Justin Razor and the World

Long walks at night are the best therapy, outperforming any session with a counselor and more potent than the most exemplary modern medicine. As I traverse these streets, my often infernally swollen temper is assuaged by the cool and calming Pacific breeze, and my mind involuntarily wanders. At times a coursing, spontaneous EDM playlist rouses my senses, pounding primally in my expectant ears, abused horribly since adolescence by all manner of raucous music. Podcasts are another favorite, literal audiobooks, nourishing my ravenous brain with unique knowledge condensed from the experiences of the program's subjects. Less than 8 hours ago, Joe Rogan interviewed CT Fletcher, the original Iron Addict, on his revered show. Relatively fresh on YouTube, I discovered it suddenly while searching for the latter pioneer by name, and when presented with this veritable  feast of priceless advice and stimulating conversation, I eagerly downloaded the video, devouring it on my nocturnal trek

https://youtu.be/Z8lzrT2PNr8 Another night stretches/ Out and Im desperate/ To find severance/ A slight guess is/ Time treasures/ These nice lessons/ She teaches me/ Facetiously/ With my bretheren/ A quiet veteran/ Of a side left with/ Trite bending/ Rules and bright desks with/ Eyes empty/ And glazed over/ For days glowing/ In an array forming/ With a sliced septum/ A cry echoes/ Through a dry desert/ And I let her/ Mind sever/ A tied lever/ That falls as we dine together/ And a slight bender/ Would be denied ether/ The crimes gender/ Wouldn't matter as a dime beckons/ For me to turn on it/ A blur follows/ Me as I work chronic/ I deserve honest/ Hurt problems/ That emerge toxic/ I've learned all this/ As a disturbed novice/ I won't urge autumn/ Fall first on it/ Cause the word vomit/ Means nothing when Im hurt knocking/ On your drama/ In an absurd auction/ And the worst part is/ You've landed in her pocket/ A burnt l

Nothing is more irksome, yet surprisingly amusing, than the face of an arrogant weakling. I approached you grinning, eyes aflame with the indignation of the wronged. Encapsulated safely in an office fortified with plexiglass, you smiled, silently challenging me to strike angrily and demonstrate hostility. Every action and counter would inevitably make its way to your little green book, ever present and constant, seemingly another withered appendage, similar to your emaciated arms. It must be an abysmal thing, to be a male in your mid-30's yet be more acquainted with a ballpoint pen than a boxing glove, and this is coming from a born writer. My glare bore into yours as a blazing, raging inferno does to a titanic bundle of dry, ancient straw, inferring by the primally universal telepathy of aggression what my true intentions were. In another life, you would be splayed out on the deck, a cascade of crimson giving terribly brutal vitality to the clinically clerical surroundings. Ala

Sunday's hold an empowering feeling, always have, and I love to bask in their restorative pools, draping their warmth over me like a quilt knitted from the fabric of my most cherished memories. Out on the Lanikai this afternoon, kissed by the gentle island breeze, partaking in my third Double Bacon Cheeseburger, extra bacon of course, I'm visited by the pleasant sedation of fulfilment. In a world and society that demands more effort, continual progress and eternal ascension towards a figure, number or ideal that may as well be imaginary, it's an essential necessity to relax, take stock of all that youve accomplished, and reignite your zest for this temporary flash of existence we call Life. Halt for a minute, and avail yourself of the pungent, intoxicating smell of blooming roses, fortified by the morning dew. Or a simmering plate of thick, rich chili enriched with unique local spices served by a Blake Lively lookalike. Either works, and I love this fucking bar. Shortly

How often must I remain here? I must have died unexpectedly, and my wandering spirit, aura thick with malevolence and anguish, refuses to acknowledge my own death. Indeed, I have become a ghost, cursed to haunt diners, coffeeshops, bars and beaches, pen brandished and book unsheathed. I've grown so distant from others that Im more statue than Man, yet where this separation once stung painfully, it now soothes reassuringly. Lumped in with a generation of "men" with testosterone levels lower than a woman's would be 30 years ago, and forced to make due with "women" that proudly proclaim themselves sluts and will actually attempt to fistfight men if they are ignored and eschewed, as they should be, my sentiment is clear. I want no part of this generation. It's filthy and degraded. You could say I'm living a daydream right now, a fantasy granted the breath of life by divine providence. How many shifts at work have I frittered away contemplating the per

I was inspired immeasurably by the videos of deceased mass monster bodybuilder Rich Piana a few years ago. One thing he stressed in his daily and weekly vlogs was complete transparency in all of the material he put out. If he was despondent and depressed, anxiously aggravated or enthusiastically elated, he allowed no filter to appear between himself and his audience, permitted no proxy to permeate his dedication to total honesty in his work. As a result, those videos became therapy for literally millions of gym rats and displaced athletes around the world. He became wildly, almost unbelievably successful, all because of his zealous adherence to being 100% real for followers. This is an example that I decided to emulate from the dawning of my blog. All too often before its inception I would peruse the self-help and disgustingly unnecessary "inspirational" section of my local bookstores, seeking to be understood and find a type of kinship with the authors. Alas, all I ever e

