I heart the Cohen men.
Nov. 6th, 2003 12:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hackthis_archiveSometimes being me sucks. However, I’m dating Josh Schwartz, so I really can’t complain. Hah! Do you really think if I was, I would announce that on my LJ?
On the upside though, last night’s O.C. was pure comedy gold. I heart Sandy. And Seth. And Ryan. Will somebody make me a Sandy icon that says “Fo’ Shizzle” or “Mad Props” because that’s SO coming next. I also wouldn’t say no to a Soccer!Ryan icon with my name on it, (or some completely inappropriate saying).
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serialkarma wanted ‘a wet story’, and since I’m still trying to dig out my HP muses for impudent_rabbit, I obliged.
The O.C. (Unbeta’d)
They’re Called Forwards, Too
The ball is a white dot that blurs between his eyelashes as he blinks the rain away.
A little water never hurt anybody, and so what if he can’t quite feel his toes anymore? It’s never really that cold down here, and what’s a little pain in the scheme of things? Not much.
Dark clouds roll in above him, but Ryan stays focused on this one thing. The goal is a tiny shoebox in the distance, and he thinks about great strikers like Owen and van Nistelrooy. Ronaldo and Beckham.
When he was little he wanted to be Pele.
He knows his life will never lead him to the World Cup, now, but sometimes, when he’s doing his drills alone, it’s nice to imagine otherwise.
He doesn’t have many dreams left.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
His hair is plastered to his forehead, and the water runs in his eyes. The sky is a strange sort of gray-brown-blue that makes Ryan think of pollution and going to L.A., but he shakes it off to focus on the ball.
The ball is an extension of the striker, and it’s not just basketball players that sleep with their favorite balls. It’s called dedication, and he’s kind of surprised that the coach called practice early. After all, it’s not as though it doesn’t rain in Newport just like the rest of the world.
Sometimes it just *seems* like Newport is another planet.
Inside.
Tap.
Outside.
Tap.
The ball rolls and he follows.
His shorts are plastered to his thighs, and he thinks he can feel his cleats through the soles of his shoes. His shirt has become another layer of skin that protects him from the outside. When he slips in the grass, he doesn’t notice the welts and dirt that find their way into odd cracks and crevices.
He doesn’t even notice his clothes making squishing sounds as the ball whizzes along, pushed by gravity, cleats, rain and wind.
He does know he’s so wet that it shouldn’t matter anymore.
It’s just water anyway.
Fake.
Trap.
Pass.
Start again.
The grass is slick and perfectly green. When the ball slips from underneath Ryan’s foot, he stumbles, but keeps going. That’s all that matters in the end.
Up the pitch, and down again.
Mud and tufts of grass are spread in his wake, and he just keeps going.
He favors his left foot, and he works on passing with the inside of his right.
Knees. Headers.
Left.
Right.
Up. Down.
Soccer is beauty and skill. It’s mind-numbing headers and penalty kicks. It’s no padding and nothing but skin protecting him from the defender on the other end.
Soccer doesn’t care if he’s from Chino. It will never matter how old he gets or if he finished reading A Prayer for Owen Meany.
When he scores, it’s something *he’s* done; not something someone gave him because his mom abandoned him, or he tested well. And when he fails, when the ball arcs too far to the left or glances off the goalpost, that’s something he’s done, too.
Soccer isn’t going to run off with a life-long crush, who hardly acknowledges him at school, or the blonde with the bad dye job.
This little white ball with black hexagons makes Ryan feel independent, even if it’s just for a little while, which perhaps is why he’s so startled when someone calls his name through the steady patter of rain.
The ball rolls away from him, and he pauses between the ball and the person on the sidelines, trying to figure out which he should pay attention to first.
“Hey,” he answers finally, before jogging over and grabbing the ball.
Mud smears on his hands and his forearms as he tucks the ball underneath his arm, and heads back over to the sidelines.
Seth rocks back and forth underneath a black umbrella, expectantly.
