Justin Razor and the World

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 ex...