opposite lane. I flag him down.

He is perhaps the perfect person for these types of scenarios: a definitely armed, former spook who, for the sake of anonymity, we’ll call Primo.

I don’t believe in divine intervention, but my sister’s water broke on Twin Cities road, the same road my mother where my mother passed. (Perhaps, her water broke because the road is so bumpy and fucked up, but let me have my metaphor please.)

And here I am, getting into an impossible situation on the very same road and the best person for violent conflict resolution just happened to be driving by us.

The world works in mysterious ways.

As we wait for Officer’s to arrive, Primo and I talk outside my car.

Primo informed me that on the bravery-stupidity continuum, I had veered wildly into stupid territory…

What Primo didn’t know is that I had just written a treatise on stupidity.

Fortunately, he’s known me long enough to know that I have a black belt in getting into heroically irresponsible situations.

I try blaming my wife to no avail. Primo would hear none of it.

“It’s not your emergency.” he’d tell me and “If you’re out there alone that’s one thing, but with a pregnant wife, it changes the game completely. Next time, Call 911.”

Eventually, we drop off the poor battered woman at the Bruceville Correctional Facility because the Sheriff’s department never dispatched a unit to the scene. Short on staff, I learned that between Rancho Murrieta to Isleton there are only two deputies on duty.

Two!

This means Isleton is criminally underserved.

Isleton proper deserves, at minimum, one roving Sheriff to monitor local meth labs, Rogelio’s, trailer parks, Bay Area traffic and weed dispensaries.

This is totally hypocritical for me to say. Technically, I disbanded the Isleton Police Department.

Oops.

In all seriousness, I think it’s negligent to have only two deputies patrolling an over fifty-mile span, but imagine budget cuts and rampant crime in other parts of the county are to blame more than incompetent leadership.

The moral of the story is that you don’t fully appreciate first responders until you need them.

I’ve made fun of my little brothers for their concealed weapons permits, but in retrospect see the wisdom in having a CCW. With response times so long, you have to accept this:

No one is coming.

Well, I guess that isn’t really the moral of the story. I didn’t get that until my wife and I got home three hours later. With a car load of groceries, I open the trunk and Mrs. Wilson turns to me and says,

“See I told you. Lodi Raley’s is better than Galt Raley’s.”

I hate feigned ignorance.

It drives me up a wall.

I’ll admit that the Robert Greene Law of “Always seeming dumber than your mark” is a Law of Power because it works.

But I still hate it.

Perhaps, I hate feigned stupidity because most the time I’m the mark in the equation.

Or maybe it’s because I can’t relate.

I’ve never played dumb.

Ever.

Real stupidity comes so naturally to me, with so much ease, I’ve never intentionally had to seem dumb.

This is a major life hack.

If the cherry business has taught me anything, it’s that A Students teach and B students work for the C students.

I barely graduated from a State School with a 2.99 GPA.

Just under the tag I guess….
…….

Farmers say “light crops get lighter.’ They also say “big crops get bigger.”

After enduring the 2023 harvest, I think it’s fair to say “weird crops get weirder.”

Don’t get me wrong, we had a bumper crop and record year, but 2022’s warm summer and torrential winter threw California’s normal ripening patterns into disarray. The state’s cherry crop pulled a Paul Wilson and didn’t mature as expected….Ba dum ching.

Despite these trials and tribulations, company morale is high.

Six shifts. Balls to the wall for thirty days.

There were days when I felt like I was giving a pregnant woman The Heimlich(i.e… wondering if I’m doing more harm than good) and other days when I felt like a Jedi.

Either way, the experience is valuable and I feel like I’m still learning.

Case in point:

This season I learned that a cherry pit when placed between between thumb and forefinger and squeezed with the proper amount of force becomes a highly persausive projectile.

When attempting to “influence people”, as my fellow Linden Italians say, pointing a loaded pit at someone can do wonders for negotiation.

I say fellow Linden Italians, because I am a LINDEN ITALIAN now….

(applause break)….

But that’s a different story for a different day.

*****

The highlight of my 2023 harvest had nothing to do with Cherries.

My harvest highlight was convincing my Dad of a Fake News Story.