He smirks as he gestures to the mess that Ryan’s made. “I always took you for more of a finger-painter than a mud-pie kind of guy, but you know, I can dig the art vibe.”
Ryan fakes tossing the ball to Seth and grins when Seth fumbles with his umbrella.
“A funny guy. I see this now,” Seth corrects. “Is the wet soccer player thing a riff on the Red Bull commercial, or just the newest Harbor fad that nobody’s told me about?”
“I was just practicing,” Ryan says, shifting the ball to his other arm. He rubs his fingers together to let the rain wash the mud off.
“Not really one for the organized sports thing,” Seth begins. “But doesn’t soccer normally require more than one person? Not that you’re not good, and not that I wasn’t enjoying the show – err, not that I was watching, because so not a stalker. Not that you’re not worth stalking if I was, which I’m not. Yeah, so. I’m getting wet, are you ready to go home or what?”
This time, Ryan’s the one smirking, and when he moves to toss the ball to Seth, it’s the real thing.
When Seth drops his umbrella and winds up with a handful of muddy soccer ball, he seems a little less than pleased. “Dude, which part of “not about organized sports” did you miss?” he yaps as the rain continues to fall, and his hair and shirt soak up the rain.
The wet look works well on him.
“The Cohen gene does not allow for hand-ball coordination, and ---“ Ryan silences Seth’s tirade by reaching out and brushing wet curls off of his forehead. His fingers trace down the side of Seth’s face before he pulls them away.
“You shouldn’t knock it until you try it,” he points out as Seth openly gapes.
Seth begins stuttering, and Ryan just grins. He takes a step closer, and when Seth’s eyes widen, he proceeds to step around Seth and grab the abandoned umbrella.
“C’mon,” he says, handing Seth the umbrella and nodding towards the school. “I’ll get changed and then we’ll discuss the finer points of soccer. You’ll like the Playstation game that FIFA made.”
Seth nods dumbly, but follows along, soccer ball under one arm and umbrella in hand.
Clearly he’s a little confused as he doesn’t actually bother to cover his head with the umbrella, and Ryan can’t help but smile to himself. Soccer *and* a wet and quiet Seth.
His life may not always be great, but sometimes it doesn’t suck.
He can feel Seth’s eyes on him as they walk through the campus. Seth’s shoes make plish-ploshing sounds in the mud as Ryan’s cleats sink in. They’re almost to the gym before Seth regains some semblance of Seth-ness.
“So, FIFA. Is that like Freaks International Federation Association? Because, you know, I’m also a member of Dorks R’Us and Comic Books United, and all kinds of...”
Seth’s words die off as Ryan pauses outside the gym doors, and it’s not Ryan’s imagination that Seth looks disappointed when he only steps closer to take the soccer ball away.
“I should probably change into something less wet,” he explains.
Seth waves the umbrella around. “Right, because, being wet is bad and dry is good, and dude, why am I doing the Mary Poppins umbrella thing?” he says as droplets of water fly all over them.
Ryan just grins as he shifts the soccer ball in his arms. His grip is tenuous at best between the mud and the water. “I’ll be out in five minutes.”
Seth nods. “That’s what I like about you, Ry, when you say you’ll take five minutes I know it’ll be five minutes, and not like a girl, who really means thirty-five minutes. Not that you’re a girl, and I’ll be quiet now.”
Seth caps his announcement by pretending to zip his lips, which is Ryan’s perfect moment to slip in and lick several drops of water from Seth’s bottom lip.
When he pulls away, Seth looks like he just got struck by lightening.
“Five minutes,” Ryan repeats.
Seth touches his mouth, his fingers sliding along wetly.
“Okay?” Ryan repeats.
This time Seth nods.
“Don’t go anywhere.”
Seth nods again.
“And use the umbrella,” he says gesturing to the forgotten umbrella in Seth’s hand.
Seth makes an incoherent noise as Ryan opens the door. The chill from the change in temperature makes Ryan shudder slightly.
