tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38587527410515447012024-02-20T14:53:36.094-05:00The Various Writings of Randomness.Things that I find interesting, or pieces that may reveal something about me. This is a work in progress, so please be patient with me.RJ Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05229936470433204180noreply@blogger.comBlogger39125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858752741051544701.post-1995406341396611352013-03-07T12:40:00.003-05:002013-03-08T12:50:16.089-05:00A Publishing Raw Deal<i>I was going to name this blog "Digital Rape of Publishing". Then I realized it would make me seem like an insensitive jerk.</i><br />
<br />
I recently read a blog by author <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Scalzi" target="_blank">John Scalzi</a> on the news that Random House has a new electronic subsidiary called Hydra. He wrote that this new company is offering contract terms that are not beneficial to new writers. It is important to note that these writers are probably not represented by agents.<br />
<br />
Here is his blog post to which I am referencing. <a href="http://whatever.scalzi.com/2013/03/06/note-to-sff-writers-random-houses-hydra-imprint-has-appallingly-bad-contract-terms/" target="_blank">http://whatever.scalzi.com/2013/03/06/note-to-sff-writers-random-houses-hydra-imprint-has-appallingly-bad-contract-terms/</a><br />
<br />
As he aptly stated, this model is borrowed from the music industry and these so called costs are often inflated, and in some cases, fabricated. <br />
<br />
Unfortunately, I think this kind of thing is going to continue. As an example, Amazon has it's own film studio, but what some people may not know is that they have both a WGA and a non-WGA signatories. This often exploits new screenwriters that have yet to receive their WGA card, for the deal they receive is not in their best interest.<br />
<br />
If a reputable publisher wants a writer, and offers a writer those kind of terms, why would said writer consider it? <br />
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It's because the allure of being published. It's like the hot girl that will date you but never puts out. You still do it because it raises your social status. I think it is the same here.<br />
<br />
Publishing is a business and like a business, it wants to make money. It will try to obtain the best work force for the least amount of money. And they prey on the young and/or experienced because, frankly, these people lack the knowledge to resist and/or they will sell their soul to get published any way possible. <br />
<br />
Specifically, the writing industry, as many writers well know, in any media is insanely difficult to enter. Art is no longer supported for art's sake, it has to be a viable, income producing commodity. <br />
<br />
There are trends. A novel, no matter how brilliant it might be, will not get published if a publisher/editor deems it "unsellable". A badly written novel, if it fits a popular trend, will get published, and incredibly, some are huge sellers.<br />
<br />
Which takes me so self-publishing, the equivalent to the "Don't take no for an answer filmmaker." There are some great books that circumvent the traditional publishing path. And many bad ones. It is not very different from what publishing companies crank out, except SP has a bigger scale.<br />
<br />
So if a new writer wants to publish his book with a traditional publisher, he needs an agent. To get an agent, the agent wants to see some published work of said writer. So the writer self - publishes this novel, If it does poorly, which it most likely will because of sheer volume of similar novels, he is now in worse position as before. If it does fairly well, he might get the agent. The next project he does may be passed on to a publisher. Now he has a shot to get published. Maybe.<br />
<br />
Now, some people might say publishers are threatened by self - publishing and they are giving lousy deals to obtain and/or maintain control to which they were accustomed.<br />
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I agree with this sentiment somewhat, but only because of the phenomenal growth of the digital age.<br />
<br />
Besides their ability to market and promote your work, what else can they offer for your e-book?<br />
<br />
There are no book - binding and printing fees. No shipping costs. No inventory control costs. Minimal labor costs. Even the e-book cover could be made by the writer, and if not, there are freelance pros who give a decent price.<br />
<br />
Digital is cheaper. The contracts that Hydra offer that Scalzi calls "A horrendously bad deal and if you are ever
offered something like it, you should run away as fast as your legs or
other conveyances will carry you." is bullshit If you're a writer, you are selling your soul if you sign any deal like this.<br />
<br />
<br />
You noticed I mentioned the "selling the soul" thing twice. That's because no matter what anyone says, there will be writers, whom without a doubt, will take this kind of deal. It's doesn't matter even if a prominent writer like John Scalzi, who is also the president of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America (<a href="http://www.sfwa.org/" target="_blank">SFWA</a>), tells them otherwise.<br />
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It is because most writers are an insecure lot. We want acceptance. We want viability. But most of all, we want people to listen. Most won't listen when we speak, but maybe, just maybe, that one moment where a group of words grabs them, we might get their attention.<br />
<br />
That alone, is so important to some that they will take the risk.<br />
<br />RJ Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05229936470433204180noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858752741051544701.post-82779197900046895872013-02-26T09:55:00.004-05:002013-02-26T09:55:54.929-05:00See You Later, Oscar.I was supposed to post this yesterday, but ran into a few snags. (excuses, excuses).<br />
<br />
A few weeks ago, I posted my predictions on the Academy Awards, <a href="http://rjhope69.blogspot.com/2013/01/hello-again-oscar.html" target="_blank">Hello Again, Oscar</a>. As was the case from the prior year, I didn't do too well.<br />
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Let's see how bad a prognosticator I ended up being by listing the winners and comparing them to who I picked.<br />
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<u><b>Best Picture</b></u><br />
<br />
The Winner - <i>Argo</i><br />
<br />
My Pick - <i>Li</i><i>ncoln</i><br />
<b><br /></b>
I picked Lincoln solely for fact that Ben Affleck was not nominated for Best Director for <i>Argo,</i> as Steven Spielberg was for <i>Lincoln</i>. Unusual for the Best Picture winner not to have its' director nominated.<br />
<br />
Congrats to Affleck. Maybe one day he will be recognized as the great filmmaker he has become.<br />
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<u><b>Best Actor</b></u> <br />
<u><b> </b></u><br />
The Winner - Daniel Day - Lewis, <i>Lincoln</i><br />
<br />
My Pick - Daniel Day - Lewis, <i>Lincoln</i><br />
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I got this one right, but it was a no brainer. DDL is the best actor today, if not ever. He seems to be a funny guy, as well. Maybe he will be in a comedy in the near future?<br />
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<u><b>Best Actress</b></u><b> </b><br />
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The Winner - Jennifer Lawrence, <i>Silver Linings Playbook</i><br />
<br />
My Pick - Jessica Chastain, <i>Zero Dark Thirty</i><br />
<br />
Egg on my face. It was not very smart of me to say that Lawrence would not win this year. I'm not sure if the negative press about ZD30 hurt Chastain's chances, but it definitely didn't help. <br />
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<u><b>Best Supporting Actor</b></u><b> </b><br />
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The Winner - Christoph Waltz, <i>Django Unchained<b> </b><u><b> </b></u></i><br />
<br />
My Pick - Alan Arkin, <i>Argo</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
Waltz was brilliant. <i> </i>No doubt about that.<i> </i>Arkin, equally so, and I thought sentimentality would play a part in giving the older guy the statue. It has happened before.<br />
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<b><u>Best Supporting Actress</u></b> <br />
<br />
The Winner - Anne Hathaway, <i>Les Miserable </i><br />
<br />
My Pick - Sally Field, <i>Lincoln</i><br />
<br />
First
off, I think Hathaway is very talented. She looks pretty good in a cat
suit, too. She was also great in Les Mis. However, with the strong field
of nominees, why would a actress in a musical remake garner such a
reward is beyond me. It's just my opinion.<br />
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<u><b>Best Director</b></u> <br />
<u><b> </b></u><br />
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The Winner - Ang Lee, <i>The Life of Pi</i><br />
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My Pick - Steven Spielberg, <i>Lincoln</i><br />
<br />
Okay, I got this one half right. I said Lee should win it and he did. I also said Spielberg would win and he didn't. I don't pick against His Eminence is this category. I highly respect Lee, and would of picked him if wasn't for one of the influential filmmakers of my youth. If Affleck was nominated, and he should of been, I probably would of reconsidered.<br />
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<u><b>Best Original Screenplay</b></u><br />
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The Winner - Quentin Tarantino, <i>Django Unchained<b> </b></i><br />
<i><b><br /></b></i>
My Pick - Mark Boal, <i>Zero Dark Thirty</i><br />
<br />
Why I go against, arguably, the best screenwriter ever? Because I tend to pick writers who are not directing the movie. Tarantino has said many times he considers himself a writer foremost<i>. </i>The script is brilliant, btw. You can legally download it for free <a href="http://www.djangounchained.org/download-the-official-django-unchained-screenplay-for-free" target="_blank">here</a> for those who are interested in reading it.<br />
<br />
<u><b>Best Adapted Screenplay</b></u><b> </b><br />
<br />
The Winner - Chris Terrio, <i>Argo</i><br />
<br />
My Pick - Chris Terrio, <i>Argo</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Well, I got this one right. I gave my sentiments o<i>n</i> my earlier post. Though the <i>Argo </i>script is incredible, and you may read and download the PDF <a href="http://warnerbros2012.com/screenings/assets/argo.pdf" target="_blank">here</a>, I may possibly have picked it because Terrio is a paisan who went to Harvard. I'm not saying that's the reason, just possible.<br />
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<b><u>Bes</u></b><u><b>t Animated Feature Film</b></u> <br />
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The Winner - Brave<br />
<br />
My Pick - Frankenweenie<br />
<br />
My Son's Pick - Wreck - It Ralph<br />
<br />
My Daughter's Pick - Brave<br />
<br />
As I wrote earlier, I am a Tim Burton fan.<br />
<br />
My five year old little girl is pretty smart. She says the Princess will win every time. Ask her which of the Disney Princesses is her favorite, she will reply: "All of them." She also like to see them in a movie together.<br />
<br />
There you have it. Nine categories. Seven wrong and two right. Not very good. It was just for fun.<br />
<br />
How did you do?<br />
<br />
<br />RJ Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05229936470433204180noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858752741051544701.post-636036440633310742013-01-19T23:11:00.001-05:002013-01-19T23:11:16.607-05:00My Scribbles Through Time<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">"You must read alot and write alot." - Steven King in his book, <i>On Writing</i>.<br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">It is as simple as that. A writer needs to read both good and bad examples of writing as his time allows. He also has to practice the craft of actual writing.<br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">So the question most aspiring writers ask: How much is alot?<br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">That question is mostly subjective. So I will answer it with an example on how I work.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">First and foremost, life situations always dictate that a schedule is subject to change at any time. This could be school, job, or family. These are things that may be more important than your life long dream. <br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I write four hours a day. This schedule is somewhat flexible, as I may write for an hour four different times, or all at once. It might be early in the morning or late at night. It is frequently a combo of all of the above.<br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I can write my blog in conjunction with anything else I may be writing. This also goes for a short story if it's in a different genre than the other project.<br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I write one book at a time and finish that. I do, however, have a premise written down for the next one, but I do not go beyond that point.<br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I can write a screenplay or teleplay concurrently with a book. They have to be different genres, and I do not work on both in the same day.<br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Once a week, those four hours a day is spent on songwriting to the exclusion of all else.<br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">One a month, I pound out a poem. They may subject to constant revision.<br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I read, on the average, one book a week. This includes audiobooks. It also includes books I read to my kids if it's also new to me.<br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I watch one feature film a week. The majority of the time it's in the theater, but I include DVD or Blu-ray.<br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I watch TV an hour a day. This might include a scheduled show or one I have on DVR. <br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I keep a writing journal. I post something in it everyday. I look at past entries only after I finish a project.<br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I write down ten ideas a day for a book, film, or TV series. After ten days, I usually have that one great idea.<br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Finally, once every three months, I take the time and read another writers work and give an honest critique. I will often edit for them if they request.<br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">So, what is your writing habits, fellow scribes?</span>RJ Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05229936470433204180noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858752741051544701.post-39274596890933288832013-01-17T12:43:00.000-05:002013-01-17T12:43:12.897-05:00The Stab of the Lance<i>This story has a long set-up that might bore some people who are not fans of pro cycling.. It is necessary to help stress my later points about cheating and the duality of a said individual.</i><br />
<br />
When I was younger, I was a cycling enthusiast. I used to bike 20 miles a day. This was not due to any particular affinity for any pro cyclist, but for liking the challenge of beating childhood rivals who bested me in other pursuits.<br />
