Posted by Stan on December 21, 2004 12:09 PM  | Permalink  | Comments (1)  | Friends: Can’t Live with ‘Em

December 19, 2004

Zeke and Me

Back when the Super-Hot Pothead and I were on speaking terms (i.e., any time before February), she suggested that we team up. Her longtime boyfriend (damn him!) was apparently quite the director, I was the writer, and she was, I dunno, hair and make-up or something. Actually, she would have been the producer; I’m just not sure what all she would have done in that capacity. Doesn’t matter since it never amounted to anything more than idle conversation.

I haven’t heard a word from her since February, and I didn’t think I would. I was concerned, so I called her a few times to make sure she was, you know, alive, but she never got back to me on that. I did see her once, walking up Wabash, and she totally snubbed me. I’m not sure if she didn’t see me, or if she saw me and pretended not to, but I only noticed her right before she walked by, and she totally ignored me. I thought of going back and saying, “Yo, bizatch, talk to me!” I decided against it, logically assuming that if she wanted to say something to me, she would’ve.

In June, her boyfriend, Zeke, called me out of the blue. This was a week or two after I’d gotten to Seattle. He was taking Directing II as a summer class, and he wondered if I’d be willing to write his final project, a four-minute script. He had the concept; he just wanted somebody to write it and make it work. I called him back and told him I was interested, and he called me a week or so later and pitched the entire idea on a VoiceMail.

He didn’t actually need somebody to write it or to make it work. He had every single beat of the story worked out; I would basically have been acting as a transcriber. I saw through his crafty ruse and realized that, perhaps, the Pothead was feeling guilty about her unnecessary ignoring of me. This was either his secret way of getting us talking again, or it was being instigated by her for the same reason.

Two days after he pitched the idea, I was honestly thinking about writing the idea, but I hadn’t called him back. I was called for an interview at the single greatest coffee chain in the history of the universe, and I got the job immediately following the interview, and I started training the following Monday (the interview was on Friday), so things kind of became a whirlwind and all of a sudden I was working full-time and trying to juggle that with writing a 60-page sample for a fellowship application, and I forgot about Zeke. I wasn’t taking it seriously to begin with, because I knew he didn’t need me, and then it dropped right out of my mind.

By the time I remember, he had already finished shooting. I thought, “Fuck, I should call him and let him know what happened,” and then I thought, “Dude, it’s not even worth the effort. It’s not like I’m ever going to see him again, especially the way Pothead’s avoiding me.”

One of the most important bits of practical advice we’re given in film school is: don’t burn bridges. This wasn’t technically a bridge burning. It was more like snubbing the protective troll as you cross because you figure you’re not going to have to come back to that bridge. It’s a problem easily solved with a brisk apology: “Oh, sorry, bridge troll, I didn’t notice you the first time you came there.” The problem was that I neglected to actually give said brisk apology to Zeke. I just let it hang, because I didn’t care too much.

This fall, I’ve been taking a class called screenwriting practicum, which is modeled as a microcosm of a real-world studio. A producer finds a story, gives it to an appropriate writer to adapt, the writer adapts it, and the producer tries to hustle it to anyone who will listen. It’s tied in with the producing, directing, and cinematography practica, all of which run in the spring semester. Right now, we’re working with Producing IV students who will go on to the producing practicum in the spring.

Three weeks ago (sorry I haven’t updated in awhile — I’ll be catching up this week), we had professional actors come in and do table readings of each script. As an added bonus, Directing III students came in to watch the readings and consider which scripts they may or may not want to direct in the coming semester. The reading of my script went rather poorly, in part because it was the first one of the morning (they were supposed to get the scripts in advance to rehearse but didn’t for a lot of stupid reasons I don’t feel it necessary to detail) but also because it’s very light on dialogue and therefore pretty dull for actors.

During the break, I had to piss like a racehorse (more on that in what will prove to be an extraordinarily disturbing entry), so I went to the second floor (nobody ever goes on the second floor, so you don’t have to fight to use the can), did my business, and when I came back up, I saw two of the directing students standing in the hall, talking. I walked toward them, and one of them stared at me. Fucking directors.

“Hey man, what’s up?” he said amiably.

Taken aback by his surprising niceness, I said, “How’s it going?” and moved past them back into the classroom. I immediately started thinking of the possibilities of why he would’ve greeted me. I knew he wasn’t just trying to be polite; there was an angle there, but what could it be? I don’t really know many directing students, so I didn’t just snub somebody that —

Wait. Directing III. Zeke was in Directing II over the summer, so it’s logical that he would’ve moved on to Directing III now in the fall. But he didn’t look anything like Zeke —

Except he did. Zeke, the two times I talked to him two summers ago, had long, hippie hair and was generally unshaven. In the fall of 2003, he chopped off his hair and started going clean-cut, but he has a natural white-man fro, so even though it was short, it looked pretty goofy. Now, the hair was slicked back (but it was still obviously naturally curly), and he was wearing stupid-looking emo glasses, but aside from those physical differences, he could be Zeke.