The pain wasn’t nearly as excruciating as I’d been warned my entire life. As the needles pierced my skin in perfect rhythm, ink settled in as it was pounded, stretching out into its new home a fraction of an inch beneath my epidermal surface. As the blood welled North, Lance’s practiced hands went about his life’s passion and work, a stern, studious look spread across his weathered face. In the eyes of society, I had just desecrated my appearance abysmally and unforgivably. That was exactly the point. Paul Waggener stated defiantly and powerfully that he made the conscious choice to tattoo his hands and fingers to forever sever the already tenuous ties he endured that anchored him to the mainstream world we all long to escape from. I sought to emulate his dark example. As the freshly battered and aching skin seeped crimson by the seeming gallon, my body caused it to raise high, inflamed and shocked, I smiled with pride and confidence in my own strength. “No one will ever hire you now”

At times, whether through great rage or impossible passion, I allow my temper to flare. It overrides my better judgement and catapults the reason from my perspective, forcefully seizing the helm of my consciousness, degrading my sociability and devolving me into a simple brute driven solely by instinct. Of course, this perfectly captures the essence of the moment for every Man that's undergone a horrendously stressful experience. To eschew ones faculties of higher thought and logical examination is the peak of folly. Yet, should a person, a Man in particular, consider himself above violence as a whole, he risks prancing into the ranks of the effete intellectuals populating our disgusting society in the modern age. As a great Strongman once said, any Man who can fit into skinny jeans is a Woman, which is a belittling insult inward and outward, as I know several Women who squat well over 300 pounds, and proudly own thighs that would obliterate the fragile denim encasing with one mig

Ray Bradbury, the great Science Fiction author, describes the act and art of Writing as something to get drunk on daily, and, counterintuitive as it may seem, to remain inebriated on as long as possible. He urges us to immerse ourselves in an hour of Writing a day at minimum, in order to stave off the fatal effects of the harsh world we're forced to inhabit. If we are to remain untouched, pure and virginal, then we must treat our devotion to our own eclectic and unique arts not as passing fancies or wispy interests, but instead declare our partaking and participating in them as essential to our daily lives as breathing and drinking water. As I pen this, Christmas music, festive and jovial, dances gracefully through the air, surfing the radio waves with the proficiency of Duke Kahanamoku himself, which is perhaps the more fitting aphorism upon reflection. Surfer' s Coffee Bar, by far the greatest coffeehouse on Oahu, is owned and staffed entirely by dedicated Missionaries. To

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One of the biggest lessons, in my opinion the most revelatory, that I ever gleaned from my extensive studies of physical culture lore, past and present, is the difference between size for the sheer sake of it, and muscularity. It marks the line between the fat ass at your local gym that has "18 inch arms" resembling uncooked hot dogs, and a 300 plus bench, albeit with a severely limited ROM and liberal assistance from a myriad of spotters, yet carries a curious case of gynecomastia, and the smaller, leaner guy with visible muscular delineation, above average size and a dense, Spartan look. Body by Handstands. Now, make no mistake, I am in no way bashing the larger men, particularly Powerlifters or Strongmen, that may boast a somewhat remarkable gut yet easily total over 1000 in competition or lift stones overhead that it would take 3 of me to budge. These men are remarkable athletes and are obviously capable of astonishing feats of athleticism and awesome strength.

The bittersweet blessing bestowed upon every young man who, whether to increase the vitality of his immune system to ward off unwelcome disease, gain more than his fair share of feminine attention and affection, or simply to add some beef to kick a bully's ass, has sought greater muscular size is an incredible gain in strength and bulk, offset by a near complete loss in mobility. Many a misguided neophyte bodybuilder, myself most definitely included, plugged away at the standard compound exercises studiously and assiduously, and, as compensation for their continued perseverance, were granted gorgeously capped deltoids, thighs with the girth of stumps, arms as massive as mountains, chests that would shame the cast of Baywatch, and lats so wide their backs could double as hang gliders. They preen and prance like prized stallions, enamored by the barbaric enormity of their physiques, as well as the apparent comic book quality of their strength. It is an intoxicating gift for sure,

Unlike a growing contingent of “athletes” obsessed with efficiency at the expense of results and productivity, I love to train. In fact, I fucking LIVE to train. The understated ease yet enjoyable difficulty and toil that comes with increasing your work capacity, refining a previously intimidating technique, perfecting the firing of your neuromuscular proficiencies, and simply pumping your limbs full of blood until they are close to bursting all amalgamate to form a potent cocktail that will forever remain unmatched and unsurpassed by any narcotic or liquor. In my opinion, it even beats the height of orgasm at times. Arnold said it first, so by default it can’t be wrong.                                                              The King has spoken. It is both the bane and the blessing of every bodybuilder’s existence. It can leave you unfathomably sore and crippled with DOMS after the ecstasy of the experience has subsided, yet, in the moment, you can feel as i