A Chat With Train

Episode Three of Weightlifting talk, brought to you by a planet called "I slam bars".  Salute!

The New MDUSA video below!  I did not train Friday afternoon because of an odd and scary lower back pain that my coach and the trainers are working on.  They say I should be back on the horse killing weights monday morning, thank the good Lord, I am having withdraws!!! 

My wife Jessica not only makes a killer cup of coffee, but awesome videos, just like this one. 2016

Wanderlust

A meeting with a zombie. A Wanderlust mind that directs your feet away from the herd. A sit down with another type of person. A cold and lonely stage is where you eat dinner tonight, and the skeletons you have put away for so many years seem to have joined you at the long wooden table that sits a family of thousands in the empty center of the Dark Orchestra. This is what I find fascinating. Just as fascinating as dedicating your life to something that you cant see or feel. 

Your green hill has now turned dark red from the sky that crept up behind you. The sky that looks down upon you so proudly, as the black birds guide you to......well you. Yes proud, where others see the red threat as doom. This is where they are wrong, this is where their feet should walk, this is where the comfort zone starts, and their world ends. Bold steps towards what you want. This is what Shankle speaks of so passionately. Steps of chance, followed by steps of courage, can cure anything and anyone. Steps that will eventually get you face to face with a zombie, or lead you to a small town where you could meet your new best friend. Steps that make your hand bleed from the double edged sword you hold so tightly. You must take a chance; I must take the bold steps to achieve what I want. We must leave ourselves back home at the kitchen table, and walk to a new outlook, a new adventure, and a new life.  We must walk in the dark, or else we will live in the white light called the comfort zone. A world where so many live and die.  A blanket of comfort and satisfaction that people walk around with in public. A world where so many dream day and night, for they can only dream, because dream is all they have. They are too scared to make it reality. They are prisoners of their own self-doubt. 

A gamblers rush of losing intrigues me.  A rush that reminds he or she that they are still alive. This amazes me that a gambler could be the same as a weightlifter, they both have the disease of Wanderlust, and it seems they are both chasing the unknown. Even losing is a win in many ways. A win of living and taking chances. A win of trying. A sit down with a zombie could be good, who knows. Over the hill could be heaven, or just the red hell that seems to still hang over you. See in my opinion hell is a place that lives within us. Hell is a comfort zone, a prison cell that keeps us from being.....well, us. Don’t listen to anyone. Close this blog down now. My words are nothing but talk, they are not walk. You must walk; you must eat dinner by yourself. You must ride the rides at the carnival with no one around. Find out what will happen, and how you will react to such unknown. Find out who you are, and what you are capable of. 

A bloody hand only means a well sought off person. An individual who will sleep well at night, for they have fought for their dreams, win or lose. But there is no lose, because the journey itself in a win. A double edged sword is a win-win, even though your hand drips with blood. There is no such thing as a win-lose, only a lose-lose.  A lose-lose is the world of comfort and sought after acceptance from others. The sheep will never know who they really are. I find myself at ease when I am on the edge. I find the darkest corners of life so intriguing,  so comfortable, as if they were my childhood home lit up like the month of December.  Wanderlust is what my buddy Adam Hall told me it was called, as I so despretly explained to him one day about this odd feeling I constatnly encounter, I didnt even realize it had a name. I am so drawn to the unknown, at times I catch myself just driving, just walking, and just looking out through the Starbucks window for no apparent reason. What the hell is out there? Maybe this is why I couldn’t stand sitting in a class room; I was too busy itching for the bell to ring so I could explore the sea I could not see. I am addicted to wanderlust like I am addicted to this coffee. Do you ever have the feeling of getting in your car and driving with known destination in sight? What if I just walked for three days straight, where would it take me? What would it bring me? What would I find? 

Shit, the more I think about it, the more I am realizing that everything up to this point in my life has been driven by wanderlust. This is how I met my Wife, this is how I met you, and by sitting here writing is just another way of breaking free. I guess Wanderlust is really the unknown, because I have no idea what the hell I am talking about, and where I am going with this. I am just taking bold steps forward. I am just writing to you in the ever so confused dream world called the Dark Orchestra.  

