Ugh - Hodge and Ilan.....................

Hodge: So we've gotta do this Ping Pong thing, now. After perusing the other ping pongs, I've come to the conclusion that we lack sufficient wit and have far too much brevity to do it well, so let's just concentrate on doing it.

One thing I've always wondered about you is why you like sonnets so much. In particular, Shakespearean sonnets. I remember writing sonnets in high school and doing better than everyone else in class, but still sucking like Paris Hilton on any given week night. What's your secret? Does it come in pill form? Can I be on your infomercial?

Ilan: I was going to suggest that we make up for the lack of wit by filling our dialogue with informative content and counteract the brevity by addressing complex questions, but the readers don't want any of that crap. They just want crude sexual innuendo. Well, I'll give them something crude and... uh... sexual!

....No, but seriously, you're not chick enough—and I'm not drunk enough—for me to flirt with you, Josh. If we lack originality and really have to return to rehashed jokes (and you can be certain that we will), we'll just have to direct our lewd comments towards Jen.

The Shakespearean sonnet is, to me, one of the finest forms of poetry one can find. It has all the composure of a rigid poetry form yet the flexibility to provide ample manipulation. Concise but not limiting; it offers all sorts of variation in rhyme scheme and meter, and it just sounds great to read aloud. It is the panther of the poetry world, and although the cat's got claws, if you can tame the beast, the ride is worth it. Italian sonnets are ok, but they lack the punch of a closing couplet, and without that little gimmick I'd have to resort to a greater quality of writing, and, frankly, no one notices a hack if he speaks in Iambic Pentameter, so why bother? The secret, like every other secret, is in the sauce. Add a bit of flair to an otherwise simple message, fit some themed wordplay in, if you can, and people will eat it up like Ethiopians at a Chinese buffet. And lock away all the awful sonnets far from public eye like they were a child you were ashamed—or, in keeping with my earlier analogy, keep those suckas out of sight like they were General Tso's Low-Fat Tofu.

But what about your writing? In the past three years, I've only seen a single piece of yours, and it... sucked (i.e. used symbolism—that sort of thing is above me). What sort of writing do you stick to? Specific genres? Ever thought about experimenting a little? Everyone else is doing it. And for chrissake, why don't you ever post any of it up? You think you're too good for us or something? Well, you're not too good for anyone. And neither are we. Where is the love, man?

Hodge: I once tried to do a sonnet. It didn't turn out so well, although now I know why: poetry sucks. Yes, I said it. And even though my only published piece is a poem, I'll never admit to being a poet. Neva.

I know I've posted up a good many pieces. Not on LM, but over on WF I've posted a dozen or so. Maybe less. I don't remember any symbolism, but the thing about symbolism is that no one consciously does it -- oh no! A writer writes the piece and then someone else says "yo, nice symbolism!" and the writer gives a sort of sheepish grin and says, "yeah... I totally meant to do that."

Oh, and I experiment all the time, baby. I've got stuff from all different kinds of genres (but most of it's also literary because I'm too smart to do anything but), although I particularly like writing surrealist fiction and post-modern mind-fucks. I also have some poetry, but since I'm not a poet I've disowned all of it. Most of it was written when I was in middle and high school, anyway... Angsty crap.

I know you've been writing since you were at least 14 or 15, because that's when you first joined Writingforums.com, but when did you really start? What was your first finished piece? Are you proud of it? Does it make you cringe? Could I blackmail you if I got ahold of it?

Ilan: Naw, man, poetry doesn't suck. Poetry is not about logic or reason—it's about the exact opposite, actually. The surrendering of emotion and idea to the beautiful precision of language. You can't debate it or subjugate it. Wink

On an aside, would you consider writing and reciting a rap for the good people of LiteraryMary? (I could beat-box.) (I can't, actually, beat-box. You're on your own, mate.)

I've been writing all my life, really—isn't that too cliché for classy fellas like us? But if I do use that answer, the first piece I wrote was when I was five or so and aptly titled "The Adventures of Smiley Man," which, I suppose, would be considered fiction. I know my dad has it saved somewhere; I'll scan it and post it up if I ever come across it.

But I started considering myself a writer when I was twelve, I think—maybe thirteen. At the time, I wrote the most horrid poetry ever produced, although I must admit I could never evoke as much emotion from readers now as from those works (assuming the desire to punch a poet, and then oneself, in the neck is an emotion). At that time, actually, I ran a blog with about fifteen other friends, titled The Blog (and the creativity of the name was an indication of our writing, I think), where we'd post our works. More drama was settled, and created, on that blog than anywhere else in my life, but it was still plenty of fun for the two years it lasted.

It really did take me at least a year of writing before I started writing for myself, and stopped showing every single piece I wrote to my friends; that's why I can't bring myself to tell fledging writers why they should write. The desire and interest in writing came later; it began as an easy way of preening my ego. Since then, of course, I've learned that there are much more effective ways of doing so, freeing up the writing to become an interest, and only a little bit of an ego booster.

But I digress. Tell me the best line, or segment of writing, you've ever read! And tell me why! Then develop some unrelated tangent involving me. And then tell me and the readers something you have never revealed to the internet ever before! (And remember, the readers want sauce. Sauce.)