<br />
I did follow pro cyclists of that time. <br />
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The best of that era, the late 70's to early 80's, and arguably, of all time, was Bernard Hinault, of France. He is a five time Tour de France winner, the most prestigious championship in world cycling. Le Blaireau, or The Badger, had a personality that matched his riding style. He was outspoken, easily offended, and quick with a witty retort. They were many people who disliked this man personally, but many of those same people will say he is the greatest athletes of all time. He retired after placing second in the 1986 Tour de France behind the winner, Greg LeMond. He was 31 years old.<br />
<br />
During the early 80's, and the emergence of LeMond, changed the way the world viewed American cyclists. He was the world champion in "83. In 1986, he became the first American to win the Tour de France. He missed the next two tours because of a hunting accident that nearly killed him. He came back in '89 and won by a mere 8 seconds.. He defended his title in 1990 and in doing so, became only one of six riders at the time to win three of more titles of the Tour de France. I personally think if he competed in '87 and '88, he would of won those as well.<br />
<br />
LeMond, then 30, tried to become the first rider since Hinault to win three consecutive Tours. He did well early in the '91 Tour, but I think age and injuries took its toll. He lost the yellow jersey after Stage 12, and he never did catch up with eventual winner Miguel Indurian. He never was same rider again and retired after dropping out in the '94 Tour de France. He was 33 years old.<br />
<br />
I am going on record to say that the Spaniard Miguel Indurain is the best cyclist I have ever watched compete. He is also a pretty humble and unassuming guy. He had physical disadvantages,being 6' 2" with long legs, many experts said would hurt him on the hills. However, his circulatory system was superior to even those of elite riders. Oxygen got to his heart faster which put less strain on it. That explained why he so much better in the mountainous stages where the air was thinner. He won the '91 to '95 Tours de France, becoming the fourth rider to accomplish this feat, and the first to win them consecutively. He retired after the "96 Tour de France after placing 11th. He was 32 years old.<br />
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The '96 Tour had a young Texan rider by the name of Lance Armstrong, who dropped out after feeling ill. It was only a couple of months later where his legacy began.<br />
<br />
On October 2, 1996, 25 year old Armstrong was diagnosed with Stage 3 Embryonal Carcinoma, or advanced testicular cancer. The cancer had metastasized to his lungs and brain. After his diseased testicle was removed, he was giving only a 2 in 5 chance to survive. He received chemotherapy for 2 and half months, and tumors were removed from his brain.<br />
<br />
In February 1997, doctors declared him cancer free. Not long after this, he created the Lance Armstrong Foundation, now known as the <a href="http://www.livestrong.org/" target="_blank">Livestrong Foundation</a>. It's purpose is to give support and practical information to cancer patients and their families. It has raised nearly a half of billion dollars since it's inception.<br />
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July 1999. After a long and furious comeback, Armstrong wins the '99 Tour de France by over 7 minutes. Even though two of the best riders, Jan Ullrich and Marco Pantini did not compete, it was still a great achievement. He was 27 years, 10 months old.<br />
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The 2000 Tour had Armstrong winning by 6 minutes over second place Ullrich. <br />
<br />
2001 Tour, The Texan won again over Ullrich by nearly 7 minutes.<br />
<br />
2002, Ullrich was suspended and did not race. Armstrong again won by 7 minutes.<br />
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2003, It was much closer than the previous Tours, Armstrong won by only 61 seconds to become only the fifth rider to win 5 Tours de France, and the second to do it consecutively. He was 31 years, 10 months old.<br />
<br />
2004, Armstrong won by 6:19. Ullrich was fourth. Armstrong wins 6th consecutive Tour de France.<br />
<br />
Tyler Hamilton won the gold medal at the 2004 Summer Olympics for cycling time trial. Hamilton, a teammate of Armstrong's from 99-2001, was later stripped of his medal for doping.<br />
<br />
2005, Armstrong wins 7th in a row by 4:40. Ullrich was third. Armstrong retires from competitive cycling at the age of 33 years and 10 months.<br />
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You noticed that I mention Jan Ulrich quite often. He was the first German to win the Tour de France in '97. He placed second in '98, to the Italian Marco Pantani. I mention his other finishes earlier.<br />
<br />
The 2006 Tour de France was the first without Armstrong. It was won by American Floyd Landis, a teammate of Armstrong's. Oscar Pereiro was second. Ullrich was banned from competing for a earlier doping violation.<br />
<br />
Landis was stripped on his title when he failed his test at Stage 17. Cyclists submit two samples, called A and B, and must fail both, which Landis did. He appealed, but the ban was upheld. Pereiro was declared the winner, despite the fact he also failed a doping test for a prescribed drug that was legal, and though he got this waiver retroactively, his title remained intact.<br />
<br />
Pantini died in 2004 of a cocaine overdose. Though he never tested positive, there were allegations of doping, and he sat out the '99 Tour de France. The shadows of these accusations contributed to his depression, creating the drug habits that caused his death. <br />
<br />
It's 2007, and with the above information, combined with his health background, no one can reasonably conclude that Lance Armstrong did not cheat to win any, if not all, his Tours de France.<br />
<br />
It's 2010, and Floyd Landis stopped fighting his allegations. He came clean and admitted to doping. He also said that others on his team were doing it also, including Armstrong.<br />
<br />
I also believe that Pantini, Ullrich, Pereiro, and even the great Indurain cheated.<br />
<br />
I also really don't care because the International Cycling Union (UCI) knew about doping for years. It only does something when someone else brings it to them. That's what a good union does: protects it's members.<br />
<br />
The U.S. Postal Cycling Team had the most sophisticated doping program around. They would of gotten away with it, but because Landis caught got and couldn't beat it, he brought the rest of the team down with him.<br />
<br />
Now, I am not condoning cheating. I am also not condemning those who did.<br />
<br />
Frankly, anyone who competes in anyway, be it in sports, business, love, or life, cheats in some form.<br />
<br />
That's right. I said it. We are all cheaters. Some of us worse than others. Some of us have to cheat to compete. It is only our moral compass that keeps us from crossing over that arbitrary line. This line is never the same from person to person.<br />
<br />
I will say most of us will confess if we're caught.<br />
<br />
Immorality has always had a transitory understanding.<br />
<br />
Lance Armstrong in not a evil guy. He has complex duality like the rest of us. He survived cancer when the odds were against him. He was lucky to be alive, for sure. He created one of the best cancer support network ever.<br />
<br />
But as an athlete, that life is different. It's about competing, being the best. Honestly, he had no business even being on the same elite level as the rest of his cycling peers. I was shocked when he won in '99. I never thought of how he did that, just was happy that a guy who beat cancer did something extraordinary.<br />
<br />
He got a pass. It never crossed anyone's mind that he might of cheated, and if it did, no one said anything publicly.<br />
<br />
Greg LeMond knew. A Three time winner himself, he knew that Lance was to good to be true. <br />
<br />
LeMond is a huge anti-doping advocate. He knew the sport was dirty even when he competed. There were whispers about LeMond when he won. It is often unfair to assume that all winners cheat, but it was there. <br />
<br />
LeMond knew tendencies, knew strategy, knew about the physics and physiology. <br />
<br />
More importantly, he knew about the doctors known for doping.<br />
<br />
He knew Armstrong cheated. He didn't come right out and say it. He didn't throw Lance to the wolves. When the evidence came out slowly, he just said he was disappointed. <br />
<br />
Now, though I said Lance is not a evil guy, he is definitely not a good guy. <br />
<br />
A good guy still makes mistakes, and eventually comes clean because his conscience gets the better of him.<br />
<br />
For Armstrong, this is not the case. He only did it because he was cornered. Oprah is a PR move. <br />
<br />
Here is a guy who to protect his huge empire, repeatedly intimidated fellow teammate, Frankie Andreu, and his wife Betsy. Andreu was the guy that allowed Armstrong to win the first 2 of his Tours by being the road captain.<br />
<br />
Andreu, by his own admission, doped. He did it '98 and '99. He said he stopped in 2000.<br />
<br />
That was his mistake, the doping program was like the Mafia. No leaves voluntarily. Placing 111th in 2000, the U.S. team gave him a ridiculously low offer. He quit. He other offers from teams, but they <br />
mysteriously vanished.<br />
<br />
Then Armstrong had the ball (yeah, that's right, I wrote that!) to pay someone to bear false witness against LeMond for doping. That is scary. What is scarier is that Trek Bicycle, maker of LeMond bikes since the '90's, issued an apology on the behalf of LeMond solely because they also sponsored a much lucrative name - Armstrong. LeMond never gave permission for that release and sued them. <br />
<br />
I understand that no one wanted to talk. There was a lots of money and power connected to Lance Armstrong. However, what bothers me is why no one came out to defend LeMond, a guy who never doped, against a guy who, I believe, would give up his mother than admit anything.<br />
<br />
That's the line for me. I don't feel sorry for Andreu, Hamilton, Landis or the others who knew what could happen. If you doped, you have no business to give up the others.<br />
<br />
LeMond, on the other hand, I do. He will forever be lumped together with them all. He said he never cheated, and I believe that. There were many who knew the truth and did not defend him. There will be many who won't still believe him.<br />
<br />
As for Armstrong, he used his medical background and foundation as a character cover to be able to cheat. Unfortunately for him, this circle of lies contained to many people who knew the truth. You can't crush all of them.<br />
<br />
The interview with Oprah airs tonight. I am not watching. <br />
<br />
He might come clean, but I know he is going to still lie about it in some way. His pathology makes his do it. <br />
<br />RJ Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05229936470433204180noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858752741051544701.post-12894393264514644572013-01-11T08:43:00.001-05:002013-01-11T08:44:31.998-05:00Hello Again, Oscar.<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">It's Academy Award time again. Last year, my predictions were way off base. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Today I am going to make a fool out of myself again and attempt to predict the winners.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><b>BEST PICTURE</b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Amour</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Argo</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Beasts of the Southern Wild</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Django Unchained</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Les Miserables</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Life of Pi</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Lincoln</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Silver Linings Playbook</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Zero Dark Thirty</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">They were all fabulous movies. I don't think anyone would argue if any one of them won. I going to go with Lincoln. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><b>BEST ACTOR</b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Bradley Cooper, Silver Linings Playbook</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Daniel Day-Lewis, Lincoln</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Hugh Jackman, Les Miserables</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Joaquin Phoenix, The Master</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Denzel Washington, Flight</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">In all honestly, I can't seem to shake the image of Jackman with claws when he sings. Cooper is great, but again, I think his comedic background hurts him here. I never go against Day-Lewis anyway, it's his to lose, I think.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><b>BEST ACTRESS</b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Jessica Chastain, Zero Dark Thirty</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Jennifer Lawrence, Silver Linings Playbook</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Emmanuelle Riva, Amour</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Naomi Watts, The Impossible</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Quvenzhané Wallis, Beasts of the Southern Wild</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">This one is tough to call. Precedent has been set twice already in this category. It would not surprise me if 9 year old Wallis, already the youngest actress to be nominated, wins. Same for the the oldest actress ever to be nominated, 85 year old Riva, from France. Lawrence, 22, nominated just two years ago for the film Winter's Bone, will win an Oscar, not just this year. I love for Watts to win, but I think Chastain will get the nod. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><b>BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR</b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Alan Arkin, Argo</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Robert DeNiro, Silver Linings Playbook</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Philip Seymour Hoffman, The Master</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Tommy Lee Jones, Lincoln</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Christoph Waltz, Django Unchained</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Wow, this is another one that is difficult. DeNiro is my all-time favorite actor, probably because he was in many great movies in my formative years. Hoffman is so good in everything. Incidentally, one of the best movies of 1999 I loved, Flawless, had both of these great actors in it. TLJ of MIB fame, is another one of my favs. He was awesome in "In The Valley of Elah. Waltz is another talent that I discovered through Tarantino's brilliant Inglorious Basterds. Arkin, at 78, the oldest of the field, will get this one.