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September 27, 2004
two minutes love
Last night I watched a documentary on Discovery Times called "Children of The Secret State." It began with footage taken secretly and at great risk to the camera man of starving children in towns and villages outside Pyongyang. They usually had no shoes, despite the mud and the cold. They were stunted, much shorter than they should be for their age. Their stomachs were distended and their black hair was fading to grey due to malnutrition. They milled about in the markets, looking anxiously at the adults who moved past them with no regard. In one town, there was a group of soldiers sitting and eating, without even a glance at the children. Children told harrowing stories of imprisonment, starvation, of watching other children die. Some drew horrible pictures of torture, starvation, murder, and of human flesh being sold in markets. All this in the country which receives more food aid from the US than any other nation.
I also saw a couple of journalists being conducted on the official tour. They stayed every night at a posh hotel situated on an island. They were fed six course gourmet meals, but were forbidden to leave the island unaccompanied. One day they toured through the beautiful part of Pyongyang (there were no tours of the countryside), and stopped in a park. They spoke with a little "impromptu" gathering of people there. One of the journalists asked a little boy of twelve, "Who do you think is responsible for the conflict between North Korea and the West?" The boy paused for a moment, looking not at the journalist, but around at all the other North Koreans. The people grew completely silent. The boy seemed to have a childish pleasure in the tension. Then he said "Bush."
It was scary how this little crowd of people reacted: overwhelming relief. There was clapping and smiling and murmurs of approval. There was a woman standing near the boy (could she have been his mother?) who started to laugh as soon as the boy answered. It was the laugh of someone who, for a moment, had something dear to her pulled away, but now it was back; like the laugh of a mother hearing her child would survive a grave surgery after all. She clasped her hands in front of her mouth, and looked like she might cry with joy. The boy was smiled at and patted on the back. He ate it up, looking around again at all the North Korean adults; never at the journalists.
Another scene which chilled me to the bone was the "Crying Room" at Kim Il Sung's tomb. On the wall was a bronze bas relief depicting Sung standing resolutely, looking off into the distance. Near him and literally clinging to him were people weeping. One man had clutched his lapel, his face turned downward, grimacing with grief. Near Sung's feet was a little girl, bronze tears coursing down her cheeks. Visitors would enter in groups, and for exactly two minutes, the female tour guide spoke about Sung. She started calm but soon her pitch began to rise, and tremors crept into her voice. She began speaking faster, and her evident emotion rose to a crescendo. The men in the group looked very grave. And then, one by one, the women in the group began to weep.
Then the two minutes were over, and the calm demeanor of the tour guide returned instantly. The women visitors were wiping tears from their eyes as the group began to file out, but the tour guide had no emotion. The only thing on her face was calculation. She was watching the group to see what their reaction had been. She had a practiced, experienced eye.
This was a glimpse of the process which creates people who are able to starve, maim, torture and kill others, to experiment with poison gas on entire families at once. It is an evil, evil place where human beings are being not merely raped, maimed or killed, but deconstructed. This is Orwell's 1984, the brass ring of totalitarianism: the Secret State wants nothing less than love for the Fatherly Leader of All Koreans.
Posted by joel at 05:44 AM | Comments (14) | TrackBack
September 25, 2004
loneliness is a lover
I've seen both sides of lonely.
I've looked on continents of cloistered people
From the safe and quiet arms of a woman.
I know the fight
To try compassion for the uncherished,
Smoothing down my joy
As if it were unseriousness,
Back of my heart knowing
I myself could not forever be immune
To the shady, forward charms of loneliness.
There was a time I looked up
And out from her.
She was my first, betrothed in childhood.
We were familiars, but I wanted quit.
I despised her, hardening my desperate hope
To land among the happy,
The laughing, the lovely, the un-lonely.
She bade me sit with her, but I paced,
Stalking like a lion
Caged in sight of his natural prey.
I left her, but she trails me.
She stalks us;
Discomfits my mistresses
With her little notes
And private jokes.
