All of It

 Maybe I should be like Bukowski. Without care, pounding the liquor whenever I want, going bar to bar whenever I want. And nobody can say a word to me about it all because there is nobody.

 But what I would do, instead of moving to the city like Charles, I would move so fucking far out in the country that nobody will ever find me. 

And I would write. Write every day for hours with nothing else to do except what I want to do. Hunt, fish, train my dog, shoot guns and bows, and watch the morning sky turn bright and watch the evening sky turn black. 

All of the talk becomes way too much, the humanity pulling at you and pulling at you. The modern world means nothing. Nothing in the world means anything. Because it's all fake and nothing that you are worrying about, that you are worrying about right now, means a damn thing.

Lying there, pondering how many days you have left, none of this mindless, useless shit will matter. Just the person that you could have been, the people you could have loved more, the goals you should have reached but were afraid of, the taking the time to see the world right in front of you.

I used to be something

And when I was something, I thought that I wasn’t

Now, I wish I knew that I was something

HELL

 it's funny because I have all this stuff to write about but can't write about it.

Let's just say that people suck so bad, the culture today sucks so bad and for the first time in my life last night, I didn't get a fire started

kills me to admit that fact

an Omen of things to come

down they go, cancel this, keep your hands to yourself no matter what is done to you, old hags, jealous hags, hags who hated the jocks in school, hated the fact that they had no interest from the opposite or same sex, miserable in their existence, so they strive to ruin lives

throw out what you think about everything in this world especially in this country about being RIGHT, because there is no right anymore, just people making decisions who have never shot a gun, been in a fight, been in any dangerous situations, played any collegiate or high school sports, deadlifted or squatted, run hills until they can't breathe, held a real job where your blisters pop, shaved their calluses so they don't rip on a max deadlift, had a shot of whiskey at a bar while the jukebox plays "Mama Tried" or been so loyal to someone that they would die for them.

come on and look, you will see it all, don't say that, don't do that, oh no you triggered me, and oh no, this is not going anywhere. Oh, we can fight against it, but we are way outnumbered. I mean there are plenty of us, but those that hold power are not US, they hate US. You see it right? When it all comes down to it

it is really the end of those who dig deep. The future is for those who have never had to dig deep and hate your fucking guts for doing it.

Dinosaurs roaming the earth weakened and canceled. Welcome to Hell.

Books, Podcasts, More Books, Music.

 Just finished Turning Feral , a damn good book by Zachary Craig Hanson. At only 234 pages, it's too short. I could have read another 200 pages and would not have gotten tired of it. 

It's about a corporate guy who chucks his suburban life and moves to Idaho to a cabin in a mountain village of 36 people. He learns to hunt, trap and be self sustained. I really liked it because he admits he is an amateur at all of it and talks about his mistakes as well as his hard earn success. He gets into detail about the animals he kills and he is honest about his feelings but also understands the cycle of life. It is just damn good. Read it if you have ever dreamed of a life such as his. 

What else? I am a podcast freak. Jocko, Paul Saladino, Bongino (when I want to hear bad news), Art of Manliness, Unashamed with Phil Robertson, Duck Call Room, Eastman's Journal, Three of Seven , Jack Carr, Eyes Wide Open, The Original Gangsters Podcast, Plant Free MD,  Huberman Lab, Mike Drop, Westside Barbell, Nock On Archery, Bodybuilding Legends, Bone Collector, and my new one, Steel Reflections. I listen to podcasts when driving. I like Rogan too, especially that he has realized how messed up everything is. When he started hunting he lost all (most ) of his liberal tendencies. Because when the MOB turns on you, you start to "get it".

What else? My buddy Frank Bill is getting ready to release Back to the Dirt, and I have an advanced copy and it KILLS. It's beyond hardcore and real. Preorder that bad boy.

Short stories? Mark Powell's Blood Kin is crazy good. Brilliant , disturbing and real. He is gonna be a guest on my podcast. I'll post it when it comes up. 

Who else should I get on the podcast? Email me at basbarbell@gmail.com with suggestions, I will email or call anyone, I don't care. 

And Knockemstiff is amazing. If you haven't read it, get on it.

John Hamilton just came out with a new book, Ballard Redoubt. He is an excellent writer and his last book, A Hell Called Ohio was so damn great that I interviewed him for this website. He is also a Seabee, so just because of that, I love the guy. Being a Seabee is legit badass occupation. I should get him on the podcast. 

What else? Listening to The Chesapeake by Michener. He is so detailed it is crazy. Worth it for sure.