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><b>BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS</b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Amy Adams, The Master</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Sally Field, Lincoln</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Anne Hathaway, Les Miserables</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Helen Hunt, The Sessions</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Jacki Weaver, Silver Linings Playbook</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Ann Hathaway can sing and act. Both are on great display in Les Mis. I don't know much of the Australian, Weaver, but she was great in the other movie, Animal Kingdom, that I did see. It's been a fabulous comeback for Hunt, who has been scarce since 2000's Play It Forward. I have a soft spot for Adams, there is that girl next door quality about her and I want her to win. I think though, Field, brilliant as Mary Todd Lincoln, is going to collect it. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><b>BEST DIRECTOR</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Michael Haneke, Amour</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Ang Lee, Life of Pi</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">David O. Russell, Silver Linings Playbook</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Steven Spielberg, Lincoln</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Benh Zeitlin, Beasts of the Southern Wild</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">You are going to hear the name Benh Zeitlin for many years to come. Only 30, he will have his time, for sure, but not this year. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Russell is a great director. The Fighter is among the best boxing movies ever made. He's not going to win either.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Heneke is somewhat unfamiliar to western audiences. His films are somewhat dark and disturbing, but I have to say Amour is his best work to date. He won't win, though.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Lee is one the diverse directors that ever lived. He can do all genres, and do them brilliantly. As visually stunning Life of Pi is, he won't win. I think he should.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">This leaves Spielberg, one of my favorite directors of all time, if not my favorite. This probably stems from the fact that he made some the greatest films of all time during my childhood through adolescence. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Lincoln was incredible, definitely in his top 5, and he will win as best director, but not one of my favorites of his.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><b>BEST ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY</b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Wes Anderson and Roman Coppola, Moonrise Kingdom</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Mark Boal, Zero Dark Thirty</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">John Gatins, Flight</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Michael Haneke, Amour</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Quentin Tarantino, Django Unchained</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">This is another tough one. Three of these were written or co-written by the directors. I would love for Gatins, who wrote Reel Steel, to win. Tarantino, as lauded he is as a director, is arguably the best screenwriter today. I think Boal will get it with ZD30, but I think Anderson and Coppola should win it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><b>BEST ADAPTED SCREENPLAY</b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Lucy Alibar and Benh Zeitlin, Beasts of the Southern Wild</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Tony Kushner, Lincoln</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">David Magee, Life of Pi</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">David O. Russell, Silver Linings Playbook</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Chris Terrio, Argo</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">I have read the book "Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln" by Doris Kearns Goodwin on which Kushner's script is based. Not to take anything away from the others, but that was a marvelous feat. However, Terrio's Argo will win this one.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><b>BEST ANIMATED FEATURE FILM</b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Brave</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Frankenweenie</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">ParaNorman</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">The Pirates! Band of Misfit</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Wreck-It Ralph</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">I am a huge Tim Burton fan, so I want Frankenweenie to win. My son says Wreck-It Ralph, my daughter says Brave. It's a toss up.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Well, there it is. I'm not going to get into the other categories right now. I have to watch the other foreign films and watch the other movies again to actually do that. I am not sure if anyone else would care anyways.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Anybody else have any picks?</span>RJ Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05229936470433204180noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858752741051544701.post-59358492893920668922013-01-07T10:56:00.001-05:002013-01-07T10:56:37.187-05:00Resolutions<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Happy New Year to all. <span style="font-size: medium;">The Mayans were wrong.</span><br /><br /><br /><br />As I sit here and write this, I am going over the resolutions that I made for 20<span style="font-size: medium;">12</span> that I actually met, and the ones that I did not attain. Overall, I met half my goals.<br /><br /><br /><br />In how I perceive myself, it was not a good year.</span></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><br />What I mean by this is I did not reach the goals that were deemed more important than the ones I actually reached. Breaking it all down, I have realized why this did happen or did not happen.<br /><br /><br /><br />First, I did not take personal responsibility for my failures. Instead, I would blame circumstances beyond my control, or, other individuals getting in my way, for why I did not achieve success in my goal. I realize now I have to control situations better, maybe getting others to help me instead of seemingly hindering me.<br /><br /><br /><br />Second, some of the goals I set were actually unrealistic. This did not seem this way at first, but as time went on, I found out that maybe I should of broke it down into smaller steps, making it more easily attainable.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Third, I expected to be perfect, but I am human. So when a setback occurred, I would get depressed and lose focus, eventually giving up. I know now I should expect these setbacks, and if possible, plan for their occurrence.<br /><br /><br /><br />Fourth, I should make resolutions based on action instead of inaction. Example: Giving up smoking is an inaction, where is exercising is based on action. I found out that it is easier to do something than not to do something. I would be obsessive in not doing something, which made me think about it too much. Ultimately, it ended in failure.<br /><br /><br />Fifth, some of things I resolved to do were, in hindsight, a little vague. This basically meant I set a goal without proper planning. As in example: Saying I need to </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">exercise more is a vague statement, but saying I will run a mile a day and spend an hour in the gym gets me to plan to actually do it.<br /><br /><br /><br />Finally, I needed reinforcement and motivation. I have to keep in mind my past failures, and try not to repeat them. I have to take compliments positively, and not think they were made facetiously. I have to give myself small rewards to help me keep committed toward my goals.<br /><br /><br /><br />Now, as I make resolutions for 201<span style="font-size: medium;">3</span>, I keep all I wrote in mind. If I do this, I think I will achieve all my resolutions for the coming year. At least to make my best efforts.<br /><br /><br /><br />How about you, my friends? What do you think is the best technique to reaching your goals this year? Let's hear about it, and maybe it might work for us as well. <br /><br /><br /><br />Let 201<span style="font-size: medium;">3</span> be a safe and prosperous year for all of us.</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span></span>RJ Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05229936470433204180noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858752741051544701.post-63519015319751924582012-12-13T09:00:00.000-05:002012-12-13T09:00:12.481-05:00Your Mother Taught You Better<br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Impact;">Some people do things that are just annoying to the point of rudeness.<br /><br />Early Saturday morning, I was at the supermarket. I make a list of things to buy to make it quicker for me to get out and to the many other things on my busy schedule.<br /><br />I am almost done, in the last aisle. Someone was so gracious by leaving his carriage right in the middle of the aisle so not to let others by.<br /><br />"Be patient" I told myself. I did just that. For a total of five minutes. So I took the liberty of moving it to one side to allow people to pass through.<br /><br />The young man whose carriage I moved didn't appreciate that. he was downright rude to the point of high offense.<br /><br />But I held my temper in check. It wasn't easy.<br /><br />I get what I needed and get in line at the checkout. The lady in front of me puts all her stuff on the belt ,and of course, she forgot something. She held the line up for about ten minutes. <br /><br />I thinking about how bad this day has started.<br /><br />While I wait, there was lady behind me who had three young boys. One these boys was pushing the carriage back and forth, though told several times from his mom to stop.<br /><br />He stopped alright. After he hit me in the back of the legs. And no apology was forthcoming.<br /><br />After I finally get out of the store, taking several deep breaths to keep me calm, another young man is outside panhandling. He was polite when he made the request of me. and I told him politely no. That is when he said something under his breath. I said something in the attune of getting off his lazy ass and work. I didn't think he liked that.<br /><br />I get home and bring the stuff inside. I then decide to go get some coffee. Arriving there, I see a elderly man with a walker struggle to get the door open. <br /><br />"Let me get that for you sir" I said while I open the door. Several people actually when inside ahead of him, not allowing him to pass.<br /><br />I mean, does anyone have manners anymore?<br /><br /> We live a fast world. It seems that people are either oblivious to how their behavior affects others, or they just don't care.<br /><br />A simple "thank you" goes a long way, you know. And whatever happened to responding to that gratuitous saying with a simple "you're welcome" and not with "no problem"?<br /><br />No one says "good morning". Or they respond to it with "is it'? Are you that grumpy?<br /><br />Do you have to ripe your hands on your shirt? Or even worse: lick them.<br />Try using a napkin. <br /><br />And for crying out loud, wash your hands when you use the rest room.<br /><br />And please excuse yourself when you interrupt me while I am speaking. Better yet, wait until I am done. Is what your going to say that important?<br /><br />Maybe I am just too sensitive, but why is it people don't think that have to practice reasonable good manners? Is it that they are not taught?<br /><br />I guess maybe I have an antiquated way I look at things. But I know I was taught better than that, and I know they were too.<br /><br />Any thoughts?</span></span>RJ Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05229936470433204180noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858752741051544701.post-17858794638066466902012-12-03T07:08:00.000-05:002013-06-24T09:21:28.475-04:00A Writer's Bloc<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Good morning. It's Monday
again. Don't you love Monday mornings? You know, a reminder how short
you weekend seemed to be and how long your week is going to be?<br /><br />Seriously,
though. I figured I just write a little blog about bloc. As in
writer's bloc. The disability of a writer to produce new work. Which
is, for me, usually lasts a few days. Though on occasion, it has lasted
several months.</span></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I find the practice of writing should be a
routine. So I am usually up at 5 am to get something done. This
morning, I was up earlier, so I decided to put in even more time than
usual.<br /><br />First, I fire up the coffeemaker. Definitely need the
caffeine. I turn on the computer. I then sit at my keyboard, not the
computer kind, but an EMI. I run up the keys, playing chords in
different octaves. I find this helps eliminate cramps in the fingers
when I am working on the computer keyboard. (As an aside, I am fortunate
not to have back problems, and I attest this as my training as a
pianist. It is really all in the posture.)<br /><br />After pouring my
coffee, I sit at the computer and open my manuscript file. I watch as
the cursor blinks, and blinks, and blinks some more. This when on for at
least ten minutes.<br /><br />I write a sentence. Then I read it aloud.
Realizing how awful it sounded, I erased it. I did this several times
and I realize I am at a loss at what to write.<br /><br />So I go back to
the EMI, and play a rendition of Chopin's Piano Concerto No 2, but in
Prestissimo, figuring that the fast pace would fire up my synapses. It
failed miserably.<br /><br />Okay, a hot shower might help. So I take a
long one. I can say I felt cleaner and I thought I had a new
perspective, but after sitting back down at the computer, I knew it
wasn't the case.<br /><br />I figured maybe a walk in the early morning fall
air might help. I took my camera with me, maybe I can get in a couple
of decent shots. I was trying work out my problem as I walked, but I
just couldn't get past it. Also,the shots weren't there, or maybe I saw
them as a redundancy, duplicating ones I took earlier. Or I missed
then all together because I was so focused on my problem.<br /><br />I return home about
twenty minutes later, having done nothing productive in that time.
Sitting back at the computer, I see that darn blinking cursor again.
It seems to be mocking me. <br /><br />"Laugh at me will you! Here, take
this!" I bang out a few sentences. I reread them, and was satisfied
that is was adequate enough for this first draft. There will be a stage
1 rewrite most likely anyways.<br /><br />I was lucky this time. There is
were times where I just couldn't write down anything. Even if I could, they
were just some gibberish no one could understand.<br /><br />Now, here I am writing this blog. This would constitute as writing, right? Wow, the irony is that.<br /><br />How do you deal with your own writer's bloc?</span></span>RJ Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05229936470433204180noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858752741051544701.post-5595841499905552892012-11-30T23:38:00.002-05:002012-11-30T23:38:20.525-05:00Insomnia<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: red; font-size: medium;">Insomnia is a gross feeder.
