Don't you think
this outlaw shit
is getting outta hand
- Waylon Jennings
What can I say, that Walyon hasn't already said better.
Don't you think
this outlaw shit
is getting outta hand
- Waylon Jennings
What can I say, that Walyon hasn't already said better.
At this point I've lost count of what day I should be on and how poorly I'm doing with the consistency, but today, again, I rise.
The psychology of getting up early has become ever more evident to me. When I sleep in, (until the last possible moment because that's what we do), I'm in this mad rush, shit sucks, I can't find a shirt for work, I forget to pack something, it sucks. When I wake up early I stretch this tight ass back, I meditate, I answers some correspondence from my internet friends, I RISE mentally and physically. I start today on the offensive. This is an improved me today.
The psychology of getting tough has also become more evident to me. Which is another pursuit I've been on with full effort, far more so that the up early thing. I think there are 2 causes of street fights, 1) ego, with a side of alcohol, and 2) fear. The bully preys on the fearful man, it's the school yard advice I got as a kid, "stand up for yourself", and it is really that simple. If you "stand", if you bite down, look at your would be attacker and prepare yourself for whatever he's going to throw, he likely won't throw. Dudes on the street are looking for easy ways to lash out, they aren't looking for a challenge.
A couple days back, I'm heading to work on my bike, early, it's hot. I stop and take off my sweater, and you know, I'm sticky and everything comes off at once. No big deal right, I just peel the inner t-shirt out and begin placing it over my head. So from just down the path a little, a man walks up and says something, I didn't really hear his specific words, but I could hear that they were hostile. I say "wut?", relatively deadpan, and fully confused, he repeats "You deserve a shot in the jaw, you fucking faggot!". This only adds to my confusion, so I turn to him, look him in the eye and ask "because I'm changing my sweater?". When I looked at him I sized him up, and tried to asses if this dude was crazy or high, or crazy and high. He looked a little high, red glassy eyes, meth high, not weed high. Maybe crack. 630am btw. He was maybe an inch taller than me, he looked poor, his grammar sucked, and he repeated his lame verbal attack with the strange reference to "shooting me in the jaw", which I assume meant punching. Basically this dude was a loser. Losers are in bad shape, they prefer drinking Listerine mouth wash to running win sprints. But he was young, and he was big, so he was dangerous. He put his headphones back in and continued walking. When I was sizing him up, he was sizing me up, and he didn't see fear. Who know what would have happened if I was smaller or weaker, or afraid, all I know is that I've given myself the training to be unafraid, and that stops him, and me, from getting fucked up and stomped out.
I thought about go after him because he called me a "faggot", but I didn't. I wouldn't have done it for me, but because I don't want this guy gay bashing an actual faggot, especially a small weak faggot who's going to get hurt. But I didn't. We'll credit that one to some sort of restraint. The dude did mess with my head, and put me in a weird head space, but I suppose there's not much I can do about that.
Follow me on twitter @dhizzo and hit me up with questions.
Okay, so the 430am thing is a total bitch, but here I am yet again. It;s become more and more evident that my love for weed is clashing with my desire to be up early. The dreaded weed hangover is real. I used to roll my eyes when friends said they felt groggy the morning after, but I certainly do today, and especially yesterday when I ate some weed butter and watched Clinton vs. Trump round one.
This American election cycle is blowing my mind, and frying my logic circuits. I read today an article on how a dislike for Clinton is misogyny. "You don't like Hillary?" "MISOGYNIST!" Give me a fucking break, I have the nuance of a opinion to hate a cunt even if she's a woman. I read an article yesterday in Vice that it's impossible to be racists against whites. Apparently whites have some sort of special racism immunity. Oh, btw, you criticize that concept.. WHITE FRAGILITY! God forbid you put whites on a equal footing as blacks, and refer to any denial of service based on skin color as racist. That's what real racism is, it ain't pepe, it ain't white dudes with dreads, it's actual mistreatment based on skin color. But there I go again, white mansplaining. On the same day Vice published the impossible white racism article, it also published a pro child marriage article. GOD DAMN! give your head a shake. And they wonder why there's this growing Alt Right fringe.
Shits fucking retarded. Keep swinging.
Well I technically started day 6 of my little challenge, but in reality I'm on day 1 again. A couple things, 1) I didn't compare myself to Costanza for nothing, and 2) challenges are difficult. Getting up at 4:30am requires discipline, avoiding the ganj requires discipline, and we live in an undisciplined world. It wasn't a totally crap week, but this next will be better. This blog must read like a perpetually failing addict's diary. I guess accountability is good... ha ha.. right?