“Is this a soccer thing?” Seth blurts out as Ryan’s leaving.
Ryan shrugs, but then he smiles. “They don’t call us forwards for no reason.”
-the end-
Notes:Soccer Football strikers are also referred to as forwards, and you’re dead lucky I didn’t call this story 4-4-2. Or maybe, 3-5-2. Formation, baby! Do you understand how happy Ryan playing soccer footie has made me? *Dude*
Somewhat inspired by the video for ‘Everybody Here Wants You.’
100% Gratuitous.
On the upside though, last night’s O.C. was pure comedy gold. I heart Sandy. And Seth. And Ryan. Will somebody make me a Sandy icon that says “Fo’ Shizzle” or “Mad Props” because that’s SO coming next. I also wouldn’t say no to a Soccer!Ryan icon with my name on it, (or some completely inappropriate saying).
serialkarma wanted ‘a wet story’, and since I’m still trying to dig out my HP muses for impudent_rabbit, I obliged. The O.C. (Unbeta’d)
They’re Called Forwards, Too
The ball is a white dot that blurs between his eyelashes as he blinks the rain away.
A little water never hurt anybody, and so what if he can’t quite feel his toes anymore? It’s never really that cold down here, and what’s a little pain in the scheme of things? Not much.
Dark clouds roll in above him, but Ryan stays focused on this one thing. The goal is a tiny shoebox in the distance, and he thinks about great strikers like Owen and van Nistelrooy. Ronaldo and Beckham.
When he was little he wanted to be Pele.
He knows his life will never lead him to the World Cup, now, but sometimes, when he’s doing his drills alone, it’s nice to imagine otherwise.
He doesn’t have many dreams left.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
His hair is plastered to his forehead, and the water runs in his eyes. The sky is a strange sort of gray-brown-blue that makes Ryan think of pollution and going to L.A., but he shakes it off to focus on the ball.
The ball is an extension of the striker, and it’s not just basketball players that sleep with their favorite balls. It’s called dedication, and he’s kind of surprised that the coach called practice early. After all, it’s not as though it doesn’t rain in Newport just like the rest of the world.
Sometimes it just *seems* like Newport is another planet.
Inside.
Tap.
Outside.
Tap.
The ball rolls and he follows.
His shorts are plastered to his thighs, and he thinks he can feel his cleats through the soles of his shoes. His shirt has become another layer of skin that protects him from the outside. When he slips in the grass, he doesn’t notice the welts and dirt that find their way into odd cracks and crevices.
He doesn’t even notice his clothes making squishing sounds as the ball whizzes along, pushed by gravity, cleats, rain and wind.
He does know he’s so wet that it shouldn’t matter anymore.
It’s just water anyway.
Fake.
Trap.
Pass.
Start again.
The grass is slick and perfectly green. When the ball slips from underneath Ryan’s foot, he stumbles, but keeps going. That’s all that matters in the end.
Up the pitch, and down again.
Mud and tufts of grass are spread in his wake, and he just keeps going.
He favors his left foot, and he works on passing with the inside of his right.
Knees. Headers.
Left.
Right.
Up. Down.
Soccer is beauty and skill. It’s mind-numbing headers and penalty kicks. It’s no padding and nothing but skin protecting him from the defender on the other end.
Soccer doesn’t care if he’s from Chino. It will never matter how old he gets or if he finished reading A Prayer for Owen Meany.
When he scores, it’s something *he’s* done; not something someone gave him because his mom abandoned him, or he tested well. And when he fails, when the ball arcs too far to the left or glances off the goalpost, that’s something he’s done, too.
Soccer isn’t going to run off with a life-long crush, who hardly acknowledges him at school, or the blonde with the bad dye job.
This little white ball with black hexagons makes Ryan feel independent, even if it’s just for a little while, which perhaps is why he’s so startled when someone calls his name through the steady patter of rain.
The ball rolls away from him, and he pauses between the ball and the person on the sidelines, trying to figure out which he should pay attention to first.