It will nourish itself on any kind of thinking, including thinking
about not thinking. - Clifton "Kip" Fadiman.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">I
can certainly relate . As I write this, I am in a state of a
continuous fatigue, caused by my own anxiety, and expeditiously, by
severe insomnia.<br /><br />Insomnia is a strange creature because it has no
discernible pattern. One might suffer from it for days, even weeks,
sometimes with no feasible cause. Then it just suddenly disappears, and
it has no timetable when, and if, it will return.<br /><br />For me, it has
substantially to do with the fact that my mind is forever moving. Each
individual thought process is it's own highway. Some are racing like a
drive on the Autobahn, fast and free. Then there are the ones that end
up like a traffic jam of the Santa Monica Freeway during rush hour.
There are more of the latter then of the former.</span></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-size: medium;">You think more
when you should be sleeping. You think about sleeping. You think about
the fact you not sleeping. You try to focus on a peaceful thought to
relax, only for the image to be shattered by some fragment of memory you
try to repress but your mind is just too tired to resist. <br />I have
been getting back into meditation. It does help me during my normal
waking hours, but I noticed that does little for me during the hours I
should be sleeping.<br /><br />Then there are the drugs that are offered to me. Some are by doctors and of course, the ones of the illicit variety that
are offered by my good intended, but somewhat misguided, friends. I
personally do not take any type of drugs unless it is absolutely
necessary to stay alive. This is because I rather deal with the
symptoms of my mentality, then deal with some of the severe side
effects that I had to deal in past experiences with meds.<br /><br />My
writing has suffered. One would think that with all the waking hours I
experience, I should do more of it. Now only do I less, but what
writing I do produce seems to come out like s**t. ( Yep,I blame not sleeping then to admit to mediocrity.)<br /><br />One weird thing
I noticed lately is the energy I can muster when I really need it. I
then find I feeling even more worn down then before. <br /><br />I can tell
you that I see things with more clarity then before, because it seems
that I have a need to do so. ( I have others verify the veracity of
some things to make sure I'm not hallucinating.) I think the fatigue
makes me over-analyze at times, and in turn, it just feeds into it.<br /><br />I
do seem to nod off at times ( I did this while writing this as well). I
have even done this standing up. It is a very light slumber, lasting
only a couple of minutes, in which I wake up and answer the question you
just asked me.<br /><br />I once stayed up for 80 consecutive hours. After
this, I slept for 24 hours straight. That would have to be the worst I
ever felt when woke up.<br /><br />Sweet slumber will overtake my restless
soul. The senseless nothing now a healing bliss. The dark hand of
grim, with death he will dole. And this woe will start with a maiden's
kiss.<br /><br />Tell me, you many people of the night. What keeps you up at night?</span><br />RJ Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05229936470433204180noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858752741051544701.post-60161552805189060832012-09-03T14:11:00.000-04:002012-09-06T12:17:56.443-04:00Hey, Coach! (Part 2 of 2)Continued from an earlier blog. <br />
<br />
I had blacked out after the collision at home plate. I woke up in my stepfather's car, sprawled across the back seat on my back. I was nauseous from the pain, and being unusual for me, the motion of the vehicle. It took all of my willpower not to vomit. I noticed my throbbing wrist was wrapped in gauze holding an ice pack <b></b>in the back, splints on each side, A sling was tied at my shoulder holding my arm up so I couldn't bend my elbow. <br />
<br />
My stepfather related the news about what happened after I lost consciousness. The good news, the catcher dropped the ball, and apparently I somehow touched the plate with my injured hand. The bad news was the doctor who looked at my wrist the first time believed I tore some ligaments. This could be mean possible surgery for me.<br />
<br />
I walked unaided into the ER of the hospital. My stepfather and I sat at the registration desk. My mind was racing with thoughts that were for the most part were unpleasant. How bad was it? Will I play baseball again? And if I could, how good will I be at it? It is possible I may lose functionality in my hand where I can't grip anything properly? <br />
<br />
My mom arrived. She was calm and collected as always. She sat next to me in the common area. She told me everything was going to be alright, and as always, I believed her. She brought me books to read instead of the magazines spewed everywhere, some so old they predated my birth.<br />
<br />
Later, which seemed like eternity, I was called into the ER. I had had an x-ray of the injured area. As I sat in my little cubicle, I saw a couple of doctors talking over the negative of my wrist through the opening of the curtain that was not completely closed. I was not feeling the pain as intensely as before. It was more of a dull ache, the wonderful medication the nurse gave me helped immensely.<br />
<br />
Still I waited longer. My anxiety grew in intensity, despite the drugs in my system. I wanted to leave, and I was ready to run out the hospital to escape the incredible foreboding this place was instilling upon me. I got up from the bed I was sitting on, walked over to the curtain, and as I reached for it with my good hand, it suddenly burst open.<br />
<br />
I jumped a bit, being startled from the ER doctor coming in with my parents. Doc gently told me to sit back onto the bed. I did so, now knowing his professional judgement was now forthcoming.<br />
<br />
The good news, nothing was broken. However, I had a third degree sprain. The healing process and rehabilitation time for this type of injury could be up to three months.<br />
<br />
My heart sank. My baseball season was over.<br />
<br />
Over the next several days, a deep depression fell over me. I didn't really do much of anything. School, meals, and bed. That was it. I turned over the paper route I had over to my friend because I couldn't ride my bike, something I essentially needed to be able to do the route properly.<br />
<br />
On the positive side, I wasn't the only person in my family that played baseball that spring. My little sister was playing with a Minor Little League which was only a 5 minute walk from our house. Her and I would work on drills together in the back yard when neither of us had practice or a game. Most of the time, we had conflicting schedules, so I was unable to get to see her play in an actual game.<br />
<br />
My missing her games was about change, albeit, reluctantly.<br />
<br />
It was 8 days after my injury. It was on a Thursday, I remember that because I was watching the sitcom "Cheers". (Ironically, I have a story about an experience from that show I will post another time.) My mom knocks on my bedroom door, and after a moment enters.<br />
<br />
We discussed how my wrist felt. We also talked about my mental well being. She spoke about baseball, which she knew little about except the fact I ate, slept, and breathed it. This segued into a problem she needed my help to solve.<br />
<br />
The problem was my sister had a game Friday afternoon and my mom had to work later than her normal shift. So, my stepdad, who would be home in time, could take her. That would leave me to watch my little brothers because they can't stay still during the game. (Most of the parents of the players attended their kids game back then.).<br />
<br />
So, I had this conundrum before me. Do I take my sister to the her game and watch other kids play baseball, something I loved with a passion but I could no longer participate. Or, do I stay home, babysit my brothers, who like to annoy me, and risk doing something I would regret because of my present state of mind?<br />
<br />
I decided on the former after much anguish.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
Friday afternoon came rather quickly. My sister and I arrive home from school and finished our homework (Secretly, I hoped she skipped it or did it sub-par, it would of been a way out of it, but stepdad said it was fine.) We practiced in the yard until it was time for us to leave for the game.<br />
<br />
We walked and talked. Many topics were explored during our chat. I half- heartily listened, giving her an occasional, "yeah", "No", "I guess so" and "not sure" to her questions. She stopped talking after sensing my dour mood, and I welcomed this silence.<br />
<br />
We turned the corner of the street that housed the field. I could smell the grass, hear the banter of the kids, the "ding" of the aluminum bats (I used only wooden bats, but I still liked the sound.), the "thump" of the ball hitting leather. These things lightened my mood, and I smiled for the first time in days. This was because not only did I find baseball once again, but also of the cleverness of my mom.<br />
<br />
Mothers really do know best.<br />
<br />
I saw the field where the game would take place. The low-cut grass was had the greenness of a lawn that was well maintained. The bump was smooth with no holes. The whiteness of the perfectly drawn foul lines. The cleanliness of home plate had the invitation to drop on by. It was one of the best minor league fields I ever seen.<br />
<br />
As we got closer, a man I saw hitting balls to the kids. He noticed our arrival. His deep booming voice calling my sister over, his hand pointing to right field. I sat on bleacher seats behind the home dugout (It was not underground, just a fence surrounding a long bench) to watch.<br />
<br />
I noticed there were two other girls (sisters, I learned later) on the team. It was not unusual two have two girls on a team at that level, but three was a rarity. That was an indication that they were late sign-ups and placed on the team with the least amount of players.<br />
<br />
I analyzed each player as he/she fielded the ball. I'm not going to say they were a bad team because at this level of Little League it still considered to be "instructional". On one the flip side, there was this one kid who was excellent and I wondered why he wasn't playing Majors. He could run, had good range, great arm. Maybe he couldn't hit?<br />
<br />
The coach hit a hot grounder between first and second that neither fielder could get his glove on. The outfield grass was low cut, so the ball had some good pace when my sister fielded it, deep in her position. The second basement went out the the shallow right, as was the proper play. My sister makes the throw to first, which was not.<br />
<br />
I went down to the fence I yelled at her to throw it to her cutoff man being so deep in right. Moments, later I hear that booming voice again.<br />
<br />
"Hey, Coach"!<br />
<br />
I turned my head to the man of the voice. The coach just smiling, waved me onto the field. After hesitation, I walked over to the gate that separated the field from the bleachers. I walk onto the grass, and a feeling of excitement came over me that I haven't felt in days.<br />
<br />
I walked over to coach. he asked who I was and why I was here. I told him my story, showing my wrapped wrist. He then asked me questions about baseball, testing me about different situations. Nodding his head, he seemed satisfied that I had good knowledge of the game.<br />
<br />
He then surprised me with a request. One that involved me in baseball in a different capacity.<br />
<br />
If I received permission from my parents, he liked me to help coach the team. Me! Only 13 years old. A coach! I pondered this for awhile.<br />
<br />
Upon reflection, I figured if I couldn't play, why not help out others who could. So I told him I would do it if my parents said it was okay.<br />
<br />
I did get the okay. Mom thought it would good for me. It would probably would for her, as well. It kept me form moping inside the house hours on end.<br />
<br />
It was not like I thought it would be, though. I was mostly helping with the equipment, tossing baseballs to him during drills, but mostly, I kept the score book during games. This was information my sister related to him inadvertently. That was okay though, I was involved in baseball.<br />
<br />
For a few years after, I was both playing and coaching where schedule allowed. Sometimes, it was on the same team. As I advanced in ball, my lack of ability in playing let me coach more, and eventually, I found that the cliche: "Those who can't do, teach" was fitting for me.<br />
<br />
Right now, I am coaching Fall League. It is for boys and girls between the ages of 8-12. It primary purpose it to get the younger players ready for Majors. The older players have a year or two of Majors experience, and the less experienced kids get the feel of Major league rules agianst better players.<br />
<br />
It almost didn't happen. I had to recruit some players who never played organized baseball. It was a tough go for awhile to get some of these kids ready.<br />
<br />
I wouldn't have it any other way.<br />
<br />RJ Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05229936470433204180noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858752741051544701.post-78205693874390746002012-08-31T15:06:00.000-04:002012-09-01T23:56:44.859-04:00Hey, Coach! (Part 1 of 2)I would definitely be considered a geek from the activities and hobbies I had since childhood.<br />
<br />
However, I also had a long time love affair with athletics, and I was a decent practitioner. I had played just about all of them, but one in particular became my main squeeze and remains so to this day, as both a former player and now coach. <br />
<br />
Baseball, America's pastime.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
Since I was a little kid, I was enamored with the notion that a boy like me might have a chance to be a big league ballplayer. I was told I had some talent, but some of these comments inflated my head to a point where it created some insufferable arrogance. This and the fact I was often the best player on the team created a unrealistic view of my aspirations.<br />
<br />
Oh, how things change in a hurry.<br />
<br />
One summer, when I was thirteen, I got my first taste of Pony league. The field was larger, not quite the size size of MLB fields, but larger than Little League. The kids were bigger, some of them as big as adults. (I was only 5' 5" 120 lbs. at the time.) Practices were more intense, as the coaches yelled much more often.<br />
<br />
I hung in there, actually did okay, but I quickly realized I was not the best player there. Not by a long shot.<br />
<br />
My first game at Pony. I was the starting pitcher and batting lead off. The kid on the mound on the other team seemed like a giant. (At 6' 2" 200 lbs he was compared to me.) I was standing on the grass near the dugout, taking my practice swings. After every pitch during his warm- up, he would stare me down when he got the ball back from his catcher.<br />
<br />
I just smiled at him. I was not going to show anyone how terrified I felt.<br />
<br />
The home plate umpire shouts: "Play ball"<br />
<br />
This big pitcher threw left- handed. As a switch-hitter, I stepped into the right-handed batter's box. I dug in, hugging home plate,then brought my bat up to a ready position.<br />
<br />
He wound up. I was guessing a fastball inside and high to try to knock me off the plate.<br />
<br />
I was right, but the pitched was not as inside and high as he wanted. I brought my hands in close to my body as I swung, and I felt and heard the crack. I don't think I hit a ball as hard as I hit that one. I just stood there and watched. I knew it was gone.<br />
<br />
The wind of about 10 m.p.h. blowing right to left. I watched as the ball start to tail toward the left field foul line.<br />
<br />
The ball went a few inches to the left of that blasted foul pole.<br />
<br />
"Foul ball!" The third base umpire bellows.<br />
<br />
I slumped my shoulders in disappointment, but perked up in mere moments, thinking maybe I could hit off this kid.<br />
<br />
I stepped back in the batter's box. I looked at the pitcher. The smirk on my face told him I was no longer intimidated and my confidence was growing.<br />
<br />
He wound up again. It was the same motion as the first pitch, but I was guessing changeup low and on outside corner of the plate.<br />
<br />
For the second time in a roll, I guessed correctly.<br />
<br />
I hit the pitch solid, hearing the crack of the bat once more. Not as hard as the first one, but a good charge. I sprinted out of the box, and ran down the first base line. I had a good view of the ball, this time as it was going down the right field line. I knew the wind was now aiding me, instead of hindering, as was the case with the first swing.<br />
<br />
I circled first base, digging for two in case it stayed in the park. I lost sight of the ball but I happened to see the second base umpire extend his right arm straight up. His index finger was pointing to the sky and his hand was turning an air circle in a counterclockwise motion.<br />