There is more- I have been listening to Aaron Lewis, Paycheck, Jerry Reed, Jamey Johnson( I mean, DAMNNNN!), Clint Black, Ward Davis, Jarrod Birmingham, Derek Jones (FREE TO LEAVE).  All good music. Of course, HANK is always in the rotation. 

Check out some of my recommendations if you would like. I think you will dig 'em.

Old Man at the Bar

 I sat at the end of the bar, wanting to be left alone, wanting to just have enough drinks where I didn't feel a thing. 

This night, I didn't want to feel a thing.

I had my baseball cap pulled down low, flannel shirt, cowboy boots, and jeans.

A man sat two stools down, about sixty years old, smiled at the bartender, ordered a drink for himself, and ordered one for me too

whatever he wants, he says

I appreciate it, I say, and look down at the wet bar napkin in front of me, and start tearing it apart, slowly, bit by bit.

Having a good day?

It's fine

You look pissed off

I'm not.

Well, I say that you are. You sure are troubled by something

Not used to people talking to me as directly as he does, sorta surprised, pleasantly surprised. He wasn't irritating as hell like ninety-nine percent of the folks that I run into, he was dressed like me, had calloused hands, and had dirt and grime all over him.

A working man

He makes a toast, holds his whiskey up high, looks through it, then downs it.

Here's to a goddamn beautiful day

I reckon so

So tell me what's going on with you

I laugh. I'm good, really, all is good, and I look right at him, not disrespectfully, but I really don't feel like getting into it. Trying to tell him that without being rude.

folks don't want to hear my problems, everyone has them, nobody gets out of this damned life alive

Then he begins like he had to get this off his chest and I am there and he chose to have me hear it. Maybe somebody somewhere sent him to me, crazy as it seems. Like he came a long way just to tell me some stuff that he has been thinking about for a while. He's looking at me like he is studying me as he talks.

You know, there are a few things, things that everyone has that are hanging around their neck, like some kind of jail sentence. Scars from something. Men seem to hold stuff like that inside, and it tears them up, sends them to dark bars where they mull over everything by themselves and they don't come to a conclusion, they just think and think and then they drink and the next day, it is all just still right there, maybe even more so than it was before. Could be a woman that broke his heart a long time ago and it is still fucking with his head or a child that is far away that he doesn't see enough or a loved one that passed and he feels like he never got to tell them how much he loved them. Maybe he is just down on himself and the scars are there and they reopen every once in a while, and they reopen unexpectedly and then the downward spiral begins. Then he's back at the bar, and he finds himself tearing apart a napkin like it will help break it all up and then it'll be gone.

But it never really leaves

He continued

And I've learned, I am a little older than you, that there are ways of dealing with this shit that engulfs you, that is always in the back of your mind, sorta buzzing there, always there, always there.

I down my whiskey and I have to admit that it seems like he is reading my mind and I sorta get pissed off that this stranger is so close to me and he is hitting the nail on the head about me and my shit in my head and it's like he can see inside my brain and what I think and I never met this old man before.

Here is what I know, young man. I know that if you look back, it never solves a damn thing. I know that right now is what matters and I'll tell you a story, one that changed my life.

I was in a church one time, a snake-handling church, a hardcore church in the West Virginia mountains, and it was strange and surreal but I remember that the preacher came out and it was deathly silent amongst the congregation and he said just one thought to the people.

He said, I don't care what you did ten years ago, I don't care what you did ten minutes ago, I want to let you know that Jesus forgives you and your new life begins right now. You know what it meant to me? It meant that whether you are religious or not, life starts right now, and you can't beat yourself up about anything in the past because it doesn't do a damn bit of good, it just makes it all worse and you know that this is true, don't you?

I nodded my head.

I started to shake just a little as I held my whiskey glass.

He continued

So I walked over here when I saw you because I saw a man beating himself up in his mind and trying to forget all the stuff that he has done and dealt with in the past, and I saw you shaking your head as you were drinking like you were trying to get your mind right and I couldn't wait to tell you that the key to it all is to forgive yourself and let it go and begin again, and it doesn't matter if you have to begin again every damn day, just do it, forgive yourself and strive to make this day better than the last.

Some days will be rough, but everyone has rough days, from the highest CEO to the lowliest worker like myself. You have to know that, you are not alone in struggling.

 Just let it go, young man, let it go and you will be much happier.

And then he waved the bartender over and said he'd like one more whiskey for himself and for his friend and to cash him out, also.