Here is the brand new MDUSA video below. Salute.

The Dark Orchestra 2016



Team MDUSA

The Very First Muscle Driver USA video!  The craziness starts all over, so lock your doors, hide the kids, and prepare for the madness that this awful sport has to offer.  Fists may fly, chairs may be thrown, and the rookies will cry in defeat......shit, here we go agin.  Americans 5 months out.  Salute.

MDUSA 2016

Weightlifting Talk Ep 2

The Second Episode went much better.  We finally got the big Rush Limbaugh mic to work.  Moved the episode to an hour and half for more time, and just had a better flow on air.  Shankle and I were much more comfortable, we really did get lost in the conversations.  We are both excited to continue our chats every Friday at 1:00 eastern time.  Don't forget to tune in next week at blogtalkradio.com and call in to say hi.  Salute!

Rush 2016

Trap King

Yes, the traps activate.  Yes, they try so hard, and yes they are as worthless as tits on a bore. It's a sad story of how this came to be. A story that drew a tear to my eye, a story that will make any man grab his heart with pain.  But don't feel too bad, for once he was happy, once he stood proud, once he was King.

Chapter One

Once upon a time, in a far away land where the bar wasn't allowed to touch your body, the trap was king.  The trap ruled the weightlifting world with his big stick and his large high crown.  He never got tired of the attention, as a matter of fact, he took in every bit of it like it was Christmas morning.  They talked about him as a legend from coast to coast, as myths and stories began to pile up about his power and strength.  He was conquering world records.  He was winning Gold medals in the Olympics.  He was kicking ass on a daily basis.  Scholars wrote hundreds of books about his efficiency and power.  It was once recorded that he stood 15 feet tall, and could chop down the tallest tree with one swish of his sword. Athletes and coaches spent years trying to mimic his greatness.  Some felt and understood his beauty, and some fell short only to stare hopelessly at the podium.  Others tried to defeat him with different tactics and methods.  He was constantly challenged from others who envied his power.  But they fell short, and nothing seemed to please the King more than victory on the Platform and off. His way was the best way, the only way.  He knew it, and everyone else knew of his glory.  The traps could shrug any bar higher than the eyes could see.  He made weight disappear into the blue sky, only for the birds to enjoy.  The scarecrow some called the king, which fit him well, and explained the position he was always in.  Upright, straight, and elbows high as if the scarecrow was showing a young kid where the sun was.  The crowd went crazy, and the King grew an inch with every lift that was made.  The King was happy, and I am happy for him.

Years went by, decades passed almost with a blink of an eye.  He sat on his silk green thrown growing older and older while the sport grew old with him. They were two peas in a pod, they shared war stories together until the orange afternoon fell dark.  The King had no idea what was about to happen next.  The King was about to be turned upside down. 

"Siar we have a problem, come quick!"  "The Weightlifters are starting to make bar body contact!" "They are breaking the rules, they are going against you Siar!"  The king woke from his gold thrown in a panic, as his crown stumbled into his lap with frantic hands.  He tried everything in his power to stop this craziness, this reluctant rebellion.  But the lifters kept at it. The coaches scratched their heads and talked amongst each other with smiles and approval.  Once the lifters found this new way of throwing the barbell over their head, there was no stopping the ease and joy they got out if this new found relationship with the bar.  The sport was chattering with new ideas. The trees were swaying from the swift change in the air. A monster was being created, and the King was feeling its bite. The chatter from the towns people kept the king up at night, only to fall asleep with his pillow over his head.  Only to find his presence slowly dwindling.  The committee spoke, and the rule of no bar body contact was changed to bar body contact.  A shift in the sport that changed everything, including the King's masterful power over this great sport.  A rule that drew a single tear from the king's face that with ease and patience fell from his right eye and splattered onto his high golden crown. 

