Now it's 1pm. Now it's 1:30pm. Another email: "Any minute." Now it's 2pm. Now it's, ugh, it's 2:26.
I'm pacing, I'm sweaty, I'm frantic. Ed e-mails, asking about the call. He promised his boss that we would drop a huge bomb this weekend. I'm pacing more. More time passes, and I feel something in my stomach. A few more minutes, and I can no longer ignore my digestive system. I need to void my bowels.
I can't do this now, that's ridiculous, James Cameron is about to take time away from transforming cinema to call me -- ME -- right here at home, on my antiquated fax machine with my Linda Tripp recorder attachment.
It's 2:51. It's 3:06. Any minute, any minute. It's 3:29. Oh God, I'm gonna blow. I gotta go. I'm gonna run to the bathroom, respond to the call of nature as quickly as humanly possible, and run back across the apartment to give the greatest interview in the history of entertainment journalism.
I race to the bathroom, drop my trousers around my ankles, sit on the bowl, and just as I am about to commence the act: BRRRRRRRRRNNNNNGGGGGGGGG!