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Tuesday, April 30, 2013

Camp Catapult

Little rocks looked like giant mountains, untouched, and laying peacefully at rest.  Flying fish circling though the green sea weed as if birds to a tree.  The water was cold as ice, but as clear as his beliefs.  His long hair was dancing in front of his face as his eyes stayed open and wide taking in the whole experience.  Quiet like the early morning, with small mumbles of deep echoes coming from the outside world like a morning fire place cracking from the night before.  His eyes finally blinked as bubbles started to escape his tightly locked lips.  His face was turning pale from the lack of oxygen.  He wanted to stay longer, but he knew the calm would eventually lead to the heavy storm that awaited him above water.

His long hair was heavy as he pulled his head out from the shallow stream water that snaked past his camp.  His eyes closed and his feet planted in the rocks below for support against the water's weak current and strong winds that swept down from the mountains above.  His head thrown back as if life was pulling him down violently from the back of his hair.  His brown matted hair swooshed back like a whip to a horse.  This was happening in real time of course, but to him, the last few minutes felt like slow motion, including the mist from his heavy breathing meeting the cold air outside as it swirled around his face only to disappear seconds later.  His hair now fell straight down behind him, besides the few hair locks he had tied with tree bark gathered over the years. The end of the locks held teeth from the people he had once killed.  There were handfuls of teeth woven in his hair that fell from his forehead chattering amongst each other every time this quiet warrior moved.   Black eyes and chapped lips.  Skin burnt from the once hot sun, now replaced by a cold foggy day that felt cold upon his wet face.  The small gusts of wind made him cover his face with both hands, but not from the cold, but from the actions that he knew would haunt him for the rest of his life.  He knew what was awaiting him in the mountains above, and what the outcome would most likely be for both prideful camps.  The sound of children playing tag around the tents that were held up by rope and tree branches made him lower his hands and squint his eyes in concentration.  A true warrior must have control over his emotions, or else his emotions will be the death of him.

The Catapult camp was located on the sandy beach at the bottom of the tall green hill that twisted and turned beyond the lingering fog and past the chanting warriors hanging from the large broccoli trees. Ooowwaa! Oooowwaaa! The echoes rang loud as if King Kong was climbing the hills.  Birds scattered fast all throughout the tall grass, while mothers scurried their children into the tents. Bear coats dragged upon the ground as the warriors grabbed their daggers from the muddy ground below them.  Chatter rang, not from the men talking, but from the medal blades that were being past around from one man's hands to the next as if they were passing bread before supper.  The man's teeth were chanting loudly from the wind picking up.  His body was facing toward the tent where his family laid safely, while his head was still facing the broccoli trees high in the hills that awaited his arrival.  The handle of his dagger smashed against the ground, as he sharpened the other side where his arrow head was tied tightly, all without ever breaking concentration on the high pull dagger camp that has been on top for too long.  "Fight for what you believe in, or die trying," his good friend said right before drinking a cup of dirty water.  The man's beard was long and red, braided and half burnt off from battle.  His body was shaking from the cold, but his long beard and reluctant eyes stayed motionless, a friend he has been in battle with for decades now.  How they are still living has amazed even their deepest enemies.  Little words were ever spoken between the men that stood a hundred plus lined up in a single line one behind the other. Only actions could determine the outcome of this ongoing battle between the triple extension and the catapult.  Both sturdy in their beliefs, both have seen success in battle, both will die with pride as they both stab one another with daggers until the blood runs dry and their hearts stop beating.  Big pull towards greatness.

His hair was still wet as water ran down his dry back and into his tightly laced up boots that ran almost up to his knees.  The morning fog started to break as he had a better view of the high hill before him.  He could of swore he made eye contact with one of the triple extensions looking down in almost the same stance he was in.  Both with blood stains around their thumbs, both with dreams to achieve. Both with pride in their heavy hearts.  The black eyed viking thought to himself what the other camps at this exact time must have been thinking. Were their families hidden away in tents as well.  Were they at peace before battle as well.  Were they ready to die as well.  So different, but so much alike, he thought to himself.  A different path of the sword, but the same deadly result.  The same deadly goal.  If either camp laid down their sword, then all in the world wouldn't be right, and days of sun and family wouldn't feel as sweet.  Each camp was an enemy much needed to push the other camp to become better at their craft.  Enemies that fuel motivation and constant progress.  Worlds apart on their methods, but as close as brothers on their goals.  Passion and love is what he and the others on the hill fight for, love that ends in death.  Love that starts with cold water and sounds of children being echoed for all of eternity.