Chapter Two

The scarecrow was taken down from its high perch in the middle of the town, and replaced with an arched angel that struck such beauty and rhythm. An image that turned people's head to the side as the sun glazed over her bent body.  A sling shot type movement, a catapult machine the weightlifters turned into.  That same year a record of world records were shattered.  The weight went up, and fast.  The bar had much more color on each side.  The competition grew fierce, as weak lifters were now able to battle with strong lifters.  Mad scientists is what they were, the coaches that is.  Blue prints of how their athlete can move their body to lift more and more weight, even if they had weak legs.  Yes, strength building is always a must, but a new found creature was going to help build the athlete to new heights.  Their arms grew skinny as they hung like cables.  The traps grew smaller as they held less of a purpose.  The back grew bigger and stronger from staying over longer and longer.  The weightlifters moved faster, as their hips drew blood against the bar with a large amount of force and determination.  The weightlifter is now a machine of some sort, and there is no stopping what its capable of performing next.  Who knows, the Arched Angel may someday be replaced with another statue for the towns people to talk over. 

The King is still with us today, he is still a part of this great sport.  The King will never leave.  Every part of the body plays a part in this great fight.  All parts of the body belong and serve a purpose.  The athlete must not think, just do.  Letting the body perform such elegance and strength. "What foot do you step forward with in the jerk?"  A question that cannot be answered, a question that only the athlete must do without thinking, for then he or she will find out themselves.  In my opinion, this is how the bar body contact was born.  An athlete just moved, just lifted, and then found a comfort that worked in unusual ways compared to the norm back then.  The sport is always growing, and the King will live on forever.  He might now smile as big and bright as before.  The King may not stand 15 feet tall anymore, but he is still proud of what he created, and proud to see lifters achieve greatness to this day.  Long live the King, and welcome to the new and possible ideas of a weightlifter.

The King 2016

I'm Back

The song I banged these little black keys to.  Fuck the doubters, and fight to the death.

I'm back.  I'm sorry.  I have missed drinking coffee with you in the dark orchestra.  I have missed chatting with you, venting to you, and entering unforgiving worlds of imaginations and familiar experiences of hard training followed with tears of pain with you.  Tears of pain from the hell we live in. Paths that lead to demonds and anglels. Yes, I am back.  Yes, we are still alive and well.  Together holding hands in the blazing fires of weightlifting, side by side, shaky hands and pissed off haters, we stand.  A society that shunned us from the norm, who call us freaks, who don't understand.  The sport that will take your soul and swallow you whole.  A sport that will leave you with nothing unless you achieve something.  Unless you man or women the fuck up and attack the devil in a red dress everyday. Never take her hand, leave her beauty for "him".  A move across the Country chasing a dream is why these moving boxes smile at me.  The plates chatter with talk of never again.  The title will never be yours my kitchen tables explained to me, as I chewed on its wooden side showing it my strength and the power of my bite.  Everyone I have beat in this sport knows my bite, so now it's the kitchen table's turn.  Why chase something you can't see?  My world is not in America, it's with you in this empty hallway that echoes sounds of an orchestra playing our sad song, a song that we are familiar with.  "Why sad?," asks the new member to this blog.  I will tell you why, no.... we will tell you why.  Listen closely my soft handed friend, because there are more bad days than good days in this sport.  99 bad days and one good day.  99 days of doubt dragging behind one maybe "I can" day.  Just one "yes" day.  Maybe I will keep opening my garage door, turning up my music, and training by my mother fucken self.  Maybe one day I will slam this bar and shatter everyone who ever doubted me.  Maybe I will climb to the top of the world and raise my hand high as I disperse into a chalky cloud that hangs over all who tried to tell me to roll my windows up when the AC was on. 