<br />
Home run! Then the bad news came rather quickly.<br />
<br />
I heard a cry that made me stop in my tracks and kneel down in frustration.<br />
<br />
"Foul ball!"<br />
<br />
Now, any ball hit down the right field line is the jurisdiction of the first base umpire. Of course, I'm not thinking about that because I was elated in thinking I just hit a four bagger.<br />
<br />
Time was called. All the umps huddle together on the grass in between the mound and second. The third base coach told me to stay at second until told otherwise.<br />
<br />
After a brief conference, I heard the phrase for the third time.<br />
<br />
"Foul ball!" The first base umpire booms, emphasizing it with his left arm extended toward the first base dugout.<br />
<br />
"Batter up!" The home plate umpire squawks. I step back into the box once again, frowning at the man-boy, trying to turn the table of his game of diamond terrorism ."0 balls, 2 strikes." The home plate ump reminds everyone the hole I dug myself.<br />
<br />
The third pitch I saw, changed my destiny. It was not the curveball both coach and I thought would come, but it was like the first one, fastball inside. However, it was too far inside.<br />
<br />
I didn't have any time to react and I heard the ball hit the handle of the bat. I also felt it hit the outside of my ulnar bone of my left wrist, simultaneously.<br />
<br />
"Foul ball!" The home plate umpire screams. I barely heard the phrase, the fourth time uttered, through the haze of the most intense pain I ever felt in my then young life. Immediately, I dropped my bat and fell to the ground, I was clutching my wrist on the way down, but I didn't scream.<br />
<br />
"Time!" The words sounded like it came from a long distance away, but the man who said them stood only a few feet from my now prone form.<br />
<br />
Laying there in a fetal position, I remember hearing voices. They were familiar, but I couldn't connect them to any face. I was too busy trying to be tough and not cry in front of everyone. My closed eyes still leaked. I could feel the wetness on my eyelashes, which kept these tears from streaming down my face.<br />
<br />
I don't remember how long I was getting reacquainted with the dirt, but I did eventually evolve into a sitting position. My coach, and fortunately for me, a player's father who was a doctor, was there to see the extent of my injury.<br />
<br />
The doctor asked me to do a whole array of movement of my hand and wrist. Through the pain, which now subsided to bearable, I could do all of them. There was some swelling and bruising in the wrist area. Nothing seemed to be broken. The bat took some of the force. If that pitch hit me flush, it would be no doubt of the attire I would be wearing for several long weeks. The dreaded cast.<br />
<br />
Both the doctor and Coach concurred that I should be replaced in the game. I would hear none of that. I pleaded, begged, whined, and would of risked the embarrassment of crying (the irony in that!) to stay in and play.<br />
<br />
Now, back in the 80's, coaches had more discretion in whether or not a kid could play after a incident that caused the player to be hurt. If there was no discernible injury, and the player was willing to stay in the game, the coach would let him.<br />
<br />
So, I got my wish, but to continue forward was predicated on the injury not getting any worse. I agreed not to complain if he decided to yank me because of this.<br />
<br />
As my luck would have it, this happened with the very next pitch thrown. <br />
<br />
After all the theatrics that occurred at home plate, I jogged to first, staring at the pitcher all the way there. He looked at me and shrugged, like it was no big deal. I thought it was, and I promised myself I would return the favor and drill him when he came up to bat. <br />
<br />
(As an aside, I played baseball in an era where it was okay for a pitcher to knock a guy down
that was too close to the plate. If a guy got hit, his pitcher would
plunk a player on the other team. Very rarely did this practice get out
of hand.)<br />
<br />
First though, I was going to steal second base. It would be tough to do because a lefty pitcher faces first base. He is allowed to pick up his leg as long it doesn't go toward home plate. You have to time it just right.<br />
<br />
My first base coach gave the next batter (right-hander) the sign for a hit and run. I took my lead, watching for my chance. I expected he would throw to first just to keep me honest. He wound up, I watched for the leg. That fraction of a second when I saw the leg go toward home, I took off.<br />
<br />
Here is the pitch! Curve ball! Line drive down the third base line! Fair!<br />
<br />
I rounded second and as I headed to third when I saw the third base coach winding up his right arm. He wanted me to score! I wounded third sharply, catching the inside corner of the bag to keep me inside the line for a shorter distance and better chance to plate the run.<br />
<br />
I saw the catcher. Big kid. (He is the brother of the pitcher I found out later.) He was stationed perfectly, just to the first base side of home. He was close to the plate as possible without blocking it. I ran as fast as I could. I wanted to score the first run of the season. And to celebrate, I was going to salute my good buddy, the opposing pitcher.<br />
<br />
I was about ten feet away when I went into my slide. Leading with my feet at about two o'clock. As my left hip hit the ground, I saw the ball in his glove. He moved his body to his left, moving with surprising agility and speed. His left leg, bent at the knee with the shin guard touching the earth, was moving toward my left hand, his glove making a low sweep.<br />
<br />
My already damaged paw met his shin guard and bent it back at the wrist. I saw as my fingernails touch my forearm. Anyone who saw it said it was appalling. I had no time to ponder because I blacked out from the pain.<br />
<br />
The rest of the story on my next post.<br />
<br />
<br />RJ Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05229936470433204180noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858752741051544701.post-75528639769617913262012-01-12T18:33:00.000-05:002012-01-30T15:28:33.183-05:00A Year In Preview<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Happy New Year to you all. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">2012 is going to a historical year. There will be some events that will happen that will surprise, even shock some people.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I figure, just for fun, that I play prognosticator. Here are few things I think will happen in the next 12 months or so.</span></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Let's start with some politics. In the first time in history, there will be a woman VP. The United States Republican candidate for president will be Mitt Romney by a slim margin over Newt Gingrich. Romney will choose Nikki Hailey, the Governor of South Carolina, as his running mate.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Obama's running mate will not be Joe Biden, it will be Hillary Clinton. And he will be re-elected, by the slimmest of margins, because...</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">... Ron Paul will run as a third party candidate and take some of the votes from Romney.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The Senate will be 50/50 in seats. Most of the Democratic endorsed bills will pass there because of the VP. (Hillary)</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The Republicans keep the majority of the seats in the House. Nothing major gets done legislatively because of the gridlock.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The economy will get a little better. Rental costs will rise by 10%, and combined with lower interest rates, homes will be more in demand. Construction labor and material will rise 10% because of it. Obviously, jobs in the the Construction field will grow exponentially.</span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">(Note to the following: I am not telling anyone to buy anything, talk to stockbroker about it and get his/her professional opinion.)</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Gold will be in a extreme mood swing. It will drop scary fast, but will reach it's peak in the middle of the year. Silver will go up and down and won't be as good as gold. (No pun intended.)</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">You might be getting cold called from an solar energy company. This is because the cost of solar panels is economical enough to create solar farms. Public utilities will secure the debt with bonds with shorter maturities and will be AAA rated. There is a possible return rate as high as 20%. This is good for Wall Street and investors. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Apple stocks will hit 450. It will also fall into 370 range by years end. They will actually make something that won't sell. Boeing's Dream Liner will have some problems that will cause it's stock to drop to about 50.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Now about sports.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The Green Bay Packers will win the Super Bowl and repeat, beating the team that did it last, The New England Patriots, in a shoot-out. (This hurt me to type this, it really did.)</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The Boston Bruins will win the Stanley Cup again. They are better than last year when they won it.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I really think that the Miami Heat will win the NBA championship this year, beating the L.A. Lakers in the Finals.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Tiger Woods will win the Masters.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Rafael Nadal will win 3 of 4 Grand Slams.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The San Fransisco Giants win the World Series. Barry Zito has a great year that makes the difference. They beat the Yankees in 6.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The nominations don't come out until Jan. 24, but The 84th Academy Award winners will be:</span></span><br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Best Picture: The Help</span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Best Director: Martin Scorsese - Hugo</span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Best Actor: Jean Dujardin - The Artist</span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Best Actress: Viola Davis - The Help</span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></i><br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Best Supporting Actor: Kenneth Branagh - My Week with Marilyn</span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Best Supporting Actress: Melissa McCarthy - Bridesmaids</span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Best Original Screenplay: Woody Allen - Midnight in Paris</span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Best Adapted Screenplay: Tate Taylor - The Help</span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Best Foreign Language Film: Footnote</span></span></i><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Things that will not happen: The end of the world, the Mayans were misinterpreted.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Would do you see in 2012?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>RJ Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05229936470433204180noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858752741051544701.post-90182817438097175652011-08-19T16:26:00.004-04:002011-10-07T11:08:10.238-04:00A Boy's Best Friend (Part 2)<div style="text-align: center;">For of those who missed the first part, here is the link below</div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://rjhope69.blogspot.com/2011/07/boys-best-friend-part-1.html">A Boy's Best Friend (Part 1)</a> </div><br />
His orange-yellow eyes were glued to me, with an expression that my inexperience could not understand. If was though he knew I look out that window and see if he was still there.<br />
<br />
He begins to bark and spin in circles. His tail was wagging and his tongue was hanging out in a manner that indicated he might be thirsty from chasing me. My ambiguity made me anxious. I wanted to bring him water, but yet, I was to afraid he might attack me.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
My mother, who watched this canine dance with me, told me that his behavior was more of a playful nature. She, having numerous dogs throughout her life, believed he was a young dog who had an aggressive but friendly manner that is often misunderstood for malcontent. She also noticed, to confirm my guess, that he needed some water.<br />
<br />
I walked to the nearby kitchen cabinet and grabbed and old plastic mixing bowl. I went tho the sink and filled it about three-quarters full of water fro the tap. I then slowly walked to the kitchen table, placed the bowl done, and peeked out the window again.<br />
<br />
He was still looking up at me, panting even worse now. He was laying on the grass closer to the house.<br />
<br />
I battled to overcome my apprehension, finally deciding to take a chance to bring the dog some water. I balanced the bowl precariously in my right hand while I opened the exit door with my left. Even with my slow and deliberate movements, the water sloshed back and forth violently. Small splashes escaped and fell to the floor, and I heard the loud voice of my mom fade away as I closed the door behind me.<br />
<br />
I made my way down the stairs carefully holding the bowl in two hands so as not to spill more of the precious liquid. The trip toward the bottom was eventful because of the several times I almost fell down the stairs just trying to keep from dropping the bowl.<br />
<br />
Finally, I made it to the door that lead outside. Putting the bowl down on the stairwell, I slowly opened the door, just cracking it enough so I could peek out.<br />
<br />
I could only see his tail from this position. It was laying on the ground not moving. So I opened the door a little farther, in increments, until I saw his head.<br />
<br />
He was looking at me, again. His wagged his tail and started barking. This time I told myself I would not show fear and see if my mom was right.<br />
<br />
I placed the bowl only a the base of the porch. As I placed it on the ground, he got up and quickly moved closer. I ran up the stairs toward door, and he starting drinking like he never had water in his life. <br />
<br />
I slowly crept closer and sat down on the stoop, watching him with renewed interest. Studying him intently, I wondered if the owners were looking for such a beautiful dog.<br />
<br />
He suddenly looked up and caught me staring at him. He crept closer,and I froze, knowing if I ran he would get me easily.<br />
<br />
End of Part 2RJ Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05229936470433204180noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858752741051544701.post-86489297417713898102011-08-10T15:44:00.001-04:002011-08-10T16:21:48.200-04:00It Takes A Village (Part 4)<span style="font-size: large;">He was the neighborhood bully by the name of Paul Ellison. He was twelve at that time and already he was as big as the average adult male. He used this size advantage quite effectively, picking on younger and smaller kids. He bordered on cruelty, but it seemed to me he particularly liked to make my life miserable. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I had no time to turn around and go back the way I came. If he saw me running, he would chase me down with sinister pleasure. So I tried my best not to look as scared as I felt. I was about 10 feet away from him when he started in on me. He was smiling, always a bad sign with him.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Hey Gayman, heard your got your ass beat by a little old lady." Paul said, laughing. As big as he was, he still had a young boy's voice, which made his taunting more annoying.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"You're lucky it wasn't me who smacked you, because you've not gotten up." He jabbed. I stayed quiet, as I usually do with him. He put his arm around my shoulders as I try to go by him, and he continued insulting me as we walked. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"You're so wimpy, my five year old sister could take you. Heck, my great grandmother could take you and she's like 80." He rambled on.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">This continued as I made my way home. He calling me names, and I just taking it without a word. So far, he hasn't tried to physically hurt me, and just maybe he had some sympathy what happened. That hope was short lived.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">A few feet from my house, he made stop behind a huge maple tree that one could hide behind and no one would notice that anyone was there.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"You know the drill. Hand me your money." Paul snarled as he grabbed the front of my shirt. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I reached into my front pocket of my shorts. I had two dollars that I earned the weekend before raking an old woman's yard. Also in that pocket, I had a quartz stone, about the size of a golf ball and shaped like a diamond, that I was going to give a girl I liked at the time. I put the stone in my palm while holding the 2 one dollar bills near the end of my fingers. I slowly drew my hand out.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Paul quickly grabbed the money looked at it suspiciously. "This is all ....!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Before he finished that thought, I brought my stone stuffed fist and hit him as hard as I could with an uppercut underneath the chin. I leaped as I threw it and I knew it was maybe my best punch ever.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Paul crumpled to the ground, the money flying from his hand. His chin was busted wide open, blood oozing down his next as he laid on his left side.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I quickly picked up the money. As I was getting ready to run away, I spotted big Mr. Bojarsinski running toward us.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Hey, stop! You rob boy! I get you!" He yelled in his deep accented voice.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Guessing that he didn't see the whole incident. I decided I wasn't sticking around to explain it to him.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">End of Part 4</span>RJ Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05229936470433204180noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858752741051544701.post-832790403107526032011-08-04T13:11:00.002-04:002011-08-19T17:08:56.070-04:00A Seed Of A StoryI have a writer friend of mine who is shopping his first speculative screenplay, or spec, to some movie studios for the past few months. It took him a couple of years to get it done, being very new at the genre, and he always asking me for tips on the writing process.<br />