“Hey,” he answers finally, before jogging over and grabbing the ball.
Mud smears on his hands and his forearms as he tucks the ball underneath his arm, and heads back over to the sidelines.
Seth rocks back and forth underneath a black umbrella, expectantly.
He smirks as he gestures to the mess that Ryan’s made. “I always took you for more of a finger-painter than a mud-pie kind of guy, but you know, I can dig the art vibe.”
Ryan fakes tossing the ball to Seth and grins when Seth fumbles with his umbrella.
“A funny guy. I see this now,” Seth corrects. “Is the wet soccer player thing a riff on the Red Bull commercial, or just the newest Harbor fad that nobody’s told me about?”
“I was just practicing,” Ryan says, shifting the ball to his other arm. He rubs his fingers together to let the rain wash the mud off.
“Not really one for the organized sports thing,” Seth begins. “But doesn’t soccer normally require more than one person? Not that you’re not good, and not that I wasn’t enjoying the show – err, not that I was watching, because so not a stalker. Not that you’re not worth stalking if I was, which I’m not. Yeah, so. I’m getting wet, are you ready to go home or what?”
This time, Ryan’s the one smirking, and when he moves to toss the ball to Seth, it’s the real thing.
When Seth drops his umbrella and winds up with a handful of muddy soccer ball, he seems a little less than pleased. “Dude, which part of “not about organized sports” did you miss?” he yaps as the rain continues to fall, and his hair and shirt soak up the rain.
The wet look works well on him.
“The Cohen gene does not allow for hand-ball coordination, and ---“ Ryan silences Seth’s tirade by reaching out and brushing wet curls off of his forehead. His fingers trace down the side of Seth’s face before he pulls them away.
“You shouldn’t knock it until you try it,” he points out as Seth openly gapes.
Seth begins stuttering, and Ryan just grins. He takes a step closer, and when Seth’s eyes widen, he proceeds to step around Seth and grab the abandoned umbrella.
“C’mon,” he says, handing Seth the umbrella and nodding towards the school. “I’ll get changed and then we’ll discuss the finer points of soccer. You’ll like the Playstation game that FIFA made.”
Seth nods dumbly, but follows along, soccer ball under one arm and umbrella in hand.
Clearly he’s a little confused as he doesn’t actually bother to cover his head with the umbrella, and Ryan can’t help but smile to himself. Soccer *and* a wet and quiet Seth.
His life may not always be great, but sometimes it doesn’t suck.
He can feel Seth’s eyes on him as they walk through the campus. Seth’s shoes make plish-ploshing sounds in the mud as Ryan’s cleats sink in. They’re almost to the gym before Seth regains some semblance of Seth-ness.
“So, FIFA. Is that like Freaks International Federation Association? Because, you know, I’m also a member of Dorks R’Us and Comic Books United, and all kinds of...”
Seth’s words die off as Ryan pauses outside the gym doors, and it’s not Ryan’s imagination that Seth looks disappointed when he only steps closer to take the soccer ball away.
“I should probably change into something less wet,” he explains.
Seth waves the umbrella around. “Right, because, being wet is bad and dry is good, and dude, why am I doing the Mary Poppins umbrella thing?” he says as droplets of water fly all over them.
Ryan just grins as he shifts the soccer ball in his arms. His grip is tenuous at best between the mud and the water. “I’ll be out in five minutes.”
Seth nods. “That’s what I like about you, Ry, when you say you’ll take five minutes I know it’ll be five minutes, and not like a girl, who really means thirty-five minutes. Not that you’re a girl, and I’ll be quiet now.”
Seth caps his announcement by pretending to zip his lips, which is Ryan’s perfect moment to slip in and lick several drops of water from Seth’s bottom lip.
When he pulls away, Seth looks like he just got struck by lightening.
“Five minutes,” Ryan repeats.
Seth touches his mouth, his fingers sliding along wetly.
“Okay?” Ryan repeats.
This time Seth nods.
“Don’t go anywhere.”
