On the first day of the Toronto Film Festival in 2002, I found myself at a party thrown by IFC. And was immediately drawn to a particular corner of the room, where stood Mr. Terry GIlliam, a filmmaker I much admire. I thought perhaps I'd have a word. Or maybe it was just that he was standing directly in front of the bar, to which I tended to make a beeline for when attending film festival parties in those days. In any event, Gilliam was standing with a great and famed and oft-troubled actor I will not name here, who was looking as if he'd enjoyed better days. The gruff-voiced thespian was leaning on what looked like a Victorian-era walking stick, a rather elegant and elaborately carved piece of wood, and protruding from the same hand with which he held the stick was a martini glass, poised at something like a 45-degree angle and still containing some greenish liquid. The actor wasn't spilling a drop. (I had seen Richard Harris doing something like that same trick, with a glass of red wine, in Toronto, almost exactly a year before.) In any event, the actor was explaining to Gilliam, and rather loudly at that, just why he needed that stick right now.
Which was: he had just had a scrotum reduction procedure. Which procedure he was describing to Gilliam, not only loudly, but in not insubstantial detail. Gilliam listened attentively, with that raised-eyebrow look of perpetual surprise/amusement that you sometimes see on him in photos. Eventually the actor got around to explaining just why he had gotten a scrotum reduction procedure: "I just got tired of how every time I would sit down one of my balls would slide up the crack of my ass." At this Gilliam nodded, sagely, albeit with some bemusement. He was clearly stuck for a response, but eventually quipped, "My problem is not losing my balls every time I stand up," or something like that.