The bartender brought over two whiskeys and he downed his in one gulp and stood up.

And then this man whom I never met walked over to me and put his hand on my shoulder. I looked up at him and nodded.

And then he left a fifty-dollar bill on the bar and started walking out. He looked back one more time at me and called out

remember what I said

I will, I will

Thoughts

 The days are never easy

A moment here and there

but never a respite from the feeling;

a cloud hovering, black and foreboding

searching for the pain

So much is fake 

all lies

Bite down hard because it never stops

Every round

and you go again

 

Stuff

In most stuff in life, there are only 2 choices: 

Do it or don't do it.

That's it.

It's not complicated. My buddy Todd, who I coached with at Gardner-Webb University, used to have a saying, "Don't bitch, quit"

Complaining never did a damn bit of good for anyone. Just like me complaining about complainers.

You wanna know how good Miami used to be when Jimmy Johnson and those guys were there way back when? I was in a seminar with Butch Davis, the Miami defensive coordinator for Johnson, years ago. A high school coach asked him, "What coverage do you run from your own 20-yard line?" Davis answered, "Cover 2."  What about from the 50? Cover 2." "What about on their goal line when they are driving into score?" "Cover 2." They were so good that they could run cover 2 all over the field.

Watched the Pro Bowl from 1981 with my 16-year-old the other day. You know, Payton, Lofton, OJ Anderson, Randy White, Webster, Lambert, Jaworski, Fouts, John Hannah. The game was full of Hall of Famers. My son was like, "Damn! they really play hard! They are trying to kill each other! Everything is a lot more intense!" Now, in the 2023 Pro Bowl, they have water balloon tossing. WATER BALLOON TOSSING. Dan Fouts is like ...wtf? Those old guys wanted to win because they needed the money. They got paid more for winning. 10,000 for the winners and 5,000 for the losers. Now, everyone is so rich, why take the chance of getting hurt? 

The NFL players are right about going to grass from artificial turf. That shit is awful for you. You hit your head on that and tell me it is just like grass. But the owners don't want to spend the money. Don't tell me they care about the players. You would think that they would want to protect their investment. 

 Goodell is a Woke bitch from way back. How about how he hugs those draft choices? Bitch. Does he hug all the draft choices?  How about all of the free agents? Aren't they people, too? No? Why not? Not as good as the first-rounders? Not people too? Are you inclusive with your hugging? So disingenuous with that shit. You are really that happy for the guy?  All that hugging. What man does that?  He is a true beta male. And he has made the game into a totally different sport with all the added rules. 

The owners don't care about the players and neither does Goodell. And I hate to break it to you, but most players think that the fans are a pain in the ass. So paint your face, get a tattoo of your "team" and know that they think you are crazy. The players just want to stay healthy so that they get the money and who can blame them?

I didn't watch football for a long time. The taunting and celebrations got too much for me. And then the kneeling for the flag. Fuck that.  Now, my kids play it, so I watch it some. I can do college and can only take so much of the pros. So let me get this straight- you recover a fumble that someone else caused and the whole defense runs into the end zone and does some dance or pose or something. DO PEOPLE LIKE THIS SHIT??? Every time an offensive lineman crushes someone, they should all, all the offensive line, run into the end zone. I bet that shit would stop real quick. Or how about a great punt? Field goal? Extra point? Getting a full cup of Gatorade?? Let's go to the end zone. Disgraceful. Grown-ass men. I probably come from a bad era for this self-aggrandizing stuff. Men didn't even dance at dances where I'm from. Except for the slow dances.  College is much better, they play hard most of the time. So after being gone from watching for 10 years or so, the game has changed a lot. Wow. You can't do shit without a flag as far as tackling. It has really changed the game. No choice but to tackle down low and blow up a knee. I think that you should sign a waiver when you get into the league saying, " I am playing this game willingly even though I may have CTE when I am done." Then let these guys hit. Really hit. Seriously, Tom Brady could have played another 5 years. You weren't allowed to touch him. It's just different. Rename the sport. Like "It is sorta football but don't hit the quarterback, don't hustle too much, don't hit too hard because that may be your teammate next year." 

1992

 Everyone has favorite years in their lives.  Mine centered around football; my junior year in high school when we went to the Maryland State Championship, my senior year in college, and 1992, when I was coaching at Gardner Webb University and we played for the NAIA National Championship.