At happy occasions she creeps
Into my woman's face.
Mocking me,
She tries on all her expressions;
Kisses me with her lipstick,
As if to make me blush.
Jealous but not hateful,
She haunts me.
Foolish and tenderhearted,
She goads and teases,
Then weeps when arguments begin.
When my other lovers left
I still did not return her calls.
I slipped away to smoky darkness,
Cozy with my drinks,
Neither lonely
Nor taken up with friends.
Shrivelled, drying, untouched I was
Even by the love of loneliness.
Well, sweetheart, I am returned,
Alone with you again.
I paced enough outside those bars to know
There is no cage
We don't all pace together.
And now I see at a tender glance
You've grown into a woman,
Full with the world;
Filled up with lovers and grandmothers,
Dorks and debutantes,
Soldiers and orphans,
Kings and the last to be picked at dodgeball.
You're beautiful, kith fast to my soul;
Awesome more than an army with banners.
I settle down with you,
Gentler, happier than before,
And pleased to see in your smile
A thousand friends.
Posted by joel at 02:54 PM | Comments (10) | TrackBack
September 24, 2004
exit interview
"Hey Brian, hey, it's Joel here." Shuffles some papers on desk, and then hits the speakerphone button and picks up the handset. "How are you?...Good, good. Listen Brian, I just got the word. I hear you're leaving us."
...
"Well, sure, I know you're not leaving leaving. But you're leaving your blog. I have to say, this is quite a surprise. And it kinda bothers me (well, a little bit) because I had told myself that I was listening to all my bloggers' concerns, and that I kinda had my finger on the pulse, as it were. And then this comes right out of the blue. I'm worried that I may have dropped the ball somehow. Is there some way we can talk about this?"
...
"Sure, I understand. Well, is it the money? I mean you're already one of my top-paid bloggers, but if reviewing contracts is what it takes, then...Uh huh...Uh huh...I see...Yeah, ok."
...
"Weeeelllll...Ok. But one more quick question, and I hope you don't take this the wrong way...are you, by any chance...how do I...well, gosh I'll just come out and say it: are you writing for another Internet? You sure? You'd tell me if you were, wouldn't you? I mean supposing, hypothetically that you were writing for another Internet, how much would they be paying you, if you don't mind my asking?"
...
"Right, ok, you're right, I agree, not really appropriate. Sorry." Exhales. "Are you sure we can't change your mind?"
...
"Well, listen Brian, I want you to know you'll always have a blog waiting for you with us...Well, yeah, and it's been a really great run. Honestly."
...
"Well thanks, we feel the same way about it. Best of luck to you, Brian."
...
Damn, that didn't go so well. I can't believe this is happening.
Posted by joel at 03:21 PM | Comments (7) | TrackBack
September 22, 2004
an aside to the readers
It seems to me there is some dissatisfaction among the readers of the Joel Hoagland series with the choices provided in some of the installments. I must admit, sometimes my first reaction is to say, "piss off, there is no option 'E.'" And I suppose, in a sense, I am not wrong to feel that way. These are my stories, after all, and I should own the confidence to tell them as I see fit.
However, on further reflection, I must acknowledge that the secret to my Enormous Success is you, my Readers. To ignore any dissatisfaction you might have with how the series is playing out would be arrogance, and a conceit I cannot ultimately afford. I have never written anything like this "choose my own adventure" story. Truth be told, after hurling off the first installment, I had no idea how I was going to proceed.
The idea I settled upon was this: use a fictitious conversation as a framework for a series of true stories, allowing the readers to vote on which details or stories they wanted to hear next. And that is what I have done. There really was a "Tamara" who really did ask me if I were gay whilst I drove her (and my sister Fid) home one evening. But at that point the story of Tamara becomes fiction; the truth is I don't remember exactly what my answer was, and it hardly mattered, since I just dropped her off at her house. I never did seriously consider asking her out; she was a minor at the time, and I was 23. But for the sake of the storytelling vehicle I wanted to create, I downplayed this detail, and crafted a late-night coffee run which never happened.