I told him San Francisco’s Mayor London Breed was subjecting all women’s restrooms within the city limits to installing mandatory stand up urinals to accommodate “Women” who haven’t gone through the cluster cutter if you know what I’m saying.

The best part of having a FoxNews Dad is that although this story was totally fabricated and imagined, he ran with it. No fact checking necessary. His Boomer soul aflame, he told everyone within earshot of the outrage because like all good lies, it was just believable enough to be true.

This speaks to the Wokeness of our society more than my Dad’s gullibility. After a day or so of allowing him to disseminate my story, I felt guilty and told him the truth. Let’s just say the trust in our relationship remains fractured.

He should know I love having a FoxNews Dad. As Shane Gillis rightfully points out, a FoxNews Dad is preferable to the alternative…. An MSNBC Dad! Who wants an MSNBC Dad?

Not me.

I definitely don’t want to become an MSNBC Dad.

This week, I celebrate my first Father’s Day(In Utero) and hope to bless my son with sermons about the ills of the DemonRats.

I’ll preach, “You know son, Tucker Carlson is starting to make a whole lotta sense.”

Whoa! We’re veering wildly off track. This compound tangent has mushroomed into something totally unmanageable.

If you are still reading, you must be asking yourself “Paul, why are you writing this? Do you have a point?”

Stupid Question, but I’ll forgive the feigned ignorance one last time.

My point is if you haven’t bought Dad a Father’s Day gift, don’t make up some fake story about urinals in women’s restrooms like I did.

Buy Dad Fresh Cherries on Amazon!

The team is rocking 24/7 to bring these bad boys to market and I promise you they’re delicious.

At the very least, you’ll have cherry pits to “influence” family or friends.

Don’t wait!

Order before high noon Wednesday and the fruit will arrive before Father’s Day.

Back to reality.

Lolo and I just returned from a much-needed reality sabbatical. A two-week blitzkrieg across Europe. Six countries. Fourteen days. My body and adrenals are feeling it.

I prepared for this to be a touristy trip. Go to the Coliseum. Summit the Eiffel Tour. Eat gelato. etc….Nothing interesting to write about. That is until we attended the Paris Saint Germaine vs. Maccabi Haifa soccer game.

In principle, I could give two shits about Futból.

I’ve joked that when Ambien can’t sleep, it takes soccer.

I didn’t fully appreciate the sport for a couple reasons.

First, I’m a proud American. Faking injuries, extra time, throw-ins, draws and penalty kicks are all sorry excuses for the swift violence and bloodthirsty action we American’s crave. Soccer will never be able replicate the brutality of Sheldon Brown decimating Reggie Bush or Nate Diaz strangling Conor McGregor.

Según, I lack the requisite attention span to truly appreciate the game. Spending two hours of my life to watch a nil nil game that ends in a draw lacks a certain finality I need in sport.

That said, I love cultural spectacles.

And there is nothing, I repeat nothing, that rivals the energy of a professional soccer game abroad..

Read my blog, I’ve been to just about every major and minor kind of sporting or cultural event in the world. Whether it’s big time college football, Muay Thai fights in Thailand, NFL and World Series Games, the Rugby World Cup, UFC fights, Ill Palio or the Running of the Bulls, I have never experienced anything close to the intensity of a professional soccer game outside the US.

Lolo and I had the choice between watching Bayern München vs. Barcelona or Paris St. Germain vs. Maccabi Haifa. It was a choice between watching the best team in the world (Bayern) or the best players in the world (Messi, Mbappe and Neymar of Paris St. Germaine)

In American terms, we could see the 85’ Bears or a Lebron-DWade super team play.

In the end, we chose Paris St. Germaine. Leo Messi is arguably the greatest player of all time and I thought it foolish to pass up an opportunity to see him play.

*********

Paris.
October 25, 2022.
20:30

Lolo and I arrived to the game after being packed like sardines on the Paris metro for the better part of an hour. We ascended a seemingly endless staircase of steps at the Porte de St. Cloud station and were greeted with cold stares from hundreds of Parisian SWAT Officers clad in riot gear. They looked like up armored like RoboCops.

The energy shifted palpably. I felt impending doom.