Seth nods again.
“And use the umbrella,” he says gesturing to the forgotten umbrella in Seth’s hand.
Seth makes an incoherent noise as Ryan opens the door. The chill from the change in temperature makes Ryan shudder slightly.
“Is this a soccer thing?” Seth blurts out as Ryan’s leaving.
Ryan shrugs, but then he smiles. “They don’t call us forwards for no reason.”
-the end-
Notes:
Somewhat inspired by the video for ‘Everybody Here Wants You.’
100% Gratuitous.
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no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 12:29 pm (UTC)Cantona.
And dude. This story is excellent. I was wondering on Tuesday if you'd be goodly enough to supply us with soccer!Ryan and you *did*. I squeed audibly when they put him out on the field. Soccer is our Official Family Sport and honestly, there's nothing hotter than a soccer player.
Nothing.
no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 02:52 pm (UTC)And dude. This story is excellent. I was wondering on Tuesday if you'd be goodly enough to supply us with soccer!Ryan and you *did*. I squeed audibly when they put him out on the field. Soccer is our Official Family Sport and honestly, there's nothing hotter than a soccer player.
I have many many passions and
soccerfootball is just one of them. When Ryan announced he was going out for the team, I nearly brought the house down. And yes, you are right, there's nothing hotter than a soccer player. I've dated enough to vouch for that many times over. *sighs*no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 12:33 pm (UTC)YOU ROCK.
you're seriously too fucking cool for words. and i'm such a dork. but oh my god. i love this.
Sometimes it just *seems* like Newport is another planet.
Inside.
Tap.
Outside.
Tap.
The ball rolls and he follows.
His shorts are plastered to his thighs, and he thinks he can feel his cleats through the soles of his shoes. His shirt has become another layer of skin that protects him from the outside. When he slips in the grass, he doesn’t notice the welts and dirt that find their way into odd cracks and crevices.
so pretty; so nicely visual and just wow. madlove.
i played soccer ever since i was tiny. gah. you've broken me. too many things i love all together. i'm dead; you're wonderful.
no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 12:59 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 12:36 pm (UTC)I heart Sandy as well. I love him with the boys and when he told Ryan that he'd love to go to his games and watch him play. *sniff* I had a moment.
no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 02:58 pm (UTC)*hands kleenex* You too? I could so see the hesitation in Ryan's face after all his experiences with "father-figures" and then Sandy's all I want to see you play. *sniffs* That was beautiful, man. Mad props to Sandy!
no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 12:38 pm (UTC)He doesn’t have many dreams left.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
It flowed together flawlessly. Write more soccer!Ryan, I heart him!
no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 02:59 pm (UTC)Yeah, I heart soccer!Ryan myself, I think we will definitely have to see more of him. I mean what happens when he gets a cramp in his leg or something? He has Seth. *dies laughing*
no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 12:44 pm (UTC)Thank you sweetie, this is wonderful! Hee. Ryan is a tease. I love it. *happy sigh* This settles it. I need me new OC icons. Like, now.
psst. check your email in a few minutes. I'm sending you something that might cheer you up. Or drive you crazy, I'm not sure which.
no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 03:00 pm (UTC)Yes, and you also need to get yourself an LJ designer. Did you solicit like I told you to?
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
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From:no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 12:45 pm (UTC)I'm also pretty happy about Ryan joining the soccer team. I once had a huge crush on a soccer player when I was in college. Actually, more than a decade later I still have a bit of a crush on him. So yeah, I like a soccer-playing Ryan. And the image of a soaking wet, muddy soccer-playing Ryan just makes my brain shut off.
no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 03:02 pm (UTC)I've spent a goodly portion of my life playing soccer/watching soccer/dating soccer players so when this appeared on my screen like night I was like "!!!!!" The mud and the wet were just extra bonuses.
no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 12:48 pm (UTC)Your fic: Guh. Like there ever was anything coherent I could say about your fics. But, dude, *football* (hey, why do they call the game with the thing that's not a ball and is usually carried around "football" anyway?) This is football *points to fic* and rain. guh.