Some of you seem to be interested in more swashbuckling, more exploits d'amor. I am averse, in this series, to telling fictional stories about myself which are not fundamentally true to myself (I save that stuff for the boudoir). Truthfully, I was more Don Quixote than Don Juan. I was no Condom Commando; my first french kiss was delivered to my wife to be. The love stories of my youth are short on salacious details, not because of any reticence I have in revealing them, but because the stories themselves are relatively tame.
For instance, the story of sitting on the swings next to Karenne and saying nothing for an hour is painfully dull, and boring to the point of aggravation. The point in telling that story is that all that awkward silence is, by itself, the story. That's what happened, and the fact that it happened that way tells you something about me and about Karenne.
Nevertheless, I am open to criticism regarding the choices I am offering to you, my readers. Furthermore, I am not averse to adding more fiction to the mix, and perhaps there should be more excitement. Your comments and suggestions will be most expected. I promise to give them a careful and respectful review before once more advising each and every one of you to "piss off."
Posted by joel at 09:16 PM | Comments (9) | TrackBack
September 21, 2004
the love life of joel hoagland (page 4)
Joel set his coffee spoon down on the soggy corner of his paper placemat and then looked at Tamara. "Haven't you been listening? It was Karenne, obviously. She had golden hair; big hair! I'm not made of stone, you know."
"Anyway, Karenne had a cousin whose family lived on the campus of the summer camp, and so, to my unutterable delight, Karenne stayed on after camp for a couple of weeks.
"Of course, Nichole had to leave. Karenne and I would finally have the chance to spend some time together. I remember one day she and I sat on the swings together, looking out across the beautiful late summer. I wanted to talk with her, but I was afraid to attempt to speak to her in French. So I paused for a long time. Then I decided I should just speak up. I should say something, anything, on any topic. My heart flopped in my chest. We still sat, gently swinging, neither of us speaking. Another kid came along, the kid brother of Karenne's cousin. He spoke no English, but he and I exchanged some words easily before he went on his way. There, I thought, that was no problem, so now I can just start talking to Karenne. I paused for one more moment. A long, long, long moment.
"We sat there, side by side on the swings for over an hour. It was an eternity. A million witty ideas came into my head which I knew would instantly beguile her, but I attempted none of them. It grew quite awkward. I couldn't look at her. I took to staring out at the horizon intently, pensively, as if my father were coming home from the sea any minute now. She took to following my gaze, no doubt wondering what on earth I was staring at. Perhaps she first thought I was angry at the horizon, and then concluded, sadly, that I had fallen madly in love with it. Eventually my younger brother labored up the hill to announce that dinner was ready. Thus ended our interview; our precious verbal triste was concluded without a single caress.
"Things went slightly better when I joined Karenne in the company of her cousins. We would go everywhere together, we four. Once I snuck them all into our apartment, and, in attempting to maintain the ruse, rushed us all into the bathroom and closed the door. My siblings must have been on to us, for they pounded on the door at length, and demanded that whatever hanky-panky was happening be stopped. If only they had known how safe we were together, the gold-haired girl and the plumbum boy; adjacent, but inert.
"Finally, at the end of the summer, Karenne had to leave, and I forgot her."
"You forgot her?" Tamara asked.
"Certainly. It was kind of a relief. I had plenty of time later to reflect on the fact that she had bad posture. And I can't remember a thing about her face. But that hair..." Joel trailed off.
Fid feigned snoring and slouched over against Tamara, who ignored her.
"So that was it? Did you ever see any of them again?"
"Actually, I did see Nichole again. It was utterly serendipitous. My family made a trip up to Quebec City about a year later. While we were wandering through the stone cobbled streets of that fine old town, we bumped into Nichole, completely by chance. I was surprised to realize my own delight in seeing her. We conversed fluidly, like old friends, and she tagged along with our family on our siteseeing for an hour or two, and then bid me goodbye. I have never seen her since."
