Author Topic: how to make love to a woman  (Read 3539 times)

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©brad

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how to make love to a woman
« on: February 10, 2004, 09:48:17 PM »
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Him
What do I want to eat? I only have fifty three cents. My choices are limited. All the good stuff is in the seventy-five cent price range. The only thing I can afford is a pack of wintergreen Certs. I need some salt. If I had an extra nickel I could get a bag of chips, or pretzels, or cookies. Sure they were the cheap, knock-off generic kind, and sure, they weren’t nearly as tasty as the more expensive name-brands they emulated. If only I had stopped for change on the way to work. I had a five dollar bill I could have easily broken at the Texaco. Why didn’t I do it? I can’t put a five dollar bill in this machine, can I? Would it give me back change in all coin-form? I seriously doubt it would give me back four dollar bills. No chance in hell. I can’t risk it. I don’t want to walk around for the rest of the day with all those coins in my pockets. Fuck me, I’m such an idiot. Why didn’t I think ahead? I should have gotten change. This is taking too long. Pick something. I don’t want Certs. What else is there? I see a pack of sweet butter crackers on the bottom shelf, far right. Huh, they must have just put those in. They weren’t there yesterday. Sweet butter, what the hell is that? Is it like peanut butter, only sweet? Should I risk trying them, not having any previous knowledge of what sweet butter is? I definitely don’t want anything sweet, but it’s the closest thing to salt I can afford. I could buy some gum. Gum is only fifty cents. Big Red is kind of salty. I’m hungry though. What the hell is gum going to do for me? All right, this is really taking too long now. Someone is waiting behind me. I’m afraid to turn around to see who it is. Hopefully it’s someone from the mail room, hopefully someone that doesn’t matter. Quick, just pick something. Press the buttons. Wait, I got to put the coins in first. All dimes. I slide the first dime into the coin slot. I need to be careful. Dimes require patience and concentration. I’ve dropped so many before. They always slide right underneath the Snapple machine. I’d say there’s at least $2.00 worth of dimes underneath there, all from me. One of these days I should get those dimes. Yeah, how pathetic would that be? I’m on my hands and knees fishing for dimes underneath a vending machine. That’s a good way to get laid. This is getting ridiculous. Come on numnuts, hurry up. Press the buttons. Get that last dime in there. Good, I’m done. The dimes are in. The machine took them all. Usually it has a tendency to regurgitate dimes it feels aren’t worthy for penetration into its coin slot. All right, here we go. Wait; did I decide what I wanted? I forgot. Shit, was it the gum or the sweet butter crackers? I have no time now. The dimes are in. Surely the machine will eat them if I don’t make my decision soon. Either that or it will spit them out onto the floor, where they’ll likely roll underneath the Snapple Machine. All right, enough of this shit. Press the buttons. B-13. Press it.
   My fingers tremble as I touch the keypad. B- 14. Fuck, I meant to touch 13! Luckily B-14 was a jumbo size package of Oreos for eighty-five cents, which way out of my price range. The vending machine computer informs me that I cannot afford such an item and that I must choose again. Good, I get another chance. B-1 3. Press it. B-13. The sweet butter crackers package is released from its metal, spiral harness. I bend down to pick them up, turning around only to find out that she has been standing behind me this whole time.
   “Having some trouble?” she asks.
   Fuck. It’s her! What do I say? There is no recovery from something like this. Should I just laugh it off? Make a joke out of it? What else can I do? Just laugh, you fucking moron. It’s the only way.
   “I just… well you know… I couldn’t… the machine doesn’t take $5 dollar bills.”
   She gives me that ‘you’re a fucking nutcase’ nod before inserting three shiny quarters into the machine. She presses A-1. A bag of cool ranch Doritos falls.
   “Enjoy those crackers,” she says, sliding the bag of chips into her Kate Spade bag before leaving the snack room.
   I slowly retreat back to my cubicle, head down, crackers in hand. I hope they’re not stale.          