She followed me here, Miss Brown Eyes that is.  She has been waiting for me as I drove my car across Country, chugging red bulls with my hand tight around the wheel, imagining thoughts of me representing this great Country again.  On stage, with TV cameras following me around again like last year at the games.  Oh, did I go crazy, yes I did, and people hated me for it.  Yes.  Complete. Thank you.  Thank you for putting this black coat on me, this black shirt on me, and these black pants on me.  Thank you for putting this guitar in my hands and letting me sing to the world through this blog.  She tasted slightly different from the heat and humidity, but her kiss are the same.  Her touch is the same, and the feeling of hope and happiness throughout all my trials and errors in this life is the same.  We are back.  The Attitude Nation is back, well....we never left, Just busy is all.  But now all settled in, now finally time to write.  Miss Brown Eyes is back, the team is back.  We together will achieve greatness in this lifetime, whether it's through weightlifting or family.  Whether it's bettering ourselves as people, or getting better grades in school. We are one, we are the best, we are a family which the flames cannot touch. 

The new radio show is exciting.  But there is something missing.  It's not the same as writing.  I feel we connect much better through this black key board.  I feel more alive when writing to you.  I feel we have a certain understanding, more so than when I talk through the mic. The mic cages my true emotions from being nervous and not letting my fingers do the talking.  My soul types and the coffee directs.  Talking is just the surface. Yes it's fun, yes it's great to chat and hear your voice, but the connection is just not there.  Writing is a powerful feeling that cannot be explained.  I am going to start writing everyday, not every other day, but everyday.  I will never leave for that long again.  I will never leave the Nation alone while you stand over the bar with your war paint splattered on your face.  Your chalky white hands look as if you are a mime, the only difference is the blood from your wounds has crept through the dry cracks of your hand, and are now dripping one by one onto the platform.  You smile, but you really aren't smiling.  We never really smile.  We are great actors, for pain and discomfort is always casted upon us.   I must fight with you.  I must die by your side in this fucken hell we live in.  The strength of many, that's how I will win Americans.  That's how I will break these American records.  The strength of the lone garage weightlifter. Salute to you, the soldier who fights with no one around to push him.  The soldier who trains hard, even though little gremlins tell myths about over training.  Salute to us, who turn our back to rest.

Fight 2016

Weightlifting-Talk

Yes, tomorrow is the big day.  Tomorrow at 12:30 my team mate Donny Shankle and I drink coffee, talk weightlifting, and take callers with any questions they might have on our very first Podcast called WEIGHTLIFTING-TALK.  you can find the show at  www.blogtalkradio.com just type in Weightlifting-Talk.  Please call the show and chat with Shankle and myself about Weightlifting, training, programing, or anything outside of Weightlifting.  The number to call the show tomorrow is (646)-652-4173  no scrips, no planning, no boring bullshit talk, just a lot of coffee, a lot of Shankle, and a whole lot of awesomeness.  Hope to here from you tomorrow.  Salute!

PS:  My wife and I made it to SC safe and sound.  A long journey has come to a close.  One that will never be forgotten. We trained hard yesterday and today, but tomorrow is the first day of the real Practice, tomorrow is the first day of hell.  So don't miss the live feed either.  Practice starts at 3 our time.  Kaleb Whitby is getting a little too confident, I might have to put him in his place tomorrow!

Weightlifting-Talk 2016

The Cert

The fourth Attitude Nation Certification Seminar was filled with PR'S, bar slaming, great superman pulls, fun, some of my crazy stories and experiences in this sport, and last but not least....a whole lot of COFFEE!  Here are some pics below I thought I would share with you.  Thank you Magna Crossfit for having us out.  My Wife and I had a blast.  Salute!





The end of the day pic with the new fam









PR 2016

The Road, The Radio, And The Arm Bend

(Article and picture below)

 A song that I have been listening to throughout my cross country adventure, a song that explains what I have been doing for the last 5 days.