It seems to be that a certain number of vices must be maintained at all times. You know how smokers talk about not knowing what to do with their hands when they quit. They're so used to playing with that cigarette and having it as a focal point, then it's gone and missed. It needs to be replaced with something like a lollipop. I've had some success replacing partying with Jiu Jitsu, and when i don't smoke I don't crave a joint, I just feel like I would be having more fun with a joint. Why am I depriving myself of this joint, on Sunday afternoon, when a buddy has a fresh batch to sample, I want to sample. I don't feel drawn on Thursday night to smoke, there's no jonesing at this point, but socially I miss it. My sleeping is a little fucked but I think that will go away with time. Side Note: I had the genius idea of making a $1000 bet with my lady that I could go 90 days, which I lost, obviously, god dammit. I immediately replaced weed with beer this past week, one vice for another. Knowing that I could have weed because of this challenge, I went for those beers, and that's missing the point. Replacing weed with beer, or weed with chewing tobacco (which I also did) isn't really the point. The point is to remove a crutch, not replace it. This has me thinking if it's Habit and not Vice, replacing one habit for another. I'll experiment with this and report back.
So that's in the past, and this week is looking bright. I plan on really refining my goals, is the plan no weed, or is it to be productive? Those subtle differences are going to make a world of difference. I still think I need to do 90 to prove something to myself.
That's it for today. Hit me up on twitter!
In the classic Seinfeld episode "Summer of George" (s08e22), George receives a severance after being fired from The Yankees and decides to use the money to slack off and eat blocks of cheese the size of his head aka The Summer of George. Well this, this, was my Summer of George, minus the George, minus the severance, there was some cheese. I slacked in the sort of way that left a dirty plaque on my brain, my bills overdue, and with my project list forgotten and coated in dust. The thing people don't realize about laziness, is that it's tiring, I am tired of being lazy. Sometimes I wonder if I have some mental issue, like depression, or some such thing, that keeps me in bed when I should be working, then I realize that I'm still outworking so many. The true lazies don't worry about it, they just recline their life into a shitty job, and their weekly shows. For me the Summer of George is over, and the Fall of Dho begins.
What I'm going to do: 90 days up at the Jocko hour 4:30 am, 90 days no marijuana, 90 days blogging about my efforts.
Weed fo sho has a part in my laziness, and because of that it has to go. I decided that yesterday afternoon whilst high. The sort of dread I felt later in that day, dread that I wouldn't have this crutch, it was unreasonable, and reinforced my need to take a break.
That's it for today. Hit me up on twitter @dhizzo
What I'm checking out this week....
Tim Ferris did a great pod with the writer of The Perfect Storm, Sebastian Junger. I don't know much about Junger. I have heard of The Perfect Storm; haven't read it, haven't watched it,but I heard of it, other than that I knew nothing of Junger. Junger represent a type of dude that is not seen as something to aspire to in this modern age, but he should be, and . Physically strong, and smart, he tested his bravery as a war correspondent, before settling into writing. He shared some statistics about the male condition, unabashedly, knowing that fact is fact. He's how I imagine Socrates would be, I could be way the fuck off, and maybe I am. Either way, give the pod a mother fuckin listen.
Report coming out of Vancouver; Fentanyl has replaced Heroin as the opiate on the streets. Illegal heroin replaced by deadlier, corporate produced fentanyl. This is the drug war, folks. I've never heard of someone ODing on heroin, I've heard of people ODing on fentanyl. I can't remember where I heard it now, but the idea is to legalize cocaine to reduce the amount of people on meth. The same should be done with heroin. Fentanyl can be produced in home labs, but I'd like to the that stats on how much is coming from the prescription companies and how much is coming from trailer park chemist. I was going to attempt to correlate fentanyl producing pharmaceutical labs to overdoses, but there was no correlation. That and i saw the stock price and became sickened.
What else, what else. Lifted some deads yesterday, 5x5 sets, followed by pull ups, bent rows, leg raises, and shrugs. It doesn't take much to work the body, and you are so much better off for it. Back to the Socratic Sebastian Junger, I don't know how he lifts, but I do know the man Socrates favored those of keen body, and praised the virtues of physical phitness. Saying “No man has the right to be an amateur in the matter of physical training. It is a shame for a man to grow old without seeing the beauty and strength of which his body is capable.”, and capable it is, but nowhere near as capable as the mind, if the mind is right. I would argue that all strength originates in the mind, and I would be in the company of men like UFC Hall of Famer Bas Rutten. Most fail in mind before failing in body, and ultimately, strength training is mind training. More on that later.
What do you know? Heard you just got back from the Bloodhound show? Oh fuck, I totally screwed my writing brain by listening to this song. Back in the day, circa 2000, just after I graduated high school we'd put on Bloodhound Gang in my buddy's parents living room and mosh like a bunch of primitive Bros. The next 15 years were pretty much the same, the beer changed, the weed changed, the location changed, the responsibility changed, but the inner Bro remains the same. I no longer drink, my weed habit has been restricted, but at my core I am a Bro.
