Getting around town: priceless

"This one's not in the manual."

Still Writing...

I'll be amazed if I hit the fifty thousand mark for the novel writing by next Tuesday night. IN fact, I'll probably consider myself an alien from another planet if I get fifty thousand words written by next Tuesday. But I am still writing, trying to reach that goal. With greater or lesser success.

I've found some ritualistic behaviors that really help me focus: lighting a candle, making a pot of tea, pacing up and down the hall for an hour, rocking in a fetal position for an hour or two longer... then I can write, no problem. About one hundred or two hundred words. Then I have to start the ritual all over again. Man, baseball players have nothing on me when it comes to rituals and superstitious behaviors.

Wednesday as Friday

(Have you ever really looked at the word Wednesday? How weird it is? What a creepy spelling. Who thought that up?)

So, I'm looking down the barrel of a long, stifling, writerly weekend with intermittent exercise and snack breaks. It's Thanksgiving Day tomorrow (for our foreign friends) where we thank the good Lord for letting us take over the continent from the natives and then allowing us to kick out the Brits. Although I think that's technically Independence Day. They all kind of blur together. Good times.

I intend to celebrate by wishing I had a good hot meal and then hunching up and slaving over a hot laptop.

How about the rest of you? What are you doing?

Real Friendship...

When you are sad, I will get you drunk and help you plot revenge
against the sorry bastard who made you sad.
When you are blue, I'll try to dislodge whatever is choking you.
When you smile, I'll know you finally got laid.
When you are scared, I will rag you about it every chance I get.
When you are worried, I will tell you horrible stories about how much
worse it could be and tell you to quit whining.
When you are confused, I will use little words to explain.
When you are sick, stay away from me until you're well again. I don't want whatever you have.
When you fall, I will point and laugh at you.
This is my oath, I pledge 'til the end. Why you may ask? Because
you're my friend!

Remember: A friend will help you move.
A really good friend will help you move a body.

No Luck

My disk locked up this weekend. With four thousand words trapped on it. And of course no back up on the hard drive.
I've decided not to be angry, but to view this as a sign of good luck which will aid me in my novel-writing quest. I'm sure the next time I write the same stories, they'll be even better.
Also, I'd just like to thank the random person from the internet who wrote me an email to say they liked my writing. That meant a lot. Thank you.

Fill in the blanks

Open the door to [_] where I can see [_] standing on [_] and [_]ing the [_].

Ohmmmmm

This is your moment of Zen

night view

after dark

The city after dark.

At this rate...

...I only have to average 3,548.46 words a day till the end of the month to reach the 50,000 word mark for the NaNoWriMo. I think I can.

Current word count: 4,880

Full moon over Cleveland.

better late than never...

here's what I'm doing for the rest of the month of november. it's only mid month. I only have a 25,000 word deficit, but hey (butt hay), I'm nothing if not ambitious. think of all the monstrous projects I have begun on this blog alone only to pieter (peter?) out and leaf them stranded. Like the one where I promised to sing people's song requests but never sang "Country Girl" for tsuka. Actually, I don't know that song or I'd sing it right now. yes, I'd pick up my phone and sing it right now. but I don't know it. so that's why. or how about the three things photos? I have a cat, an open window and a bag that says swag (got in Staines, yo. it's legit) on it, but I can't seem to get that photo taken. or how about (this one's classic) my 100th post where I say I'm gonna offer 100 pieces of useless information? I still haven't finished that one. (in my own defense though, it's almost done. I have like twenty more to go.)

so, I'm writing a novel this month. it'll be mostly crap and probably not very entertaining. but you are welcome to read along. in fact, you'd get brownie points. whatever that's worth.

Bowling Over

I'm angry, so I head to the library. I do all my best anger over there. Too angry to eat. I pass junk food shops and save those coupla bucks for later in the week.

I'm angry. And I'm wrong. I don't deserve it- in this instance - to be angry. And I know that. Which of course makes me angrier. I see my face in the mirrored walls of the library elevator. Hard and little and bitter. Like I wash toilets for a living. The second floor houses the literature, which I find funny, because isn't everything in the library literature? Supposedly? And there are two signs pointing off in different directions. One says literature the other says fiction. 'I shall be telling this with a sigh ages and ages hence...' I chose fiction. I always choose fiction.

I sit down to write. But I have no pen. I steal two little library pencils - the sharpest ones I can find, which aren't very sharp - and start grindig them into the page.