We entered the Parc des Princes Stadium. I took note that the snack bar poured beer, water or soda into paper cups before selling the liquid to the general populous. This prevents them from being turned into dangerous projectiles and hurled onto the field.

By the time we took our seats the chants already started. We were positioned two sections to the right of the Maccabi Haifa fan section, who sang songs, beat drums and clapped in aggressive Hebrew.

On the other side of stadium, diametrically opposed to the Maccabi Haifa cheering section, were four sections of Paris St. Germaine fanatics who sang their own respective war chants and Haka’s. I noticed all kinds of flags hoisted, but dismissed them as indecipherable French.

The game started with plenty of yelling and screaming, but two minutes in, all the fans in the arena took their seats except for the Maccabi Haifa and PSG cheering sections.

Five minutes into the first half, on cue, the entire Maccabi Haifa fan section lit off roadside flares and fireworks in unison. The section looked like it was on fire. Their fireworks bursted over the field, prompting the Paris St. Germaine fan section to explode with elevated shouting.

Some of the Maccabi Haifa fireworks were getting dangerously close to the players. I looked closer at the Parisian section and tried to understand the meaning of their flags and banners.

“Is that an Iraqi flag?” I thought. “Holy shit! Those are Palestinian flags.”

The PSG banners read “Courage Hamas!” and “Freedom to Gaza” in French.

I had forgotten that Maccabi Haifa is an Israeli team and Paris has an enormous Palestinian population.

I turned to Lorraine and said, “We’re not at a futból game. We’re at a political rally.”

To my surprise, the game continued despite the theatrics.

Fearing I had inadvertently showed up to some kind of uprising, I turned to an unfazed local sitting next to me.

“Does this happen often?” I ask

“All the time,” he responded.

In the US, lighting off weapons grade flares and shooting fireworks at the highest profile athletes in the world would land you a twenty-year prison sentence.

In Paris, it’s a bi-weekly occurrence.

I thought this was especially disconcerting because, “If the Israeli’s were able to smuggle fireworks and road flares past security, what did the Palestinians have?”

Wisely, I didn’t voice this concern to my wife.

The crowd settled once the first goal was scored. The mood shifted from dangerously political to sporting.

Watching Messi play was fascinating. He lurks in the back field, wandering. In terms of energy exertion, he is the stage actor who stands still and somehow commands more attention. His meandering is slow and methodical.

Messi is like Bill Clinton on the prowl. You know he is going to score, you just don’t know how. Will it be an Intern? Elizabeth Hurley? Will Epstein give him the assist? There is no age of consent on Little St. James.

Wait, what! I’m drifting…

Back to Messi.

Eventually, the ball comes to him and he explodes with energy. Dancing around defenders with surgical precision. The best description of Messi’s game comes from an Argentine footballer whose all time goal record Messi shattered:

“Did it annoy me that Messi took the record? A little, yes. You go around the world and people say, ‘he’s the top scorer for the Argentina national team.’ But the advantage I have is that I’m second to an extraterrestrial.” – Gabriel Batistuta on the consolation of Messi breaking his record.

Extra-terrestrial is the best way to explain him. He is other-worldly

Messi manifested two goals before the half. Remarkably diminutive in stature, at five seven, I felt like he is a 21st century Napoleon conquering France one goal at a time. His Napoleonic instincts give him the ability to see the field in an elevated way his earthly defenders can’t.

Half-play came. It was 4-1 PSG. The crowd calmed considerably. Lolo and I relaxed.

Massive sprinklers went off during the break. Why? I’m not sure, but I imagine the water settled the turf.

The PSG stampede continued throughout the second half. All the stars scored. Neymar had a goal. Mbappe laced a couple shots past the Israeli goalkeeper with laser precision.

At full time the score was 7-2 PSG. I’m no soccer expert, but Haifa was routed.

I was relieved. If the scores were reversed, a riot could’ve ensued.

Still wary of latent unrest, we tiptoed our way back to the Ponte de St. Cloud station with caution.

Never trust a crowd.

Especially, not a French one. 

“What the fuck is Gallipoli?,” I asked Cozoff.

He shrugged his shoulders.

Cozoff had no clue.

We just stood there dumbfounded.

Two ignorant American’s, stranded in Budapest. Terminally confused all hell had broken loose at the mere mention of one word:

Gallipoli….

