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Jarhead and The Departed are the best movies I’ve seen in along time. That is why I have watched both movies twice in the last 24 hours. Yes, twice. Both movies are 2+ hours long. After yesterday’s post I went and worked out. here is what went down.

Double Clean and Press 16kg x 20 x 10 x 20 resting 2:00 between
2 Arm swing 24kg x 50 rest 2:00
2 Kb Clean and Jerk (LONG CYCLE) 16kg x 5 double, 5 alternating rest 2:00 x 10 double rest 2:00 2 KB racked, 10 left, 10 right rest 2:00
2 Arm Swing 24kg x 50 out of time.

Showered and ran to the chiro. Got a real nice 30 minute massage and then got an adjustment. The Doc had a rough time getting my thoracic spine to open up. My back is real wacky regularly, but it has not hurt me every day in awhile. So I wake up this morning in more pain than I can remember. I cancel all my PT and classes, chew some Advil, throw and ice pack on my neck, lay flat on my back, watch The Departed, Watch Jarhead, crawl into the van to make my way towards Varani Formal Wear (best of the Main Line in my opinion) for a tux fitting, crawl back into my house, play with my dog while laying on the floor. Hot Tub for 30 minutes, stretched my hips, and now I’m watching Jarhead again. OOH RAH. I can’t help but think what shape I’ll be in if I go back to the USMC and can’t get massage, Chiropractic care, and hot tubbing sessions in when I need them. Oh well, Better a broken Marine than a pampered civilian.

Echo-4 Whiskey OUT.

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A young Corporal Williams in April of 2002. Starving/shaving/tanning/flexing to impress a girl who later cheated on me with a short, fat, bald Navy reject. One of these days I’ll get it right.

When a client comes to me and says “I’m injured” I send them to their physician, and also to MY chiropractor, a guy who has extended my training career by about 20 years. When they come back and say “I can train again, but using light weights only” I give them an OOH RAH, a thumbs up, and train them accordingly. When they look at me with the hunger of the wolf in their eye and say “I am ready for something heavier”, I make them wait another week, and then drop a kilo upgrade on them. I am cautious, patient, and in tune with what my clients bodies are going through. I can help everyone but myself. I can hear every one’s bodies’ talking save for my own. I can FORCE people to listen to me (I’m big and scary), and extend their trainee career by about 20 years, but up until this morning I could not accept what I have been told time and again by my man, Joel Stutzman DC, which is that working out is fine, but with light weights. This young, fit, and talented doc doesn’t know that I interpret “light” as 24 or 28 kilogram kettlebells or 185 lbs. on a barbell. He says light, I say roger that, and go snatch for 30 minutes with a standard issue 24kg. Why? I tell you why in bullet point fashion.

A 275 lb. man shouldn’t be using anything lighter than 24kg
Only pussies lift light weight
If I stay tight, hydrated, and stretch after the lift, I won’t get knotted up and sore.
The foam roller is my new friend, and it helps.
I am tough, I can handle pain.
I am tough, I can handle pain.
I am tough, I can handle pain.
Etc. etc., etc. . . ..

So now I know that thinking like that has been what has kept me away from bells for over 10 days. As soon as I made the commitment to lose weight and take a physical for possible re-entry into the USMC, I started training hard. With 24kg and 32kg bells. And what happened? After the Dropkick Murphy’s concert, two nights of Interpol, too much “diet coke” and not enough rest, I fizzled out. And I’ll be god damned if it isn’t just the same shit over and over again. I get motivated, I go too hard, I get hurt, I miss two weeks of training. It is hard enough for me to drop body fat, that when you subtract working out from my regular schedule, the belly just hangs there and does not get smaller. But no more damn it! I vow, to myself, my clients (who also lose time when I am down), and to you, the reader, that today I will swing a 20kg bell, perform double presses with a pair of wimpy wimpy wimpy 16kg bells, and stay away from the “diet coke”. But oh how I love some heavy bells. Snapping into a heavy double clean, trapping the air in my belly, squeezing my frame into a bullet proof level of tension and then HOOTIE HOO, pressing like I’m on display. I’ve tried high rep, high volume, high this low that moderation this and excess that, every time I bust. Something must be out there for me. I am my own client, I gotta get this shit right and tight. If I drop this weight, and the USMC accepts me I could be, if the sun shines on this dog’s ass, back in CA on Pendleton by January. In the field all week, up at Trusty’s on the weekend, maybe deployed by this time next year. Iraq isn’t going anywhere. And neither is my gut unless I do something. Last time I trained I hit 3 miles Marine Corps style in under 27:00, nice leisurely pace. Fuck it. 300 swings, 100 double C&P, jump rope for 15, that is my mission today.

>Three days in September Part Two was written and directed by Liam Mulraney. Produced by Abe Froman. Casting director Urban Coogan. Scored by Cat Power and Interpol.