Hodge: Subjugation indeed! Poetry is emotion, yes, but it must be tempered with a reasonable eye afterwards or you end up with stuff like this:

"Pain"

The darkness consumes my very soul
And I want to escape but I can't
Because the demons pull me under
So I cut myself.

That's where your "emotion" gets you!

Sure, I'll rap if you beatbox. I can't rap, actually, so you're on your own.

You young'ns and your "blogs"... When I was 12 or 13, a 56k modem was hella fast, and "blogs" didn't exist yet. We had internet forums, I believe, but I spent most of my time looking up porn, not knowing what to do with it, and hoping I didn't get caught.

That's about where I decided I was a writer, though. Starting in 8th grade (okay, so I was 14, not 13), I began to seriously consider a writing career. I'd always written for fun before that, but I wanted to be a scientist of some sort. When I realized I didn't like math anymore, I decided against the scientist route and began to write an epic fantasy novel with no humans in it. I won't mention anymore, save that I got to about 100,000 words before I realized it was embarassing and scrapped it. An earlier copy of it escaped onto a computer disk, however, and its whereabouts are currently unknown...

The best piece of writing I've read? That would have to be, "the disassociative properties of the Halstatt-2 group set it completely apart from the La Tene-1 group, and further transfigure the gap between the Celtiberians and Gauls. While human sacrifice is not entirely out of the question, it is certainly more likely that these bodies were already dead when buried!"

Amazing, no? I can't even begin to explain the magnificent magnificence of this little quote I've pulled from a book on the Celts. Actually, I just pulled it from my ass... I don't know what the best piece line or segment of writing is, so I'll just ignore your question.

But reveal something unique I can do! Let's see, I've never told anyone that I don't have a third nipple...

Here's a question for you: why writing? You're a bright young lad, and I know you're athletic, so why aren't you entertaining delusions of professional sports and such? Writing certainly isn't the most lucrative career, and even if it's something you love, it's still hard work to actually do anything with it. Enlighten us, please, and if you have a third nipple, I want to hear about it.

Ilan: Referring to your impromptu poem... uh... 3.5/5 stars.

So, a scientist, eh? What sort would you be, then? (And if it weren't for the Scientific Method—which pretty much ensures every experiment ever will be really, really boring—I would seriously consider a career in genetics.

And as titillating as your bit about a third nipple may be, I was hoping for something a bit more scandalous. Like maybe, "I've never told anyone that I don't have a second nipple."

Professional sports don't interest me. Save for rock climbing and some casual ultimate frisbee, I don't really participate in sports anyway (and running is not a sport, no matter what anyone says), and I'm not good enough at either of those to make anything of myself through them. As for writing, it's a hobby first, and a professional means to an end, second. I've never been published and I probably won't attempt to be until I have something publishable, but I'll probably always write poetry or fiddle around with short stories. Right now, I have three requirements for my profession: It has to be physically challenging and/or dangerous, mentally challenging and/or dangerous, and it has to be a civil service. But then, I'm sure all of that will change by the time it matters.

What are your highest aspirations (both feasible and unfeasible)? If you could live in any time period, which would it be? If you could make one insignificant change to the world, what would it be? What theories have you developed that you steadfastly assert are correct, but that no one will believe?

Hodge: Science rox0rs your cox0rs. I originally wanted to be an astronomer, then a geologist, then I wanted to be an astrophysicist, then I wanted to be a psychologist, then a sociologist, then a biologist, then an everythingologist. Because science rox0rs your cox0rs. Instead I decided to just read up on all of it and be an idea man.

I have the perfect profession for you: drug lord. Think Tony Montana. First you have to be in good enough shape to keep those assassins and Columbian death squads from killing you, and then you have to have a strong enough will to deal with the death of your sister, your wife divorcing you, and killing your best friend, and it's civil service because you're helping people get their fix. Perfect job.

My highest aspirations... Well, I'd like to be a god, which leads me to my theory that few will believe: if you could escape the universe, you'd be a god, because inside of it you are bound by all these silly physical laws that dictate you can't do certain things. But outside of the universe, none of those exist—your only limit is your mind. Inside your head you can think of anything, no matter how impossible it is. Outside the universe, there is no line between this abstract, "imaginary" world and the "real" world.
So that's my feasible aspiration. My unfeasible aspiration would be winning a hot dog eating contest.
And an insignificant change to the world? I'd like to pee in a vat of soda at a Coca-Cola bottling plant.

Now let's hear about these crackpot notions of yours. This may be the only chance you'll get to do so without me arguing incessantly with you. Also, would you like to be a pimp? If so, would you prefer purple or maroon? Velvet or vinyl? If a ho is coming towards you from the east at 5 mph with $150, and another ho is coming from the west at 7 mph with $95, which one do you smack?

Ilan: Dude, it's like you're reading my mind. You're the second person in like three days to seriously suggest drug lord as a profession to me, and last summer I looked into it briefly, and ended up funding an $80 purchase of weed, which I was never in direct contact with, but gave me a return of $150 or so. The guy I was funding ripped me off, and I almost killed him, but I realized I still took a profit (as small as it was), and that I didn't have to front the time or risk in getting the money back. Anyway, the point is that I wouldn't make a great drug lord, because drugs aren't really where the hap' is happenin', 'n'a'mean?

