The Adventure's of PVW

The Score is even "Thai" land. Get it.

2012-01-05T13:20:00.000-08:00

Since my original trip in 2009, Tiger Muay Thai has cleaned itself up for Western Consumption. Sadly, it has lost some of it's 3rd World Charm in the process.

No more feral children who wander around the camp with no fear of anything on less than three legs and the de facto job title of low kicking any round eye in the shins.

The Trainers are no longer allowed to huff addictive inhalants and share with the customers, publicly.

Even the mangy dogs, don't have the energy to muster a half-hearted attack, snarl or menacing stare for the sake of posterity.

I think the perfect visual to illustrate my point is my next door neighbor. His bungalow has a palm thatched roof, dirt floor and a DirecTV satellite attached.

Fortunately, the people haven't changed.

Dang is still the Lead Instructor.

Imagine Mr. Myagi had a daughter, and that daughter married the Drill Instructor in Full Metal Jacket, then Dang would have been their son.

At least once everyday, Dang will stop all training and launch into a ten minute tirade of pure gibberish. His command of the English language is akin to Mike Tyson's command of the letter S. Even though he speaks English all day, everyday, he remains unintelligible to everyone except Charlie Brown and his teacher.

The training is still as brutal as ever. A typical afternoon class consisting of an hour of technique practice and an hour of conditioning will result in the loss of between 3 and 5 pounds. Fortunately, I am getting better.

I have moved from beginner to intermediate, not for an abundance of skill, but for safety. In a beginner class, you are far more likely to run into a sparring partner that doesn't grasp the meaning of 10% Power. This lack of understanding inevitably dissolves into all out brawl. The more seasoned members of the intermediate group understand the concept of 10% Power a little better.

If any industry has profited, it has been the pharmacy's. At first, I didn't understand the meaning of four pharmacy's in between my hotel and the training facilities(1000 meter distance). After a serious knee wound, sprained wrist, 2 sprained ankles, road rash across my forearm and an itch I'd rather not mention, I think I get it.

For better or worse, I have not changed. I still find myself attracted to sports with a Ritualistic War Dances.

First the OP Square, then the Haka, now the Wai Khru.

A $100 reward goes to the first person not named Patrick Benson who can answer, "What was the OP Square?"

Danger Close Christmas

2011-12-26T10:52:00.000-08:00

Most people like to think of their family as dysfunctional.

Not me.

I like to think of my family as an eclectic bunch.

There are Nice Wilsons, Cranky Wilsons, Socialist Wilsons, Unsocial Wilsons, Smart Wilsons and developmentally challenged Wilsons.

Aside from our short stature and last name, there is no common denominator among us.

We have no ring to rule us all.( Insert Hobbit Joke Here)

Except of course, our obsessive compulsive and unhealthy relationship with Fire and things that explode.

Examples Given:

My Great Grandfather used to take great joy in extinguishing his cigars on his Great Danes testicles.

My Grandmother built a propane powered potato cannon to enforce the 5mph NO WAKE ZONE in front of her house.

My Father burned down a 300 acre wheat field with a single bottle rocket. It is also rumored that he burned down the Denverton Duck Club.

And I……

_______________________________________________________________

Mama's Restaurant

Phuket, Thailand

12-19-2011 7:30 PM

In Thailand,Pineapple Fried Rice is not Fried Rice intersped with the occasional chunk of pineapple.

No.

Pineapple Fried Rice in Thailand is a Whole Pineapple. It's hull is hollowed out and the Pineapple Chunks are intersped with the occasional Fried Rice.

Genius.

On this infamous day, I cleaned out the Fore and Aft sections of a Pineapple, paid the bill in full and walked over to my Motorbike.( Motorbike: Heterospeak for Moped)

I started the engine, threw one leg over the saddle and throttled forward.

It is said that the 200th hour for new pilots is the most dangerous hour. This is because the young pilot is just starting to get confident in his skills. Confident enough to get himself killed.

Little did I know, that I was approaching my 200th moped hour.

I dashed of into the night, maneuvering the moped with reckless abandon.

As I passed the local fire station, someone pulled out in front of me. I had to swerve to avoid colliding with him.

I laid the moped down at thirty miles an hour and slid for about twenty feet.

In a mild state of shock, I popped up and dusted myself off like I just stole third.

By the time I assessed my situation a crowd had surrounded me. I sprained my wrist, resprained my ankle and my knee was bleeding profusely.

With genuine concern I heard Thai, Australian, English and Russian voices all essentially asking "Are you okay?"

One voice in particular kept saying,

"Cuse me sah, sah. Go Hospital. Go Hospital now. "

I started to feel mildly claustrophobic because of the crowd. To assert myself, I raised my voice to just below a yell and let everyone know that I was fine.

Fortunately, someone who knew me broke through the crowd and ushered me over to the Fire Department.

The "Firemen", (16 year old boys in cut off- jean shorts and wife-beaters.)

cleaned my wounds, applied antiseptic and bandaged me up. Free of charge.

For the next week or so, I hobbled around the town looking like Gollum.

My bungalow looked like a MASH Unit.

Antibiotics, Antiseptics, Gauze, ACE Bandages, Ice Buckets….the works.

Eventually Christmas Day came and I had indulged, once again in some of Mama's Pineapple Fried Rice.

This time going on foot instead of Death Scooter

One my way back, I passed the fire station. The Firemen asked if my wounds had healed. I showed them the progress.

As I turned to leave, I noticed that the firemen had set up a small card table and were selling something.

Fireworks.

I will pause to let it sink in.

A Fire Department selling fireworks.

The most ingenious lesson in job creation since Oregon outlawed pumping your own gas.

Since I didn't pay for the emergency services, I wasn't going to let the little Obama in my head win. (I will take the time to explain my "Fireworks for Health Care Plan of 2022" in another post.)

I asked to buy their most expensive firework. The firemen pointed to a relatively small box about six inches tall, and four inches wide on both sides. I noticed that there were many other larger and more elaborate looking Fireworks, but this small box with a fuse, cost more than the rest.

Slightly confused, I paid my 250 baht(9USD) and didn't think much of it. Ladies and Gentleman, this is called being presumptive.

At Midnight on Christmas Eve, when nothing was stirring, I felt safe to go outside the Hotel and light off the firework in the street.

In the lobby, I passed a girl on her laptop and said "Damn, I have been waiting all day to do this."

She looked at me like I was a sex offender who asked what time elementary school is out. I felt the shame of a pyro pervert.

I placed the firework in the middle of an empty street/ parking lot and lit the fuse, with total wanton disregard for the thatched roves and dry brush surrounding me.

"It's just a little sparkler" I thought.

BOOM! The firework, turned mortar round, let off a fiery report a hundred meters skyward. It turned the night from pitch black to completely illuminated.

Cazart! This thing is more powerful than I thought.

I realized I failed to place any supports to keep it upright. Without any structural integrity the Mortar pointed across the street directly at about thirty chicken coops.

BOOM!. The second mortar shot out and exploded inside one of the Chicken Coops on the porch. This sent the chickens into a frenzy. A true FusterCluck.

The Third Mortar took a 90 degree left and exploded under some cars. Sensing impending doom, I sprinted directly back to my bungalow.

The 4th, 5th and 6th Mortars went off while I was at a full sprint in the opposite direction. There trajectories remain unknown.

For the next six hours, I kept having visions of an angry Thai Witchhunt with dead chickens and pitchforks. I stayed in my room with the lights off until my taxi showed up to take me to the airport the next morning.

Moral of the story ladies: Big things come in small packages.

Becoming a High Speed Death Machine..

2011-12-11T01:57:00.000-08:00

Welcome to Thailand….The Mexico of the South Pacific

For reasons that were never made clear, I decided to go from Australia to Thailand.

I arrived in Phuket feeling more American than Chuck Norris riding a Mastodon down the Champs Elyeses. Supreme confidence.

That is until Thai Passport Control.

With two people in line ahead of me, I realized

"Oh shit. There might be a warrant out for my arrest here."

Two years ago. I left the country after evading arrest, via Moped.

It was one of the World's Most Exciting Low-Speed Chases.

Fortunately, I handed my passport over and got two stamps.

This ensured 90 days of playing Grand Theft Auto Thailand. No gaming console needed.

The first step in Becoming a High Speed Death Machine is to study at a Muay Thai camp. (I think Muay Thai is Spanish for "Very Thai" or something...)

Unlike Passport Control, I was recognized immediately by the instructors at the camp. I am etched permanently into their collective unconscious as the guy who got his ass kicked by a Canadian Girl.

This is a noteworthy accomplishment considering, these camps are filled with the kind of intellect who thinks that the International Date Line is a Foreign Phone Sex Number.

Before my first training session, I stopped at the Tiger Grill to eat. The Tiger Grill is Thailands answer to the Paul Wilson-Katie Wiseman Snack Shack where we specialize in Bad Attitudes, Cold Hot Dogs and Warm Sodas. The Tiger Grill capitalized on an same economic principle Katie and I did.

Scarcity.

No food for miles.

At the start of my first training, session I noticed two stunning girls in the class. This was a warm surprise , because I left Australia thinking I would have to relegate myself to celibacy. (Note to Comobini: Lady Boys are not an option.)

I approached them and found out that they were filming a SwissTravel Show. Perfect. I'm Swiss, I have first right of refusal.

The conversation was flowing along nicely, until my back started getting whacked by a stick.

In a high-pitched Charlie Brown's Teacher voice I deciphered "Today, we have stick."

Meaning: Any perceived deviance in discipline illicits an 8 foot bamboo cane to be swung Barry Bonds style straight to your torso.

Moral of the story. Don't try to meet chicks at High Speed Death Machine Camps. It never works out.