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I think this process is different for every writer. How I do things may not work for another writer, and their approach may not work for me.<br />
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When I approach any writing project, the obvious first choice that I make is what I am going to write about. This is called a premise. I take that premise and flesh it out in a written form, I can do that in five words or less.<br />
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Yes, I truly mean that. Those five words are known as a title.<br />
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Call me fanatical, but I think a title is just is important as your theme, plot, characters, etc. I can't even start writing without a good title. A title, for me, is the seed that will spring the story tree.<br />
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So now I have a title, which gives the reader an idea what the story is about. What next?<br />
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I now go a step further to what is called a logline. This is a one or two sentence summary of a story. It must have detail of some form of plot, a central situation, a tone, and have something that emotionally intrigues the reader, called the hook.<br />
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Okay, now we have something one can pitch to the powers that be. This is something that you could be paid to elaborate further. If not, you can still continue it on your own.<br />
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Either way, the next step in somewhat sideways. It's not something that moves the story in a linear path, but it is something, I feel, one must do before expanding the story.<br />
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Every character I have in a story, I will write a biography about him/her. This is a particular step where most of what you write never gets to be in the story because it happens before the time your story begins. Called backstory, things created from this will let me know how a character will respond to a giving situation or to another character. If I get to know a person, even if I created him/her, it makes the process flow a little more smoothly. <br />
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Okay, now I take my logline, with my biography, and start writing something called a synopsis. This piece consists of a more detailed explanation of the story. Its' usually length is between one long paragraph, or several paragraphs, and usually not longer then two pages. It is more focused toward the plot of the story.<br />
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There are times where I will a story outline instead of synopsis. Though they are similar and somewhat interchangeable, a story outline details a bit more about the tone, theme, and the character of a story. Though it has some plot points, it is not solely about the plot.<br />
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There are times where I might do both a synopsis and a outline for the same project.<br />
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Then there is the treatment. A treatment is the most difficult one of all to write because it must contain all elements of theme, tone, plot, character, and setting without giving too much detail. There is no discernible number of pages of a treatment, but averages around 10, and I have heard some writers have written 30 -40 page treatments. My feeling is that a treatment with that amount of pages is misspent energy that could of used to write the actual pages of your book or screenplay.<br />
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And because it is required, I write them. My approach is to break it up into sections. The first section is your concept, the idea. The second explains your characters and their goals, the third is theme, or the moral of the story. Then the tone and setting. Meaning is it dark, funny, somber, romantic, etc, and where and when. Then you delve into the story.<br />
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Finally, after all this, you can write your novel or script. I find this a little easier, though not easy, to write because I have done most of the legwork early on.<br />
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Then after all that hard work of writing that book or film script you dreamed about, you have to rewrite many of the chapters or scenes. Maybe even rewrite the whole entire story.<br />
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Isn't writing fun? Tell me how you approach it.<br />
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<b></b>RJ Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05229936470433204180noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858752741051544701.post-79977390280765580742011-08-03T15:54:00.001-04:002012-01-30T15:07:57.526-05:00I Don't Feel Like Writing<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I am a slacker. I have to admit that. I have posted diligently to my blog for about three weeks now, and going over it, I have noticed some things are not consistent. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Like a few times I posted some continuing stories. As of now, I have three open ones. My original intent was to publish these kind of stories on a weekly basis, say every Monday, and continue each Monday thereafter. I was then to take each other day of the week and use them for a specific theme. I haven't really done what I have planned.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Some of it is due to time management. That is why, if you noticed, I try keep my blogs between 500-600 words. I have many writing projects going on at the same time. My book, which is the first draft stage, is written at a pace of 1500 -2000 words a day. My screenplay, which I just finished the outline, gets about an hour a day of my time. Then there is the stuff I actually do to get paid.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The writing I get paid to do does not amount to much, so I have to supplement this income with non- writing endeavors. This encompasses pretty much anything, from fixing a lonely widow's leaky roof to helping someone roll over his retirement fund, and anything in between. These help in paying the bills.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Then there is the issue of my children. They don't live with me, which, in itself, is a double - edged sword. On one side, I have more free time to write, but on the other side, I usually take this time and spend it with them. It is this quality time that help us bond, and some of the things we experience would make some good stories. Some of them would even be funny. I may even write them someday.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Then, of course, there are days I don't feel like writing.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> Which, to be perfectly honest, is every day.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> There are no other extenuating circumstances which interfere with me actually writing, I am just being lazy. The difference between the days I do write to the days I don't write is how I overcome procrastination and my apprehension to my own work. I always look at it with an objectivity that borders on unfairness to myself. I always think my writing is mediocre, and it may truly be that, but I think of those people who actually read and enjoy it. I know is it only a few, but, to me, if one person gets something worthwhile out of it, then I am happy that I made a small contribution to this world.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I don't about other writers, but I find writing to be hard work. It is no easier for me to write something than it is for someone else who is not a writer. There are countless times I look at a blinking icon on the computer screen, or a blank piece of paper (I do it both ways for different reasons) and be lost on what to put down for hours on end.. When I do come up with something, I notice how much it sucks, erase it (or throw it in the trash) and start the vicious circle all over again. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">So here are my excuses for not writing. I promised my late friend I would give a my best effort, and if he was with us today, he would say how these reasons are lame, and he would tell me just stop whining and get it done.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Though he never had writing as a bitch, I have to say, he is... he is rrrr.... he is right.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">What about you, what is your excuse not to do what you must do?</span></div>RJ Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05229936470433204180noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858752741051544701.post-16505645233838032862011-08-01T13:00:00.001-04:002011-08-01T13:22:10.476-04:00It Takes A Village (Part 3)<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I explained to him everything that happened, though I left Johnny's and Shane's name out of the story. I might of been thoughtless and destructive at times, but I wasn't a snitch.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Officer Sullivan's sudden glare now unnerved me. I decided that maybe, this was not a good idea on my part.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">As I turned to leave, I felt a strong hand grip my shoulder and bring back around. Officer Sullivan crouched down so his face was even with mine.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"And where do you think your going?" He asked. And from his tone, I knew it was going to be an even worse day than it was already.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"So Mrs. Cavellini spanked your backside because you broke her window?" He asked.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"Yes, sir." I answered in the most respectful tone that I could muster. "It hurt bad."</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"Well, it seems to me you couldn't be hurting with the way you were running. Could it now?" </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">It did sting a bit when it happened, but with the adrenaline pumped through me, I really didn't feel that much discomfort when I decided the flight, over the obvious foolhardy, fight was in order. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">So I couldn't pull off a falsehood here. "No, sir." That is all I could say.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">No sooner did those words tumble out of my mouth, he turned me over and give me six quick slaps to my backside.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">What's up with the six whacks? It is a lucky number when it comes to beating some kid's ass?</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Officer Sullivan flipped me back over, onto my feet. He straightened out my hair and fixed my clothes. His normal cheerful demeanor returned to his face.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"You won't be doing that again, will you Raymond?" He asked me in a gentle tone.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"Nnnooo sir!" I managed to stutter out. I was embarrassed, but I think being more frightened than ever before somewhat made me forget that.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"Then be on your way." He ordered. He then said, in such away to make it seem nothing just happened.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">"And have a wonderful day." He was smiling now. He seemed to be impressed with himself for coming up with such a simple rhyme.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I didn't even respond. I just ran the other way. I now had tears in my eyes. It wasn't so much from the pain of being spanked twice, but because I felt humiliated. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I didn't know which way to go. Should I go to ball field, as planned, or just go back home and hoped my mother didn't find out what happened?</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I decided to go home, for I didn't want to see Johnny and Shane. I became angry once again. Angry at the fact my two friends seemed to abandon me to take the full responsibility of our group indiscretion.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I cross the empty lot once again. The one where I broke a window. Mrs. Cavellini was there with her husband inspecting the broken window. She didn't noticed me, or at least she didn't acknowledge the fact that she did. Either way, I was relieved she paid me no mind.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">As I was nearing the edge of the lot near my street, I saw someone who I hoped I would never see each passing day. Now once again, he will create more torment in this one.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">End of Part 3</span></span>RJ Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05229936470433204180noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858752741051544701.post-60642412146498086812011-07-28T18:03:00.003-04:002011-08-01T13:10:05.418-04:00A Takes A Village (Part 2)<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;">There I stood, stupefied. I wanted to run, but I was too scared. I knew Mrs. Cavellini could catch me like she caught the others, and that would only would make it that much worse for me. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;">She was in her early '40's then. Dark hair and olive skin. She was short, but with a lithe and athletic build. Her green eyes seem to go right through you when she was angry, which seemed to be always.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;">She walked towards me, stopping about 2 feet away.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;">"Why do you kids do this?!" She said in her slightly accented English. "I tell you no play here but you play anyway!"</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;">"I'm sorry, Mrs. Cavellini. I didn't...." She cut me off before I could finish my sentence.</span></span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;">"Sorry, always sorry, but you keep doing." She yelled. She reached with her right hand and grabbed my left ear. "We go see your mama, now!" She was walking briskly and I struggled to keep up so I didn't end up losing my ear.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;">After awhile, I decided I was going to take my chances and try to get away before she brought me home to the end my freedom. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;">I brought up my left arm quickly to knock loose her grip.and at the same time, I violently twisted away. It worked, but the burning pain that I felt was nearly disorienting, and it cost me the valuable few seconds I needed to make my escape.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;">She easily caught me. In one smooth move, she threw me to the ground, and sat on my back, her own back facing my head.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;">I never saw what happened next, but I certainly felt it. Six quick and vicious blows to the derriere. It hurt, but I would never let her have the satisfaction of letting her know that.