"That has got to be the stupidest girlfriend story I've ever heard," Tamara said, ripping open a packet of sugar and dumping it onto a saucer.
In your comment please indicate which of these options you choose and give a reason why.
A. Joel guzzled the last of his coffee, smooshed his mouth with a napkin, and replied, "Yes. Look at the time. Shall we go?"
B. "Are you kidding?" Joel retorted, "I haven't even told you about the fourth girl from summer camp!"
C. "Ok," Joel allowed evenly, "but I bet you don't still think I'm gay."
D. "Maybe you'd like to hear about my very first girlfriend," Joel replied.
Posted by joel at 10:31 PM | Comments (9) | TrackBack
September 15, 2004
the love life of joel hoagland (page 3)
"Come to think of it, I haven't really seen you with any boyfriends, Tamara."
"Well then you'd better start paying more attention."
"Joel, you're going the WRONG way!" Fid butted in. "Tam, Joel does have girlfriends. Lots of them."
The police car whooshed past them, sailing through the red light at the next intersection without slowing.
Joel was grinning again. "That's right. There's a reason my mom sends my sister along whenever I might happen to be alone with a girl."
"It sucks," said Fid.
"You're telling me," returned Joel. "Could you girls go for a cup of coffee?" Joel eased to the curb next to a local greasy spoon diner without waiting for a response. Tamara didn't say anything.
Five minutes later they were fogging up their coffee with half 'n half, trying to mask the burned staleness of the local brew.
"I'm going to tell you about one of my girlfriends." said Joel. "I'm sick and tired of everybody thinking I don't have girlfriends, so here's the lowdown on one of my early ones.
"It was the summer of my 15th year. Our family was spending the vacation at a youth camp in Quebec, Canada. Our parents thought it would be great for us kids to have a french immersion experience, so off we went. There were two weeks of kids camps, during which I worked in the camp kitchen as a dishwasher. I also did various other jobs around the campus, from mowing lawns to skimming the pool to delivering a freshly cleaned and trimmed kerosene lantern to each cabin every night. But then the high-school camp came along, and I was transformed from linguisticly challenged day-laborer to fashionably American wonder boy. The girls seemed to like my pidgen French, and I enjoyed their tutelage. Early in the week I had fixated on a girl named Karenne. To me she was absolutely beautiful. She had wonderful big hair, the peak of fashion in the 80's.
"The ironic thing about me as a cassanova," Joel leaned toward the girls across the table in a conspiratorial fashion, "is that I'm actually very shy." Tamara looked at Joel as if he had silvery-green skin and had just debarked from a flying saucer. His sister rolled her eyes and stared out the darkened window. "I didn't know how to approach Karenne," Joel continued, "so I resorted to the tactic of staring intensely at her whenever she was in sight. I didn't just stare, or glare, I bored holes in the atmosphere. I smouldered, beaming telepathic messages of love directly into her brain; I sent her sonnets of love that would melt her heart and send her rushing into my arms."
Tamara wanted to laugh, but she tried not to, looking down at her coffee and pressing her fist against her mouth. Fid glanced at Joel, glanced at Tamara, paused a beat, and then deliberately delivered a snort. That's all it took; both girls were laughing uncontrollably. Joel waited, smiling, and nodded as if to assert the truth of his claim.
"Finally Karenne could bear it no more, and she instructed her hand maiden, a cute brunette with a unisex haircut named Nichole..." Joel paused with a slightly confused expression. "The girl was named Nichole. Not the haircut. Anyway, Karenne sent Nichole to me to ask 'Joel, pourquoi tu est fashe contre moi?'
"After asking Nichole to slow down and repeat herself about 12 times, I finally comprehended that Karenne had assumed that my intense smouldering signified that I was somehow angry at her. I hastily assured Nichole that nothing could be further from the truth. I explained that this was customary way for stylishly American boys to indicate their amorous intentions. I don't think Nichole bought it, but she did deliver to Karenne the important nut of the message: I had fallen hard, was smitten, and had a 'thing' for her.