Just settled into a little ma and pa lodge in the sticks of Arkansas.  I write to you tonight deep into the hills of no where.  I can't tell you how much coffee I have consumed throughout this journey.  Let's just say enough to kill a full grown bull.  Beautiful landscapes, eye opening country sides, and breath taking sunrises followed by heart sunsets.  My wife and I have been driving for five days now, and we have enjoyed every minute of the adventure in our move across the country to South Carolina.  But I must say the drive is a physical and mental workout, almost as hard as weightlifting..... well let's not go that far. I can barely keep my eyes open as I type to you.  The Dark Orchestra is extra dark tonight, not the dark from the hell of training dark, but the dark like it's time to lay this heavy head down and sleep dark.  That's why I reposted one of my favorite blogs yesterday called "Rest".  I tried to write something new, but after a 10 hour drive I coudn't even lift my hand to direct these black keys to dance and write something beautiful and real.  I never want to half ass this blog.  I want every post to have meaning and true emotion.  Passion, motivation, and most importantly, realism.  Nothing fake.  My experiences in life and weightlifting, nothing more, nothing less. 

Once I arrive and get settled into my new home, I am going to train and write, train and write, and write and train.  I will drink coffee everyday and hang with you in the Dark Orchestra, but for now I must sleep.  I wasn't even going to write anything tonight, I was just going to post another one of my favorite blogs, and a song I love, almost as much as my talk radio.  A song that has helped me get through the desert road that seems at times to never end.  I have been listening to the song throughout this whole trip, I feel it wraps up my journey perfectly.  But I guess these fingers had something to say.  I guess Miss Brown Eyes is still with me from today's love affair.  Good night.

Here is an older blog that I wrote.  It's one of my favorite technique blogs.  Something that seems to go untalked about, unseen, and unappreciated.  Salute. 

Row Your Boat:

I am a big believer in the arm bend. I call it “rowing the boat". Here are a few reasons why bending your arms will help you lift big weights: First of all, rowing the bar into your hips creates much more force and explosion at the finish of the pull. Secondly it tightens up that superman pull, allowing you to stay in better positions. It also allows you to stay over the bar much longer. If your hips hurt from striking the bar low on your hip, then the arm bend will help you clear the “ouch bone”! If you need more bar speed in your lifts, then please go to the store and buy some arm bend, because it will put the bar in 6th gear!

As the bar gets closer to the hips, the bend in your arms should slightly increase. Once the superman pull is over and he has stopped fighting crime, it’s time to row your boat to the finish line! How hard you row the bar into your hips determines how much hang-time the bar will have in order for you to get under and win the Olympics!

Every athlete will be different. Some will do better with straighter arms, and some will do better with more arm bend like myself. I hope this helps some people, I know this has helped many of my athletes, including myself. Do what works for you.

Attitude Nation Salute! Arm Bend 2012

Rest

I huddle in the corner embracing rest with shaky hands and tears being smeared from cheek to cheek. My stomach turns with pain and the feeling of being home sick from the sorrow and guilt I have seeing rest whimper with abandonment. She holds me tight with her head sunk deep into my chest, making my shirt wet from her crying mouth locked wide open, as if she was screaming. A sad story of a girl who only wants love, a story of a young women who has no parents, who has no home, who needs someone to smile at, to laugh with, and to say goodnight to. Her old stuffed animals only give her a small amount of the attention she needs; she needs a family. Her eyes constantly wander, looking for someone to pick her up, and hold her. But no one ever does, so she becomes jagged over the years with let downs and sadness. Her flickering light slowly starts to die down into a whistling path of smoke. Her wandering eyes stop wandering over the years, as they now sadly stare down at her painted toe nails, that no one has seemed to notice or comment on. The smile she tried so hard to show, the smile no one noticed, the smile she used to try to bait people into her love with, was soon turned into a puddle of rain water, that dripped down the muddy bank into the lake leading to a land of nowhere.

I do love her, but I can’t be with her. It’s the hardest thing I have ever done pulling her locked arms away from my body. Disconnecting her drool from my chest to her mouth was like taking her soul. Her arms stretched out like Frankenstein, her blue watery eyes opened wider as panic rushed over her. Her mouth seemed to make no noise, but was open as wide as God would allow it. As she closed her eyes tears came down her face. Her mouth closed, her head dropped, soon she became lifeless.