Her
   I got to get out of here. I’m tired of this office. I hate it. I can’t help people in here. The drab furniture, the muted yellow walls, the pink door frame and window sill; it’s nauseating. Who decorated this room? I should have it repainted. Something dark, like brown or forest green or something. Whoever said pastels were soothing was full of shit.  
   I have nothing to say to this man. He cannot be helped, not by me at least. I have no interest in his case. He is lying on the couch. I am sitting in a chair behind him. At least he can’t see how bored I am, although I’m sure he notices the blasé tone in my voice. I can’t stop starring at the huge zit on his upper-right cheek. I want to pop it. I should stab it with my red ball point pen. I’d need gloves, for I wouldn’t want to get any of the erupting puss on my hands. God, that zit is huge. How did he not notice it in the bathroom this morning? I really should tell him. It’s probably the only way I could really help him; $175 an hour to pop his zit. Sounds like a fair deal. Jesus Christ, he won’t shut up. I’m barely listening. I interject his verbal prose periodically with my “is that so’s?” and “u-huh’s” just to give him the impression that I’m actually paying attention.  
   “So I’m in the bathroom stall, and it’s similar to the one in our office. The door might be a different color, I’m not sure. I’m standing there, and I pull out my penis and start to take a piss when all of a sudden I see it written on the wall in the same exact spot,” he says.
   “U-huh. And, um…what does it say?” I ask.
   “It says ‘tap on right foot once to give a blow job, tap twice to get one.’ So I tap twice, and soon after there is a knock at the door of the stall I’m in. I open the door, and I see Kyle, one of my best friends from middle school, only here he’s unusually tan, almost burnt. Anyway, he doesn’t even say anything. He gets on his knees and pulls down my pants.”
   “U-huh, interesting.”
   “I haven’t seen Kyle since freshman year of high school. His dad got transferred to another hotel in Cincinnati. That was, what, 17 years ago. It doesn’t make any sense. I mean, the whole thing is really freaking me out.”
   “What exactly is the problem here?”
   “What? Haven’t you been listening?”
   “No, I mean, yes I have. But I just don’t understand what is troubling you about it. The fact that you’re having homoerotic dreams about your male friends from middle school?”
   “Yes! I shouldn’t be having dreams like that. It’s not normal.”
   “There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s perfectly normal to-”
   “Of course there’s something wrong with it! It’s not normal! Being gay is not normal! I’m not gay. I don’t want to be gay.”
   “It doesn’t necessarily mean you’re gay. I’m telling you that it’s just-”
   “Look, I’m not interested in any of that shit. All I want to hear from you is that I’m not gay. Just tell me that. Say those words; I’m not gay. Say them.”
   “But-”
   “Say it. That’s all I want to hear.”
   I sigh. “You’re not gay.”
   I’m wasting my life. I’ve already wasted it. What am I doing here? I can’t do this anymore.  I need to go home and take a shower. I’m dirty. I need to wash my back. I can’t remember the last time I washed it, or had it washed for me. Eighteen months, right before he left. We used to take showers together. He used to massage my back with a bar of soap in one hand, rubbing my boobs with the other. That’s what I need. I need to take a shower with someone and get my back scrubbed, my boobs washed. I need to find someone to take a shower with. I need another 46-year old to bathe me.
   I’m getting out of here. I’m cutting this session short. He doesn’t care anyhow. He’s just happy to hear he’s not gay. I pretend another patient has just text messaged me and is in dire need of my help. He leaves. I gather my things and make my way to the door. I turn off the lights. Shit, even with the lights off it’s still too bright in here. I’m getting this office painted this weekend.
   I take the stairs down instead of the elevator. I don’t want anyone to see me leaving this early. I’m hungry. I should go get something to eat. I want some bread, some pasta. Fucking Atkins diet is killing me. It isn’t worth it. Who cares about my fat ass? 46-year old women should have fat asses. It doesn’t matter. I want some bread. I want a beer. I miss beer. I haven’t had one in three months. I’m tired of drinking vodka and sodas and cosmopolitans with all the Sarah Jessica Parker-wannabe NYU grad students.  I should go to Central Park. Get some beer and some bread on the way, and just sit on the grass and eat. That’s what I should do. No, wait, I shouldn’t do that. What if someone saw me? I should just go home and eat. I can pick up some beer and bread on the way home. I don’t want to go home though. I need to do something. I’m tired of being home. I don’t want to think. I’m tired of my own complaints. I don’t have the energy to complain. I’m drained. I need to do something to take my mind off thinking about what I should do. I should go to the MET. I need to be surrounded by art right now, something with substance.    
 