Postscipt

Turns out, the girl mentioned above was last Miss Switzerland. Read linked article.

Wit Tea Conversation

2011-12-07T00:54:00.000-08:00

PVW sits down to get haircut.

CuteStylist approaches to cut hair.

CuteStylist "What was you name, again."

PVW "Paul. Still is."

CuteStylist: Confused look.

PVW "You asked what WAS my name?

CuteStylist : Knowing Glare.

PVW "I know. I'm an asshole."

CuteStylist "Well Paul the Asshole. What would you like done today"

PVW "Make me pretty."

CuteStylist "Well, If your an Asshole, have you considered Anal Bleach."

Touche, CuteStylist, Touche.

A Dingo ate my street sign...

2011-11-09T03:44:00.000-08:00

Greetings from the most poisonous place on earth. Allow me to distill some venomous wisdom in essay format.

I arrived in Melbourne, two days before the fabled Melbourne Cup.

Well... I should say that I arrived in St. Kilda, a suburb of Melbourne. It took me about four days of investigating to figure out that there are no Australians in St. Kilda. Just German and French people.

Which is just as well.

My perception of Australian Men includes visions of guy wearing too much neon, whose idea of "Finding Himself" involves a shower and some lotion.

The inspiration for my trip DownUnder was to get in touch with my inner criminal. Considering the last three Criminal/Walnut Grovians to make the pilgrimage Down Under have met wild commercial success upon their return home, I have nothing to lose.

My first of, I assure you many more to come, thefts came after a night of heavy drinking. I went out with a brother and sister from England and a couple Swedish girls. The Brother solidified himself in my corner when he quoted WWII Churchill while pouring me some bubbly. He announced to the bar:

"It's not France we are fighting for, it's Champagne."

We drank and shared some Churchill inspired enthusiasm, while the girls looked at us disdainfully.

By closing time I found it difficult to navigate multi-syllabic words, let alone my way home. If Google mapped my route home, it would bear an uncanny resemblance to Michael J. Fox's Etch-e-sketch

As I approached the hostel, I passed through a construction zone riddled with signage. I inspected the rear of an ill-fated sign, loosened the bolt and peeled off. Class, this is called unconscious competence.

I entered the hostel and proudly displayed my plunder to everyone outside and in.

After my victory lap, I sat down next to some Irish guys in the common room and farted. This angered them.

To calm them down I said, "Hey it's cool man. I'm Irish."

IrishGuy " Your Irish? What's your name?"

PVW "Will Fartagain."

I know. Brilliant right. Why can't I do this sober?

There is No America in New Zealand

2011-10-22T17:24:00.000-07:00

After a week "Amongst it", I feel impelled to impart a little Negro Wisdom about Australia's little brother: New Zealand.

Wait.

That's not fair.

Scratch that.

The Kiwi's are far too polite and mature to be labeled Australia's little brother. A better moniker would be, "New Zealand: The furthest, yet closest thing to England."

No seriously. I feel the quiet desperation of that profoundly English Sentence reverberating across Kiwi Countryside. Everyone is helpful with directions, no one likes America and they all drive on the wrong side of the road. I feel like it's just the Southern Hemisphere's version of the United Kingdom.

Unlike their British hierarchical forefathers, the Kiwi's are horizontal. Socially, not physically. (Trust me, Us yanks have em' beat in ~~fat~~. that department.)

For me, this mindset is weird because I grew up in a family, community and country where the Y-Axis of Manifest Destiny is alive and kickin'.

Interacting with rich, poor, young, old, brown, white, I get the feeling that the ladder of success is leaning up against a very different wall. I think this is idea best exemplified by their embrace of the Native Islander Culture, the Maori.

The first words I heard when I stepped onto Kiwi Soil was "Kia Ora."

Translated in Maori : "Welcome"

Since Native American History is essentially relegated to 5th Grade Social Studies, I have wondered why the original settlers embraced the Maori culture. I have asked many Kiwi's "Why did they embrace the Maori's?" and my question has gone mostly unanswered. So, being the presumptive American i pretend I am not, I had to formulate my own theory which states:

The Maori are the scariest people on earth.

Professionals in inducing fear. The Bouncing scene is dominated by the Maori because Ass Kicking is their second language. But don't take my word it.

Watch this video of the Haka, the Traditional Maori War Dance.

Tonight, the most important watched Haka ever will seen be at Eden Park in Auckland at the Rugby World Cup Final.

New Zealand vs. France.

Go All Blacks!

How Wilson's think...

2011-08-28T21:03:00.000-07:00

I received this in my inbox this morning. I think it is the perfect insight into the mind of a Wilson.

From: Chiles Wilson Jr.
Date: Sun, Aug 28, 2011 at 5:22 PM
Subject: Fresno vs cal
To: paulvincentwilson@gmail.com
Cc: chiles@rivermaid.com

I wanna go. Either I buy tickets through you, and your my badass brother....

Or I buy tickets on stubhub. And your just my brother.

Or, we get dad to buy box seats, and we are clever siblings....

Verdict? Call me Paul

-chilito

The Linden Dissertation

2011-05-27T18:02:00.000-07:00

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

People think that I hang out with Linden-Italians too much, but they are wrong. There is a big difference between merely "Hanging out" and learning to respond to them aggressively. This difference, in the Cherry Business, is the difference between SUCCESS and FAILURE.

If you listen to a Linden-Italian, and all you get is the jumble of disconnected information they impart; then you are doomed for a career of fear and confusion. You will feel like Dorothy skipping through Oz:

"Spotted Winged Drosophila....Glossy Winged Sharpshooter....Lawrence Sambado...Oh My"

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

E.G. At seven years old, I was verbally accosted by a Linden-Italian.

David v. Goliath. PVW v. Colombini.

I threateningly ended the argument with

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

Five minutes later, and some desperate negotiation on his part, I reconsidered because
A) He grows cherries
B) I am planning to marry his daughter. Just kidding.*
C) You don't fire the Wartime Consigliere

As Wartime Consigliere, he has a tough job. It is to smooth out my non-existent rough edges and give me perspective on the Cherry Underworld.

Turns out, the average Cherry season and Sopranos Season are quite similar. Only, in the Cherry Business, there are more guns, less killing, equal time at strip clubs* with just enough cuckoldry and back-stabbing to make it exciting.(was that a run-on sentence)

Well, if we must run-on , I guess we shall. Until next weeks fellas....

Yours in Christ,
PVW
______________________________________
*Not kidding

A Short Stint in Migrant Labor

2011-05-16T19:11:00.000-07:00

In May 2011, the man up stairs dispatched PVW to Arvin, California to “Supervise” the harvest of Cherries.

Plight and Exploitation ensued.

RandomPicker “Este pinche gabacho no sabe” Translation: This f**king Frenchified-Spaniard has no idea what he is talking about.

Yes, this was said about me….and yes, he referred to me as a Frenchified Spaniard.

To his credit, the RandomPicker had no idea I spoke fluent Espanol.

In any new agricultural setting , my routine is to keep my Mexican Heritage covert for the first three days.

Tongues loosen and I get to hear an honest appraisals of my managerial skills.

On day three, I start rattling off commands in my native tongue …Generating, what I call, a Dramatic Paradigm Shift.

“Cazart! He not who we tawt he was.”

Any blue-eyed, Anglo, speaking Chicano-Spanish freezes most Mexicans in their tracks.

It reminds me of the time I pressed the SAP button while tuned to Univison. The TV didn’t know what to do.

****

After two weeks I am part of the Hermanedad.

I know all the jive handshakes.

I can conjugate Chingar and Cojer.

I feel like Tom Cruise in the Last Samurai.

The most important lesson I have learned from them is not industriousness, courage or persistence.

It’s self-expression.

In many ways, the typical migrant laborer is creatively repressed. This manifests itself in their parking.

Picasso= Cubism

Hunter Thompson= Gonzo

Farm Laborers= Parking.

All rules are broken

Total, errant disregard for white lines and parallel angles.

****

Like my former self, most Americans pity migrant farm laborers.

These guys risk their lives crossing borders, ducking border patrol and dealing with coyotes just to work.

Miserable,degrading, backbreaking work.

Work that no one else wants to do.

Poor them. Right?

(empathic pause)

In reality, the average migrant laborer is happier than you. He gets paid more than a fresh out of college graduate and graciously thanks god he has a job.

While I yield before Corporate Gods and constantly question what does it all mean, these guys bust their ass for five hours and rake in $200 with no overhead.

This begs the question…who is the one getting exploited?

Selah.

The Dwarf who cried mob...

2011-04-30T15:04:00.000-07:00

The Damages for Pajama Jam 06.…
2 Visits from the Ghetto Bird(Police Helicopter)
1 Fistfight over spilled beer
1 Front window shattered via Garden Boulder.
1 Garage door torn off
1 Near death experience
1 Very angry dwarf
　

FOR ONCE, the title of “Shortest Person in the Home” did not belong to me. Ernie, my roommate, proudly stands about Four Feet Three Inches, and weighs roughly 100lbs.

In January 2007, we invited 150 of our closest friends over for a Pajama themed party.

It was a classic affirmation of everything wrong and morally decrepit with our national character … Keg stands, naïve girls, vomit, promises of never ending fraternal kinship and abuse of the word “Bro” .

The attendees could be best described as miscreants, misfits, misfortunate and Miss Rodeo Salinas. (No bullshit, she was there.)

As the resident lightweight, I fell asleep at close to midnight.

2:00AM Police arrive and end the festivities. They actually came into my room and woke me up by way of maglite to face.

Not able to get back to Sleep, I start surfing the web.

3:08:30 AM Ernie storms into the house screaming,

"Wilson. They are all going to fucking kill us!”

A vague statement.

I wanted clarity.