Hmph..

It happened while standing in line at one of those Turkish Shawarma dive’s on the Pest side of Budapest.

A lovely Australian Sheila was being refused service by an aggravated Turk.

With increasing severity, The Turk rebuked The Sheila’s attempts to order shawarma.

She was too drunk, he claimed.

Argument ensued.

The Turk started waving rotisserie knives around like Rafael the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle and menaced,

“Remember Gallipoli?”

Salting the old wound, The Turk provoked our Sheila to violent action.

The Sheila tried vaulting the linoleum countertop to assault The Turk, but Cozoff, a skilled lineman, restrained her.

Her effort impressed me because it took all of Cozoff’s training to subdue her. This is remarkable because Cozoff is a Russian bear of a man who, during his era, was pound for pound the strongest man on the Cal Football team.

The minute long scuffle felt like an eternity.

If hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, then a woman scorned hath no fury like an Australian reminded of Gallipoli.

Cowed by The Sheila’s rage, The Turk backed into the corner of his restaurant and prepared to skewer the hundred pound Sheila, if she dare cross the Rubicon of linoleum counter top.

Fortunately, Cozoff’s quick, decisive intervention prevented The Sheila from being carved into shawarma.

He hoisted her in the air, legs and arms flailing, and 86’d her from the premises.

This was disappointing because Cozoff had had grand designs on The Sheila’s virtue, but after this fiasco, any hope for romance, or shawarma for that matter, was lost.

Demoralized, Cozoff and I metabolized the night slurping goulash in some Eastern Blocky hole in the wall, where we contemplated the meaning of Gallipoli and it’s devasting effects on the Australian psyche.

Without smartphones to consult or an Australian to enlighten us, we went to bed baffled. Hindsight twenty-twenty-two, that was the scariest part of the whole interaction. Cozoff and I both held degrees from major California University’s.

Clearly, our history professors failed us.

*****

Despite striking out with the ladies, it was good to see Cozoff’s face. Seeing someone from home alleviated all the homesickness I felt after months of solo adventure.

When Cozoff and I joined forces for the Budapest Shawarma Debacle, I’d been orbiting Europe with a group of Australian’s known as The Fanatics.

I ran with the bulls with them in Pamplona. I attended the world’s most treacherous horse race with them in Siena. The night of the Budapest Shawarma Debacle, I was on an Ocktoberfest Bus Tour with them.

The tour started in Prague and made it’s way down the Danube, with stops in Vienna, Budapest and finally Munich for Ocktoberfest, which happens in September for reasons I still don’t fully understand, but could easily google.

The Budapest Shawarma Debacle remains a clear memory because Cozoff and I were relatively sober for it.

Cozoff didn’t drink because he was training for the NFL combine.

I, on the other hand, still reeled from the following dog and pony show I performed the first night of the tour:

The Fanatics take me out for a night of drink and general revelry in Prague.

We go to a 5-story night club called Karlovy Lazne. Each floor played a different kind of music: Techno, House, Rock, Country and Hip-Hop.

Renown for racial sensitivity and political correctness, The Czech’s called the Hip-Hop floor, ‘Black Music’.  

After a couple drinks, I start making wild, unsubstantiated claims to anyone who would listen.

I was starting Tailback for the Alabama Crimson Tide.

I demonstrated fighting poses, a crane kick and claimed to be the lineal grandson to Mr. Myagi.

The fabrications kept escalating, until I made the fatal mistake of telling a giant Maori,

“I can drink you under the fucking table.”

The only way to test this claim, The Maori decided, was to go shot for shot against each other.

A 150-proof hallucinogenic liquor called Absinthe was chosen to separate the men from the boys, as it were.

I surrendered around shot five. My vision blurred and the Maori’s face started melting like a Salvador Dali Painting.

Then, I blacked out.

My only memory thereafter was a Guisti’s themed hallucination. Mark Morias could speak Czech for some unexplained reason. Weird.

Years later, I learned it was no hallucination.
.
The common area of the youth hostel played the Guisti’s episode of ‘Dives, Diners and Drive-Ins,’ but translated in Czech.