Him
   How did I get myself into this? I should just turn around and go home. I could leave her a message, saying I couldn’t make it. Something came up, a work related issue of some kind. Then I could go home and relax, jerk off, order some Chinese, and watch the Simpsons. I really don’t have the energy for a first date, never mind a blind one. I’m such a pussy sometimes. I really am curious to see what she looks like. It could be fun. I don’t know though, a blind date? Do I really want to go through with this? All that inane small talk? The awkwardness? The long pauses? I can see it now. I don’t think it’s a good idea. Although I know if I don’t do it I won’t be able to stop thinking about it for the rest of the week. I know I’ll regret it. I should do it. I need to start going out more. I haven’t been out in I don’t know how long. It’s Friday night. People go out on Fridays. It’s a rule. All right, enough of this shit. Just go. I’m almost there, just another couple of blocks. But wait, I’m early. I shouldn’t be early. That looks too desperate. I should be late, but not too late. 8 or 9 minutes late seems like an appropriate arriving time. What am I suppose to do now, though? I got 20 minutes and I’m almost there. I think there’s a Barnes and Noble close by. I could go in there and wait.

Her
   I don’t know why I said yes. Surely this is the first blind date I’ve ever agreed upon. I didn’t respond right away. The email came about two weeks ago. I ignored it for a while. A few days ago I got the call at work. Lisa insisted that I meet this guy who worked in her department. I swiftly replied with a ‘hell no,’ although not in those exact words. She persisted. She probably thinks she owes it to me for not charging her for the sessions I had with her 11 year old son Martin, who has a propensity for urinating into empty Coke bottles and pouring them on little girls’ heads. I said yes only because Lisa agreed to come and bring Tom along, thus making it a foursome. It wasn’t just that though. I couldn’t help but be a little intrigued by the idea of having dinner with a man. It’s been a long time. My first instinct is to arrive a little late, about 10 or 15 minutes, but in thinking about it I decide against it. I don’t think being fashionably late is that fashionable anymore. I don’t need to follow the Cosmopolitan guidelines of dating. I’m too old and too smart. I’m going to get there right on time. I’m looking good, or as good as I can look.
   I’m almost there. Just another few blocks. Fuck. This is a mistake, I know it.

Him
   I walk in. It’s pretty crowded. I didn’t know it was a sushi place. I thought it was just a normal Chinese restaurant. Shit, I’ve never had sushi before. What if I order the wrong thing? I’m not really into raw fish. What if I throw up right on the table? What if I order something ridiculous, like live squid or something, and don’t know the correct procedure of eating it?
   I walk up to the bar and find an empty chair right in the middle. I don’t think I see her, although I’m not sure, because obviously I don’t know what she looks like. There is a redheaded woman about two chairs down, but she looks a little old. Too old. I hope it’s not her. She’s talking with a much younger man, could be her son. Please God, I hope it’s not her. I should leave right now. I can tell Lisa I couldn’t find the restaurant, or the cabbie got stuck in traffic and I was too late. I’m starting to sweat. My fingers are trembling. I got to stop shaking. Why am I such a fucking spaz? I’m not making eye contact with this woman. Just look straight ahead. I need to order a drink. I look stupid just sitting here without anything in my hands, not talking with anyone. I need to smoke or something. I should have bought some cigarettes on the way. Fuck, I need to get out of here fast. It doesn’t even look like she’s here. I don’t even see Lisa or Tom anywhere. Maybe I’m too late. Maybe they decided to go somewhere else. I hope they’re not mad at me. I wouldn’t want to upset this woman I’ve never met before.
   A hostess comes up to the bar with two menus and informs the red head and the younger man that a table is available. The two quickly pick up their drinks and follow the hostess into the dining room. What a relief. She’s gone. It’s not her. I knew it wasn’t her. It couldn’t have been. The bartender comes up and asks what I want to drink. I order a glass of Chianti. I mispronounce the name. The bartender looks confused. I point to it on the menu. He nods and walks away to pour it. I look over to the far end of the bar and make eye contact with a woman dressed in all black, sipping a glass of white wine. I know right away that it’s her.