Small strings of rain fell from the now dark sky as the warriors from camp Catapult gathered their weapons and kissed their loved ones goodbye.  The man with teeth in his hair started to hike up the long windy hill. 

The Battle Continues 2016

Wednesday, April 24, 2013

Gym Rat

The scent from his suit slapped me in the face, reminding me of another time in my life before I grew this rat tail.  His suit had an office smell that told a story of board meetings, cologne, happy hour, and confidence.  His brown belt was the same color as the end of an old book on a shelf in your grandpa's office that laid quietly and untouched upstairs. The small glossy brown belt looked as if there was a line of ants chewing zig zag rivers all the way around his wast.  A caramel color iced mocha made noises from the ice hitting the clear plastic cup every time he talked.  I could see residue on his coffee cup, possibly whip cream, from what I could see out of the corner of my eye, because the corner of my eye was all I was able to use to deeply analyze this creature I used to know so well.  As we stood and talked in the front door of the gym, my rat tail started to feel heavier as he put his cell phone in his pocket and began rubbing his hands together with his feet a little out from shoulder width apart as if we were about to talk stocks and bonds.  The tail weighed me down back onto my heels if some one was trying to pull me away from him.  My rat tail stretched from the gym lobby through the door leading out to the gym like an extension cable to a TV. He moved so freely, and talked like we were best friends.  His demeanor was light, weightless, fast moving and intense.  Intense in a good way, a draw you in kind of way.  A way that had you hanging on every word between every sentence kind of way. A way that made you want to make him coffee, and hoped he liked it kind of way.  Little swooshy brooms laid over his work shoes that matched his belt perfectly.  Shoes that were more like slippers, and what those broom stick things that substituted for laces were had me scratching my head, even without my beta-alanine pills. Charcoal sports coat still on, but his salmon or pink..... couldn't really make out the difference, had the two top buttons undone, as if to say he put in his work throughout this sunny Wednesday in the silver towers of Charlotte.  His blue socks were showing below his work pants, I thought this was odd at first but then soon realized after many flash backs and memories that this is what he was going for, this is what was in style, this was professional none the less.  Lexus in the parking lot that made me smile as my head dropped and tears starting to gather their weapons like the beginning of Gangs Of New York as they were making their way out of the tunnel. 

The Seattle Space Needle erupted though the gym floor as the smell of salt water and the sounds of fishing boats captured my attention, drawing my face blank as memories never die, and at times can truly become alive.  The business man in front of me became blurry and faded.   My rat tail became light and small as it fit perfectly in my And 1 shorts while I rode my skateboard in the parks of downtown Bellevue as my dad filmed with his over sized Channel 4 looking video camera.  Fresh knees scooting me along the pier made my hurt back feel strong, and my bloody thumbs feel smooth as the echo from the man talking in front of me rang throughout my ears, not breaking my concentration. Time to stop by the office at Nextel for my father to do some "work". What did he actually do while my sister and I played in the break room.....I have no idea even to this day.  The man in front of me kept talking as Lexy and I scurried around the cubical world of ringing phones and empty rooms filled with random tables and paper work.  Random laughter as skirts and suits would constantly debate where they were going to lunch, no matter what time of the day it was.  My dad's office always had people in it.  The minute I would abruptly enter the talk, the laughter would stop, heads would all turn our way as if we just broke up the party.  Shots of tequila were everywhere, as my dad nicely told my sister and I to go play as he flicked through some cash to give us like we were in the mafia.  We took it and ran like it was some sort of game giggling down the maze of cubicles and fax machines, every once in a while turning back as if my dad was going to join us in our little game.

Sun roof open as my sister sat on the "hump" aka the center consul of my dad's beloved Lexus that he would constantly dust with his duster and make us take our shoes off before getting in.  Square black sunglasses covered his face, perfect look for the 90's. Bobby Brown playing in the CD deck, as all of our arms and limbs were out the window driving slowly down the strip of our favorite movie theater and shopping mall. Three birds, the team, family, all three never have been together since.  My dad reached out to grab my hand and told me everything was going to be okay, and that he still loved me.  My sister started to cry as she looked at the window now painted with Seattle rain and fog.  His suit smelled strong as my face was buried into his brown leather jacket. My eyes stung from my sister's blond hair that got into my eyes from her sharing the other shoulder.  We were family once again.  A Seattle Space adventure into the past, a time machine that gave me hope and a feeling of love once again. 