According to key witnesses, I kept the whole youth hostel awake, yelling,

“I KNOW THAT GUY! I KNOW THAT GUY!’

“Stupid Americans can’t handle their liquor,” they must’ve thought.

They were right.

The next morning, I woke up naked in a shower, rudely decorated with undigested street hotdogs and other travesty related materials.

The Absinthe bell had tolled.

It gave me one of those multi-day hangovers that even posole couldn’t cure.

But if The Absinthe taught me anything, it’s that my favorite memories are the ones I don’t remember…

“Lord protect me from my friends, I can take care of my enemies”

– Voltaire.

In 2010, my life sounded like a country song.

In rapid succession, I was both fired from my job and dumped by the girl I was seeing.

If I had a dog, I’m sure it would’ve died shortly thereafter.

The firing was well deserved, and if I’m being honest, a relief. But the girl thing stung until I met my wife three years later.

Ironically, for both job and love interest, the positions were filled by each of my best friends. Which was a mindfuck initially, but today I realize these things happen to the best of us.

Hindsight twenty-twenty two, seeking fulfillment though extrinsic sources (i.e. the ladies, work..etc) only wrought heart ache and frustration.

My misery was internally generated. It stemmed from a lack of creative outlet. What Pressfield calls The Resistance.

At my Dad’s encouragement, I bought a one way ticket to Europe and ephemerally, at least, everything turned around when I started writing about my travels.

Whether it was running with the bulls in Pamplona, blacking out in Prague or getting arrested in Thailand, the process of detailing my adventures still brings me a real joy.

With that in mind, let me tell you a story from 2010 I haven’t told.

A story about The World’s Most Treacherous Horse Race.

Ill Palio di Siena.

*******

It should come as no surprise to you, my dear reader, that the World’s Most Treacherous Horse Race, Ill Palio di Siena, takes place in the birthplace of treachery, the cradle of Machiavellian scheming, as it were:

Tuscany.

Twice a year, on July 2nd and August 16, the masses descend on Siena, Italy to witness the most confusing and unnatural 75 seconds of Italian fury since I lost my virginity.

10 of Siena’s 17 Contrada’s (subdivision’s of Italian cities), are pitted against each other in an all-out, balls to the wall, bareback horse race around the Piazza del Campo. The first horse to complete three laps, wins, with a jockey or without.

According to Wikipedia:

The Palio differs from “normal” horse races in that part of the game is for the wards to prevent rival contrade from winning. When a contrada fails to win, its historical enemy will celebrate that fact nearly as merrily as a victory of its own, regardless of whether adversarial interference was a deciding factor. Few things are forbidden to the jockeys during the race; for instance, they can pull or shove their fellows, hit the horses and each other, or try to hamper other horses at the start.

Corruption (bribery) is commonplace, prompting the residents of each contrada, known as contradaioli, to keep a close watch on their stable and their rider to protect them from poisoning, coercion…etc

The winner is awarded a banner of painted silk, or palio, which is hand-painted by a different artist for each race. The enthusiasm after the victory, however, is so extreme that the ceremony of attribution of the Palio is quite instantaneous, being the first moment of a months-long celebration for the winning ward. There are occasional outbreaks of violence between partisans of rival contrade.

The Palio di Siena is more than a simple horse race. It is the culmination of ongoing rivalry and competition between the contrade. The lead-up and the day of the race are invested with passion and pride. Formal and informal rituals take place as the day proceeds, with each contrada navigating a strategy of horsemanship, alliances and animosities. There are the final clandestine meetings among the heads of the contrade and then between them and the jockeys. There is the two-hour pageant called Corteo Storico, and then all this is crowned by the race, which takes only about 75 seconds to complete. Although there is great public spectacle, the passions displayed are still very real.

Well, if that isn’t a metaphor for the Cherry Business, I don’t know what is.

When goal isn’t to win, but to watch your enemy lose, my Italian soul stirs.

I know I’ll never be a real Linden-Italian,  but my love for Italian scheming and undermining is well documented.

That ‘Love’ explains how I’ve survived so long as a mere half breed in the Cherry Game.

***

For good or for ill, animal rights activists have yet to ruin the fun at Ill Palio di Siena.

