California Views

January 6th, 2026

Good Mornin’ Folks…

Venezuela is currently sitting at the very top of my bucket list. I’ve heard rumors of landscapes so beautiful they’d make a grown man weep directly into his whiskey, and my camera is practically vibrating in its bag begging for a boarding pass. Unfortunately, the headlines have turned the travel insurance situation into something best described as “high adventure, low refund.”

Still, I’ve never been one to waste a geopolitical moment. While the boots are on the ground and the news cycle spins, I’m hunting for an energy ETF or a defense fund that looks ready to ride a Venezuelan oil “revitalization.” If I stumble across a ticker symbol that smells even remotely like a retirement plan, I’ll report back immediately.

After squinting at betting boards until the numbers started swimming, I’m still torn on the NCAA slate. But you know me—I’ve always had a soft spot for the unloved. There’s something poetic about backing the underdog, especially when it’s not your mortgage money on the line.

The NFL Wild Card numbers, though? They’ve got my attention. The Panthers catching a mountain of points at home feels less like a spread and more like a direct insult to the entire state of North Carolina. And the Steelers getting points under the lights? That smells like an upset… or possibly just the bourbon starting to negotiate for me.

Speaking of bourbon, lunch is officially served. I ordered a Wagyu filet, cooked properly, and paired it with a neat pour of Maker’s Mark. People claim breakfast is the most important meal of the day, but those people have clearly never tried steak and confidence at one o’clock in the afternoon.

Now it’s time to jam my thinking cap on—which is currently sitting a little crooked—and dive into the numbers. Between the NFL playoffs and the college board, I can practically smell the money. Or maybe that’s just the Wagyu. Either way, it’s a fine day to be alive.

Since hopping a flight to Caracas without a tactical vest feels premature, I’m pointing the compass north instead— toward one of California’s most surreal stretches of road: the Avenue of the Giants.

Thirty-one miles of old Highway 101, where the redwoods are so big they look like they have their own zip codes. Some of these trees were middle-aged when Caesar was getting poked in the back. Standing next to them is the only thing that makes my bar tab feel small.

I’ll be stopping at the Immortal Tree, then wandering through Founders Grove. If you don’t hear from me, I’ve either found enlightenment among the redwoods… or I’m checking whether a hollowed-out log makes a respectable makeshift distillery.

— Mr. Pat