Her
   I knew it was him the minute he walked into the bar. He looks pretty young, early thirties if I had to guess. He wears a gray polo shirt underneath a brown leather jacket that complements his hazel eyes. His nose is pretty big. I’m over it though. He’s actually not that bad looking. I hope he doesn’t think I’m too old. He’s going to leave, I can see it now. The minute he finds out it’s me, something is suddenly going to come up and he’s going to take off.

Him
   She’s got great tits. Wow, look at them. She isn’t even really showing them off. I mean, her blouse is not all that revealing and I can still sense their size and magnificence. Lisa didn’t tell me how old she was, but from the looks of it I’d say she was about 31 or 32. I hope she doesn’t think I look to old. Shit, that’s probably what she’s thinking. I’m too old. She’s going to split. She’s going to take those great tits and get the hell out of here.    
      I start to walk towards her. She makes eye contact with me. We exchange awkward signs of recognition. I start to smile. At least I think I’m smiling. I hope. I don’t really even know what my smile looks like. I hope it doesn’t look too goofy. She’s going to think I’m some middle-aged, goofy white guy. Fuck.
   I should say something first. I mean, I should make the first verbal response. I’m the guy. Say something.
   “Um…are you…”
   “Yes, I think so…you’re Lisa’s friend?”
   “Right, right. Good. Nice to meet you,” I say. Shit, I should shake her hand, shouldn’t I? I stick out my hand. She shakes it.   
   “Nice to meet you,” she says.
   “I didn’t think I was going to find you. It’s pretty crowded in here.”
   “Yes, I know. It’s a busy place.”
   There is no empty chair besides her. Maybe I should go and look for one to bring over. I can’t just stand her in front of her. I feel stupid. I need to keep talking. We just met and I’ve already run out of things to say. Fuck. I hope Lisa and Tom get here soon.  
   “Have you been waiting long?” I ask.
   “On no, not really. I mean, I just got here right before you.”
   “Sorry I’m late, the traffic was just… it was bad.”
   “Where do you live?”
   “Queens.”
   “Really? Wow, Queens. No wonder.”
   “Yeah I know. I’m trying to move into the city, but right now it’s kind of tough. How about you? Where do you live?”
   “In Chelsea.”
   “Oh, that’s nice. It’s nice over there.” Shit. Another long pause. “And how do you know Lisa?”
   “I actually um… well I met her through Tom. Tom and I went to grad school together and just kept in touch ever since.”
   “Oh, that’s nice.”
   “How about you? You work with Lisa, right?”
   “Yep. That’s how I met her. That’s it.”
   That’s it all right. I’ve hit the wall here. I’ve covered where each of us live, how we know Lisa, what else is there? I could ask what she does for a living, but Lisa already told me that she was a shrink. So what? I could still ask. I could ask what she’s into. No, that’s stupid. Shit, another awkward pause. I’m going to start keeping count of them.

Her
   Thirty minutes go by and still no sign of Tom and Lisa. I try calling Tom’s cell phone, but get no answer. We decide to go ahead and get a table. The hostess leads us down a hallway to another dining room, this one much smaller. She leads us to a small window table and instructs us to take off our shoes. I pretend not to notice the rather large hole in his sock. He looks a little embarrassed.
   We sit Indian style on two velvet pillows that lay on the floor. A waiter comes by and quickly hands him the wine list. I’m sick of wine. I really would rather have a pitcher of ice cold beer. I wonder if he would have a problem with it. He ordered wine at the bar, but I’m sure he wouldn’t object to beer. Don’t all guys drink beer? I better just let him order.
   The waiter comes back, waiting for his decision on the wine. He squints his eyes as he reads the list to himself. It looks like he is having some trouble.
   “Um, well, let’s see. Do you um… do you want red or white?”
   “Oh I don’t care, whatever you want. Red is fine.”
   “We’ll have a bottle of this one right here,” he says, pointing to the menu. The waiter looks at it, nods, and walks off.