After the break, when we were all assembled in the room, I kept looking toward the back, where the directors were hiding, to see for sure whether or not it was Zeke. Whenever I’d look at him, he was looking back, so I’d avert my eyes and suddenly find my notebook extremely fascinating. But a few cursory glances, coupled by his seeming fascination with me, made it clear that this was, in fact, Zeke.

So I had two choices after class: (1) approach him, apologize, and hope for the best; or (2) run away. I don’t think it will come to a surprise to anyone, but I opted for the second choice. I turned my back to him and talked with some friends, pretending not to notice him, and then slid out the door as quickly as humanly possible.

And then I started feeling guilty. I should’ve at least apologized at that point, since I had long since lost his phone number. I debated briefly about calling the Pothead, even though I’d heard she and Zeke had since broke up (which, you’d think, would be even more reason to call her), explaining the situation and asking her to have Zeke called me back. I also thought about finding out when his Directing II class met and “accidentally” running into him so I could both apologize and say I didn’t even recognize him until later.

In the end, I did what I always do: nothing.

I still think I should have done something, and maybe I still should. This really has little, if anything, to do with rebuilding personal connections with people I didn’t know all that well to begin with. It’s mostly about the fact that, in the spring semester of the practicum, I want somebody to shoot my script. Now, it’s possible — even likely — that the practicum will make my script. My producer’s great, she loves the script and hustles it like a madwoman, and I’m sure she could at least lure a director to the project, which automatically ensures that it’ll get made.

But here’s the problem: what if she doesn’t? There are 12 screenwriting students, together writing a total of 24 different scripts to go into the practicum pool, which already has a dozen or so scripts from last year that never got made. In additon, there are 9 producers, and it’s not even a guarantee that all 9 of them will move on to the practicum. In addition, there are 7 directors, meaning 2 of the 9 producers won’t even have scripts shot.

So again, the odds for me, personally, are good because of my producer and the quality of the story (the original one — my adaptation doesn’t do much in the way of changing it), but couldn’t they be better? If I already have a director going into it with whom I have some sort of established business or personal friendship who will know he can come to me with revision possibilities and equally know that I’ll give him quality material?

With that said, I’ll probably still do nothing. But I may just give a shout-out to the Pothead under the guise of “happy holidays oh and by the way —” to see what happens. You never know.

Posted by Stan on December 19, 2004 2:50 PM  | Permalink  | Comments (0)  | School Rants

Prostatitis: The Horror… The Horror

WARNING: This entire blog entry will go into horrible details about my groin-related medical problems. If you enjoy laughing at my life, and I know you all do, please continue reading. However, the content of this particular entry may shock and educate you with its frank depiction of the human body at its absolute worst.

Upon my return from Seattle in September, I discovered I had somehow gotten hemorrhoids. Apparently, I’ve discovered in the meantime, it’s a rather common disorder to develop in airplanes for two primary reasons: you’re crammed into a tiny seat for four hours, and the bathroom isn’t exactly Funtown USA. Also, I’m a fat-ass, so that never helps. I’m basically crushing my ass veins every time I sit down, so this was kind of an inevitability. And there was something about altitude doing something to provoke hemorrhoids.

Anyway, I discovered this one night when I took the most excruciatingly painful shit in my life. And believe me, it only went downhill from there. Two weeks of pain during every single point of my bathroom experience, including washing my hands, and every time I sat down. I couldn’t even jerk off, which I do a lot since I’m a huge loser, because it’d cause all my ass muscles to clench. In fact, that was more painful than shitting itself.

This became a somewhat bigger problem as I started schools. I’ve always had an aversion to using public facilities, because they’re both disgusting and filled with people who can hear and sometimes smell you doing your business. This is particularly unnerving when, say, you’re in a public restroom frequented by tons of people you actually know, so every time you go, your arch-nemesis Owen is standing at the urinal, listening to you struggle to take a shit.

Typically, this wouldn’t be a problem. However, at roughly the same time I discovered the hemorrhoids, I also broke my camel-like streak of water-holding. In a given day, I found myself urinating at least five times, up from my usual 0 times. Now, you’re saying, “No biggie, you can piss without bothering your hemorrhoids, right?” You, sir, are an idiot.

See, for some reason I couldn’t actually explain, when it rained, it poured, if you’ll excuse the disgusting imagery: I generally couldn’t piss without shitting, and I had to piss a lot. Couple this with the brandless, 1-play sandpaper they expect us to wipe with, and my hemorrhoids never stopped flaring up.

“You should see a doctor,” I thought to myself. Then I thought, “Hmm, he’s gonna want to look at my ass…I’ll call him next week…” Next week, I’d think the same thing.