He could be referring to:
A. His Al-Qaeda Paranoia
B. The lyrics to his Favorite Dropkick Murphy’s song.
C. Some sorostitutes whose composite we had stolen.
D. A crowd of angry men wanting to kick our ass.

The Answer is…

Earlier in the evening, a fight broke out between two people. Two people who did not live at the house. The AssKickee believed that the AssKickor, lived within our domicile

The AssKickee conveniently organized a mob (30 men) to enact his revenge on the Asskickor.

As the mob stormed down Flora Street, I ran to the front door. Locked It.

3:10 :30 AM. Garden Boulder sails through the front window, these guys are mean business..
I run to the kitchen and grab a Knife.

3:10:42 AM Knife in hand, I storm into the kitchen… garage becomes visible.

The mob had been torn off the garage door, instead of breaking down the front door, when I arrived the intruders were flipping over ping pong tables and washing machines.

3:10:48 AM I make Eye-Contact with an assailant.

We both know that the kitchen door were the veritable “Hot Gates” that would allow them access to the house.

In unison, we make a break for the kitchen door

The intruder attempts to pry the door open, but I kick it into his nose.

3:10:58 AM I lock the door behind me, breathe a sigh of relief and think, “Oh shit, where’s Ernie?”

Then came the defining moment of our relationship.

A moment of surreal proportions.

Ernie steps into the kitchen like a WWE Wrestler coming onto stage.

You’ll have to ask him where he got the fog machines and dry ice.

No shirt, a shoulder strap of shells and toothpick in mouth; he clutched onto a 20 gauge shotgun like Rambo.

“Huckleberry, I am going to kill someone tonight.”

There I stood.

The only thing between the intruders and the DwarfDefenseForce.

Either they were going to come in and kill us or Ernie kill them.

I had to act…

3:11:02AM In one movement, I throw Ernie over my shoulder like a stereo in an 80’s Rap Video and make like a Frenchman.

3:11:10AM I shot put Ernie over a Dwarf’s worst enemy. A fence. Then I vault myself over and wait for reinforcements.

3:14:15AM Ernie is delivering a Lieutenant Danesque Speech about not letting him “Die on the battlefield.”

His oratory gets interrupted by the Ghetto-Bird spotlight.

The cavalry had arrived. Fresno SWAT. Clad in Riot Gear.

After a $2000 new garage door and a few ”I don’t know officers” the issue resolved itself.

My Grandma is WAY better than yours.....

2011-04-24T12:24:00.000-07:00

RING…. RING….

Dixie “Hello…”
PVW “Grandma, it’s your favorite grandson.”
Dixie “Oh…. Isaac…How are you?”
PVW “No Grandma. It’s your FAY-VORITE Grandson?"
Dixie “Alex?”
PVW “No.”
Dixie “Rambo?”
PVW “Grandma, that’s your dog.”
Dixie “I know, but I love him.”
PVW “It’s Paul …..”
Dixie “Oh Paul….WONDA-FULL…How’s the girlfriend?”
PVW “No Girlfriend…. Broken Heart…..Canadians"
Dixie ‘No Girlfriend? Broken Heart? Canadians? ….Ah yes ….Then play the field…. I always kept four or five around just to make it competitive..”*

The conversation stops abruptly. She ponders the validity of the last statement.

The backtracking begins “But I always loved Timmy best.” ___________________________________________________________________________ Dixie’s opinion of me is very much influenced on two things.

1. The quality of my romantic woes
2. The quantity of “Special Treats”** I have brought….

If I fail to provide either she treats me like a duck that waddles up, only to find out that you have no bread.

Dixie waddles too, but not like a duck. More like a Grizzly Bear….

Would you mess with a grizzly bear?

I thought so.

Good transition….

Have you ever taken a Grizzly Bear into a supermarket?

I have.

Once in Raley’s, Dixie strode up to the Deli Section. She made eye contact with each of the three ladies behind the counter.

Picked up one of the Sushi 6-Pack‘s.

Took off the Rubber Band.

Opened the lid.

Pulled out one roll.

Ate one.

Then put the lid back on, strapped the rubber band back into place and scurried off like nothing happened.

The ladies behind the counter were frozen in awe.

No one had ever had the audacity to pull one that one off.

My grandma is badder than MJ in the Mid-80’s.

_______________________________________________________
Dear Reader....I know what you are thinking to yourself.

“My grandma can compete with yours Paul. My grandma bakes pies and tells me I am the handsomest wittle boy.”

Well I disagree…. But to be fair, I took the time out of my busy schedule to create a questionnaire

Let’s settle the debate once and for all.

Has your Grandma ever stabbed you in the quadriceps with a fork for not passing the fries?
Does your Grandma return from Doctor visits with jokingly saying "Won't be long?"
Does your Grandma wake up every morning and yell Cock-a-Doodle-Do?
Does your Grandma flood an island every winter just to see the ducks?

If you answered No to any of above questions My Grandma is WAY better than yours.

* Dixie got married in 1948. She still gives solid dating advice.
** Dixie is Diabetic. Therefore not allowed to have Carbohydrates…a.k.a. Special Treats.

The Art of British and Other Tertiary Characters

2011-04-13T10:08:00.000-07:00

Okay. We are twaddleing.

Here we go.

Rapidfire…

AussiePedro

AussiePedro crafted the 3.5SecondDatingGame.

The goal is to secure a date from a chairlift with a passing skier within 3.5 Seconds It goes a little something like this:

"HEY!AreYouSingle?MeetMeAtTheGLCAt4."

To my knowledge no one has ever won the 3.5SecondDatingGame

JohnnyMarine

A future Royal Marine who had a boyish, fort-building relationship with AussiePedro.

Genuine co-dependency.

JohnnyMarine defined the word CockDiesel*

He had only one instance of weird.

One Morning, he emerged from the bathroom and asked “Riece why is your toothbrush so dry.”

Other than that example JohnnyMarine is: One. Hundred. Per. Cent. Bad. Ass.

Concorde

His nickname is in reference to the prominence of his nose and its relationship to the shape of the Air France Condcorde. He takes pride in his nose, asking “What could be more prestigious than a conspicuous conk?”

Concorde is 6’2. 220LB. Solid Oak.

In the Concorde v. PVW Arm Wrestling Trial, let the record show Concorde’s plea: No Contest. BOO-YAA!

*CockDiesel.
Cock·die·sel
Adj [kokdeez'l]
1. Denotes endowment of testicular fortitude.
2. A term popularized by the late Eddie Welshans. Unfortunately, Eddie died in a tragic collision with happiness in “El Eh.” R.I.P. Eddie.

The Big Announcement

2011-04-01T19:50:00.000-07:00

Ladies and Gentleman,

A reoccurring question has harangued me for the past year from Friends, Family and the General Public. What are you going to do with the rest of your life?

Well , here's the big news.

I have just been hired.

Yes, I have a Job.

UnderArmer just hired me as a Brand Developer.

I approached UnderArmer with an idea for Mesh MaxMonzo Shop Jumpsuits in the summer of 2011 and now I am hired.

Get this, we are going to call it….

Drumroll please.....

OverFarmer

OverFarmer will be hitting stores Christmas 2012.

I am working on another product that is tailored specifically for the Australian persuasion.

It’s called DownUndaArmor

It only comes in Neon Green and can’t be worn sober.

Contact your Local Tractor Supply, Feed Store or Sports Authority for more details.

Super Stoked Guys, thanks for all the support!

Un Deux Trois Cat Gnar

2011-03-30T10:29:00.000-07:00

Whistler B.C. March 7, 2011 GNAR Premier

With every intention of going unnoticed, I hurried into the Millennium Palace. My hoodie pulled tight over my head like Eminem in 8 Mile, my fist clenched the requisite $10 and my mood, incognito.

I am immediately accosted by a ~~Cougar~~ SaberToothTiger trying to scalp one of her tickets.

Old women love my eyes. So, I try eye contact haggling. This shit works magic on Dixie, but with SaberToothTiger: No Dice.

I pay full price. $10 for Ticket No.51

The Doorman angrily rips off stub of my ticket. He knows I don’t belong here. I haven't lettered in Pow Shredding. So, I take my seat in the back of the theater.

The movie is about to begin. The lights dim. I am content as an undercover buff ski buff.

Just as the lights go off, a spotlight casts a circle around long haired BroNamath. His beanie was pulled far enough for legal Piñataing . (Yes, I make up verbs.)

BroNamaths brotivational speech informed us that there will be a raffle. His hand digs into a bowl full of ticket stubs, he drops his mouth down to the mic and calls“Ticket No. 121.”

Ticket 121 walks down to claim his prize. An electronic device of some sort. Meanwhile the crowd is booing and murmuring things like “This shit is rigged” .

BroNamath reaches into the bowl and draws another ticket. “Ticket No. 51”

Nice. So much for incognito.

I won some sort of electronic device too.

I scuttle down to the stage and grab the device from BroNamath.

Then I turn and walk off back to my seat, slightly befuddled.

BroNamath pipes up “Hey! Wait dude, the competition has not started.”
PVW quizzically “ Competition? What is this?”

He looks at me like I just shit the bed.

BroNamath “Dude, it’s a transceiver.”

PVW “Okay?” BroNamath “For avalanches. Find people.” 　

With one hand over the Mic, he turns to Ticket 121 and asks, “Should we give him a Head Start.”

This statement caused an Inner Demon Debate inside in my head.

My LittleManSyndrome says, “Fuck a Head Start, I am way better than everyone.”

Then my HighSchoolSocialAwkwardness retorts with “This is coming from the guy who cut his finger off in Dick Bagby's Woodshop?”

Both arguments are valid. In the end I took the head start.