I soon realized the hand I was holding was the business man that came to visit my gym.  He was shaking my hand and telling me it was nice meeting me.  He told me he would be back next weekend to start training.  He put on his black leather coat over his charcoal sports coat, and raised his round gold sunglasses to his face with one hand, and then walked out the front door.  I went to follow him, but I was stopped by my rat tail.  I am a gym rat.  I always will be a gym rat.

Suit & Tie 2016

Friday, April 19, 2013

Mr. S

His black umbrella was wet, as large drips of rain water broke our silence one by one, falling off to the side of his chair that stood long legged and tall right in front of my desk.  My feet, now swimming in water, as the white stripes from my Adidas sandals have now become jagged and blurry.  "Why is your office so dark"?  Obviously this person didn't see him sitting in the chair right in front of me. How do you miss a tall umbrella covering a man made up of only bones? It's not like he is hiding anything, I mean look at can see right through this poor bastard.  "I don't know," I responded, as I made contact with the puddle below my feet while my hand grabbed my chin.  I really don't know.  I then looked back up at the skeleton that had now gotten up out of his seat and started painting my office walls from white to black.  His brush strokes long and smooth, as if he was conducting an Orchestra.  His bones have turned yellow over the years from the smoking, besides his fingers, those stay bloody from the strings of the violin he so dramatically plays. 

The black umbrella has seemed to now hover over his skull as his hands musically guide his body right to left as if he was a house wife in the 50's, cleaning the dishes dressed to the T, while listening to her favorite slow song.  My once bright room is now completely dark.  He glided his hands past each other a few times as if he just got done fixing a motor that he had been working on with his son over the summer.  His hands then dropped off to his side as his bony hips crept forward.  I noticed something at that very moment, something I should have spotted out of the 27 years I have known him.....He was happy.  The bottom of his jaw and the top parted ways, as the black holes where his eyes used to be became more dark as they opened wider.  I couldn't help but to smile with him, as I sat back in my chair.  The light from the gym lobby was creeping through the bottom of the door, making a line down my face. A new chapter in my life that has brought me more happiness than any other.  Green roots full of water surround the outside of my gym, as waterfalls from inside create light splashes of mist that hits my face as I walk by on a hot day.  A jungle of weights and a tribe of people beyond my door.....but here I am, sitting in a dark room smiling.  At this point, I realized my smile is out of happiness, happy to feel cold rain drops fall from a hovering umbrella that has now made its way above my LSU hat that I only wear when in my office working.

Black walls and bloody finger tips.  A past that will never leave me alone, no matter what book I open.  A skeleton that has somehow become my best friend, one that keeps me company and smashes the lights out in my office with a broom stick.  At this point I finally realized that not only does the skeleton like the dark, but I do too.  I find peace and comfort in a dark room.  Maybe this is because I have finally found peace within myself and my past.  I have accept who I am and have started to finally move forward with my emotional chains and baggage.  Maybe this skeleton that I once thought was bad, has turned out to be good, and that by constantly reminding myself of where I have come from, it has made me into the man I am today.  The skeleton then slowly turned his head, while his old farmer hips stayed pushed forward as if he was watching corn grow.  The black walls then started to drip like hot wax.  The puddle below my feet started to stir like a storm, and the structure of the umbrella collapsed in mid air, splashing onto the floor.  The skeleton just stared at me, which wasn't something new nor surprising, because the skeleton never has spoken a word to me, I don't even know if he can speak at all.  I wouldn't imagine he could, he has no lungs. My smile turned into concern as I stared back at him slouching down deeper into my chair.  The skeleton then did something I have never seen in my whole life, his right eye turned white for a split second before turning black again. 

I am happy in the Dark Orchestra. 

PS:  I talk about us in my latest Podcast.  Here is the link below.

The Dark Orchestra 2016

Wednesday, April 17, 2013


Dark Orchestra we did it! We have worked our way back up the ranking's to be able to represent our  Country. 11 Weeks out from the Pan Am Championships. 11 weeks tell the skeletons fly to Venezuela and play their Violins to the world.  Salute.  

I have been Training full time again, so my writing has been neglected.  This will change very soon.  I miss writing.  I love writing more than training, podcast, and making videos....hands down.