Him
   Damnit, I hope I ordered the right wine. I really don’t even want it. I just want a beer, but surely she wouldn’t want beer at dinner. She was drinking wine when I came in. I tell her that she can order the appetizer. She asks if there’s any particular sushi I like. I say I like everything. The waiter comes back and opens the bottle of red wine at the table. He pours a little in the glass for me to taste. I take a tiny sip, pretending like I know what the hell I’m doing. I give a sign of approval and the waiter fills up her glass. She tells him we would like to order some sushi while we are waiting for the rest of our party. I don’t understand a single thing she orders, for it’s all in Japanese. I hope its nothing too exotic.

Her
   “I just went to Europe this past summer,” I say, interrupting yet another long pause in conversation.
   “Oh yeah? Europe, really? What’s that like, fun?”
   “Well I had been there before. I went for a convention in Stockholm for two weeks.”
   “Wow, what’s it like there?”
   “It’s okay. Everything is very clean. Too clean, almost. I don’t know. It rained most of the time. Actually, the whole trip was pretty miserable, now that I think about it.”
   “Oh, well, that’s too bad.”
   I got to come up with something better than this. Why can’t I talk to this guy? I’m a psychiatrist. It’s my job to talk to people.
   “No, but I’d love to go, I mean, I’ve been meaning to go to Europe for quite some time. I really want to go to Spain. It seems really nice there,” he says
   “Do you habla espanol?”
   “Do I what?”
   “Do you speak Spanish?”
   “Oh no, not really.”
   “Oh.”

Him
   The waiter brings the sushi on three different plates. I’m not sure whether you eat these things with your fingers or a fork or what. I subtlety watch her as she picks up a pair of chopsticks from the table, placing a few sushi rolls onto her plate. I do the same. She takes her chopsticks and sticks it into some mushy green stuff. She adds a tiny little dab of it onto the sushi roll and eats it whole. I pick up one of the rolls with my sticks and dip it into the mush. I assume its some sort of sushi condiment. I get a fair amount of it on the end of the roll and eat it whole.
   
Her
   “Oh my god, are you okay?” I ask as he starts to cough violently.
   “I’m… okay,” he says in between gags.
   The other patrons in the dining room look over at us. He takes a sip of water only to spit it back up onto the floor.
   “You know what that stuff is, right?”
   He nods. His coughing fit continues. He excuses himself and gets up from the table, walking out of the small dining room towards the bathrooms. I cans till hear his coughing from the other room. I take a big gulp of the wine. I consider ordering a beer and drinking it real quick before he returns. Poor guy. I guess he’s never had sushi before.

Him   
                I can’t believe I did that. Of course something like this has to happen. Why can’t I just go out and have a good time like other people seem to do? Why can’t I function socially like any other normal person? Everyone in this restaurant right now is talking, drinking, enjoying themselves. Where am I? I’m on the floor in the men’s room, puking my guts up in a trash can. I gargle some water to get the throw up taste out of my mouth. I can still taste the remnants of the green stuff on my tongue. What in God’s name was that crap? Fucking hell. I’m in way over my head. I should just go. There’s no way I can go back to that table now. The whole restaurant saw me. This is so humiliating. This is another scar for life, as if I didn’t have enough to deal with. I really want to go home. I’m not cut out for this shit. This blind dating thing, the whole dating game in general, it just doesn’t work for me. I’m going to go back to that table, apologize, and tell her it was a pleasure meeting her but I am not feeling well and I must go home.
   I start to walk back to the table. I see two Japanese bus boys in the distance pointing at me. Little bastards. I’d like to take a nice big ball of that green shit and shove it down their throats, see how they like it. I make my way down the hallway into the small dining room. I see her sitting at the table along, drinking her glass of wine. God, she really is beautiful. I take a moment and just look at her, hiding behind the beverage station as she starts to look around the dining room. I assume she’s looking for me. She actually looks concerned. I figured she would’ve left by now.
   I slowly walk to the table and reluctantly sit down. I take a sip of water. The sushi is no longer on the table. She must have sent it all back.
   “Are you okay?” she asks.
   “I’m okay. I just… well I don’t know what happened. That green stuff…”
   “It’s strong, isn’t it?”
   “Yeah, I didn’t know it was that strong. To be honest, I’ve never had sushi.”
   “I had a feeling there, when I saw you with the chop sticks. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh but, the look on your face…afterwards.” She starts to laugh uncontrollably. I can’t help but to join in.
   “I didn’t know what it was. I thought it was some sort of Japanese ketchup.”
   We both start laughing really hard, causing other people in the room to turn their heads a bit.
   “I um…well, I don’t really know what to say hear. I got to be honest. I uhh… I don’t really know what I’m doing. I don’t meet people very well. Lisa told me all about you and how you were so great and I thought it might be a good idea. But I’m sitting here now, and I’m thinking… well, you’re this sophisticated person. You like all this exotic food and wine. You travel. You’ve been to Europe. Hell, I’ve never even been to Brooklyn. I think maybe I’m not the right-”
   “Hey, you know what?” she asks, interrupting me. “I got an idea.”  