Like American Rodeo or The Running of the Bulls, whatever ‘animal cruelty’ that occurs is conveniently rationalized under the same banner Southerners justify flying the Confederate Flag:

“It’s tradition!”

One crazy tradition of Ill Palio di Siena is that the race is bareback.

Which is literally and figuratively, nuts. Riding a horse bareback, at speed, isn’t the best idea, unless you’ve already sired male heirs to continue your family name.

That said, the craziest thing about Ill Palio di Siena is that it started in the 1500’s as a wild buffalo race.

Yes, you read that right.

These pyscho Tuscan’s raced wild buffaloes for 100 years, before having the thought-provoking insight that domesticated horses might serve as a safer alternative.

I imagine many Italians were gored before coming to that inevitable conclusion….

“Where there is only a choice between cowardice and violence, I would advise violence.”

-Ghandi

Of the thousands in attendance, only a small percentage actually see the race. Most are buried in the infield, where the only way to see the race is to be over six feet tall, sit on someone’s shoulders or jockey for position along the railing.

Fortunately, I attended the race with a group of seasoned Palio veterans known as ‘The Fanatics.’

We arrived five hours early to an empty Piazza and staked our claim for prime, free viewing along the finish line.

Three hours before the race, the Sienan’s closed the infield. No one was allowed in or out.

This forced our Fanatics to perform feats of bladder control or fill up Gatorade bottles under cover of their chosen Contrada’s flag. Not that I would know about that or anything.

Each Contrada is represented by an animal or force of nature.

They are, in no particular order:

1. Aquila (Eagle)
2. Bruco (Caterpillar)
3. Chioccala(Snail)
4. Civetta (Little Owl)
5. Drago (Dragon)
6. Giraffa (Giraffe)
7. Istrice (Crested Porcupine)
8. Leocorno (Unicorn)
9. Lupa (She-wolf)
10. Nicchio (Seashell)
11. Oca (Goose)
12. Onda (Wave)
13. Pantera (Panther)
14. Selva (Forest)
15. Tartuca (Tortoise)
16. Torre (Tower)
17. Valdimonte (Valley of the Ram)

I chose to represent the Snail Contrada.

I’m slow, come out of my shell only if absolutely necessary and die if I have too much salt.

The Contrada’s flags have their respective animal or force of nature depicted in ornate patterns on thin pieces of silk. The silk flags double’s as scarves, kerchiefs, bandana’s or are hoisted in the air ala ‘the terrible towel’.

Two hours of pageantry preceded the race. It was called ‘Corteo Storico,’ and it seriously tried our patience.

Enduring Corteo Storico was like being stuck in hot church during a never-ending Catholic Wedding. There was no shade and we were forced to drink massive amounts water without a toilet within striking distance. This put us in the unenviable state of being dehydrated while having to pee.

Finally, after hours of waiting, the horses and riders lined up, and after a few false starts, they were off.

If you want me to save you the cost of airfare and room and board, but want to feel what it’s like to attend Ill Palio di Siena, watch the opening scene of Quantum of Solace.

Outside of being there in person, James Bond does the best job of capturing the frenetic scene.

*****

Though we were close to the finish line, I only caught glimpses of the actual race. From my vantage point (I’m 5’4) the race was unremarkable.

All I could see was that Wave Contrada won. This was apropos because a Wave of triumphant Contradaioli’s descended on the winning jockey and horse.

Caught up in the thrill of victory, the Wave Contradaioli’s started trampling a handful of small local children.

A few of our brave Australian Fanatics took notice and came to the rescue.

When The Fanatics decided to stem the tide of stampeding Italians, they knew yelling or reason wouldn’t work.

Violence isn’t a solution, but is an option. And that day, The Fanatic’s violence was a sight to behold.

Five or six of the Wave Contradaioli’s were separated from their consciousness by way of Australian fist before subduing their frenzied celebration. It was the finest display of Australian on Italian crime since Tony Coyne boxed up Mick Gatto.

Of course, you must be asking yourself, “What were the children doing there in the first place?”

Alas! You’ve made a capital error. To introduce logic into an Italian Equation is a mistake of the highest order.

I know this because I am Italian. Our questionable decision-making processes are matters of nature, not nurture. They are inborn, as it were.