Now the gender confused writers at Vice will have you thinking that "The Bro" is a bad thing, allow me to educate you and them. The Bro is many things, first and foremost he is unabashedly masculine, he makes no excuses for his male form, nor does he think it's some sort of hindrance. Being born male is like being the warrior class in your favorite RPG game. We start on first base when it comes to strength and endurance. The bro is tied to the physical world through his body, he does not deny this. The Bro does not need to be an Adonis, or a Superman, but he must be willing to fight, and I think deep down every man is prepared to do that. Secondly, the Bro is aware of his abilities, and this is evident in his confidence. There is a sort of glamorization of the insecure in modern society, fuck that, we know who we are, we know what we are, and we're prepared to back that up. We are not victims, we have never been victims, and we won't allow ourselves to be victims (see point 1). This is why the Bro excels in business, and decision making. Thirdly, the bro position in society is ultimately the tip of the spear. The benefits of Brohood, are equaled only by the sacrifices required of us. First in, last out. When the ship goes down the women and children board the rescue craft first. When there is war, the Bros are called. When there is distress in the streets the Bro is required to act. Bros die. On the intellectual front the Bro is also required to fight, a fight that may be more important than in the streets. The Bro is protector both physical and intellectual, and that comes with risk, it is necessary for the Bro to take on that risk, and call out those dangerous ideas. The Bro is responsible for family. When it comes to work the long hours to keep the lights on, that's all Bro. The Bro doesn't shirk work.
Now some may say I'm giving some sort of loose definition of manliness, and maybe I am, after all the Bro is simply a juvenile man. Others may say that the Bro is a date rapist, and bully, I disagree, psychos are date rapists, and bullies are weak. There's no place for that shit in true Brohood.
So don't deny your Broness, embrace it, stand tall and proud, with a big fuckin dick and a big fucking mind.
In heaven, Lemmy is bragging to David Bowie about getting more social media condolences, while Glenn Frey cries about the poor timing of his death. RIP fatigue is apparently a thing, and never was it more evident then in the death of Glenn Frey. This phenom must be related to the multiple deaths thing, i.e. one death is a tragedy, a thousand deaths is a statistic. This, like most, and probably all, other phenomena is due to the mechanical failings of the brain. All the brain juice has been used up, and until it has time to restock, the caring about dead celebrities will be at a minimum.
The internet is a strange place. I was without it for a week, last week, and it became evident that my other true addiction is interwebz (addiction #1 is the pot). On the internet, you can say shit, and not actually believe it. On the internet a million can say shit, and not actually believe. This was displayed in full effect on Sam Harris's recent podcast featuring Jocko Willink. Jocko being a former Navy Seal Commander, was dumbfounded by Sam's questions in regards to pacifism & torture use. I almost felt it in Sam's voice, like he had let the dummies of the internet get to him, people who hold unholdable positions. Pacifism is great, until someone is going to kill you. Torture should never be used, except it's used all the time and works pretty well.
I wonder if this is the cusp, that moment when Rome when no longer had the hardness to defeat the barbarians at the gates, and instead chose to drowned their stress in wine and food. They had the capability, but not the will. Similarly to the west and ISIS, we are tying are own hands, while the enemy does every dirty thing to win. But really, I don't think ISIS is much of a threat, I think the slow creep of shittier cultures is the real threat. If your culture is shitty, I don't have to respect it, and I'm not going to. The greatness of western society has been hard fought for, it didn't just happen, it was fought for.
The problem arises when those dumbly held thoughts are made into law, and policy i.e. 50% senators should be women, the Oscars need more blacks, women should be paid as much as men. At first glance those things seem good, but that's not a meritocracy, that's identity politics, and that means the best will not be holding the highest positions. Racism is dead, the best will rise to the top regardless of Gender or color.
The top topic for blogs has to be the "hey guys, I've be lazy but I'm gonna get back on it" post. Fuck that post! FUCK IT! Those people are liars, thieves and liars. With their fucking communist lies. This isn't one of those posts. I've been strugglin' in the stuggle. Fighting the forces of mother fucking evil! Fucking evil all coming up in here and taking my motherfucking time! Da FUCK, Son??!/1 You ever get a hair cut? That shit takes at least! 20 mins. Did that! You ever watch your dog while your GF works in the evening? That bitch (the dog bitch) wants to play. I'm currently ignoring a puppy that wants to play! SHIT! I think I'm the evil one. You ever try reading Nietzsche's Thus Spoke Zarathustra? That takes like at least 8 hours! Even if you're switching back and forth from audio book and text.. like I did. You ever watch a 5 hour documentary on 9/11? Well, I have. That shit has me question what truth is. You ever question the existence of truth! Well I have, and that shit takes your time like an EVIL MOTHERFUCKER. God damn, there is a cute little dog starring at me. She's holding a toy in her mouth! I just threw the toy, I have another -damn- she's back. Okay, I threw if further, I have another 5 seconds. She seems to have gotten distracted by something, her distraction is distracting me! ARGH! I think this is what Pressfield meant by resistance.