Them
   The two of them sit on the brown, leather couch in her living room, drinking Budweisers. She hands him a plate. He opens the pizza box and cuts her a slice. She asks him if he would like any parmesan cheese on his pizza. He says yes. She shakes it for him. He thanks her.
   “This is exactly what I wanted,” he says.
   “We got to do this again sometime.”
   They cheers, taking a nice long sip of beer as they sit back and eat, enjoying an old Simpsons rerun.    


- so my question is, if u've made it this far, does the title work? i always have trouble w/ titles.

ono

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« Reply #1 on: February 10, 2004, 10:33:31 PM »
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First off, I honestly love this.  And this isn't a compliment I give easily, as these kinds of compliments are given too easily here.  You have real talent, and I say this coming off of a couple days of listening to my peers pitch stuff in a screenwriting class that really is banal, rehashed, formulaic shit.  It really is depressing, and so I wonder if I should speak up and come across as a pretentious know-it-all asshole, or just keep my mouth shut and wait for the wisdom of the professor to kick in.  But so far, he's seemed to like everything and not given much criticism at all, which is a shock, considering his background in television.  But enough about me.

So yeah, kudos to you for writing something really fresh and true.  My only criticism is it sounds a bit Adaptation.-ish, but you may know that.  I'm sure there's other parallels to other films that could come to mind, but that's what I thought of.  I love the voice(s) of this whole piece, and I could see it as a short or a longer feature.  But that isn't what you asked.

The title is great, depending on what you do with the story.  You haven't gotten to the actual lovemaking part, but whatever you do with it I'm sure will be interesting (unless it was just a metaphor).  There are some minor spelling and syntax errors, but you probably know that, and you don't even have to be concerned with that unless you're submitting it to someone else.  Nice job.

Redlum

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« Reply #2 on: February 11, 2004, 03:52:12 AM »
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A great read and the title is perfect.
\"I wanted to make a film for kids, something that would present them with a kind of elementary morality. Because nowadays nobody bothers to tell those kids, \'Hey, this is right and this is wrong\'.\"
  -  George Lucas

©brad

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« Reply #3 on: February 11, 2004, 09:29:22 AM »
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spanx u guys! put a  :-D  on my face this cold morning.

and yeah onomato, i see what you mean about the charlie kauffman-esque interior monologue in the beginning. i was thinking more of george costanza when i wrote it, but it makes sense for both.

SoNowThen

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« Reply #4 on: February 11, 2004, 10:30:13 AM »
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Yep, it's great man! And the title is top.
Those who say that the totalitarian state of the Soviet Union was not "real" Marxism also cannot admit that one simple feature of Marxism makes totalitarianism necessary:  the rejection of civil society. Since civil society is the sphere of private activity, its abolition and replacement by political society means that nothing private remains. That is already the essence of totalitarianism; and the moralistic practice of the trendy Left, which regards everything as political and sometimes reveals its hostility to free speech, does nothing to contradict this implication.