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;">When it was over, she quickly climbed off my back and stood a few feet from my head. She shifted her eyes downward toward my direction.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;">I was angry, more than I ever was before. How dare she strike me? She wasn't my mother. I thought long and hard and finally, I knew what I was going to do next.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;">I stood up, dusted my self off, and tried to straighten myself out and what I perceived was a dignified manner. I wouldn't cry now, I couldn't cry now. There is no way I would shed a tear in the presence of this woman.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;">I started running. I looked back to see if she was giving chase. She stood there but she was wagging her finger at me.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;">"You like that?" She yelled. "I smack you culo for disrespect." Tell you mama I did. I no care." </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;">"You will care in a few minutes." I said silently to myself. I was going to talk to someone who seemed to always help me.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;">The direction I was going was the opposite of the way to my mother's. </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;">I kept running for a good five minutes before I literally hit my destination.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;">I bumped right into him, a mountain of a man. His flaming red hair peeking through his cap. The red beard matched his ruddy complexion and he was smiling as always.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;">Officer Sullivan was assigned to walk a beat of our neighborhood. He was friendly, </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;">rarely raising his voice to get his point across. If anyone could help, if would be him.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;">"Now where are you rushing to do, young Raymond." He said as he helped me to my feet.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;">"I am running away from Mrs. Cavellini. She just spanked me for breaking her window."</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;">His expression on his face changed. "Did she now?" He asked me in a tone I never heard before from him. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;">What he did next, totally surprised me.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;">End of Part 2</span></span></div>RJ Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05229936470433204180noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858752741051544701.post-17747124406095858252011-07-27T14:18:00.001-04:002011-07-27T14:21:02.426-04:00It Takes A Village (Part 1)<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">I was relating a funny story to my son about something that happened to me when I was a boy his age. After telling it, he said I should write about it, so here is it is.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Kids today are spoiled. You can't even yell at kid without someone butting in and telling you are abusive. Some people raise eyebrows just to the fact you looked at your child at what is perceived as a menacing manner.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">When I was a young boy, I was lucky if I even got to my mom intact if I did something boneheaded.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Here is one example on what I mean.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> It was the early summer of '78. There were a few banks of snow still surviving from one the most brutal winters this region ever experienced. I was 8 years old, and the school year just ended a few days prior. This was going to be the best summer yet, I thought in my young and inexperienced mind.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">The day started well enough. My mom cooked breakfast. I ate eggs, hash browns, sausage, toast, with orange juice to wash it down. While I was finishing the last of it, there was a knock on the door.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">My two buddies, Shane and Johnny, arrived right on time. We were all going to the ball field a few blocks away. Since my mom rarely, if ever, let me walk around by myself, this was the only way I could go anywhere a little distant from the house.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">After my mom dictated her usual edicts to me and getting the three of us to promise to return by noon, I grabbed my gear and it was off the the ball field. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">As we walked, we ribbed each other about the baseball skills (or lack thereof) the three of us possessed. Who was faster, who hit better, who had a better glove, etc. When the subject on who had a better arm came up, we happened to be just getting to an huge empty lot where about three houses used to stand. There were a good abundance of rocks scattered around.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">So we came up with a not so good idea of using the rocks to test our throwing prowess.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Shane picks up a good sized rock. He picked a target, pointing to a wooden utility pole about 125 ft away. The problem, as a group of eight year old boys never see, was this pole was only a foot wide, and it stood only 15 feet away from a three story building full of windows.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Johnny and I pick up rocks. We examined each others choices, and agreed they were all the same size.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">We found an old two by four and placed on the ground to use as a boundary line.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Johnny went first. and his throw was a beauty. It hit the pole right in the middle, about 15 feet up.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Shane went next. His throw high but off the mark. It missed the pole by a foot to left and hit the balusters of the second floor porch of the building.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">This throw gave me second thoughts about what we doing, but I didn't want hear the ridicule of not participating.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">I wait a couple of moments, winding my arm up a few times. Then I stepped into it and let it rip.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">It was a majestic throw. It was very high and looked like it was going to clear everything, but it just missed and hit the top of the pole where the wooden brackets were, and deflected downward.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Downward until it hit a third floor window with a smash. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Johnny and Shane ran faster then I ever seen them before. I just stood there in shock. This hesitation got me caught, because Mrs. Cavellini, the lady who owned the building and the store on the bottom floor, came barreling around the corner, and she had a look on her face that still scares me to this day.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">The rest of the story tomorrow.</span></span>RJ Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05229936470433204180noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858752741051544701.post-739745839498174972011-07-26T12:03:00.000-04:002011-07-26T12:03:36.589-04:00A View From Afar (Part 2)<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Carrie paused a moment, trying very hard not to loose her composure. She wipes her eyes with a napkin, then straightens her form out, sitting back further in her chair.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I'm sorry". A glint of embarrassment showed in her face.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"It's okay." That all I could say, a little anxious about on how this was going. I put my open left hand, facing palm up, on the table. She placed her small hand in mine. She squeezed with a strength that surprised me, with all the power her small lithe frame could muster.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I wasn't always like this, you know." She said. Her face seemed to show the frustration I know had to be there. </span></div><a name='more'></a><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I was born, an only child, to a rich and powerful family.Fancy cars, houses on the 'Bu, the Hills, Honolulu, Vienna, Paris. You name it. I could have anything my heart desired. There are some that will say I was spoiled and materialistic. And they would be right. There will be others who will say with all the things I had I wanted so much more. And they be right too, but for the wrong reasons." She paused and reached for her coffee cup.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I was enthralled now. I now wanted to know why someone attractive, intelligent, and from a successful family ended in this current predicament. I waited patiently for her to continue. </span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">She took a sip of her coffee, placing the cup on the table and turning it with the label facing her. She looked at a few seconds, then turned she attention back to me, showing a quick flash of her smile.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Anyways, I was a rebellious and difficult child. I always got whatever I wanted, because I would throw a tantrum if I didn't."</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"My father was a lawyer, specializing in international business. He was hardly ever home. When he did come home, he would bring me gifts from wherever he might of been."</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"My mom was a basic rich Cali wife. She would hang out the other wives and go on huge shopping sprees, work out at the gym, doll up at the salon, and lived for the country club."</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I was raised by a variety of servants. Nannies, butlers, chefs, chauffeurs. And when I turned six, I had my own personal assistant. She paused a moment and took another sip of her coffee."</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">She continued with a story, but made an interesting transition.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Parlez-vous Frana</span>ç<span style="font-size: small;">is?" She asked me. I was a bit surprised. </span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Un peu." I responded. "Mais je beaucomp mieux."</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So she continues in French, which I will write what she said in French order to keep the spirit of this piece. </span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations"></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;">"Toujours à cet âge, j'ai été inscrits dans le Lycée de international de Los Angeles. Tous les programmes a été enseignée en français. C'est là que j'ai pensé que j'ai trouvé ma meilleure amie et l'amour de ma vie, Concetta."</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><span class="" id="result_box" lang="fr" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">C'est là</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">où j'ai</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">rencontré un autre</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">plus tard</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">compagnon qui</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">est toujours avec moi</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">à ce jour.</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">Et</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">son nom est</span> <span class="hps" title="Click for alternate translations">sur la Toxicomanie.</span>"</span></span><br />
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<span class="" id="result_box" lang="fr" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;">She stops at this. Her eyes fill up with tears.</span></span><br />
<span class="" id="result_box" lang="fr" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
<span class="" id="result_box" lang="fr" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;">"Excusez-moi." She stands up and quickly runs to the bathroom.</span></span><br />
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<span class="" id="result_box" lang="fr" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;">End of Part 2 </span><span class="hps atn" title="Click for alternate translations"></span></span><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="fr" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"></span><br />
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</span></div>RJ Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05229936470433204180noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858752741051544701.post-72566477286533253852011-07-25T08:00:00.007-04:002012-02-01T15:57:28.595-05:00The Genesis Of A Muse<div style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">As long as I have been writing, something has inspired me to put the words down one way or the other. My very first time I tried a hand in writing something creative, I scribed a poem for a pretty girl in my class. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Her name was Carmen and I thought I would marry her, something that usually doesn't cross the mind of a ten year old boy. She moved away soon after, but I wrote a few stories on how she was a princess and I was the knight that rescued her.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So that was my first muse. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">A muse, for those of you that are not familiar with the term,</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"> <span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">is an artistic or guiding force of inspiration to the artist. It is the reason he creates, and his work usually depicts that muse in some form. And that muse may or may not change in that artist's lifetime</span>.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In Greek Mythology, the Muses were the nine daughters of the gods Zeus and Mnemosyne. They were of one being in heart, soul, and mind. Each of the Muses had a different field of influence in the art and sciences. Legend would have that a man's worries would disappear is he was loved by the Muses. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">My muse was ever-changing. I had inspiration by my pets, Mother Nature, God, life, death, heartbreak, love, friends, and my children, to name a few. Most of the time, a particular muse would last a few weeks, occasionally months, then a new muse would encompass my work.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">There is one, however, that just won't go away.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">She is a woman I once knew. I haven't seen her in quite awhile now, but her essence, somehow, lingers in my soul. I have written a short story, several poems, a serial, a manuscript for a novel, and a screenplay that was inspired by her. Every time I write anything, I have to resist the urge not to include a character, a physical trait, or some part of her personality in that piece. I fail miserably every single time.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">There are times it just comes from within. We all have different personae that make up our being, and we create from the emotion of them. Some of these works are misinterpreted as representing an actual subject or object, but in was meant to be abstract, as emotion tends to be.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I noticed lately that I more inspired by my kids than ever. My daughter, who is nearly four, is always asking me to tell her a story. It almost always has a rebellious princess, a mythical creature, and a prince that tries to rescue her, but he ends up being <i>rescued by her. </i></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Then she tell him to go home while she pretends to be a boy and joins her father's army.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">Those storytelling sessions helped us bond and I have come up with several stories inspired by them. I may let you read them at a later time. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">So I guess that makes my daughter my muse as well. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I see so much in my eight year old boy that reminds me of myself at his age. Strong, intense, with a burning anger that dissipates when he does things that he is passionate about. He is very good at story, and has come up with some ideas that we both work on in the near future.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">I have written a few stories about him. Some of themes involve about the isolation he has often felt the few early years that I was sparingly in his life and the guilt that overcomes me because of it.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">So, I guess my son is also my muse.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">What inspires you, my fellow knights of the pen? Do you have a muse that makes the creative juices flow?</span></div>