BroNamath gave me a crash course in transceiver use. A transceiver is a device that is used to find people in case of an avalanche.

It has a digital compass with a Red Dot that indicates the location of your the avalanche victim and a number that indicates the distance in meters. So what they did is hid a third transiever in the crowd and forced us to search for the downed "Avalanche Victim."

Unfortunately, BroNamath went to the Helen Keller School of Enunciation and Elocution.

Before I could digest the instructions, BroNamath yells“3,2,1. GO!”

I barrel up the center of the seating following the Red Dot. I am climbing over people, knocking over popcorn, stepping in people's laps all whilst following the Red Dot.

30 Seconds into the race I am 5 rows up, in the center of a packed house. One of my feet is on a drink holder with another on the back of someone’s seat. My transceiver still says 8, but my Red Dot is dead center.

I have no clue what I am doing.

Ticket121 is released.

He totally Old Bulls the Young Bull by casually walking up the corridor and up to the hidden transceiver.

Not only did I lose, but I had to “Excuse me, pardon me“ my way back to the stage and return my transceiver .

I give Ticket121 a congratulatory, Knock the Wind Out of You Back Slap and return to my seat.

After some debating with BroNamath, Ticket121 walks up from the stage and hands me the Grand Prize. A DaKine Backpack.

PVW “What’s this for, I lost?”
Ticket121 “Well the chips were kind of stacked against you.”

PVW ”Um Ok…Thanks. I‘m Paul”
Ticket121 “Oh my name is James, I’ve used these once or twice."

Over the course of the Movie and a flask of FireBall, I found out the identity of Ticket121. (Click the Link) .

A DayDay with JJ

2011-03-27T21:33:00.000-07:00

The ARMADA JJ’s ( Ski’s) are slung over my shoulder like a wounded soldier. I look like Forrest Gump dragging Lieutenant Dan out of the Battlefield.

The JJ’s are the Ski Industry equivalent of the Porsche Boxtser. Fast, Dangerous and Expensive. The only difference is that these don’t require a small penis to navigate.

When skiing on the JJ’s, I get the same feeling of disproportionate courage that I get bar hopping with the Karacozoff Boys. No one can touch me.

With that said, I know that purchasing these ski’s would be the surest $1000 to certain death since buying a one way ticket to Jonestown, Guyana.

Which leads me to my current frame of mind.

Have you ever felt that you are the last guy with fruit punch at a Mass Suicide? Like...um maybe not...but you get the point right? Well let me explain.

I am well aware that buying the JJ's will result in immanent Doom. A Decadent Death if you will.

Not purchasing the ski’s will bring relentless mockery of my Vokal Queens.(Shitty Ski’s).

I have to solve my internal argument before I either return them as rentals or purchase them.

I casually bump into an attractive stranger. She looks knowledgeable. Maybe she's worthy of giving a second opinion.

“Oops, sorry about that. It’s just these ski’s. They have a mind of their own………...Yes, they are the Armada JJ’s! How did you know? I haven’t bought them yet. These are rentals. I am thinking about buying them, but I can‘t really decide. That‘s really why I came of to talk to you. What’s your name?……Pleased to meet you, my name is Helly……..No, Not Kelly. Helly with an H. Helly Hansen. Don’t you know who I am?……..Well just look at your jacket there……Oops, sorry about that. My Parole Officer tells me I have to stop doing that to strangers or else she will have to report me. …..Oh yes. I have to get going too. I am late for Apres with Wallace Whistler and Barry Blackcomb…….EXIST! How dare you? Of course they do. They are just clandestine business men…..YELLING? I would just call that an Assertive tone. I’d consider yourself Lucky I don’t inform the proper authorities.”

As you could imagine, I took this interaction as a sign from the heavens.

Don’t buy the JJ’s.

Fear and Loathing in Gnarnia Part Dos

2011-03-20T22:13:00.000-07:00

Do you remember walking into your High School Cafeteria?

The Cliques, the Status Wars, the "Who does this guy think he is?" look, the uncalled for Hubris among the socially elite...

I feel like that everytime I walk into the mountain lodge at Whistler Blackcomb. I am definitely aware of my JV status.

If your smart like me, separting the JV from Varsity is relatively easy to do .

If your not smart... keep reading.

To be atop the Ski Mountain food chain, the Patron, the HNIC... ….

First, you have to be a really good Skier.

Second, you have to be dead.

A perfect example of this is the Legend of Shane McConkey.

In Whistler, people talk about Shane McConkey like they knew the guy. ( As you all know, I don’t name drop, Tony Eason taught me that.)

If you spend any significant amount of time in Whistler, someone will invariably ask, “Did you know Shane McConkey BASE jumped off the Peak2Peak Gondola?”

My canned response is “Who is Shane McConkey?”* in order to elicit an angry response from Canadians.

Your actual response is “Who is Shane McConkey?”

Shane McConkey was a Canadian turncoat who made the intelligent decision to become American. He grew up skiing Squaw Valley USA.

Unfortunately, he died two years ago in the Dolomite Mountains in Italy due to malfunctioning equipment. He died attempting a stunt where he skied off a cliff and flew off in a wing suit.

I know what your thinking. I agree. This guy had two HUGE ones.

Tragic was his death, I am intrigued by the mythic effect he has had on Whistler.

He is McConkey, the Machavelli of the Mountain.

His friends are now releasing his newest movie, two years after his death. My upcoming series of posts and Shane McConkey’s New Movie have essentially the same intention:

Exposing and making fun of everyone on the Ski Mountain who take themselves too seriously.

The movie is called GNAR. GNAR stands for Gaffney’s Numerical Assessment of Radness and is a game he created while living in Squaw Valley. A game where the Skier is awarded a certain amount of points for Skiing a certain line(Run) based on it’s difficulty.

Additional Points are awarded for Skiing a Line while:
-Talking on the phone with your Mom
-Naked
-Pole Whacking
-Shouting “I am going to Rip the Shit out of this Line” before skiing down.
-Calling out another professional by saying “I can’t believe you’re a professional (Fill in the Blank). I am way better than you.”
-After Skiing a Line approaching a group and telling them “I am the best skier on the Mountain.” -Telling people point blank “I am WAY better than you.”

If you know me at all, you know the games appeal was instantaneous to me.

What better way to showcase the arrogance god has doled out to me in such abundance.

Instead of merely thinking and acting that I am better than everyone else, why not start telling them.

Sadly,The movie isn’t all fun in games.

They get into some deep, existential questions. Question's like:

“If your getting Rad and no one sees it, are you really getting Rad?”

I’m no Pro Skier, but I feel like I can confidently answer.

If no one sees it, your not getting rad.

*WARNING:

Use Caution when using “Tormenting Insecure Canadians”
Canadian Side Effects may include
-Visible Anger
-Actual Anger
-White Flag Waving

Canadian Side Effects will not Include
-Actual Physical Aggression

Ask your Doctor if “Tormenting Insecure Canadians” is right for you.
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　
　

C Eh? N Eh? D Eh?

2011-03-17T22:42:00.000-07:00

At the border into Canada, one thing became abundantly clear….I look suspicious.

Let’s see:

I have California Plates.
My passport inkage resembles Tommy Lee’s body and rap sheet.
My general demeanor is about as approachable let's say...hmmm a Honey Badger.

My Butch and Femme interrogators were clearly not fond of my gender , attitude or Americans.

As you can imagine, they dialed up the intensity a notch or two. Everything from my Facebook Status Updates to bank statements to Sally(Vehicle) came under intense scrutiny.

A few “Yes Ma’am, No Ma’ams” later, the Canadian Border Patrol reluctantly let me cross

Their intuitions were wrong. My dubious appearance and credentials couldn‘t disguise that I was in fact, clean.

The CBP had the disappointed freeloading family member look.

You know, the guy banking on “Will Revenue” and just got shafted during the reading of the Last Will and Testament. Their sails lacked wind. Or whatever.

It was a minor victory, but I feel like this interaction set the tone for my entire trip thus far in Canada.

***
By nature, Canadian’s are happy self sufficient folk. Like Mormons that get to have sex, beer, and fun. Well…I guess that’s a bad metaphor, but you get the point. Right?

My Aussie mate Pedro tells me daily , “Your acting ly-ka a toeall deekhead an somedee it‘s going to bite you in the arse.”

He’s right.

ThePoliteAmericans (Canadians), as I call them, have tolerated far too much preposterous
behavior from my end.

I have been running around Canada cutting in lift lines, frantically pressing the >I< button when on-coming elevator traffic approaches and bombarding Ski Patrol with questions in Swiss.

With two months braving the elements with the Cannucks under my belt, I must admit that they are pretty cool folks. At a certain point, being a complete ass reaches diminishing marginal returns and you have to wolf down a slice of humble pie.

Many apologies Canada

The PVW Hot Girl Ski School

2011-03-16T21:50:00.000-07:00

When was the last time you woke up to two drunken Dutchmen wearing only boxers doing front flips off your balcony into the snow bank?

That’s what I thought…

This shit is getting a little too heavy…

I know, but we are experienced, hardened, skillful,…This is what we train for.

We are almost there. About to cross the threshold into battle. The Precipice. We are running out the tunnel. No turning back.

Oh, where was I? Ah yes. Dutchman, Front flips, Boxers...Shit, I’m rambling again.

Quadruple Expresso…

Rookie Shit…. I write my best material at Full-Speed….. Fired Up….Full Go… Bulldozing the sentence like a backspace….Ok fine yes….Dearest Reader….Hot Girl……Estranged Family Member…Absentee friend…Yes you…. Dear Reader…Well have I got news for you.

Ladies and Gentlemen…

Well Ladies, not Gentleman….I am proud to announce the opening of the PVW Hot Girl Ski School. I am offering “Free” Ski Lessons to any and all Hot women.