When those who hated capital and consumption (and Jews) in the 20th century murdered some hundred million people, and the poster children for the struggle against international capitalism and America are now fanatical Islamic terrorists, this puts recent enthusiasts in an awkward position. Most of them are too dense and shameless to appreciate it, and far too many are taken in by the moralistic and paternalistic rhetoric of the Left.

cron

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« Reply #5 on: February 11, 2004, 10:38:01 AM »
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what about "how to make love to a beautiful woman" ?  8)
context, context, context.

RegularKarate

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« Reply #6 on: February 11, 2004, 04:30:35 PM »
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I dig it... I guess you didn't really ask about anything but the title, which I think is great, but I'd like to add that the only thing that I would critique about it is that the characters seem more mid-twenties and not late-thirties/forties.

Otherwise, I think it's great.

©brad

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« Reply #7 on: February 11, 2004, 08:54:31 PM »
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thanks duuuude.

Quote from: RegularKarate
I dig it... I guess you didn't really ask about anything but the title, which I think is great, but I'd like to add that the only thing that I would critique about it is that the characters seem more mid-twenties and not late-thirties/forties.

Otherwise, I think it's great.


yeah, we read it outloud in class and a couple ppl mentioned that.

eward

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« Reply #8 on: February 11, 2004, 11:14:27 PM »
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f'in brilliant man, awesome awesome awesome
"Do you laugh at jealousy?"

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« Reply #9 on: February 15, 2004, 12:20:35 AM »
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This might seem like a rather dense question to ask, but are you going to turn this into a short?
I'd love to see it, and I have these shots in my head as I read it. Very cinematic. Very Good. I'd like to read more from you, Good Sir.
We often went to the cinema, the screen would light up and we would tremble, but also, increasingly often, Madeleine and I were disappointed. The images had dated, they jittered, and Marilyn Monroe had gotten terribly old. We were sad, this wasn't the film we had dreamed of, this wasn't the total film that we all carried around inside us, this film that we would have wanted to make, or, more secretly, no doubt, that we would have wanted to live.

ono

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« Reply #10 on: February 15, 2004, 12:43:20 AM »
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Yes, I think it would make a great short or more, and while I was reading it, I kept thinking about In the Mood for Love and Punch-Drunk Love.  The essay I wrote on PDL draws connections between the two, and that's why I thought of them both.  Really atmospheric stuff, if you get my drift.

Weak2ndAct

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« Reply #11 on: February 15, 2004, 01:15:54 AM »
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*Insert W2A's thumbs-up-seal-of-approval here*

You've officially inspired me to go back and revisit some old stories and such.  Any writing that makes me wanna go out and write is as good as a compliment as I can think of.

©brad

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« Reply #12 on: February 17, 2004, 11:14:51 AM »
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thanks y'all.  :oops:

Quote from: ranemaka13
This might seem like a rather dense question to ask, but are you going to turn this into a short?
I'd love to see it, and I have these shots in my head as I read it. Very cinematic. Very Good. I'd like to read more from you, Good Sir.


hah, well i'm not sure. having it read outloud in class was fun. i don't really have a camera or the time right now to do it, but anyone else (*cough* picolas *cough*) who wants to shoot it, by all means, go for it.

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« Reply #13 on: February 18, 2004, 01:21:14 AM »
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I'm a latecomer here, but I dug the hell out of the story too, cbrad.  A true delight, in the words of James Lipton. You make me feel like my traditional approach to short story writing is old and tired.

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« Reply #14 on: February 18, 2004, 06:37:07 PM »
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Quote from: Ghostboy
I'm a latecomer here, but I dug the hell out of the story too, cbrad.  A true delight, in the words of James Lipton. You make me feel like my traditional approach to short story writing is old and tired.


aww, thanks bro.

yeah i was thinking about the possibility of doing my first short. if i were to do this it would be all voice-over, which is something i try to stay away from when writing screenplays. its funny though cuz all my short stories are in the first person w/ a lot of interior dialogue.

 

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