A towel over your head song.
Wake and train, train and sleep. Repeat. Slam your bar, breaking the necks of all your inner demons. Rewind, and then repeat. When you feel the pain from training, drink more coffee, throw it up, rewind, then repeat. Drink coffee when sad thoughts pass through your mind while you wait for the bar to wheel you around the gym while drool drips from your fucken mouth. Ask the bar for a straw, drink and repeat. Drink more coffee when you miss your dad, drink more coffee when you wish you could go back in time and treat your step dad better. Drink, throw up, slam bars, rewind and repeat.
The towel that drapes over my head in training means leave me alone, or better yet, leave me the fuck alone. Stay away while I focus on the task at hand. Others go to school; I sit in a chair while an occasional tear drips down my masked face of "crazy energetic Jon North". I lift a bar while coach leashes me with his eyes, and keeps the world of training just dark enough from his beard keeping the outside light out. Get close while the camera tilts to the side trying to peak at what lies under that shaded cave I stay resting under. Bad idea, the lion's nest is always a bad idea. My white eyes turn to the lens, and my long fanged teeth bite the neck of the wanderlust filmer, drawing blood instantly, and then letting the rest drain into my coffee cup.
Animals is what we are, freaks with athletic abilities that give us a pass. Outcasts that have found a place to fit in. A certain shade casts down your face from the towel hiding you away from the mother fuckers in this world. A shadow that really speaks to you, blankets you with comfort, all while keeping you tucked away deep in your childhood memory of the light blue house with the long swordfish attached to the wall. That one side eye winks at you when standing up from a successful lift. The fish keeps you calm, the fish is always there with you no matter how old you become. I sometimes think of that cold Easter weekend, wondering about the big house with so much..... well, wanderlust. Maybe my obsession with wanderlust started in this ever so off setting house. All the sounds turn into echoes, and all the others training look as if I'm watching an old movie. My eyes move back and forth while I stay hidden under the towel. My sweat doesn't seem to bother me, in fact, I like the cool drips of half coffee half blood water skiing down my emotionless face. The face that if you look closely screams help, get me out of this summer camp of weird creepy camp leaders and odd activities. Fucken save me from the carousel that has my vision blurry from life passing me by. A weightlifter's face screams run, but never moves.
Eat, coffee, train, eat, coffee, train, nap, coffee, squat, eat, call your mom, try to go out and do something which is always pointless considering the fact that about 20 minutes into your freedom adventure your tired mind starts pulling on your shirt while pointing back at your recovery tank, aka bed. Repeat.
A small state of depression has now been broken from my lips separating, sending out a bright light of seething teeth ready to bite into a fucken bar. Now I am jacked up. Now I am ready to kill anyone or any weight in my way. Now I will show the world how to slam a bar, yell, scream, Shankle fist pump, smoke a lift, win a meet, represent my country, bang my chest and jump up and down. Now the shirt is off and the crackin' has been released. The champ is coming! The champ is here! I have been filled up with hate and sadness from my black cave, and now it's time to light this gym on fire. I pour my coffee over my head letting the long drips fall into my mouth only to spit them back out in my competitor's face. If you are looking for good sportsmanship, this is not the blog for you. I want my snickers bar. I want my dad to pat me on the back again saying, "Good job son, way to push him back". I'll take my demons and use them for strength. I have a whole deck of magic cards, and they are all bad, but isn't bad good? I play all of them all the time. I walk to the chalk bucket like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. Get off me bro. I'm going ham on this shit. Sometimes an overwhelming confidence takes over me, giving me the power to trick my mind into becoming someone or something else. This pisses some people off, and others like it. I don't really have an opinion, that guy seems cool to me. That monster seems fucken crazy at times, but hey, this sport is fucken crazy, we are all a little crazy. Look at Ilya, he is the best, he is the craziest. There is a monster living in that man, just like in me, just like in you. The same monster that lives in the Dark Orchestra.
Funny how confident I can become, while being the most insecure person on the face of the earth. This sport will never make sense. Its powers are amazing. Salute.
Snicker Bar 2016