I began coaching as soon as I was done playing football in 1988. Well, I took a little detour first, basically failing all of my classes my senior year after football was over for me. Every fall for 14 years, I played football, and the prospect of being without the game that I loved messed with my head so badly that I went from a body weight of 245 to 189 in a few months, punishing myself in some warped way because I would never play again. So I failed out and went home to Maryland. But that was no good. I was living at home, a 20-something grown man living with his parents. After a summer of working at a golf course, I came to the realization that I better get my shit together, and graduate college. So I went back to Gardner Webb University and apologized to all my advisors and then volunteered to coach football. I did it for no money, but I had to be around football. I worked; delivering pizzas, clearing land, and odd jobs. Clearing land for my pharmacist buddy was the best one. 

He would say, Ed was his name, Ed would say, dig a trench from here to there, and lay that PVC pipe down in it. I'll be back in a few hours. 

He was building a new house and he had a spread: Around 20 acres of land with a pond and woods to hunt. He would pay me 10 bucks an hour. I'd go to the convenience store when I got off work and buy some fine-cut Kodiak and then go to the beer store (coldest beer in town! The sign read) and buy some long-neck Bud. Or if I was really broke, some Milwaukee's Best.  

 I was never known for making smart decisions, but I was smart enough to know that I could not work a "real job" and also coach football. I started coaching in 1989 as an assistant defensive line coach and worked my way up to head defensive line coach and head strength coach by 1992. 

1992 was magical. I had a great defensive line that I worked with every day. I had some tough, hard-nosed country kids that would run through a brick wall if I asked them to. I was tough on them. We came out to practice 30 minutes before everyone else, and in the North Carolina heat, we did bag drills and we did full-speed blocking drills and we ran and we hit some more. If one player even grazed a bag, the whole group started all over after some grass drills. It wasn't about the bags. 

In football, you do stuff for team camaraderie, for toughness, for making the players realize that they must work together or they will suffer together.  I also wanted them to be in such great shape that they never got tired in a game. I had Gabe Wilkins, who started for the Packers for a few years as one of my defensive ends. He was 6'5 and 300 pounds and ran a 4.6 for the pro scouts. I used to tell him to run people over and he could do it every time. And then there was Lance, BA (9 sacks in 3 playoff games), Chappell, Chicken man, Clay, and Brad all of them were tough as nails. These kids were all southern kids, most were country kids, and most understood authority and respected it and fucking listened. In these families, the father's word was law, or if there wasn't a father around, it was Momma who you respected above all else. Or you got the belt or something worse. I hunted with them and hung out with them. A few, I drank with, like BA and Lance. We were close friends and hell, Lance lived with me. Somehow, maybe because they were all mature, I could be a dick on the field to them and we always left it on the field. And I could be a real dick.

We went undefeated in the conference that year, and it was magical. I loved those guys, and although I was tough on them, I looked forward every single day to coaching them. Back then, we didn't follow many rules, hell, I didn't know what half the rules were.  For instance, every Thursday night, I had the defensive line over to my spartan apartment to eat and hang out. BA's mom and her friend would drive down from Hickory, North Carolina to feed us. She used to bring me a fifth of Evan Williams and some Sundrop ( like Mountain Dew) and she and I would stand in the kitchen and drink and talk. The boys would eat and we would watch some television and just talk about everything. Damn, those are good memories. 

I have so many stories from back then. Some, I would not tell because I'm not sure of the statute of limitations of the particular actions that went on. 

We lost the National Championship that year, but it doesn't matter. It was a great year and great memories. Maybe the best memory was when it was a 4th down in the playoffs and Concord was driving to score and they went back to pass to throw a touchdown to win the game, and good old Lance, my roommate, and he of the multiple knee surgeries, hustled and waddled like a madman and sacked the quarterback to win the game. It was amazing, the determination that he showed. I can see it now. I was crying so hard that I could barely address the guys after the game. I was so proud of them. 

Really Strong

 Many people can only get so strong.

 I have seen it forever.

 A lifter can get strong, strong compared to regular people, like a 350 bench, a 500 squat, 550 deadlift.  But they can't get to the 800 squat, 700 deadlift, 500 bench because they actually get scared. Scared of doing what it takes. It's fucking hard as hell to get that strong. Nosebleeds, ripped muscles, ears ringing, total commitment to it. Walk before you run, but preferably sit. All focus on the task. Until the lifter is ready to say screw how it feels, screw being tired, screw a relationship, it's gonna be damn tough to reach some crazy numbers. Never make excuses, and no missed reps, ever. Ask someone who has been there. It is never a part-time thing, always full-time. 

Strong but not really strong.

The Most Motivating Powerlifting Video Ever