But bringing children to brewing civil unrest isn’t just an Italian thing.

Remember: Kyle Rittenhouse’s mom brought a 17-year-old boy with a loaded AR-15 to a potential riot in Kenosha.

Porra.

If Kenosha or Ill Palio teaches us anything, it’s that the madness of crowds is a very real thing.

This is the main thrust of my lesson learned at The World’s Most Treacherous Horse Race:

“….The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, but to those who can see the danger coming and jump aside, like a frog evading a shillelagh in a midnight marsh.

-Hunter S. Thompson, Rum Diary

When I was a young warthog, my dad took me on trips around the world.

Before the first trip, my mom wrote me a letter. She told me how lucky I was to be going on a great adventure. That the worst parts of the trip would become my fondest memories.

She was right.

But like all millennials, I didn’t appreciate her wisdom. Probably because I was scared shitless, but that’s beside the point.

The first trip was in 1997. I was twelve.

Smoking was still allowed on flights.  I remember getting off an Air France flight feeling like we’d done Scrooge McDuck Swan Dives into pools of ash and cinder.

We saw the still operational, Concorde parked at De Gaulle.

I gave my Dad shit that he didn’t spring for us to fly on the needle nosed  fastest commercial plane on earth.

I remained miffed until it exploded in 2000. Then I saw the wisdom of not riding on the Concorde.

Leave it to the French to design an aircraft that literally turns its nose up at you.

My favorite travel memories include:

• •  A harrowing three hour bus ride through the slums of Bombay (present day Mumbai) .
  •  Almost having a coronary landing between skyscrapers at Kai Tak.
  • Avoiding submachine gun toting teens who were high on huffed glue and kat in the back alleys of Nairobi
  • Stepping in front of a double decker bus in Hong Kong and being saved at the last second by the scruff of my neck by my Dad. I blamed the jetlag. My Dad blamed a terminal case of stupidity. Jurys out.
  • Getting charged by a bull elephant on the Masai Mara.
  • Sneaking past dozing Rwandan border patrol agents because my Dad dared me to run across the Ugandan-Rwandan border. Though today, I claim I’ve been to Rwanda, I freely admit that the risk outweighed the reward in that instance. I should’ve been shot.
  • Hiking Sossulvei dehydrated
  • Riding in a seatbeltless taxi driven by a drunk Afrikaans through the streets of downtown Windhoek, Namibia

These memories instilled a lifelong obsession with travel and fueled my decision to return to the Heart of Darkness for our Honeymoon.….

I know many people who could afford this kind of trip, but just don’t see the value in it (ironically, this is why they can afford it.) They don’t see the dividends it would pay for them long term emotionally.

Below are seven reasons I think you should go to Tanzania.

If I inspire one person to buy the ticket and take the ride, as it were, the time I spent writing this malarky and enduring the subsequent envy or resentment it generates will be well worth it.

The posts are organized in sequential order. Digestible bite sized pieces that cater to the millennial attention span.

But Beware!

There is no vaccine for the travel bug.

-Zanzibar
-Honeymooning Honey Badgers
-There are Mud Huts in Rome
-The Great Migration
-Sevrini Mallya
-The Masai
-Malaria Dreams

People think Lion’s are the King of the Jungle.

They are wrong.

The Honey Badger is the King of the Jungle.

You aren’t aware of this fact because it’s hard to build a Disney franchise around two lovestruck Honey Badgers running around terrorizing the African savannah.

It’s impossible to get Jonathan Taylor Thomas to voice a tiny black and silver, mongoose like creature that raids beehives while drunk on cobra venom.

Bob Iger won’t sign off on cartooning a War Ferret that is impervious to pain, has no known predators and is more ferocious that Iron Mike Tyson in his prime.

If you haven’t seen this video, do so now. You’ll understand soon enough.

******

I once met a guy with a ‘Honey Badger Don’t Care’ tattoo.

I asked about the ink.

He seemed embarrassed.

I asked if he lost a bet.

Embarrassment turned to anger. He hoisted a middle finger and stormed off.

Honey Badger care. Honey Badger care a lot.

On a game drive in Tarangire, I spotted a Honey Badger scurrying across the road.

