Posts in: December 2003


No work today. I am sick.

No work tomorrow. I’m calling in to jump on the online registration bandwagon. One might say, “Gosh, Stan, why would you miss four hours of work to spend approximately seven minutes registering for your classes?” The simple answer is, “They don’t pay me enough to suffer through a shitty schedule next semester.”

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Next Semester’s Schedule

I just registered for the spring. My schedule tentatively looks like this:

Monday: 6-9PM, Screen Treatment & Presentation
Tuesday: 10AM-1PM, Screenwriting Workshop (Experimental Screenwriting); 2-5PM, Topics in Literature (Spike Lee vs. August Wilson: Grudge-Match!)
Wednesday: 2-5PM, Genres in Screenwriting (Conspiracy and Paranoia); 6-9PM, Comparative Screenwriting (Chicago Screenwriters)
Thursday:10AM-1PM Producing I

After the spring semester, I’ll only be 12 credit hours away from graduating, and 6 of those 12 are meaningless gen eds. And here we all thought I’d be in school in 2017.

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Limit: 3 Per Day (2)

A girl came into the office today. She noticed the “Limit: 3 per day” condom display and said to me, “Jesus! Three per day? What the hell are these people doing?” Then she paused for a second, looked at me, and shrugged. “Oh, I guess we pretty much know the answer to that.”

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It seems my favorite brand and style of left-handed, single-subject, college-ruled, wire-bound, spiral notebooks has been discontinued. This may not seem like a big deal, but it’s like the end of the world. I have to resort to top-open spirals by the same manufacturer.

“Why?” you may ask. “You know other companies sell left-handed notebooks. You can just get one of those.”

You, sir, are wrong. Call me obsessive-compulsive, but I couldn’t bring myself to buy a different type of left-handed notebook. It had to be top-open from the same brand. I don’t know why—it’s just the way it is.

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Accidental Narc

After my screenwriting class, I went to talk to my adaptation professor. I’m floundering in that class, and I’m extremely incompetent, and she’s cool enough to not let me slide my fat ass by because I’m a decent enough writer. I wanted to talk to her about several ideas I had and asked her if I could turn in the (pitiful) first draft I’d already finished, since I wouldn’t have time to write another draft with the newer stuff.*

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Limit: 3 Per Day (3)

A guy came in today and immediately dunked his hand into the condom box, pulling out no less than 478 million condoms and shoved them into his pocket.

“Hey!” I shouted as he walked away. He froze. “That looks like more than three to me!”

He fidgeted, then jammed his hand into his pocket for about 30 seconds, feeling around. All I could hear were the weird plastic sounds of the zillions of condom wrappers rubbing against one another. Finally, he pulled his hand out with three condoms.

“No way, man!” he yelled. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

He turned around and kept walking.

Sigh. They don’t pay me enough to even bother.

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On Hiatus

I was just asked to blog, so I decided I’d take this opportunity to explain why I haven’t been over the past few days.

The short answer is that I have absolutely nothing to write here.

The somewhat longer answer is that I’ve got so much going on, it’d be nice to tear my hair out (seriously, I do need a haircut). It’s not that I don’t have time to blog; it’s just that the time I do have that I usually spend on blogging, I’d rather spend on more productive things, such as doing nothing at all.

Seriously, I love blogging, I love Stan Has Issues™, and I love the fact that I have a growing fan who adores me (seriously, though, you’ve been putting on weight, buddy); at this point, though, I’d rather do nothing than relate amusing life anecdotes or whiny emo piss-rants.

Once the holidays are over, things’ll cool down a bit, and I’m sure I’ll have at least one decent story that involves a psychotic outburst resulting from my paranoia. That’s the Stan Has Issues™ Guarantee*!

* Note: I guarantee NOTHING.

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Body Odor

I got on the train after work, as I always do, and as the train filled up, somebody was stuck sitting next to me. She sat there for a few minutes, then suddenly got up and switched to another available seat. And I can’t help going nuts wondering why.

Okay, I’m large. This is not news to the longtime reader of this blog. Actually, it probably is, because usually I use the word “fat” to describe my carriage. However, I have been forbidden from using this term by powers more formidable and sexually attractive than you could ever comprehend. Consequently, I’m going with “large,” and with that said, it’s not surprising that somebody might be irritated by my wideness and move to a seat next to a smaller person. However, this woman was quite petite, so I don’t think that was necessarily the problem.

I’ve been deeply concerned about what foul stench I may be emitting as a result of nine-to-fiving it, as I have been for a long time this semester. I’m no heathen; I shower at least once a day, and I use an inordinate amount of deodorant, et cetera. I’m generally cleanly, and I’m pretty anal (heh, heh) about it.

However, I’m large. Because of this, I find it difficult to perform such basic tasks as walking up a flight of stairs or sitting down without sweating profusely. Sweat doesn’t exactly smell good, and it clings to the body, dries up, and—I imagine—terrible smells ensue. Since I’ve been riding the train at rush-hour, when riders are able to get up close and personal with odors they’d generally live without smelling, I am very familiar with the fat-man stench. It’s that oily combination of sizzling pork and gaping, red assholes that damn near makes me throw up.

But wouldn’t I be able to smell it if I were producing such an odor? I’m not so sure. It’s like George Carlin says: “Your own farts don’t smell so bad, but if it’s someone else, you’d be running to Bensonhurst.” I have to believe this principle also applies to body odors. It’s all about chemistry, man, and my fat-man (er, large-man) chemistry says, “You smell like bacon no matter how much you wash.”

So what do I do about it?

Lose weight? Yeah, I’m trying, but the Sausage Egg McMuffins won’t cooperate.

Figure out a method of showering before getting on the train in the evening? Okay, that’s not going to happen. Shut up, me.

Perhaps I should just live with the curse of the large man, wedged into a seat next to another fat man whose odor makes me want to tear out my nose and tongue.

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