The Price? You have to get me drunk. Or cook for me…How about that?

Me giving ski lessons is as ironic as Wayne Dyer and Tony Robbins(5 divorces between the two) giving relationship advice. Our primary task will be visualization drills. I will point to a good skier and tell you “Ok….Ski like that.”

I’ll have your skiing looking like Charles Barkley’s backswing in no time…Pretty sweet deal, eh?

I gave my first Hot Girl Ski Lesson today and as expected….Rave Reviews.

I have yet to receive payment, but she’s Australian… Thus Trustworthy

Send any and all inquiries to paulvincentwilson@yahoo.com. attached with photographic evidence that you are in fact a hot girl.
　
　
　
　

Lizard of Oz

2011-03-13T15:58:00.000-07:00

The storybook wedding approaches swiftly.

I breathe simultaneous sighs of relief and utter despair.

Relief, because my days of serving as the overprotective brother are numbered. Honestly, it’s been a role that I have cherished.

Poor Liz….Elizabeth…Zabeth…Lizard Breathe….Hollowed be thy names.

Nothing has been a more distinct pleasure than warding off would be intruders to my sisters sainthood.

We tried to scare TheFiancée off.

I think the first thing my dad said to him was “Why should I like you?”

TheFiancée replied “Because I love your daughter.”

Booyah-Kasha!

Now class, that is called “Setting the Frame for the Relationship.”

TheFiancée is a solid dude. She could not have done better unless she married Jonas Blaine.

My feeling of despair stems from the subtle expectation that I have to ruin the wedding . I feel like Heath Ledger after finishing the Dark Night. How do I top stellar performances like Easter 2008 or the Rumble at the Rebel? Seriously, where do we go from here? Do you expect me to Leonidas a bridesmaid in the Xyphoid Process? Do you expect me to hire a group of Vietnamese Rickshaw drivers to storm into the reception and do a synchronized dance to the Macarena?

No seriously. I am asking. Send any and all ideas to paulvincentwilson@yahoo.com.

With incidents like this in mind, my sister decided against involving any of her brothers ceremony. An obvious choice. Would you trust these Jackals?

To solve my dilemma, I reckoned "Maybe I shouldn't go to the wedding."

Considering that I am not involved in the ceremony, technically, I don’t have to physically be present. How many of us wish Brett Farve would have just retired early and not sullied his career with the Vikings. I asked my sister if I could Skype into the wedding from some foreign land. That plan was vetoed when the “All Seeing Eye” told me he would pay for my round-trip ticket from anywhere to come back to the wedding.

My next plan was to hire the minister as her Wedding Gift.

My fraternity brother Ernie, is a self proclaimed "4 Foot 2, 90lbs of Twisted Steel and Sex Appeal" He is not only more entertaining than PT Barnum, but an ordained minister. Every girl wants her day to be ““Unforgettable.” What would be more unforgettable than a Dwarf Minister?

She gave me her best Valley Girl “Definitely Not”

Then I thought to myself, "Well... If I can’t ruin the wedding, I can at least have a better entrance. "

My little brothers and I planned to arrive via Ken Ambrose’s Helicopter and fast rope into the proceedings. Ken put the kibosh on that idea when he received his wedding invitation. He noted the date we asked for the chopper, then put two and two together.

You might be thinking to yourself, "But, Paul your sister is so sweet and innocent. Why are you seeking blood?"

Oh touche, Dear Reader.

Liz has streaks of evil in her history.

At the naive age of 5, she affirmed to me that I was in fact Peter Pan. She told me I possessed the power of flight. Emboldened, I decided to test this out. I climbed up the top bunk. Then jumped off stretched out like superman, fully expecting to start hovering . I landed with a dislocated elbow and a trip to the E.R and 4 monthes in a cast.

In reality, I am still excited for the wedding. I guess the one thing I do have to look forward to is getting to ask my father for anything, on this the day of his daughter's wedding.

I’m asking for him to commission a life size Ning Hou Portrait of Me dressed Napoleon Bonaparte. My second option is for permission to play a game of Tic-Tac-Toe with RoundUp on Rusty Areias’s front lawn.

The Art of British: The Royal Wedding

2011-03-10T12:30:00.000-08:00

All week, I have been asking myself the same question.

What do I have in common with the British?

Tough question right.

I know what we don't share

An appreciation for World War II Humor
An Appreciation for Winston Churchill. (They all love Henry the Eighth)
Table Manners....I chew with my mouth open. So what?
A Common Language

Wait a tick....

I almost forgot. We do have something in common!

The Royal Weddings!

A side by side comparison reveals startling results.

Shocking!

Oh NO! Does this mean I am not the Prince of Walnut Grove?

Am I Prince Harry?

I think I have to reconsider the path my life has taken.

Is this a sign from the heavens?

A prediction from god himself.

Do I have to move to England and snort all kinds of Blow?

SELAH!

Well, it looks like I am just going to have to accept it and move forward.

Henceforth my title shall be Paul Wilson, Prince of BROhemia.

A Segway: The Art of British

2011-03-08T19:11:00.000-08:00

Whew…That was vicious. I’m cooled off now.

Simmering.

August 2010 Locarno, Switzerland

My sweet Swiss Cousin Veronica had just pummeled me in an arm wrestling competition.

She was in the middle of explaining her experience as a Ski Instructor in St. Moritz. I had vision.

Two weeks later, fearing real world responsibilities and commitments, I signed up for a Ski Instructor Course in Whistler B.C. Since, I have been feeling the effects of this ill omened decision. Slowly I am coming out of the rut. I think. Maybe I am just delusional.

There are two types of people on the course. The kind of person who hated their existence and quit their 120 hour/week investment banking gig . Or the kind of fresh out of High School/College kid with little to no life experience. Me, I'm somewhere in between.

In both cases both parties had enough “Flexible” cash to make something like this happen. The net result was a grouping of kids and adults partying like a Mennonite alone in Vegas. It’s like being in an Ivy League dormitory. Some have a shit ton of money, some have smarts, some both.

The course is composed mainly ofBritish people. I am the token American.

As their American emissary I feel compelled to inform them of things like "If it wasn't for us you would all be Prositing".

This attitude goes over about as well as Gary Coleman High Jumping, but creates room for comedy. So stay tuned for my update .

The Evil Hyphen

2011-03-07T18:57:00.000-08:00

My French muse is contemptuously firing inspiration into me. Double espresso.

At least she is real French, none of that French-Canadian malarkey...Silly, Quebecois trying to declare sovereignty. Some army that would be.

Who do you think you are you to juggle the title of French-Canadian? No one can suck enough to successfully combine the two.

Half Heart. Deep Grave.

Oh the poor indecisive French-Canadian masses.

Like Roger Zanzi always getting his hair cut before his mullet becomes fully fledged. If he just went one way or the other he'd be a hero.

An educated reader of mine knows how proud I am of my Swiss Lineage. An argumentative reader would hazard the question, "Aren't the Swiss just as indecisive with Romanche, French,Italian and German all being official languages?"

False.

And that is why you are not part the club. Presumptuousness is why we excluded you from an elite fraternity that includes Ben Rothlisberger, Roger Federer,All Ski Patrol and myself.

The following statement should be read with an air of finality.

"We are Swiss. We may not share a common language, but we serve a common purpose. Being Swiss."

What we lack of course is a god damn hyphen.

If you have a hyphen in your name (Jean-Claire), Nationality (French-Canadian), Political leanings(Neo-Conservative), I declare you evil.

High Treason is not committing. Does that make sense?

I see the audiences heads nodding. Good. Glad I got through to you.

Marshall our forces we must against this Axis-Of-Evil.

I think it was Al Pacino who once said, "But there is nothin like the sight of hyphenated spirit. There is no prosthetic for that."

Oh by the way, Marie-Helene if your reading this...
A. Your English must be improving if you got this far. Good Job!
B. See you in Montreal this summer
C. You know how much I love "De Quebecers"

Fear and Loathing in Gnarnia

2011-03-05T22:35:00.000-08:00

We were somewhere between Barstow and Las Vegas enroute to Park City, Utah.

Bat Country.

“We don’t come to Park City to ride PARK. We come to Park City to Ride POW!”

A fortunate few know exactly who said this without me having to put a dash with a name next to it.

They are the unmistakable words of Lindsay Joseph Barto.

Half-Punk Rock Artist, Half-Executive Gangster, and grin that would put Jack Nicholsonout of business, Lindsay taken charge of the motivational speeches. He is the flint that ignites our testosterone driven, ridiculous decision making process. Desicions that range from kidnapping fraternal superiors to dancing with old women to knife throwing contests.

[ SideNote: Barto still owes me $100 for defeat in an epic dagger throwing duel in 2007. I accept cash, PayPal or wampum. ]

I was atop 9990 (a Chairlift) about to make another one of those decisions.

The sign mockingly stated

Expert Terrain
Double Black Diamond, Double Black Diamond, Double Black Diamond

There I stood on a pair of $150 Ski's, in a pair of boots two sizes too big and a jacket that fit when my Max Bench was 165.

Trying to keep up with my buddies, I was frustrated. Wholly unable to traverse the steep terrain or ski in the fresh powder.

Due to overexertion, lack of skill, high altitude and poor equipment. The American Dream of ripping powder lines eluded me and bruised my ego

I wanted SkiHab
________________________________________________________________
Two weeks in to my SkiHab….Whistler B.C.

I was standing atop the Blackcomb Glacier and got this weird feeling of rendezvous,I mean déjà vu. (Damn Utah, the person not the state) Memories of my embarrassing experience in Park City kept running through my head. I was coming back for vengeance.