She was there but not, her heart was pounding, but not working. I left her that day, and I walked backwards when I did it, hoping and praying that someone else would take her hand, and love her right there and then. She deserves to be loved, she deserves nothing less. She would only bring me down. She would only be a weight on my sail, I had no choice. Rest has no place in my life. I have no time for rest, only train. I will always love rest, but I will spend the rest of my dying days with train. Train is my life, rest is my heart ache. 

Rest 2016

Phil Sabatini

A lift dedicated to my good friend and competitor Phil Sabatini. (video below)  The man I have been at war with for so many years, has now laid his sword down in retirement.  It's a sad day for me.  It's a sad day for the sport.  We have fought against each other in some extremely tight battles, and we have also been teammates on the USA team in 2010.  I will miss him.  It has been an honor to fight with and against him.  A certain understanding brews between us with very few words being spoken.  We understand that at the end of the day we are enemies, and we must do whatever it takes to win.  It's not personal, just business. 

My loses over the span of my career have been from his sword digging into my stomach.  My eyes widen as I watch the blood drip down my stomach while my knees hit the ground.  I can see in his eyes he feels for me as he watches my body drop to the ground in defeat.  Every time he digs the sword deeper into my stomach my jaw opens wider and wider while I try so hard to grasp for air.  A single tear rolls down Phil's face as his strength starts to bleed out of him, and his emotions get the better of him.  He apologizes in a whisper, but there is no need to, for I would do the same to him.   Respect is everything.  He respects me, and I respect him.  He is a true warrior, and so am I.  If there was anybody to lose to it would be him.  He pulled the sword out from my stomach and wiped the bloody blade off with his singlet.  He stood over my body as the crowd roared in celebration.  He threw up his hands in victory.  He raised his sword high for all to see. Then looked down and nodded his head at my dead body.  A warrior's nod, a warrior's respect.  He bent down to close my eyelids with his hands, and right when he got close to me, I pulled my small dagger out from my boot and stuck it right into his neck.  At that moment we just stared at each other as we both slowly started to stand up, using each other's body like a ladder.  He placed his hand on his wound, and then looked at his bloody hand in disbelief.  The blood was pouring from his neck, just like my stomach.  He then took his sword and drove it into my stomach again.  This time, blood came squirting out of my mouth as I bent over.  I would have fell face down but he held me up to only twist the blade around even more. As I was laying over his shoulder as if we were hugging, I built up the strength to throw him off of me creating a few feet of space.  One hand was grasping tight to our weapons, and the other was resting over our wounds.  A moment of silence came over the whole arena as we both stood motionless.  And then it happened, we both ran full speed at each other creating a splash of blood that sprayed onto our faces. Our teary eyes and last gasping breaths were inches from each other as a smile appeared over both our faces.  We laughed out loud, as we were both just glad to get the blood shed over with.  No more words were spoken, just a slow dying laugh that soon ended when both our bodies laid over each other on the dusty ground.  Our hearts stopped beating as we laid there dead with chalky hands and USA on our chests. 

Thank you Phil for pushing me over the years.  I would not be where I am today if it wasn't for you.  Thank you for being such a great competitor, and even a better friend.  I know you and your wife have a little baby girl now, and you have much bigger battles ahead of you than weightlifting.  You are my fucken hero brother.  You are my role model.  You are a family man that I some day hope to be.  You are a man I envy in every way possible.  Like I said in the video when I retire, we will drink a beer together on the porch and tell old war stories.  We will be old men sitting in the audience watching the new young weightlifters battle it out.  We will smile as memories race through our heads.  Thank you for beating me.  Thank you for not punching me when I beat you.  Thank you for everything.  Salute. 

Here is the 160kg snatch that I dedicated to Phil at the USAW Course.  Love you brother.