"So began my preliminary conversations with Karenne. Nichole was always present for these stilted, cross lingual talks, and did most of the talking. It was not long before I began to notice that while Karenne was the queen of a that was beautiful, a chap could do alot worse than Nichole. She was witty, vivacious and downright scandalous. Realizing that my intrest was in Karenne alone, she went so far as to suggest that perhaps I needed two women; one to wash me and one to dry me. I was mortified and pleased. Mortified because I knew there was something fundementally wrong with this idea. I could not help but imagine a household with two women, and I couldn't imagine it without seeing some profoundly broken hearts. But I was pleased with the surfeit of attention. At best I had a choice to make. It was only Tuesday, but this week of camp was going very well in my estimation.
"By Tuesday evening things were beginning to slide. A girl named Gilenne, with whom I had never even conversed, was spreading the tidings of my heartfelt confession of love for her. My first reaction was simply to ignore her claims. Surely this rumor, as completely unfounded as it was, could not gather steam. By wednesday morning I was confronted with my mistake: she had it that we'd spent the night together, and sealed our love for each other with long affectionate kisses on the mouth. Horrified, I rushed to Karenne (and Nichole), who were understandably confused. I swore these rumors had no basis in the truth. I barely knew who Gilenne was. Karenne (and Nichole) were skeptical and impressed.
"Gilenne a vision of awkwardness. She wasn't fat, but was possessed of a certain solidity of limb which ruled her out for me, with my preference for petites. She had short, dull brown hair, done in some faded mix between Shirley Temple and a twenties bob. I found it to be wholly undesirable. Her skin was clear and healthy, but her nose was cute and buttonish; not to my liking at all. Truth be told, I couldn't make a very adequate accounting of her appearance, because her lies put me in a position I did not relish; she made me revile her.
"Looking back, of course, I have to give her her due as a very enterprising young woman. Clearly she would have known that girls like the georgeous Karenne and the witty, pixielike Nichole tend to have better luck in getting boys' attention. But she had figured out that reputation was near the core of a man. She was already playing hard ball while the rest of us were still playing T-ball." Joel paused his story as the waitress came by with a pot of coffee, and accepted a refill.
"So which of those three girls is the 'girlfriend' in this story?" Tamara asked.
In your comment please indicate which of these options you choose and give a reason why.
A. Joel says, "Haven't you been listening? Karenne, obviously!"
B. Joel says, "I wouldn't have thought so at the time, but now I know it was Nichole."
C. Joel says, "I gotta say, I really wonder whatever became of Gilenne."
D. Joel says, "Whoa, look at the time! I gotta get you home."
Posted by joel at 05:28 PM | Comments (18) | TrackBack
September 13, 2004
the love life of joel hoagland (page 2)
Joel smiled, and kept silent, hoping that his silence would be intriguing, instead of revealing how nonplussed he really was. He glanced in the rear view mirror, and noticed a police cruiser had fallen into traffic behind him. Instinctively he tensed, for no good reason. His license was in good order, and his dad's vehicle registration was in the glove box. Nonetheless it always made him nervous when Lakewood's finest followed him.
"Well?" Tamara asked, "Are you?"
"Why do you ask?"
"It just seems like I never see you with any girlfriends."
Joel took a right turn on Alhambra to see if the cop would quit following him. The squad car turned a lazy right onto Alhambra.
"Joel, what are you doing?" his sister asked. "Tamara lives on Nichols."
Now Joel was flustered. It was stupid to change course because of a police car on his tail, and he felt it showed how much Tamara's question had distracted him. "No, I'm not gay."
"Are you sure?" Tamara seemed unconcerned by his route change.
Joel thought about Tamara's gambit. She was essentially daring him to prove his sexual orientation, and there was really only one practicable way to do that. But Joel hated, almost more than anything, to be predicted by a woman. It would be quite some time before he learned the value of that.
Joel decided that this conversation had ended unsatisfactorily for him, and resigned himself to the disappointment. In his rear view mirror, the police cruiser's blue and red lights came on, and both girls turned around to look.