How you guys doing? Doing well? Have you chosen your side on the Oregon Federal building take over? Well you should. This is a game, and we need winners and losers. There is no room for neutrality. Have you chosen your side on the gun debate? Have you chosen Bernie or Hilary? Pick your team, bro? Have you formed an opinion on Trump's new commercial? I have, I choose side 'awesome', this dude is saying what he wants the dumb electorate wants to hear. You can't have a Trump without a tribe full of fucking idiots! 'Merica.
This is a little something I wrote after the Paris attacks of 13-Nov-2015. I've been reading a lot of Conan by Robert E Howard, and I think it shows. I'm working on a story that, hopefully, I can put to use in a graphic novel. The over arching theme would be the power of the human soul on fire.
The jihadist stormed the mall with his budget store AK. Jim crept as quietly as his shoes would allow him, moving from mannequin to counter to avoid detection. He slipped off his jacket, always keeping an eye on the Jihadist. Another person dead, Jim's eyes went wet, as the adrenaline surged in his body, expanding his chest, and readying his muscles. He prays to the gods in his mind “Zeus? Thor? God? Baphomet? Will any of you grant me this glory? I do this for righteousness, aid me in that.”-Pop-pop- The Jihadist fires off more rounds into the crowd, emptying his gun. He grabs the clip and ejects it, maneuvering the duct-tapped secondary clip into the receiver. It was now or never. Jim abandons his hidden position and run at the Jihadist at full sprint, his heightened state allowing him to control every muscle and tendon with fantastic precision. The rage had overtaken him and he lets out a mighty “RAHH!” as he closed the 10 meters quickly, alerting the Jihadist in his foolishness.
Jihad John was of thin frame, not reaching the full adulthood of a man in his thirties, but with the slight womanish frame of an 18 year old boy. His ratty beard, and bad eyes, show this boy for what he was, a weakling nerd. But nerds study, and this one had. Jihad John met the raging charge with a smile, loading the second clip with the smooth action of a practiced hand, raising the barrel to chest level, and firing a shot into Jim's rib cage. Jim's eyes come off his target for a brief moment, as the pain draw his attention. The wound isn't bad enough to put him down or stop his rush, he's 2 meters from his target now, and loading up for the hardest double leg. Jihad John fires another shot, this one much closer to the center of mass, Jim roars as he leaps at Johnny's legs, aiming just above the knee cap. Jihad Johnny instinctively squeezes the trigger as the full force of Jim's bull rush comes into his legs, firing off several rounds into the roof, his frail body buckles at the waist and knee, almost snapping his 135lb frame. His feet come off the ground as they both fly through the air. Jim has the wherewithal to protect his head from the impact of the hard mall floor, Jihad Johnny does not. The Jihadist body snaps back from the initial impact just as his butt hits the floor, rocking his whole body over his ass. Jim's shoulder is tightly tucked up under the Jihadist's sternum. The impact to the ground is brutal. Jim can hear the man's ribs snap as his full weight comes into the body. The full acceleration of the impact swings the Jihadist back, sending the back of his skull hard into the floor, killing him.
Jim comes quickly up into mount, as the devastation of the takedown wains. He postures for a punch with his right, placing his left to block the AK, but the man's wide open dead eyes make it quite clear. Jim rolls off and puts his back against the nearest wall, he is dying too. The second shot hit just left of his heart, his lung was filling with blood. He thinks of his wife Stella, how he loved her, and how they fought earlier that day. He sent out a psychic connection, not knowing, but hoping she would feel it. “I love you, honey. Sorry, I'm leaving you.”. He coughed and spat blood. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”. With that the life drained out of his eyes and it went black. What he was, ceased to be, what he is, is no more.
Jihad Johnny's body lay still, he had been a devotee of the Muslim faith, always obeying halal, and praying towards Mecca as he should. His soul leap from his body with exuberance. His essence rising through the stars to heaven. He had martyred and he was to be rewarded. His soul knew where to go, he glided through the stars to a cloudy gaseous region of space, and in it, his new home. A palace like the old Sultans, filled with hookah and silken curtain, and the greatest prize, his harem. The women were hardly women, all virgins, none more than 18, some probably less, but that didn't matter here. The voice of God thundered around him “You have served me well, my Son. Enjoy all the luxuries of Earth, here with me, in heaven.”.