*loves*
no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 03:03 pm (UTC)Sweetie, I've been asking that same question for ages. The American version has fuck-all to do with the name and considering that the rest of the entire world calls it by the right name it can get a little frustrating. Why must we always do shit backassward?
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 12:56 pm (UTC)Especially loved this line
When he scores, it's something *he's* done; not something someone gave him because his mom abandoned him, or he tested well. It's a really great viewpoint or whatever. If I'm making any sense at all!
no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 03:05 pm (UTC)You made perfect sense, and I'm thrilled you enjoyed the story. Thanks for commenting!
no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 01:00 pm (UTC)Soccer *and* a wet and quiet Seth.
His life may not always be great, but sometimes it doesn’t suck.
Great writing as always. (And, man, did I date my share of soccer boys. Last night's episode was manna from heaven.)
no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 03:05 pm (UTC)I actually *said* that at one point last night.
no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 01:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 03:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 01:04 pm (UTC)I loved this. I loved the wetness and I loved Seth being so very Seth-like, and I loved the 'forwards' line.
Yay!
no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 03:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 01:05 pm (UTC)FootballSoccer playing wet boys! What else a girl needs for a happy afternoon? *g*no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 03:06 pm (UTC)Porn. *looks pointedly*
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 01:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 03:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 02:00 pm (UTC)I loved this. :D
no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 03:15 pm (UTC)Infidel! Blasphemer! ACK!
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 02:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 03:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 02:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 03:18 pm (UTC)Ah yes, the hours of freezing your ass off in the rain, and slipping and sliding on your ass and cursing your coach's unborn children. I know nothing about that. *wink* I've already got my first icon. *displays proudly*
no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 02:56 pm (UTC)So that's what they meant by 'striker'. I was wondering what position that was, because I'd never heard the term in the ten years I played soccer. I wonder why they didn't use the US/Canadian term...pretension, maybe? Or whoever wrote the episode learned everything they know from non-US/Can books.
no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 03:20 pm (UTC)I'm not sure what possessed them to use 'striker' either, but I admit it urked me a little bit. I suspect that's just a writer's thing though, wanting to be all posh. I've heard both terms, plus a few more, but most of those aren't TV friendly.
no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 03:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-07 09:33 am (UTC)I'm glad you enjoyed it, thanks for commenting!
*melts*
Date: 2003-11-06 04:34 pm (UTC)i love. it was sexy without being hot and heavy. it was... oddly sweet but at the same time kinda... sad(?)
either way. still a wonderful, wonderful read.
Re: *melts*
Date: 2003-11-07 09:34 am (UTC)i love. it was sexy without being hot and heavy. it was... oddly sweet but at the same time kinda... sad(?)
either way. still a wonderful, wonderful read.
I know what you mean about the sad thing, it might've had to do with the rain and the solitude business. I'm glad you enjoyed the story, though, thanks for commenting!
no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 04:48 pm (UTC)Football fic! Football fic! I have been waiting ages for this. This was a wonderful exploration of Ryan through his sport. And I loved the Forward comment. Thanks!
no subject
Date: 2003-11-07 09:35 am (UTC)I am all football; all the time. Unless I'm talking about cars. Or comic books. Or boys. Or slash. Or trainers. Right, you get what I'm saying right?
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 04:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-07 09:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 05:33 pm (UTC)Do you think there's any way to work in a cameo by Jonathan Rhys-Myers character from Bend It Like Beckham? Hee.
no subject
Date: 2003-11-07 09:36 am (UTC)Please, I don't even think my brain could wrap around that image without exploding.
no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 06:01 pm (UTC)(What I'm trying to say is that this was a GREAT way to start my evening, and thank you.)
no subject
Date: 2003-11-07 09:37 am (UTC)I'm glad you enjoyed the story!
no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 10:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-07 09:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-06 10:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-07 09:39 am (UTC)