A good omen.
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Our guide, Sevrini assured us it was a rare sighting. He told us that we wouldn’t see another because Honey Badger’s are nocturnal hunters. He was right. We didn’t spot another one.

****

Wilson’s have definite Honey Badger Energy. Size, tenacity, often underestimated…etc

‘Small, but mighty’ as Grandma Dixie taught.

Lolo has mad Honey Badger Energy. It’s why we married.

I relate to the Honey badger in many ways, but most recently it’s the color of my hair. At 36, it is gentrifying faster than Austin, Texas.

Many have suggested Just for Men. I say fuck it. Embrace your inner Honey Badger. One day, if a Labor Contractor doesn’t get me, I’ll be all salt, no pepper. Might as well accept the inevitable.

I think I bring these insecurities on myself.

Here’s why, Lolo and I play a game called ‘Daddy Daddy or Sugar Daddy.’

The object of the game?

Guess if the arm candy of an aged man is a Daughter or 2nd wife.

Lorraine typically wins. Female intuition. But once, in Isleton, I bet Daughter. Lolo bet 2nd wife.

We asked the greying man in question, “Is she your daughter or second wife?”

“Bolth” he answered.

Isleton remains undefeated.

When our guide Sevrini, told us that we’d be spending the next ten days together, I thought to myself,

“Ten days! Jesus! What have I gotten us into.”

Ten days later, boarding an outbound bushplane, I secretly hoped we’d fail the COVID test. I wanted to spend ten more days with Sevrini.

He was the best, most knowledgeable guide we could’ve imagined.

Sevrini is a maths and physics professor, turned safari guide.

He is Chagga. The Chagga people are a tribe that populate the base of Kilamanjaro, Africa’s highest peak. They are renown for being the most business savvy of the 120ish tribes that make up Tanzania’s populace.

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He has deep knowledge of Tanzanian culture and it’s animals. Most importantly, for me, he had the grand gift of silence.

Extremely versed in the landscape of the parks, he never got lost. The terrain was treacherous. The roads were muddy, chueco and at times non-existent.

My fitbit clocked 20,000 unwalked steps each day because the roads were so bumpy. I was sure we’d bottom out multiple times, but Sevrini’s expert driving never failed us.

If you book a trip to Tanzania, ask for Sevrini Mallya with African Horizons.

I’d go back in a heartbeat if I knew he was our guide

“GET UP LOLO! THERE’S A FUCKING GENET IN THE BED!”

I woke up in a cold sweat. Panicking.

An adorable carnivore climbed into our tent, slipped past the mosquito netting and into our bed… A predicament indeed.

Lolo woke up. She rolled over and hissed, “Honey, that’s Winston.”

Referring to our six-pound yorkie.

I’d been dreaming. It was 2AM. We’d been home 3 nights.

For twenty four days, I’d been on Malaria meds. Which had some interesting side effects on my dreams.

Malaria is ‘Latin’ for bad air and is transmissible through Africa’s most dangerous animal: The Mosquito.

The mosquito pitched a shutout on our trip. I couldn’t even swat one of the bastards. My batting average was 0.000.

My back was so pockmarked with bites, it resembled steroid acne. At least I had one thing in common with the great hitters of my generation. Bonds. Sosa. McGuire.

I’ve never taken Steroids knowingly.

Ten years ago, Max Muscle Jed (R.I.P?) sold me some things, that caused my bench to go from 225 to 315.

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Hey! Orrin Hatch said they were legal.

My wild hormone swings and fifteen pounds of lean muscle begged to differ.

***

I’m a squid game diver, shooting my contemporaries in the Juice Business. I feel no guilt about the unjust taking of life. A mercenary calm washed over me.

This was another Malaria dream that revealed a seriously troubled subconscious. I need therapy.

I felt that way until my yoga teacher wife gave me the treacherous details of her Malaria Dream.

She was a serial murderer in her own Yoga themed Squid Game. I told her it’s normal. I told her I had crazy dreams too.

Thought, I did sleep with one eye open the next couple nights.

I had five or six other revolutionary Malaria Dreams that escape memory. As a hallucinogen, I can’t recommend the medication enough.

I fought the mosquito
The mosquito won.
That don’t mean it wasn’t fun

Garth, that was a Haiku.