Skeletons of the Dark Orchestra 2016

USA 2016

Rio 2016

Wednesday, April 10, 2013

5 Kilo Jumps

A Rhythm Song 

This red two and half kilo plate feels light in my hands.  But why does this small piece of metal feel so heavy once on the bar? You would think you could eventually break all the world records by adding 5 kilo's to each set.  If the bar was long enough I would just slide as many of these little plates across this bar forever for as long as the eye could see.  Endless miles of little red plates that stretch out the gym loading dock, past the highway, and to a place where world records resign.  Up and down, fast and crisp, sweat drips from our face with every sip of coffee we taste.   This is why I like working up to max by taking 5 kilo jumps.....rhythm, timing, an understanding of why and how your body is moving with the bar.  Rep after rep you turn the pages to the old book you found in your grandpa's desk drawer with a fast turn of the head and a quick flick from your fingers.  Hooked on what the next page has to offer, what shall become of the character, or how it will end.  Set after set you sit while finding your twitches in sync with your thoughts.  Each chug from your energy drink lines up perfectly with the tapping of your foot from the music.  Every swipe to the face from your training towel glides simultaneously with a soft moan from the pain that shoots up your spine from the years the sport has laid upon you.  A perfect harmony has fallen into your lap, and now it's time to stand from your resting chair, and add another 5 kilo's to the long bar that has now reached the north pole.

Lift and sit, lift and sit.  Repeat 'til the gym empties and the owls outside are the only ones watching you paint your painting in the lonely warehouse where your music and monster energy drinks motivate your perfect harmony along.  You will hear the difference between a good lift and a not so good lift. The not so good lift makes a sound that doesn't mesh with the other sounds around you.  It's like sticking your head under the car's hood and saying to yourself, "Now what do we have here.....".  I prefer to coach with my eyes closed. I enjoy lifting with my eyes closed.  Feel how your body moves, hear how your athletes sound.  This will gain more insight in figuring out all the little things that happen between the basic positions that are hidden from the naked eye.  Add 5 kilo's more than the last set.  Even though there are thousands of little two and a half kilo plates on the bar that all add up to a 700 kilo total, it's not that heavy because they are just little plates that feel very light when picking one up.  How on God's green earth can this weak, defeated, scared plate be any match for us strong weightlifters?  It can't.  So stop thinking the weight in front of you is heavy.  This is a common problem I see with myself and others.  You are in charge of the weight, not the weight, fuck the weight, and guess what..... fuck the bar.  We need to stop respecting the bar so much like it's our boss, our all mighty king.  We are kings and queens that allow the bar to live and have a purpose, not the other way around.  Next time you add a one kilo plate to your bar for a PR, just feel that tiny weight in your hand, and think to yourself - the only thing stopping you from making a new all time PR........ is this.

Beginners in the sport of weightlifting, I call out to you to try this workout.  Finding yourself as a weightlifter takes many years and time under a bar, but this workout can help find that inner finesse and rhythm that is over looked and can never be coached.  I am a big believer in big jumps as well, or as I like to call them "Shankle jumps," because I have never seen anyone take bigger jumps than Shankle.  I once saw him clean and jerk 70 kilo's, sit for 2 minutes without blinking once, stand up, load 200 kilos, and then clean and jerk it like it was nothing.  Nothing!  This in my opinion is all a mind set.  Not strength, not technique, not even athleticism.  100 percent mental. There is a time and place for Shankle jumps, but not now my friend.  Not for me, because I am just getting back into training, and not for the beginning athlete, because he or she needs more experience with the lifts and not as much focus on the weight on the bar.  When the day comes that you can take 20 kilo jumps, or whatever very big jumps are for you, then you can lift blind folded.  You have become a pro.  You have found peace and harmony.  You have found yourself as a true artist.

Small Jumps 2016

Monday, April 8, 2013

The loading Dock

Grey paint drips from my paint brush as I stand on the ledge of the warehouse's loading dock.  Heels on the rusty metal edge, while my toes hang over the 4 foot drop that leads to a black concrete ocean which separates me from the world that I once knew.  My hands hurt, not from training, but from normal people work.  Painting, moving, building, and cleaning.  My back aches with pain as I stand over the dock watching boats and cars flash by.  My back hurts while I watch my old life disappear, and a new one bloom under my feet.  Creaks, drips and cracks echo throughout the gym, as if the gym is welcoming me. I stand in a clean gym after many days of work building an idea, but my body is covered in webs and dust.  My white eyes brighter than ever from the dirt that covers my face.  My shirt stained from the coffee that has dripped from my mouth.  My jeans wrap around my legs with much insecurity from not being worn much.  Weightlifters don't wear jeans, they wear sweat pants. This is a fact.  Hot or cold, rain or sun. The Adidas stripes make us proud, make us feel as if we are a part of something bigger than us.  A weightlifter only trains in shorts if he or she doesn't have sweats available in the closet.  People ask me why weightlifters only train in sweats.  I answer, "The same reason why weightlifters don't use clips on the bar when lifting.......there is no method to the madness, no one really knows the answer, we just do".