The run was called Blowhole, a Double Black Diamond. A profile view of the run reveals a J-shape. Meaning it is really steep at the beginning, dips down, then comes right back up at the end. From the top, it looks like a 500ft Couliuoresque sheer cliff face with a slight dip at the bottom.

I jump off the ledge, jump hop a couple of times, rip the rest of the run and straight line down through dip.

Run conquered.

To indicate victory to no one in particular, I give a Che Guevara Celebratory fistpump. This is not what I would call a good idea while traveling full speed across a field of Powder.

Fuck it, it was my victory lap.

Before I knew it, I hit a portion of hard pack in the snow. Double ejecting out of my ski’s. In textbook superman pose, I was sent sailing for a solid 15 feet before touching down again.

Fortunately, I wasn’t hurt. Crashing in powder is like growing up a Wilson in Walnut Grove . No matter how bad you fuck up or fail there are essentially no consequences for your actions. If you don't believe me....read the last post.

The Artist currently known as....

2011-03-04T15:06:00.000-08:00

Contrary to popular belief, I am not perfect. But who is?

Well actually, I think the artist currently known as Ming Gough might be...

To be honest, Ming Gough is just a government name. I like to call him the Godfather of the Linden-Italians.

*****

His Reputation precedes him...

In the cherry underworld, no one is more respected. Prior to joining the cyborg, he successfully outwitted the old-man-above, but that story remains stricken from the record.

Following the dictum of:

"If you can't beat em', join em"; Ming Gough went eventually to work with the cyborg.

In recent years, I have found that he is not your run of the mill Linden-Italian.

Linden-Italians drive Chevy's. Ming Gough drives a Ford.
Linden-Italians eat at Waterloo Club. Ming Gough drives 40 miles to eat at Guisti's.
Linden-Italians go to meetings. Ming Gough goes to Vegas...Ha. Just kidding...I wanted to see if you were paying attention.
Linden -Italians love Paul Wilson. Ming Gough remains indifferent.

****
His hair never recedes him....
A perfectly groomed cloud resides atop Ming Gough's head. The Ming Fro. According to multiple sources, his hair has been that way since the 50's. His hair combined with his John Wayne Gunslinger body language has a dramatic effect. I have a robust fear of him.
****
Until next week YOURS IN CAPSLOCK,

PVW

Rumble at The Rebel

2011-03-01T02:54:00.000-08:00

The length of this document defends it well against the risk of it being read.

The Summer of 2004, marked among other things my return to Mealer Lane. The gravel cul-de-sac of my childhood.

At that point in my maturation I took the form of a walking contradiction. A socially awkward white boy who spoke fluent Espanol, listened to Rap Music, drove a Mini-Van, and had enough teen angst to drown Avril Lavigne.

I was bad.

It was to the point to were Hometown Hero Tony Eason, a family friend, gave me the “Catcher in the Rye” to help me try and decipher my feelings . It took me until now to get the hint. Or the joke. I’m still not sure.

My Father and I had egos that couldn’t fit in the same car, let alone home. So that summer I moved out of my parents home and into “The Rebel House”

I moved into The Rebel with fellow friend and heathen Timmel.

Timmel was a lanky, drug store cowboy who grew up in picked fence America with loving, suburbanite parents. He out ranked me on the cool meter for playing sports, having bigger tires on his Jeep and being fellated by the Lieutenant Governor’s daughter . His untainted upbringing gave him a disposition that was the exact opposite of mine.

At the time, I felt like two 18 year olds, living on their own, with relatively high paying jobs was totally normal. The rest of the world seemed to know that our constituency with Lucifer had been solidified.

As a gesture of precaution, our parents, elicited the watchful eye of our neighbor, Pete Budnik. He was tasked to report on any “Suspicious Activity.”

Pete, a former Game Warden and bear of a man embodied the honest and noble spirit of the “Great Generation.” He kept a watchful eye on us…. while awake at least.

Timmel and I soon learned that Pete went to bed at 8. P.M. and could hear about as well as me in the front pew of St. Anthony’s Catholic Church. So much for that plan Dad.

In our first week Sans Parents, we had a 6-person Spa, a 72 inch big screen (Thanks Costco-60-Day-Return-Policy) and more free booze than a Rush Party.

We had found our Elysium.

I had no qualms with Timmel. Except he hung around with more Poles than a power line in Krakow. So, I served as the Semi-Permeable membrane that kept it from becoming a nightly Cockfest. It started becoming a Molotov Cocktail of Testosterone, Guns and Republican Agendas. A whirlwind of criminal activity and negligence. The Rebel was an Ngororo Goro Crater of vermin. A breeding ground, populated by 3 different types of Bags: Douche, Dirt and Scum.

It was especially appealing to Timmel’s Friends TopRamen, BushLeague and GualcoMole.

TopRamen (dry, cheap and square.) was the kind of guy who tucked in his shirt at all the wrong times, crossed his legs to look sophisticated and wore unprescribed reading glasses. Everything from his choice of women to clothing was suspect. He wasn’t the kind of guy who would just fall on the grenade. He was the kind of guy who willingly pulled the pin, then fell.

GualcoMole possessed all the prerequisites of your ex-High School Quarterback. Physically dominant, arrogant, blustery, lives at home and itemizes his drink count.

“Bro I had like 4 Heinis, Two Shots of Crown Royal and 8 Cups of Jungle Juice…….” .

BushLeague possessed the same qualities, plus a crooked penis. Not that I would know or anything.

The conflict between this Patrol of Douche and I reached it’s crescendo the night of our aptly named “D-Day” party. Alone, this Tag Team of Douche had the testicular fortitude of a Ken Doll, but together I took their threats of bodily harm seriously.

I needed reinforcements. I called Puddin.

Throughout adolescence, Puddin doubled as my big brother figure and friend. We were both fellow children of privilege and adversity, so he put me under his wing. Puddin, to me, was the authority on all things masculine. From rodeo to poker, working out to ladiesmanship. He seemed to have all the knowledge that eluded my worldview my whole life.

Puddin had no problem finding some guys to birddog me. .

He recruited HouseBoat. A 6’6 300LB angry mexican with a vindictive streak. Little did I know that involving HouseBoat was akin to the Rolling Stones hiring the Hells Angels for the Altamont Free Concert. (And almost as consequential)

This may seem a little off track, but bear with me.

There is a theory amongst my friends who are players, that states:

A girl decides whether or not she will have sex before she goes out that night. So your job is not to convince a girl to have sex. Your job is to find the girl who wants to have sex and convince her that YOU are the guy she wants to have sex with.

I have a similar theory about guys who get in fights. My theory is that some guys just want to find a reason to hurt you and are looking for a fight, but I hadn’t learned this until well into my twenties. At 18, I innocently thought I had invited protection against this Knitting Circle of Manliness that threatened me.

Woah, we are getting off track here....Where was I?....ah yes...on with the story

The night of the party things were going swimmingly. Over 400 People were packed into The Rebel, Pete’s Yard, Mealer Lane and the surrounding fields of alfalfa. The Kegs were tapped , the spa was packed and I had backup.

The Party’s attendees were that special mix of White Trash and Ghetto. It looked like Cabela’s and Eastbay had an abortion. The kind of people who either grow up to wear T-shirts of a coyote howling at the moon or end up in San Quentin or both.

TopRamen had found his typical female prey who looked like she came out of a feedlot.

BushLeague and GualcoMole were too busy stroking each others cocks cause me harm.

I figured things would be fine and I stopped worrying about getting jumped. That is until HouseBoat and GualcoMole met. No one knows, who or what started the fight, but I am one of the few who knows how it finished.

GualcoMole brought a 2x4 to the back of HouseBoat's head with enough force to make him start speaking in 3rd person.. After a small scuffle HouseBoat exited the party. Leading me to think the altercation had ended.

I find out about this through my hipster cousin PDub, a 25 year old beer bellied, guitarist. He was always the peacemaker. The "Goat in the Stall" that would quiet the young colts down.

Unbeknownst to me PDub , the consummate peacemaker, had also notified Puddin of his unconscious friend, HouseBoat.

Puddin was not happy.

Within 15 minutes, my front yard looked like a scene of Street Kings. Two Escalades pull up with 8 Guys carrying Automatic Weapons. Puddin and his fresh of the cell block D brother, exConBrother, jump out of the car brandishing 9 Millimeter Pistols. The rest of their gang waiting in the Escalade, pulling perimeter security.

Like an Offensive Lineman frantically trying to keep two guys from sacking the quarterback, I couldn’t keep Puddin and exConBrother from sacking the party.

Their assault began with the pistol whipping and chin checking of TopRamen, BushLeague, GualcoMole and 10 other citizens of the Doucheville's Polis. It was like watching Leonidas and the Spartans kill the Persians in the opening scene of 300.

In many ways my dream was coming true while witnessing the swift ass kickery being dealt.

That is until an unidentified fist became acquainted with my left eye. I fell to the ground

While getting friendly with the linoleum I heard a two gunshots fired so fast, I thought it was only one shot.

BANG. BANG.

I get back up, dust myself off and look around at what looks like Cirque de Soliel Finale. People jumping over fences, guys scrambling off the floor and out the door, girls running out of bedrooms topless in booty shorts

I look at our kitchen

Blood was everywhere .

Within two minutes 400 People whittled down to Puddin, exConBrother and Myself. The place was empty.

I blurted “Dude, WHAT THE FUCK! Is anybody shot?”

He wipes off his fingerprints from the pistol and hands it to me. “I am going to need you to hold on to this.”

Then Puddin and exConBrother both run out the front door and hop into the lead Escalade .

They leave me alone in the living room in a fog of bullets and violence. I sat there for a solid 10 minutes attempting to digest the events of the night and take inventory of my thoughts.

There is enough blood to make me think someone got shot.