What kind of writer doesn't even carry a mother fucking pen?

"It's my own fault," I say, trying to be a man about it all, rub dirt in it, rein it in. I never was much good at sucking it up. I'm good at feeling feelings and letting them run wild like unkemt children. Sometimes the noise is good. It's a distraction. And sometimes my feelings drive me eggnog. Like now.

All these books at the library, nobody reads 'em. I checked out a book last winter that hadn't been read since 1987. I think it was Proust. No one reads the classics. Maybe Bukowski was right. Maybe libraries really are full of worthless shit. I just read that yesterday in a book of his I checked out of the library. There's irony in that, Charles, if only you were here to appreciate it.

Even Bukowski hasn't been checked out in two years. I know why he didn't like libraries: there are no bottles here to throw. I'd throw one in your honor, Chuck, if I had one. Right here there's no bottles, tho, only books. Books and pencils and me with my anger and my wrongness. I wanna bite something.

Damnit.

There's a row of romance novels staring me down. Large Print.
(I wonder what he's doing right now.)
Most of them have sappy titles like: Honor's Splendour, Her Heart's Delight...
(I bet he's oblivious and happy. Probably laughing.)
...Lion's Lady, Prince Charming, Heartbreaker, Rebellion's Desire...
(never was good at fighting for something I wanted.)
...The Bride, Gentle Warrior, Change of Heart...
(or rather someone.)
...Ransom, Thorns of Truth, The Wedding.
Who comes up with this crap? It gives me new appreciation for amazing titles. Amazing titles are pretty amazing if you think about it. Any title that makes me want to read a whole book is pretty fucking amazing.

It's not working. I'm still writing and I'm still angry. I haven't even worn out the dumpy little pencil stub I'm using. So I'm going back. I got ahead of myself, that's all. I imagined more than I should have. I know better. I will know better. I'll pace myself.

I dyed it red. because I can.

Welcome Back...

...to me.
I took a week off which you already know if you were paying attention. Not from work or life or anything, but just from this blog. This "You Learn Something New Everyday" blog.
I decided that I am altogether too faithful to this writing thing. I started this blog back in June of 2003. That's a year and a half of learning something new (almost) every day. That's dependability people, and whether you know this or not, I'm not known for my dependability. I mean, I'm not a flake... I get to work every day on time and I am faithful to my responsibilities, but if I'm being perfectly honest, I'm also a bit of a spaz when it really counts. It's the theater major in me.

But if it weren't for my spazzy side I wouldn't be nearly as interesting either. My spaz side is the well-rehearsed battleground for my artistic temperment. It is solely responsible for my dreaming up half the stuff I write.

So, enough, where was I? I was taking a vacation, explaining my spaz side... oh yes - what I learned this week.

A couple of things really. I figured out that I am not going to grad school to study film and film making. I know, I know. Some of you are thinking this is typical Hoagland copping-out before we reach the finish-line behavior, but I assure you, it's not. It's a new style of Hoagland behavior which says, "Hey, is that really gonna make me happy or have I just set up some goal that isn't really suited to me?" and in this case it's the latter. I was talking to Brian last week about the whole thing and he asked me, "Do you make films now?" To which I said, "No." And then he said, "But you write films, right..." To which I answered, "No, I really don't." In fact, to be honest the most I do is watch films and then write about them. Which isn't a bad thing, to be sure, but I always say your actions betray you. You can try to make yourself into whatever you want (and all the glory in film is in being the bad assss director), but your actions will never lie to you. They go on doing exactly what it is you really want to do even if you're trying to go off in another direction. Kinda funny if you think about it. human nature. is kind of funny.

The other thing i learned is that I like taking time off from this blog. I'm not saying I'm quitting this blog. But I did enjoy taking a break from it. And the reason (dear, precious, sweet, delicious reader) is that this blog kinda saps my writing energy. It dissipates. Which I dearly need on a regular basis. Writing is like a steam pressure that builds in me till the top blows. I cannot imagine what kind of creature I would become if there were no outlet for me to write or express the trivialities of my life. So, in that sense this blog is a godsend. On the other hand, I need that energy if I'm ever going to get up enough steam for a larger project... stories, novels, essays etc. I forget who, but one of those rich, white, bastard writers called it the "pressure cooker." And that's exactly what it is. A pressure cooker. You need it cranked up to build heat and you should leave the lid on till it's done.