Holes in my black Adidas sweats cover my shoes as if oil was dripping down my leg.  Oil from my rotting back leaking down my spine, dwindling all hopes of ever getting back to where I used to be.  Every pinch of pain my back gives off, a kilo drops from my eye, falling into the black ocean of pavement below the loading dock I hover over.  There is no where for me to go.  If I step forward I fall off into the ocean of forgotten and normalcy.  If I step backwards, I am met by a familiar friend and enemy....the bar.  Maybe this is why I have been standing on this ledge looking out for so long.  I wonder.....are we really in control of our own destinies, or does a greater power already have a path laid out for us?  If I step forward, was I supposed to step forward?  Or would I have made the wrong choice and should of stepped backwards? Is moving to the side even an option? If so, what the hell is to each side?  My paint brush feels heavy from all the paint it has collected, and I just noticed that I have been hook gripping the handle this whole time.

Am I a coach, or am I a weightlifter?  Will my back ever let me be the athlete I have grown to love over the years?  I miss Jon North, I miss the freak athlete that gave myself more confidence and energy than anything ever has.  My gym is coming alive as I am dying.  The gym is becoming clean as I build rust.  Yes, I have built a fresh new life around me.  The gym is filled with rolling hills covered in green grass, and trees the stretch across the gym roof as if they were creating a bridge of branches that hold a crossing for those who walk by without noticing the underground world of weightlifting that lies beneath the shadows.  My knuckles bloody from frustration, my forehead wrinkled from thought, my legs heavy from standing, my back hurt from 7 years of training. 

The sound of the paint dripping off the paint brush wakes me out from my trance.  I chug a muscle milk with little finesse, noticing my forearms have a lot of blond hair on them. The sun has drawn down creating an orange glow that has pierced through the gym and into the lobby in front.  This orange world reminds me of a blog I wrote some time ago called "The Orange Room".  One of Shankle's favorites, I might add.  Yes, I miss training with Shankle, but I mostly miss writing with him.  Computers back to back, no words spoken besides the occasional, "How's it going? Good, how about you?  Good". 

I am in my third day of training full time.  AM sessions and PM sessions.  Wow, I am out of shape.  I didn't realize that my absence from the bar the last two months would have affected me this bad.  I had a few "day one" come back sessions, but they ended with a hurt back every time.  I soon felt like Michael Jordan constantly making the come back but falling short of the big bang.  The gun went off, but my feet stuck to the blocks while the others took off like race horses out the gate.  The cheers from my corner lowering in volume, and my dreams of making an Olympic team seemed to taste like salt water by the ocean tide.  Yes, I am feeling better these days, and yes, I am making my come back.  My back seems to be doing alright.  The oil leaks down my rusty back at times, but I have just enough juice to keep fighting.  One more round, one more round, keep punching, keep your hands up to protect your face.  I am lifting more weight everyday, this is the program I am on.  Lift more than the day before, written by the skeletons that watch me train.  I can hear all the coaches throughout my career giving me advice, coaching me, motivating me. This makes me smile to myself at times, as I push my elbows to my knees while sitting and anchor my head toward the ground; I miss them all.

Finally moved into the gym.  Finally have all my ducks in a row.  My back seems to finally be better. I am tired of talking about the future.  I am tired of talking about the what ifs, whens, can't waits, and so forth.  I am ready to do.  I am ready to walk the walk again.  I am ready to start lifting big fucking weight.