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</span></div>RJ Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05229936470433204180noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858752741051544701.post-43755769878266697852011-07-22T08:00:00.024-04:002011-08-19T16:44:52.355-04:00A Boy's Best Friend (Part 1)<div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I was running through my neighborhood a few weeks ago during an unusually cool summer morning. It is the normal course of events to bump into people who are walking their dogs. Dozens of them I recognize from seeing almost every day. A Basset Hound named Fred (Yes, he was named after the comic strip, I asked.) A Toy Poodle named Fluffy (not kidding), a Pit Bull named Chops (I didn't ask), and a Mini-Bull Dog named Rocky.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">There is one, however, I did not recognize. A beautiful Black Labrador Retriever. His name was Shadow, and he had the most engaging orange- yellow eyes. I wanted to take him home with me. I asked the owner if she was selling, I being half serious knowing it was no way she would part ways with such a beautiful canine. </span></div><a name='more'></a><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The reason that this enamored me in such away is traced back to the early 1980's when I met one my best friends a kid hoped to have. He followed me home from school one day. He was good size, about 85 pounds, with a deep black shiny coat of short fur, with intelligent orange-yellow eyes. He had a red nylon collar encircling his neck. He kept his distance at first, about 20 feet behind me at all times. I was actually a little scared, then curious, but I stayed at that respectful distance he seemed to set.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">My house was on a corner of two streets, and we used the side entrance at most times. I was on the sidewalk on the side the front was facing, and when I eyed it, I ran as fast as my legs could carry me. I did not look back to see if was still behind me.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I rounded the corner of the side street toward the entrance of the house. I climbed the stairs of the porch, stumbled, and spilled my books and school supplies all over the place. I hurriedly picked them up and just when I gathered the last of my belongings, he dashed around that same corner like a bolt of black lightning.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I fumbled for my key, clumsily found the lock, and the sound of the tumblers moving settled down my growing anxiety. I push the open door and rush in, closing it in one hurried motion.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Breathing hard, I made the climb toward the third floor apartment of my family. After finally arriving to top of the stairs, I decided to take a quick breather. My mother opened the door a minute later.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">She asked me why was breathing so hard. I told her the obvious, I was running. She asked me if I was being chased by bullies, did something wrong, etc. After he repeated questions to which I answered no, she finally told her I was being chased by a dog.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I came inside the house and stood in the kitchen a few moments. Instead of going to my room, as was my usual routine, I had to resolve my worrisome mind. I peeled back the shade of the window to sneak a peek.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">He was thirty feet below, sitting on the sidewalk with his tongue hanging out. I swear he was looking up at me.</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">End of Part 1 </span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://rjhope69.blogspot.com/2011/08/boys-best-friend-part-2.html">A Boy's Best Friend (Part 2)</a> </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>RJ Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05229936470433204180noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858752741051544701.post-86643610140656928692011-07-21T08:00:00.006-04:002011-07-21T08:50:38.074-04:00I Will Read Your Stuff, MaybeI was reading an article by Academy Award nominated screenwriter <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0647939/">Josh Olsen</a>. He writes in it that he will not read anyone's script, and stated his reasons for this somewhat controversial stance.<br />
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Now from my view as someone who is a virtual nobody in the writing world, I say his reluctance in reading someone's screenplay, along with the reasons he gives, is because of competition. It does plays a small part. <br />
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What I am about to say is not a knock against Josh, because he is far better screenwriter then I'll probably ever be, but before he penned the phenomenal <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0399146/">"A History of Violence"</a>, he was just another struggling writer trying to make his way in Hollyweird. He got an option of a good graphic novel and adapted it into a great screenplay. (Not easy to do, possibly more difficult then writing a spec.)<br />
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Now with that being said, I have to state that if I become a writer with some status, I will probably behave the same way. I have to be honest about that.<br />
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Where I am right now, I have no problem with reading anyone's work. I am writer who likes to encourage others of my ilk. I am in the position to this because no one knows who the heck I am. I believe my mentality stems from the fact I am not successful. I can relate to someone who also struggles.<br />
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A bestselling novel, or successful movie based on your screenplay can change your mindset real fast.<br />
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You are now a successful professional. Everyone who knows the alphabet comes to you for an opinion about something they wrote. You know they really don't want to hear that opinion, because frankly, it would probably crush them.<br />
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I am with Josh in the fact that some people see screenwriting as something that a person with no skill could actually do. That is so far from the truth. Speaking as someone who has done all forms of writing, I think script writing is harder than any of the others. It takes years of hard work, practice, and experience. Let's not overlook the fact you must have something called <i>talent.</i><br />
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As I wrote earlier, competition plays a part. I mean it is hard to break in. And once you do, you want to stay in, so the best way to stay in is to not read other people's writing because it is a possibility they might be better than you. Then take the fact in this era of agism, this aspiring writer might even be younger than you.<br />
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So, right now I will read anything you write because I am not afraid of you. If success happens to find me, I probably will not give you any pointers about your writing. It is not because I don't want to hurt your feelings with your sub-par scribbles, it's because now I am afraid you may be a better writer than I am. I don't want you to take away my livelihood.<br />
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When it comes down to it, writers are by our very nature are an insecure and jealous lot.<br />
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If you make it big, would you still help me? If I was a betting man, I wager against it.<br />
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<i>For those of you interested, this is Josh's article in the Village Voice about reading someone's script. It is a very interesting read for all aspiring writers, regardless of genre. As a warning, it contains explicit language not suitable for younger readers.</i><br />
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<i><a href="http://blogs.villagevoice.com/runninscared/2009/09/i_will_not_read.php">Josh Olsen - I will not read your f**k**g script</a></i>RJ Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05229936470433204180noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858752741051544701.post-65820538903130990122011-07-20T10:44:00.005-04:002012-01-30T15:13:55.576-05:00The Tune And The PenI have this view that music is everything.<br />
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It is in my blood. My family comes from a long line of musicians. My dad was a professional drummer for many years for numerous bands, both on the road and in a studio. My uncle, dad's brother, was a guitarist of some renown in the New England area for a long time. Their mom (Grandma) was pianist who had taught children to play. My mom and sister are singers. I myself dabbled in music as a youngster, playing in garage bands and was an occasional studio fill-in.<br />
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Music for me, is like breathing. I feel like I am suffocating if I go too long without it. It soothes the savage breast, calms the soul of inner turmoil. You can get lost in it, tuning out the outside things you might not want to deal with at the time.<br />
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I appreciate all kinds of music, and in many of my short stories and screenplays, there is always an element of music. As I write this, I am listening to the lost tapes of Robert Johnson, a southern guitarist from a long ago era of Blues.<br />
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I am a fan of musical theater, more simply known as musicals. It combines the elements of dialogue, singing, and dancing. I think writing one borders on genius. Here the creator combines the talents of writer, songwriter, and choreographer. I would to love to be able to come up something along the lines of Oklahoma!, West Side Story, Hair, Rent, and Phantom of the Opera. Maybe some day I get extremely lucky and write something that might halfway resemble those brilliant musicals.<br />
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As the title of this blog tells implies, I believe the type of music suggests the mood of most of my writes. Since I enjoy all types of music, I might have Hard Rock or Rap if I am writing a angry piece or scene, a love ballad (insert insult here) if it a romantic scene or poem. The Blues may be wailing through the speakers if I writing something melancholic, etc.<br />
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I also believe if you're writing something in some other time in history, listening to the music of that era helps your mind to settle into that period. For example, if you're coming up with something set in the 1960's, then it helps to have a playlist of the artists of that time. I have used this technique many times and it seems to work for me.<br />
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I think musical training helps with the craft of writing. Both good music and good writing share a great sense of rhythm, melody, and harmony. Rhythm in writing constitutes having a good, steady, natural flow to your style. Melody is writing is the appropriate word arrangement to match a particular rhythm. Harmony in writing is the internal sounds the brain picks up that support the words. Have you ever read a book and seemed surprised that you read so effortlessly in a short time? Probably it had good rhythm, melody, and harmony.<br />
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One final thought. A musician could tell you that there are no new notes or chords he can create, but he can put a particular meaning to the one he chooses. That also goes for writing as well. A writer can give new meaning to ordinary words, giving them a special overtone that no one else will. Keep this in mind and you'll be flourishing.<br />
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What else do you do while writing?RJ Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05229936470433204180noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3858752741051544701.post-13703110255863381002011-07-19T09:16:00.004-04:002011-07-19T16:11:21.805-04:00A View From Afar (Part 1)<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">One day, a few months back, I was getting my morning coffee at my favorite franchise. I always go inside to the counter. (I make sure they get it right, it has been made wrong a few times</span>.)</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">As I walk toward the entrance, a woman that seemed to be about thirty years old approached me. She looked kept and clean, her clothes in good condition. She surprised me with her first words to me.<br />
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"Excuse me, sir. Can you please spare some change to get a cup of coffee." I saw sadness in those intelligent brown eyes. They told me how difficult it was to ask for help.<br />
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</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">"Come inside with me and I'll get you some breakfast." I said to her, flashing a friendly smile.</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">She returns it with a wonderful smile of her own. One that has stayed with me to this day. "Thank you so very much, sir." She said in a voice that seems to be chocking back tears.</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">"Please, call me Raymond." I said. "Sir would be for someone my father's age." </div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">"Thank you, Raymond." She says as she holds out her slender hand. "Carrie."</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I hold her hand in mine, surprised from the grip of this petite woman. "It is pleasure to meet you." I walk over to the door of the shop and hold it open. "After you."</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">That killer smile appeared again on her pretty face. "Thank you."<br />
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We reach the counter. While waiting in line I asked her would she would like to order. When it was my turn, I ordered the coffee and the food.<br />
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"I would like the pleasure of your company for breakfast." I asked. I watched her face, looking toward the floor as I my words tumbled out. She looked up with an expression that told be she was going to decline the invitation. After a few moments of doubt, that engaging smile once again adorned her face.<br />
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"Sure, I would love to." She responded. We grabbed a corner table, a small square one with two chairs. I place the order down and pulled out a chair for her. "Thank you", she says. I push her in gently toward the table. Then I proceeded to seat myself across form her.<br />
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We grab our food and began eating in silence. I watched as she basically attacked her sandwich with reckless abandon, a ravenous hunger is apparently abundant. I felt a sadness creep into me, but at the same time, I felt an elation that I could help another person.<br />
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As I ate and drank, I studied her features with an attempted subtlety. As I said, brown eyes, with an expression that told you she has seen her share of adversity. Long lashes, that seem to signal approachability when she blinked. Her cheeks were dimpled, which became more apparent when she smiled. And that smile, could slay many hearts, perfectly aligned and bright white teeth. I imagined she could clear out a gray, overcast day.<br />
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She caught me sizing her up. She showed her discomfort by the shuffling in her chair and the tight grip she had on the edge of the table, her knuckles turning white.<br />
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"I'm sorry." I said this with all sincerity. "And please pardon my ignorance but I was just wondering why such a attractive and intelligent woman would have to sort to asking for handouts." I smiled, trying to calm her uneasiness.<br />
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She looked at me with an intensity I have seen in myself. Her eyes now had flashes of anger. At first, I thought this hostility was toward me, but as she calmed, that melting smile returned.<br />
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"Well, I once had everything a girl could want." She said, as her smile now disappeared. "But, I was badly mistaken."<br />
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Then she told me her harrowing story.<br />
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End of Part 1</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"></div>RJ Hopehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05229936470433204180noreply@blogger.com0