At first, I didn’t think the excessive urinating was a huge problem. I drink a disgusting amount of coffee each day, so it’s surprising I had to pee as infrequently as I did in the past. However, I did start to think it was strange that I could stand on my feet for six hours, drinking free coffee the entire time, and never have to use the bathroom once, but suddenly I had to go every hour, in the span of about three weeks.

“I’m sure it’s just all that caffeine finally catching up with you,” I thought to myself. “Just grin and bear it.”

I did try various things to cut down on my urination: cutting down on diuretics and liquids in general during the day. It helped briefly, but not enough to deprive myself of that holy elixir called Dunkin’ Donuts original blend. I figured I’d just deal with it, since the hemorrhoids had pretty much healed up and I was shitting less when I had to pee.

Now, over the last couple of weeks, things started to get significantly worse. Suddenly, not only did I have to pee often, I couldn’t ignore the urge. Within a minute of feeling the need to urinate, my bladder would basically be pounding the rest of me so I’d get my lazy ass up and do it. This made things a little difficult during class, when I’d get up four or five times in a three-hour session.

Then, the dribbling started. Then, I started peeing very small amounts and still needed to pee but couldn’t. Then, I was leaping off the train in the middle of Bucktown, racing to find a McDonald’s at 11 o’clock at night so I could piss.

Things were not going well. The excess urination was making my life a tad debilitating and annoying, and possibly life-threatening (depending on how many times I’d have to make random stops in unfamiliar, largely unsafe neighborhoods).

Finally, I decided to suck it up and go see a doctor. I had an appointment two Fridays ago, and when The Doctor entered the room, he shook my hand, and I told him exactly what the problem was: “I’ve been having this strange shortness of breath thing ever since I had bronchitis last year, and it’s getting worse.”

D’oh!

This appointment happened to coincide with the worst night of my urine-soaked life. Laurie, the love of my life, was to have dinner with me, see a movie with me, and then see the greatest concert in the history of Chicago: Elizabeth Elmore opening for Juliana Hatfield, followed by Freda Love’s new band (who could hopefully only be better than her old band, which sucked all the donkeys in ancient Egypt). She ended up canceling, in part because I never told her about the exciting plans for the evening so she didn’t realize it was a big deal.

So I said, “Fine, bizatch. I’ll go alone.” And I had plans to do just that, until I had to pee twice in the six-block walk from school to the train.

“If I have to do this all night,” I realized, recalling the unhealthy bathroom line at the Double Door, “I’ll almost certainly die,” by which I meant that I’d miss 95% of the show, doubled over in pain waiting to get into the pisser, and that would kill me. I figured I’d rather die in peace in my own bed than on the dirty floor of a trendy bar, so I trudged home.

The next day, I started looking up symptoms of what I could possibly have, which made me panic and rush out to an urgent care center.

“You fool,” the urgent care physician said, laughing, “there’s nothing wrong with you!” Then, taking a graver tone: “However, you do probably have diabetes. Your regular physician should give you a blood test.”

D’oh!

So I made another appointment with The Doctor, immediately following the lab tests I was doing to sort out my breathing problem. Both of those appointments were Wednesday of last week.

I rattled off my symptoms to the nurse, and she made me go take a urine sample (easy enough). The doctor came in and looked at the sheet with my symptoms written on it. “Okay,” he said, “I’m gonna ask you to go ahead and drop your pants.”

“What?!” I thought. “Don’t you wanna talk first?”

The Doctor looked at me sternly, so I complied. He felt my glands, looked up at me curiously, and said, “I’m gonna have to ask you to turn around and bend over.”

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!#@#@@#!#!@#!

During the ensuing minutes, I only had enough brain wattage left to wonder how and why gay men can express love in such an alarming and painful way.

“Yeah, it feels like a prostate infection,” The Doctor said unsympathetically. He prescribed some pills and told me I didn’t have asthma, so I should shut the fuck up, crybaby.

The Doctor further noted that it’s not communicable sexually, so there’s no chance that I picked it up from somebody or could give it to somebody.

Wait a minute — sexually?!

“Wait a minute,” I said, “don’t only guys have prostates?”

The Doctor arched an eyebrow. I had my answer. Shuddering at the thought that the doctor I’ve been seeing since grade school thinks I’m a big, flaming homo (seriously, though — if I was gay, would I have so much unwaxed hair?), I went to pay my bill, careful to not shake The Doctor’s hand.

He says it takes a really long time for these infections to clear up, so I imagine I can look forward to another month of fun-filled urination adventures. I can’t wait to relate them all in intimate detail, especially the inevitable pissing-my-pants that I’m sure will happen sometime soon.

Until then, happy holidays!

(P.S.: Isn’t it great to have me back? I’ll say I have about 12 stories queued up in my brain; I just haven’t written them. Hopefully, all will be revealed over the holiday break. And none of them have to do with my prostate infections or hemorrhoids.)

Posted by Stan on December 19, 2004 2:27 PM  | Permalink  | Comments (1)  | Stories of Pain and Humiliation