Phil Sabatini two thousand and forever

Candyland

I have been trying to write this blog for the last 4 days, but nothing has come of it.  I have written full pages and then deleted them with just one click, followed by a forehead against the top of the table.  I have thrown my coffee across the room in pure frustration.  I have stared at this computer screen for hours upon hours while emotions enter my body, and then leave too fast for me to catch them to write down.  I usually have a certain feeling, a certain emotion while writing.  I usually have a certain idea and understanding of what I am writing and why, but this blog has imprisoned me from expressing how I really feel.  But the crazy thing is I don't know how I feel.  I am like you.  I want to know how I feel about the move to South Carolina.  I want to know how I am taking it, what I think about it, and if I am excited or sad.  I thought this was going to be one of my best blogs yet.  A topic I could really dig my teeth into, and destroy the key board with emotions and energy.  I imagined myself slamming coffees and typing like I was directing a symphony.  I imagined tears, smiles, and laughs.  But my emotions lie six feet under, as I stand over their tombstone with a black umbrella and an extra dark coffee.

I write to you inside the green jungle while the dark outside rains and storms.  It's a cold time in my life; I guess the outside weather reflects that.  I feel lost even though I am on the correct path.  I am confident and happy with what lies ahead, and with the decision I made to follow coach, even though I occasionally turn my head around looking back at Cal Strength. The sun at times peeks through the dark clouds hitting the window by my table, shining through my coffee making it look much lighter brown than she really is.  I then get excited about the move.  I am right now.... excited.  Yes, I can tell you that for sure as my fingers click against these black keys.  It's amazing how sunny it just became outside, and that's not a metaphor.  The day has literally pulled a 180.  Wow, this is crazy.  I must follow training.  I must do whatever it takes to make this Olympic team.  But you know all this.  I try hard to write to you with originality.  You don't want to hear the corny cheesy "yes I must train hard no matter what" talk.   We are just alike, so you know why I am moving and what I need to do.  This blog goes deeper than the "you can do it" bullshit.  The dark orchestra explores the lifestyle of a weightlifter deep down in the dark bottom of the ocean where we live.  A world where the rest of the population has know idea we even exist, and the few that do throw us off to the side and then proceed to call us freaks.  The sun has come and gone, and now the dark clouds have swept back over my coffee table.  Now my smile has vanished, as I drink more coffee with wondering eyes, not sure of really much.  I used to call this place home, but now I feel as if I am just another Joe visiting as they take my money for each refill I buy.  It's funny how comfortable you get with your city and surroundings.  I could sleep right on the sidewalk and wake up just like I was in my own bed.  I know everyone by name at almost every damn store in San Ramon.  But now I am just another customer, now I am just another schmuck that will be replaced with another caffeine addicted athlete like myself.  I might not delete this draft, I kinda like it.  I don't really know if it makes a whole lot of sense or has any sort of direction or topic, but I think it does.  I think this explains everything about the move.  A confused mixture of feelings that are blended together with a smiling sun and a crying cloud.  They both follow me around pulling me to one side or the other.

My life has turned from Candy Land to Kilo Land.  I am following the colorful kilo dots throughout the board game of life.  Jumping over, ducking under, eating with the licorice lady in her dark scary mansion, but then plumping up at miss brownies' house for some laughs and fun.  Muscle Driver USA is the final destination, that's where the princess lives with her shiny crown.  That's where the training is, so I must go.  I love you Cal Strength, I really do.  You will never know how much you mean to me, and how you saved me three years ago.  Thank you for everything you have done for me.  Thank you for giving me a home when I was homeless.  I will always be a Cal Strength Soldier.  I will always bleed blue and white.  I am a weightlifting robot, and my maker is Cal Strength.  This is not goodbye Cal Strength, this is see you later. 

My teammates have already left, as I wait another few days in San Ramon because of a seminar in Arizona that the Attitude Nation is teaching on the 9th. The drive across the Country will be amazing.  I will write to you throughout my journey, letting you in on my experiences and stories.  I am so glad that know matter where I go in life, all I have to do is open my laptop, climb into the computer screen, slide down the slide and land with you in the Dark Orchestra.  Cheers, and I will see you tomorrow.

The Dark Orchestra 2016