The greatest thing beyond the amazing feeling I was left with last weekend is that Honest Abe took about 376 pictures between the two cameras she is in constant possession of. You see my friends, Abe is a photog. Like a professional photographer that shoots models and flies to Italy because she knows they serve good espresso there. Don’t ask what a metal headed meat monkey like myself is doing jet setting off to The City with a nice young lady like this, just enjoy the story. She was on a mission this Friday eve, 14 September, and the “recreational shots” were taken with her digital camera. Not the over sized mutated Nikon Eyeball that pays her bills and captures half nude models standing in vulnerable positions while the wind whips what little clothes they have away from their lithe physiques to reveal a body only years of diligent starvation could forge, not that camera, but her “little” camera.
Some pics I want you all to see, as most would trip you all out and give your good laugh, and some will be destroyed so as to prevent the release of the true identities of the characters whose names dot the title of this post. All three brought a special power to the events of this past weekend, and their daytime lives simply cannot be disturbed with the mass influx of phone calls, emails, and in some cases random pop ins from neighbors. So you know this: I was witness to many great things, most of which were caught on camera, and you may or may not get to see them. Moving on!
The Molly/Dropkick show left me worn out but flying high off the night, so there was no hangover, just a gentle reminder that when you go to a show like that, you will never forget it. Never. So Friday came and the drive to THE City was upon us. Three MCs and one DJ piled into the car and braved the freeways. We were bound for Madison Square Garden, for a triple bill that saw The Liars and Cat Power open up for INTERPOL. Abe, my friend who has been very kind to me as of late, offered to take me to the show, as she was invited (plus two) by her brother, who plays in one of the opening bands. In truth I had not heard of either of the two openers, but I had seen Interpol before, in NYC at Radio City Music Hall, in support of their 2004 Album ANTICS. I have been an Interpol fan for about 4 years now. Their music accomplishes what many other bands cannot. They touch upon dark areas of the human animal’s emotional playing field, and create a somber, near-gloomy atmosphere with their music, but at once, they drive the beats into your face with speedy guitar runs and clickity-clack-smack-boom-bat drums that move from your feet, to your ass, all the way to your shoulders and beyond. If you listen to Interpol you know what I mean when I say that though they delve into purple shades of gloom and doom, their songs are, for the most part, quite fast. Listen here as you read on.

So I napped lightly on the car ride up the venue. This was no doubt the most painless insertion to the City by vehicle in a long time. We left exactly when we wanted to, and walked into the building exactly when we planned. Despite the perfect timing and smooth transition from state to state to state, I was not prepared for what followed.
We were taken into the building’s side entrance (performers and employees only) and taken backstage. Yes, backstage at MSG. We trekked roughly 200 yards through concrete hallways and settled into the dressing room for Cat Power. The band members trickled in over the course of an hour or so. When the namesake of the band arrived we all knew what was up. She was the leader and it was her deal. Cat Power is the stage name of a young woman who I find quite interesting. I read the Wikipedia entry on her and everything from the spelling vs. pronunciation of her birth name (spelled Chan spoken as Sean, very cool) to the contents of a DVD she released in 2003 are nothing less than shockingly inspiring. Reminds me of what I felt when I found out that Perry Farrell was a real, honest to goodness junkie when I was 12. Quite a trip.
So Abe’s Brother, operating under the name Mr. Pharmacist (he has been clean for awhile now) gained us free entry into the building, and backstage access, but that was not all. When we arrived at 31st and 7Th, he took us into the bowels of The Garden, and we were shuttled into the dressing room of Cat Power where we were nearly confined to that room for almost 4 full hours. What I didn’t know, and what I am now very thankful for, is that Mr. Rx himself had “stick on” All Access passes printed up for us. yes, a pass that let me walk anywhere I wanted in Madison Square Garden, free to do, quite literally, whatever the fuck wherever the fuck. Before our passes were printed though, we couldn’t roam about, as we would have been hassled by the many security and backstage workers doing their job. And if you are reading this, big bald roadie for Interpol with tattoos and piercings, I apologize for being a dick to you. I know you were doing your job but I am the Biggest Fish in my pond and when another mammal challenges me I get Alpha. My bad. So we were stuck in a little room, starving and thirsty, held prisoner by good fortune, and making conversation with the band members. Fans of the Dirty Three and John Spencer Blues Explosion will be happy to know that I had a lengthy conversation with Jim White and Judah Bauer about the situation in Iraq. And when Pete, the nice guy who would later come to almost RUIN Abe’s shooting ability (Great work Pete, watch where the fuck your going next time) came back with our passes, Abe and I did what we did better than any twosome on the eastern seaboard: We headed for the bar. In fact, I think we raced each other to the bar. With a triple tight wad of twenties I ordered up two vodkas for myself, two small bottles of white wine for each of the ladies, and then two more vodkas for myself. Hey look guys, we were confined to a little brick room in the underbelly of Midtown for almost four hours, judge not OK? So we spent some time up with the general population and then reloaded, headed back tot he dressing room, and that is when shit got interesting. Very interesting.
Stand by for Part Three: “Only your antics could make a black session a love worth admiring”.

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