My friends may or may not have shot somebody at a house that my family owns.

I have the loaded pistol that I was charged to “Hang On To.” which may or may have not have shot someone.

My pocket starts vibrating..

It’s exConBrother.

He is frantically crying and tells me “Dude, I have two strikes. You can’t tell anyone.”

If I implicate exConBrother I will suffer the wrath of his gang member buddies.

To clear my thoughts I go outside, and walk up to the top of the cross channel bridge before the cops arrive. The cross channel is a bridge that connects the Sacramento River to the San Joaquin River. It has two huge locks that, in the summer, shield you from the view of oncoming traffic. In the winter, the lock comes down to block the flow of water out of the Mighty Sacramento.

With a black eye and 9 Millimeter Pistol I approach the Cross Channel. To this day I am not really sure why I felt the compulsion to go up there.

As I get closer. I start making out a figure lurking in the shadows.

An idyllic scene.

PDub is smoking a cigarette with one foot on the railing, calm as a Hindu Cow.

I explain my situation.

Wordlessly, he plucks the gun out of my hand and throws it into the river. Grimacing as he walked off. That solved one problem.

At this point, almost 25 minutes after the initial gunshots, the Cops were still ten minutes from arrival. I live miles from anything that necessitates something important like a Police Department .

Right then I had an epiphany.

No one at the party knew Puddin, exConBrother or Houseboat. This knowledge in hand I run back to the scene of the crime.

A few people were nervously milling about in front of the house in hopes of retrieving purses, clothing or virginities.

I call a last minute audible at the Line of Scrimmage, Peyton Manning Style. I concoct and disseminate a version of the story that implicates members of the Rival Rio Vista High School to all the remaining guests.

The Sheriff shows up. He gives me the same look of utter despair you get from the Graveyard Shift Waitress at Denny’s when you stumble in drunkenly demanding Moons Over my Hammy.

The Sheriff break us up into random groups and begins questioning. Fortunately, my story holds water with not only the police, but everyone else in the town.

Perhaps my favorite anecdote of the night was the questioning of our neighbor Pete. After 400 people screamed, yelled, two shots were fired and Sheriff vehicles entered Mealer Lane blaring their sirens…. He heard none of it..

Fortunately no one got hurt, but my friendship with my Timmel never recovered. We are publically cordial, but I sense an underlying tension for my role in the Malay on Mealer Lane. Timmel, BushLeague and GualcoMole are all married now and leading fairly ordinary lives. As you can imagine, I wasn’t invited to the weddings.
　
　

Australian MGMT 101

2010-10-07T07:46:00.000-07:00

G’Day my Mediocre Reader.

Time to talk about Europe’s Most Invasive Species since the Third Reich.

Australians.

Australian’s constitute both ends of "The Best and Worst parts of European Adventure Continuum."

On the Worst End of the Continuum….Aussie Men.

Australia is proud of their Obnoxious, Behaviorally Impaired Men. (Save: Charlie Billeh, Chopper and Bryce Green.)

Today’s Australian Male comprises One of Three Archetypes.

The Introvert…..

The Introvert does not say much.

He spends 80% of his Public Life differentiating his Left and Right Feet from Each Other.

This guy has about as much presence as the Grinch.

Befriend him. He might spare you on his Shooting Spree induced by …

The Spicoli

This Aussie Archetype makes up 80% of the Traveling Aussie Population.

The Spicoli came to Europe with a lack of Money, Soap and Manners .

He refers to his penis as “Mi Cock.”

Male Bonding, to him, is taking Group Photos of Mangina’s with your Closest Mates..

1st Drink, He feels compelled to explain which of his Tribal Tattoo’s best defines him as a person.

2nd Drink: He stumbles upon his nightly realization that he has alienated all attractive women within a Quarter Mile Radius.

6th Drink. He is too drunk to notice that his Countrywomen have fallen victim to….The Charmer.

The Charmer composes roughly 5% of the Male Australian Population.

This Percentage may seem insignificant, until you realize that they hold controlling interest in the Female Stock Market.

Or as I call it…The “Vagority”.

This Man has more game than Ataris.

His Soft Eye-Contact and Australian Accent mixed with his Insidious Charm creates a Once-in-a-Lifetime Experience for their American Female Prey.

On the Best End of the Continuum...Hands Down the Aussie Women.

Due to the lack of Real Men on their Continent the Aussie Women are relatively desperate.

Anything short of “Excuse me while I whip this out” is considered charming.

They lack the Seemingly American, Socially Programmed Chastity Belt.

After my 3rd Fanatics Trip, these Women deserve the credit for renewing my Faith in their Gender.

Here are some Helpful Hints that will help Manage the Aussie in your Life.

The quickest way to get into Rapport is to talk highly about Chopper Read. Chopper Read is Australia’s Most Revered Criminal. This man literally stabbed his way into the Australian Limelight. Chopper Read makes Charles Manson look like the kind of guy, you want to bring home to Dad.

DO NOT Make fun of Gallipoli.

During World War 1, the British and Australians were fighting against the Turks. According to the lore, they were set to Attack at Midday. Except the Australians forgot to set their watches to the appropriate time and got Massacred while the British were having Tea.

I had to restrain a Girl from Attacking a Kebab Store Owner because he violated this principle. This man had a Kebab Knife and still feared her Wrath.

DO NOT attempt this Argument. You will lose.

American Football is Not Tougher than Rugby. If you feel compelled to make this argument, attend a Rugby Game First.

Winston Churchill is quoted as saying, “Actually Gridiron is somewhat like rugby. But why do you have all these committee meetings?”

Rugby is Non-Stop Brutality with No Pads. (Be prepared for their ever so witty Tampon/Football “Pad Metaphor.” )

Some teams ,like the New Zealand All Blacks, have a Pre-Game War Dance that they do to Intimidate the Opposition.

The closest thing to a War Dance Americans have is Ray Lewis having a Seizure, the OP Square or Kevin Garnett showering in Cocaine .

DO NOT Challenge Aussies to a Drinking Contest.

In America, we have Mothers Against Drunk Drivers..
In Australia, they have Drunk Drivers Against Mothers.

Nuff Said…

Utah the Unscriptable

2010-10-03T04:25:00.001-07:00

“Jesus Christ!” He yells after I pelt him with some foreign object.

He stalls, ponders the whether or not Ole’ Chewy Christo existed….

Frustrated he says, “Fuck, I mean Moses.” Remembering that he does not believe in Jesus the Prophet…

This example of a Utahism exemplifies what makes Utah my Favorite Jew.

He puts the “Ish” in “Jewish”.

Mainly because he rubs in my face the BirthRight Trips and Overall Benefits of Judaism, more than he actually practices the Religion. The only Birth Right I got was a Guilt Trip.

Utah can only be described as a very Special Young Man

I use the word Special in Both ways. Meaning Unique and Slightly Retarded.

Unique:

Give him the build of Mini-Arnold Schwarzenegger from his Pumping Iron days.
Mix in the Wide-Eyed Enthusiasm of Steve Irwin when he “Found a Beauty.
Add the common sense and voice tone of Keanu Reeves
Sprinkle in a little Jewish Academic Prowess

Heat on HIGH for 2:00...and Ladies and Gentleman I give you, Utah.

In College, Utah gained a reputation for saying things nothing short of Slightly Retarded:

Utah would visit me every summer during our Collegiate Years. My family lives in BFE.

Traveling and living in SmallTownUSA was a bit of a culture Shock for Utah. As I was giving him a tour of the ranch, he pointed to a Sod Farm Next Door.

Then came the dumbest question I have ever heard.

“Is that where they grow Astro-turf?”

To this day, I am not sure if this was serious. I lack the courage to ask.

Stone cold seriousness preceded all of these statements. This only added to the mystery that shrouds a persona like Utah’s.

My notions of Utah constantly oscillated between brilliance or retardation. One party night at our Fraternity House, he approached me and said,

“Huck, This girl is giving me this really weird feeling of rendezvous.”

Then he walked off.

Leaving me frozen. Trying to compute what I just heard.

That statement blindsided me.

He was Sheldon Brown. I was Reggie Bush.
　
Under all his stupidity, lied a remarkable intellect that rarely allowed a sub 3.5 GPA.

Once at a stoplight, he rolled down the passenger side window, stuck his head out and screamed at a couple on the street.

"DUDE, YOUR GIRLFRIEND IS HOT!"

Then he rolled the window back up and sulked back into his seat, like nothing happened.

My eyes met his with a "What the fuck was that" look.

He casually replied "What is he going to say, 'No she's not.'"

Impeccable Logic.

He mastered the Robert Greene concept of “Seem Dumber than Your Mark”

When I ponder whether or not it was Comedic Genius or Being a Tad Slow, the same result occurs: Stalemate….
　
　
　
　
　

I Thomas Crowned Her

2010-08-26T15:42:00.000-07:00

My disdain for the French began in the 8th Grade.

Twenty some Prepubescent Walnut Grovian Misfits were shipped off on a weeklong adventure in Paris. Parental Supervision in Tow.

The Trip represented an opportunity 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.

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

Then Out of the corner of my eye, What do I see?

A shoe.

Headed Directly Where?

The Corner of My Eye.

I dust myself off and scream at this guy.

Then, 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 to the Face by Frenchie McFrogerson..

Little did I know this was the Metaphorical Shooting Arch Duke Ferdinand that would start a war between French Culture and Yours Truly.
______________________________________________________________________________
　
At some 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 3 Simple Steps to Impressing him…..

Be French
Be Gay
Steal Something really cool.

If you think otherwise, you have not done your research.

EdNote: Had I known this a Two Years ago it would have saved me an entire career choice. A career that ended with a crawling escape similar to the conclusion of Shawshank Redemption. Unfortunately for metaphor, Brandon Lawson(my successor) isn’t Black or a Good Narrator.

