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       #Post#: 109--------------------------------------------------
       A Story About A Pasta And A Jewish   
       By: KillGro Date: January 3, 2015, 9:37 am
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       In 1983, I was traveling with a tiny theater company doing
       vaudeville-type shows in 
community centers and
       bars—anywhere we could earn $25 each plus enough gas money to
       get to the next small town in our ramshackle yellow bus.
       As we passed through Bozeman, Montana, in early February, a
       heavy snow slowed us down. The radio crackled warnings about
       black ice and poor visibility, so we opted to impose on friends
       who were doing a production of Fiddler on the Roof at Montana
       State University. See a show, hit a few bars, sleep on a sofa:
       This is as close to prudence as it gets when you’re an itinerant
       20-something troubadour.
       After the show, well-wishers and stagehands milled behind the
       curtain. I hugged my coat around me, humming that “If I Were a
       Rich Man” riff from the show, aching for sunrise and sunset,
       missing my sisters. What a wonderful show that was—and is.
       A heavy metal door swung open, allowing in a blast of frigid
       air, and clanged shut behind two men who stomped snow from their
       boots. One was big and bearlike in an Irish wool sweater and
       gaiters; the other was as tall and skinny as a chimney sweep in
       a peacoat.
       “… but I’m just saying, it would be nice to see some serious
       theater,” one of them said. “Chekhov, Ibsen, anything but this
       musical comedy shtick.”
       “Excuse me?” I huffed, hackles raised. “Anyone who doesn’t think
       comedy is an art form certainly hasn’t read much Shakespeare,
       have they?”
       I informed them that I was a “professional shticktress” and went
       on to deliver a tart, pedantic lecture on the French
       neoclassics, the cultural impact of Punch and Judy as an I Love
       Lucy prototype, and the importance of Fiddler on the Roof as
       both artistic and oral history. The shrill diatribe left a puff
       of frozen breath in the air. I felt my snootiness showing like a
       stray bra strap as the sweep in the peacoat rolled his eyes and
       walked away.
       The bear stood there for a moment, an easy smile in his brown
       eyes. Then he put his arms around me and whispered in my ear, “I
       love you.”
       Read more:
  HTML http://www.rd.com/true-stories/love/the-stranger-who-changed-my-life-short-love-story/#ixzz3NlzaNVRX
       #Post#: 110--------------------------------------------------
       Re: A Story About A Pasta And A Jewish   
       By: KillGro Date: January 3, 2015, 9:40 am
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       just 1 page of the original story go check it out ps. srry its
       not original im lazy XD
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