In your comment please indicate which of these options you choose and give a reason why.
A. Joel says, "Come to think of it, I haven't really seen you with any boyfriends, Tamara."
B. Joel says, "I have a girlfriend, but she lives in North Carolina."
C. Joel says, "Is everybody buckled up?"
D. Joel ignores Tamara and decides to attempt another right turn to see if the cop is actually signaling him to stop or not.
Posted by joel at 01:29 PM | Comments (8) | TrackBack
September 09, 2004
the love life of joel hoagland
ChezJoel.com is pleased to present a "choose your own adventure" interactive blog e-novel loosely based on the love life of Joel Hoagland. At the end of each new installment, you, the reader, will decide what Joel Hoagland should do next!
Joel finished stacking the shredded cheddar cheese on his nachos, and glanced quickly over at the microwave. The prognosis was not good. Ksra's nachos were in for another minute, and the plates of two other guests at the Hoagland household formed a queue on the counter in front of the microwave.
Several of Fid's jazz ensemble friends were over, excitedly buzzing about their successful concert earlier this evening, so the house was pretty lively. Joel put his plate into the queue, and was thinking of skulking down to his bedroom in the basement for a few minutes, when Fid, his kid-sister did a skid through the kitchen doorway, jangled their dad's car keys and said, "You're driving."
Joel swallowed a flash of resentment. Apparently he didn't merit an, "Are you busy, could you please?" from Fid. She was that way with everybody, though; breezy, self-assured, and curt in a friendly, inclusive kind of way. Joel couldn't think of any retort that wouldn't just make things worse, so he opted for a look of confusion as a way of registering his reluctance to be commandeered away from the nacho can-can. Fid pretended the look of confusion meant her brother was just slow: "Tamara needs a ride home, so you're it."
Hmmmm, thought Joel. This was interesting. Tamara was a cutie with long dark curly tresses. Joel didn't know her very well, but he was starting to think that driving Tamara home might be a great way to start. Nonetheless he tried to look disgruntled as he grabbed the car keys and gruffed, "Is she going now?"
Tamara worked her way through the cheerful rug dance that cute girls always do when they are bidding other cute girls good bye until tomorrow morning, and then Joel and Tamara headed out across the darkened yard toward the grey minivan parked on the curb. Suddenly the yard was illuminated as the front door opened again, and Fid was descending the steps. She darted up next to Joel, grabbed his elbow and, pretending to half stumble, she furtively whispered, "Mom says I have to come with."
Joel tucked a resigned, sardonic smile into the collar of his winter coat, and said aloud, for Tamara's benifit, "Hi Fid, you coming with us?" It was a totally unconvincing ruse; nobody bought it, least of all Tamara. But she said nothing. She'd known our family for a couple of years now. Joel didn't know if she had any interest in him; none of his sisters had ever said so. But Joel felt a little sorry for her, for the awkwardness of the situation.
The two girls jeeves'd him, settling into the back seats, leaving him to drive alone in the front of the minivan. Joel had pretty much tuned out their low, barely audible conversation when suddenly Tamara spoke up from directly behind him. "Joel," she asked, "are you gay?"
Joel didn't answer right away. He felt slightly flustered, but mostly it seemed funny. A few years ago, in the throes of adolescence this question would probably have gotten a volcanic response out of him, but tonight he had a hunch Tamara was flirting with him. He paused, indulging in a private, quiet, laughing smile before clearing his throat and answering Tamara's question.
In your comment please indicate which of these options you choose and give a reason why.
A. Joel says, "Tamara, I've always liked that you're not afraid of my animal magnetism, but until tonight I really didn't know how you felt about me."
B. Joel feigns idiocy and says, "Gay...you mean like 'happy' back in the good ole days of prohibition?"
C. Joel says, "That depends on whether you're a guy in drag."
D. Joel, still smiling to himself, decides to let Tamara's question hang in the air while he drives several more blocks.
Posted by joel at 05:17 PM | Comments (12) | TrackBack