Joshy-boy, you don't think the mind has limitations? For example, no matter how hard I imagine it, I just can't picture myself with shaved legs. It would look eery; hell, this week someone commented on my beautiful, muscular, sculpted calfs and mentioned that their hair was essential in maintaining their allure. Paradoxically, maybe the mind's limitations include being unable to see said limitations, eh?

My insignificant change to the world would be to bring fedora hats back into style. Their time has come, baby. My unfeasible aspiration is to buy Antarctica and use it for commercial enterprise (in fact, about a year after I had this idea initially , someone bought Canada's portion of Antarctica for $1 and turned it into a $1 billion per year profitable investment, by dredging it and creating ports and strafes for ships). My other unfeasible aspiration is to own Lenin's body, and turn the glass case he's kept in into a coffee table. My feasible aspiration (three years' in the making, by this summer, although at this point all I really need is time and inspiration to get it done) is to make a machine that will beat the keyless remote entries on car doors. I've probably spent a good ten hours of research on the topic and it's definitely possible. My other feasible aspiration is to enlighten the American masses as to the evils of Santa Claus—in fact, I'll probably post up a short essay I wrote on the subject soon enough, for the good people of LiteraryMary (and this way I'll get to hear more of your incessant arguing, which brings me close to climax as it is). This paragraph could probably go on forever, but I think I've already made myself appear crazy enough, and technically I was answering my own questions throughout, and one of my unfeasible aspirations is to avoid appearing megalomaniacal, so I figure while I've already made my longest paragraph all about me, I can probably deflect people's attention away via some clever misdirection. Uh... what's that behind your ear? A coin?

And if I can iterate the bit about your reading my mind, I did look into pimping as a part-time job once I started college. My plan was to be a benevolent pimp—I'd treat my hos with respect and serve as a guardian against rape or bails, and I'd pass most of my profits on to them. I was totally psyched about it and started recruiting my bitches until I discovered that pimping is a sex crime, and it seemed to me that if I were to commit a sex crime, I should at least derive sexual pleasure out of it, so that was the end of that idea.

I think I've rambled enough, at this point, so: a look into your childhood! Where did you grow up? What was it like? Was there a turning point that led you to became the bitter, disillusioned bastard we all know and love (and/or hate) today? Who was your first crush?

Hodge: The only limitation the mind has (besides practical limitations like processing speeds and protection against blunt trauma force) is imperfect information. If you knew everything, you'd be able to imagine anything. Oh yes.

Dude, fedoras rock. I've actually been looking for one lately because I figure I can call up Wyndstar for a whip and my buddy Ryan for a brown leather jacket and I can be Indiana Jones! And coffee table Lenin? Brilliant. Simply brilliant. You do sound 100% crazy, but in regards to deflecting people's thoughts, sometimes I'll act like people around me are reading my mind and I'll think things to them like, "I'm on to you." Perhaps it's because I can read your mind?

I can totally see you as a benevolent pimp. I mean, not everyone wants to smack women and treat them like shit, but who doesn't want crushed velvet and a cane?

I grew up in Juneau, Alaska, which is where I still live. Early on, after having been indoctrinated into believing adults were infallible and better than me, I found out it wasn't true. What followed was the realization that I didn't have to be the religion my parents were (it's just statistically how it works out), and then the realization that I was smarter than my parents in many areas. It totally rocked, especially when I'd get sent to the office at school for mouthing off to teachers. My first crush was a girl in kindergarten, actually. I don't really remember much about it except that her name was either "Cat" or "Cathy," and I thought it was "Catty," which I then wanted to name the new cat we got that same year.
Okay, Ilan, I think if anyone reads this far they deserve a medal. I'll leave the last words to you: what's your favorite book? What author do you despise? What poet reminds you most of grandma's home cooking?

Ilan: Like I said, though: Isn't it possible the mind is incapable of understanding it's own limitations? It lacks its own perspective. Maybe someone can start a debate on this, eventually. [smiley=shrug.gif]

I hate Anna Quindlen... it's rare I don't finish a novel, even if I don't like it, but I was nothing less than thankful to put down _One True Thing towards its final chapters. I have no favorite book; my favorites are frequently changing, based on whatever's going on in my life, and which books I connect to. At the moment it's J.D. Laing's Knots_ and Yamamot Tsunetomo's _Hagakure_, but before that it was Herman Hesse's _Narcissus and Goldmund_ and Shakespeare's sonnets. Herman Hesse, nevertheless, is my favorite author—his writing style is classical but not overbearing, like that of many classics. Rainer Maria Rilke's poetry reminds me of my grandma's cooking; not totally used to it, pretty good, and overall comfortable to read (and, in the latter case, eat).

I get the final word, eh? That's quite a responsibility. Is it not, after all, the last, resounding message that will summarize our dialogue, the closing idea to put forth towards the readers as an inspirational conglomerate of our now-public exchange of ideas?

Uh... boobs.