So, folks, I'm looking for the best way to live my quiet little life while coddling a couple of heart loves; writing, photography, music. I figure it will cost less than three years of grad school and I'll probably end up happier in the bargain. And I may or may not be taking time off from the blog to do so. No promises. If I can mold the blog into a conduit for larger work, I may do that. Time, you know...

So, here's to following my dreams. Even if they're the quiet ones I took for granted because they didn't come with an Oscar.

Gone Fishing

Hi all,
I'm taking a week's vacation from this blog. I will return November 15th.
Have a good week!
k_sra

Tips for Chewing Gum Removal

Like I said...

It's Show Time, Synergy!

So I have been wondering lately, what is the purpose of my life? What is the driving goal here? Or what's my overall effect supposed to be? When all is said and done, will I have "achieved" what I was set here to do? Was I set here to do something? Can I pick it out myself? I mean, is the something set in stone or is it flexible? Do I have to pick something at all? Or can I just sit back and enjoy the show without letting a bunch of people down? Do I have a moral obligation to "be all I can be" or can I sit on the sidelines without being lectured to in the afterlife? Will I have failed if I didn't do some "thing" that as of yet I don't know about? Was I supposed to have figured it out by now? Am and I being docked points for every minute, every second I spend frittering away my grand destiny?

Sigh. I think my dingy has gently floated past the last safety buoy and I am on my way out to sea, wondering if it's too late to consider getting a motor.

... and I can't even spell "dinghy" right.

Couldn't resist.

Here's a "three things" picture I should have done a while ago. It's for [honest+popular].

Noble Maloof Votes for Bush

It was 6:45am. I was headed to my polling spot just down the street, umbrella up, sidewalks soaked. Others - dampened but not discouraged - were off to do their civic duty and vote in this presidential election of 2004. A few were headed back home with the little sticker on their shirts and coats. "I voted today."
As I stepped in the building I was greeted with the question, "What precinct are you from?" Turns out my precinct had a long line. Another precinct at the same polling location had a very short line. It was at this moment that I noticed Noble Maloof two voters behind myself. He didn't see me. He was from the other precinct and so before I could embark on what surely would have been the greatest Noble Maloof story ever told, he was ushered by me to the shorter line. I watched as his Kanga cap disappeared ahead and into a voting booth. An older German gentleman standing behind me in line kept my ear full of stories and sound advise (ranging from how to choose a restaurant to why modern music was so stupid) until I reached the front of the line. Maloof had already left. I missed my chance. I voted and left, trudging home in a hurry to change clothes and make the morning bus.

And there he was. I waved and sat elsewhere because his bench was taken up by someone else. And then he spoke...

"Did you.. did you vote for Bush" he asked his companion, "or the other fellow?" She responded, but I couldn't hear. "I voted for Cheney, you see." Here he laughed a short little gurgled gaffaw. "I voted for the Vice President... because it makes a difference to my life who's in there."

So there you have it folks. Noble Maloof voted for the Vice President of the United States because it makes a difference to his life. And as the nice German gentleman said before I went to the booth, "Be careful where you put your pin, because you may end up paying for it."

Port and Starboard

(I think my grandmother told me about this game eons ago. It sounds cute. Please don't ask me why I am researching children's games. I don't know.)

On the command (from the list below) the children have to do the appropriate action. After a while, start removing the last player to comply, untill only one remains.
Port (Run to one side of the area)
Starboard (run to the other side)
Captain's Coming Aboard (Stand to attention and Salute)
Submarines (Lie on the floor)
Hoist the Mainsail (run on the spot - like climbing the rigging)
Mess Deck (Sit cross legged on the floor - ready for lunch)
Davey Jones (Climb a tree, stand on a chair - anything so that you are not on the floor)
Up Periscope (Stand up straight and hold hands to eyes as though looking through binoculars)

Postman's Knock

Have you ever heard of this game? A children's party game. It goes like this. All the boys gather in a group and each takes a card with a sequential number (One, Two, Three etc). The girls do the same. The boys then form a line (shoulder to shoulder) facing the girls who are in a similar line. (Players should NOT stand in order. First a girl calls out a number and the boy with that number goes across to kiss her. The a boy calls out a number and the girl with that number goes and kisses him.

Is it just me or is that a really creepy idea? I would have run away from a party like that and hid in the neighbor's bushes. What kind of adult asks children to kiss each other? I mean really people! Ich. I mean, I've kissed a fair number of boys out of spontaneous impulse, but only because I wanted to, not because it was an organized sport.