conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Rain, River, Dazed with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Poetry?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'Rain On The River'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Rain On The River
  Three bows to Gary Snyder for his usual tough reading of the manuscript and his suggestion for the title.
  I also offer special thanks to my editors, Morgan Entrekin at Grove/Atlantic and Jamie Byng of Canongate for their steadfast support of my literary work.
  Melanie Jackson, my agent, deserves particular mention for her unstinting efforts and merciful acumen on my behalf.
  Finally, my deepest gratitude to family and friends for their unflagging faith, encouragement, and forbearance. 
  Coddington Mall was clogged with Christmas shoppers as I waited in line at the Cookie Jar, a bakery devoted to my favorite confection.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Rain On The River
  Three bows to Gary Snyder for his usual tough reading of the manuscript and his suggestion for the title.
  I also offer special thanks to my editors, Morgan Entrekin at Grove/Atlantic and Jamie Byng of Canongate for their steadfast support of my literary work.
  Melanie Jackson, my agent, deserves particular mention for her unstinting efforts and merciful acumen on my behalf.
  Finally, my deepest gratitude to family and friends for their unflagging faith, encouragement, and forbearance.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me four more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: But something wasn't right. The sore-tail was languidly corkscrewing along the bottom, a movement that didn't match the steady quiver I felt through the rod. Then I saw why: The sore-tail, in blind expression of the spawntill-you-die imperative, was engaged in a last-gasp courtship of the fish actually connected to my line, a steelhead longer than a yardstick and as deep as a Dutch oven.
  I worked the steelhead a few feet closer, telling Vicky without turning my head, "Step up easy and see for yourself."
  The riffle was about fifty yards wide. With the power of a nitro-fueled dragster, the steelie crossed it in one second flat, leaving me blinded by the mist sprayed from the spool mingled with smoke from the drag. Struck dumber than usual, I simply stood there as the whopper steelie made a sharp right at the opposite shore and streaked downstream. I watched the line melting from the spool. I felt like my nervous system was being stripped from my body through my solar plexus, a rush beyond sensation toward something as clean and empty as my spool was about to be if I didn't stop the fish. But I didn't want to stop the fish. I didn't want the feeling to end.
  The spool was almost down to the backing when the steelie abruptly swung back into the heavy current and dove to the bottom, slowly lashing its head.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Swabbing sweat off my brow, too hot for prolonged negotiations, I surrendered. "Hand me that damn bottle of shampoo."
  I lifted the tub again, sweat-blind in the heat, and awkwardly squirted some shampoo on Joe's scrotum for lubrication. Taking a deep breath, I began working Joe's testicles around in his sack, trying to arrange them vertically for a push upward, all the while providing a running commentary on my feelings for Bob's amusement and to deflect all but essential attention from the task at hand: "Forty-nine years I've been alive. Representing the present culmination of millennia of species evolution. Of exacting natural selection. Years of formal education. Diligent study. Developing skills. The long, excruciating refinement of sensibility. And now I understand my whole life has been a preparation for this moment: trying to get your dog's nuts unstuck from a bathtub drain. And I don't know if that's perfect or pathetic or both or none of the above."
  I saved my breath and, working by touch, manipulated Joe's nuts around till they were stacked, then, using sort of a reverse milking move, squeezed his scrotum from the bottom. The top testicle popped through, then the other. Joe was free. With an agility he hadn't shown in years, he leaped from the tub and started rolling in the dirt, moaning.
  When I dropped the tub off my numb shoulder, the dirty water sluiced forward and slopped over the rim, drenching me.
  I sniveled some more: "Oh great, I free his worthless old nuts and what do I get-soaked with mutagenic Joe scuzz."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Swabbing sweat off my brow, too hot for prolonged negotiations, I surrendered. "Hand me that damn bottle of shampoo."
  I lifted the tub again, sweat-blind in the heat, and awkwardly squirted some shampoo on Joe's scrotum for lubrication. Taking a deep breath, I began working Joe's testicles around in his sack, trying to arrange them vertically for a push upward, all the while providing a running commentary on my feelings for Bob's amusement and to deflect all but essential attention from the task at hand: "Forty-nine years I've been alive. Representing the present culmination of millennia of species evolution. Of exacting natural selection. Years of formal education. Diligent study. Developing skills. The long, excruciating refinement of sensibility. And now I understand my whole life has been a preparation for this moment: trying to get your dog's nuts unstuck from a bathtub drain. And I don't know if that's perfect or pathetic or both or none of the above."
  I saved my breath and, working by touch, manipulated Joe's nuts around till they were stacked, then, using sort of a reverse milking move, squeezed his scrotum from the bottom. The top testicle popped through, then the other. Joe was free. With an agility he hadn't shown in years, he leaped from the tub and started rolling in the dirt, moaning.
  When I dropped the tub off my numb shoulder, the dirty water sluiced forward and slopped over the rim, drenching me.
  I sniveled some more: "Oh great, I free his worthless old nuts and what do I get-soaked with mutagenic Joe scuzz.