Frolic with me 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 came to save the day. That 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 with him.

Stimulus: 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.

Making Statements like “They are so French."

I am now down to one option.

3. Steal Something really cool.

Paul Harvey ain’t got shit on this transition into…

The Rest of the story....

Paris June 12, 2011

I am Flexing the Standard Attire: Underarmour Shorts. Tangerine Bandana. Val Kilmers 1980’s Oakley’s.

I am now ready to start my run and I am in the zone….chief.

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 OH SHIT! 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 and 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 10 construction workers, but that will not stop me.

I mouth the words, “Come with me.”

She whispers, “Rue de Dunkerque.”

I sidled 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.

Fuck.

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 Gay French Street Sign.

Her name is “Rue de Dunkerque.”

2 days of Relative Boredom + 13 Seconds of Sheer Terror= Running with the Bulls

2010-07-14T13:31:00.000-07:00

A day after the Spanish dubbed the Dutch like Travis Hunsaker, I was on a train to partake in the Second Dumbest thing I have ever done in my life. (First Place goes to the Wilson-Cook Gunshot Extranaganza)

I strike up conversation with the guy seated next to me. JoshER, was a newly minted Emergency Room Doctor who just finished 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 kissed his ass 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 Futbol.)

JoshER asked "What is that book you are reading, about?"
Paul, "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 next victims.
It wasnt until an hour after I was off the train, throughly shaken from the interaction, that I realized that I had succumbed to this man`s intellectual superiority.

5:00 AM Next Morning. 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 40 Aussies, 1 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. I had a Garth Algar epiphany.

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. I breathe I sigh of relief 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 is still lolly gaggin´, I have no visible exit for at least 400 yards.

I can see 5 feet behind me, and 5 feet in front of me.

All I hear are feet.

I am looking up at the banisters to my left and 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 updirectly behind me. It is 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. Wilson Athletic Prowress 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. I am the man.

8:01:01 While celebrating my victory, a cop pushes me a way from the fence back into the stampeding crowd. I am not the man.

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.

Picadilly Circus.. What a...

2010-07-07T17:43:00.000-07:00

Prior to my adventure, C Wilson and I thought it would be funny to surprise Chilito and Alejandro(Little brothers) in London before their Gorilla Tracking Expedition. It is kind of scary that the Rwandan Government allowed these kids to go to Rwanda. (Insert Forest Whitaker Joke Here)

Take most of the qualities you like about me, then magnify those qualities exponentially, and your stuck with my little brothers.Spending time with them is one of the most fulfilling, yet dangerous, things I love. The Plan was for me to get to London, and phone their Hotel Room. At which point, C Wilson was to inform the little ones that James( His "Friend") in London had called. James' message was that the "Spice Girls" were going to be coming out of the next door hotel.

Chilito and Alex pile out of the hotel and are awkwardly standing in front Leicester Square. They were anxiously awaiting the arrival of the most annoying pop group of the 90's. I approach Tweedle D and Tweedle Dumb and say, "When are the Spice Girls getting here?"

They are confused. The look of "What the hell is Paul doing here?" runs across their faces.

Alex is speechless.

Chilito angrily asks my father, "So the Spice Girls aren't coming?"

At first I was shocked that he wasn't stoked to see me. However, given my behavior in the prior to my departure, his anger was justified.

When we travel it is like a Molotov Cocktail of immaturity and testosterone, waiting to be lit and smashed against unsuspecting fuzzy foreigners. Underground Poles become Jungle Gyms, People become Social/Science Projects and American Stereotypes become, well...

True.
.
Our IQ drops to our European Shoe Size. I am 42.5 (US9), Chilito is (42.5) and my duck footed littlest brother is 43.5(US10). Seriously, the kid is barely breaking 4'10" and has bigger feet than most Grown American Males. Worst of all, that makes his IQ the highest allowing him to take psychological control of the group.

Chilitos' highlight of the trip was photographing Van Gogh's Sunflowers...with a flash. The Security Guard embarrassed him in front of the whole crowd. I tried to console him by saying,"Do not get upset. This guy watches paint dry for a living. You made his day." That statement only further compunded the issue.

My highlight was attempting to strangle one of my little brothers, in the middle of Blood Brothers. A Musical which ends with twin brothers, separated at birth killing each other. What a cawinky dink? Chilito does not appreciate oxygen deprivation and apparently enjoys breathing.

He lives for experiences, that drive his mind into a raging torrent, flooded with rivulets of thought, cascading into a waterfall of creative alternatives.

In the process of choking my Chiilto:

Water was thrown.

Flip Flops were broken.

Insults were hurled.

It was an epic clash only brothers could have and get over. It all started by a playful, yet painful slap to the face by yours truly. I had attacked Gavroche, the honey badger of my little brothers.

Alejandro, on the other hand, welcomes strangulation blissfully. I take advantage of this everytime I see him. His willingness towards asphyxiation is a little worrisome. It might explain the duck feet, or his zen like comfort with chaos. Alejandro did and said way too many retarded things, but had no epic failure or highlight that I am reminded of as I write.

My fathers highlight was actually thinking that we would enjoy watching Pricisilla Queen of the Desert. His thought process must have been, "I want to take 3 Strongly
Heterosexual Young Men to the Gayest Broadway Musical I can find. Maybe one of them will come out of the closet and can finally stay in the FLD." (FLD is a house on the ranch. I am not allowed to even look at it, let alone stay in it.)

Please give this memo to my dad if any of you see him soon.

Dear Dad,

If I wanted to see men dressed up as women being dramatic, I could stay at home and go to a Monarchs Game. With that said, you are partly responsible for my existence, so I give credit where credit is due.

Love,
Paul

Trip is going well! Paris Street Sign Story Coming After the Break.

Iceland

2010-07-04T07:04:00.000-07:00

Stop 2.

Reykjavik, Iceland

No Volcanic activity.

The coast is clear and I am in downtown Reykjavik.

If you want me to save you the trip to Reykjavik.

1. Imagine if IKEA was charged to build a city.
2. Think what would I do with 22 hours of daylight.
3. Keep in mind the ethical ramifications of eating Puffin. The Worlds Cutest Bird.
4. Sprinkle in a few Vikings... and you are in Iceland! ( No, not like Warren Moon, Viking. More likeMariuz Pujanauski. Viking

I don't name drop, Rusty Areias taught me that. He also taught me that the Blue Lagoon was the greatest thing since Caller ID. So with that in mind, the Blue Lagoon was stop numero uno. The Blue Lagoon is a Geothermal Spa located about 20 minutes outside of Reykjavik. At the Lagoon, I interacted with some of the natives and found that approximately 80% of them had been to the United States. I found it interesting that they all went to and stayed in ... Minnesota.
Apparently when the Nordic folks vacation, they want familiarity. Reliable sources state that the climates of Minnesota and Iceland a exactley the same... Cold.

They must not be very adventurous. Or maybe they are just going to pay homage the birthplace of most famous viking of them all, Minnesota's own.....FLAVA FLAV!

Check into the hotel and begin creeping on "The Face". I have 28 hours to explore Iceland and what do I find on the computer next to me.

Canadians!

Well, just one... her name doesn't matter, but her eyes could sear through a man's soul. At least my soul. Given my track record with Canadian women thus far, (Paul 0 Canadians 1) I am a little wary, but we realize we both needed allies and go to dinner. Mexican food was the only place that didn't serve Pony, Puffin or Whale. I am no animal rights activist, but I do have a soul.

One of the highlights of the evening was being stalked by the Front Desk Guy at our hotel. We didn't tell this guy where we were going. Out of the 100's of Bars and restaurants in Downtown Reykjavik he came out and found us. Sitting at the bar, while we had dinner casually interjecting his opinions on life. We go to a bar, and I decide to extract myself from the situation and leave Canadian Girl with front Desk Guy. Front desk guy is weird. I see a cute girl with Salmon Hair...Hmmm...interesting...Then she introduces me to her boyfriend, who is my new hero. Retired Air Force guy, who works for some little company in Seattle (Boeing or Microsoft).

They are a hipster couple who were extraordinarily gregarious. They bought a motorcycle, sold there possesions and are traveling the world together. I shared my limited knowledge of Seattle, they shared their intimate knowledge of Life and we become friends.

Somewhere during the course of the interaction, the lone guitarist on the microphone starts playing “Small Town” by John Cougar Mellencamp.

My new Seattle friend tells me "You know, I almost killed John Cougar when I was a kid." with the same tonality, pacing and intent of Tim Wilson telling the Young Bull- Old Bull Story.

"What? Bullshit!" I reply in disbelief.

Silence. This guy is not joking.

"OK, how?"

"In Indiana, where I grew up, we used to throw corncobs at oncoming cars from shield of the 6 foot high corn stalks. Then we would ex-filtrate through the corn field and never get caught."

I check my personal database of debauchery in which I have involved myself... I realize that “Corncobbin” was not my list of Athletic Achievements(list coming soon.) Ashamed,I redirect my attention to the story.

"One night I had been 'Cobbin' for hours. I decide that I was going to ambush one last car, and call it a night. A car with a headlight out starts heading our direction, but he was careening on the left side of the road so I back up into the stalks, hurl my cob and run."

"Okay?" I said, unimpressed.

"The next day, there was a newspaper article about a John Cougar Mellencamp. This article stated 'On Saturday Night Mellencamp crashed his Motorcycle, because he hit a bird.' It was not a car with a head light out or a bird, it was John Cougar on his Motorcycle getting hit by my Corn Cob."

I had met Jack, "The man responsible for the Chestnut Street Incident."

Happy 4th of July, Stay tuned for my Spice Girls Story Next Week.