Paint Brush 2016

Saturday, April 6, 2013

Run Danny Run

Chapter one
BW (Before Weightlifting)
He walked with pep in his step.  He wore his Bright Reebok clothing that made him feel athletic and fit.   His smile was of confidence and joy as he hopped down from his freshly washed truck.   His shoes were tied tight; vitamin water in his right and his salad in his left.  My cold Starbucks chair outside soon became warmer, as his glow of light from across the parking lot lit up the whole city.  The two white doves that flew right by him, gave him a corny chuckle and a” gosh darn those birds” fist pump.  His glowing shaved face got closer to our meeting point. He saw me drinking my coffee right outside the green jungle.  His open hand raised high in the air while his heels lifted off the ground onto his toes like a ballerina. His eyes opened as if lightning struck him from above, and he began to wave at me as if I couldn’t see him.   His walk was long and powerful, that created a gust of wind that hit me from his energy. 

He was so excited to start his first session with me; he was excited to become a weightlifter. What he didn't know was that soon his excitement was facing its last days.   My face was half cover by the shade, with my smile showing in the sun, and my sad frown being hidden in the dark.  He reminded me so much of myself when I first got into this sport.  His innocence and determination gave me a warm feeling that made me feel free again.   His arm stuck straight out like a soldier’s sword running at the enemy.  But this was no attack, just a much anticipated hand shake.   His grip was tight, and his eyes burned right through mine. 

Hopefully he saw the tears running down the left side of my cheek, so he could see what I Have turned into.  Don’t come any closer Danny Lehr, please run away.  He was blind from excitement, only seeing my USA weightlifting shirt, not the blood stains around it.  He saw my happy mask, not my sorrowed beat up face. 

My national gold medal looked intriguing to him, like a new drug you want to try for the first time, or the first time you fall in love on the football bleachers under the stars.  He had no idea what kind of world lived behind the gold medal, and what kind of creatures lurked in the darkness.  His mouth moved a thousand miles an hour, but I couldn’t hear a word he was saying.   It was like I was seeing my mother for the first time.  

I was drawn to his positive presence and enthusiasm.  I wanted to reach out and touch his face.   I am trapped in this dark symphony, screaming at him to save me, but he could only see my smile.   Why can’t he hear me?  Please Danny Lehr save me, and then run far away and never look back.  Every minute you sit with me, you fall further away from reality and deeper into my dark world.  You are not talking to me Danny; you are talking to a weightlifting slave that has trapped me for life.   Can’t you see! Can’t you see the black bird that sits on my shoulder?  Can you see that my coffee is red and not brown?  Your tree is green and blooming, mine is burnt and dark.  How can you not see the handcuffs I wear and the thorn in my heart? 

Please Danny Lehr, run away while you still can. 

Chapter Two
(AW) After Weightlifting
He walked with a limp, dragging his right foot behind him.  His loose gray sweat suit was stained with coffee and ketchup from McDonald's.  His eye lids were heavy, as they drooped down his face like window shades.  His presents was followed by a red sky, and a barbell tied to his ankle.  The black bird was now sitting on his shoulder, while he started mumbling to himself.  The mumbling is the first sign of insanity, and that’s when I knew I had ruined his life.  Danny’s five fingered shoes were now broken sandals that made a sound of a chain rather than a flop.  We made eye contact from a distance, but this time there was no wave of excitement.  Just a sad look, that spoke two words that said “save me”.   This time I was completely in the dark sitting in the chair outside the green jungle, and my half smile was now a sagging smile of hot dripping wax.  

I feel for him, I really do, but there is nothing I can do now, I already tried.  Every PR he gets he slips deeper into hell.  We are now brothers, we are now just alike.  The white dove’s now lay dead on the ground as he walked over them.   This time he had nothing corny to say, just a small ache in his lower back and shaky hands from his coffee withdrawals.  Now we can play together Danny, now we are best friends forever.  I wanted you to run and be free, but now that you are here I am happy.  We can train together and cry together.  We can play tag around the concert hall, while the others sleep.  Don’t worry Danny; I left the green light on in case they need to find us.   You are family now, and I will never let anything happen to you.  We will ride the monsters together and slap hands while the skeletons try to kill us.
See Danny your loneliness becomes your best friend, and your eyes will adjust to the dark over time.  Please trust me. It will make this a lot easier.  Danny stop looking around….there is no way out, now come help me lift this bar.  Danny to answer your question, the white eyes you keep seeing are the blog viewers who check up on us from time to time, don’t be scared, they are friends.  Now go back to your cell for the night Danny Lehr, we have a big day ahead of us.  And Danny………I know you miss your old life, family and wife, but your crying is keeping me up at night, so please keep it down.  Good night brother, and welcome to hell. 

Here Is a video of Danny Lehr in his new world of weightlifting attacking a PR.

Danny Lehr 2016