I am pleased to report that I farted at 3:46 PM this afternoon. The fart’s intensity was somewhere between one of those silent stinkers that people are often in denial about and one of those noisy rattlers, reminiscent of a distant motorboat, that can be heard in an adjacent room. In volume, it was perhaps a few decibels; in odor, it lingered around long enough to require a slight crack of the window. (From one crack comes another.) I presume that this afternoon’s lunch — with its plentiful egg and rice — was one of the reasons for this fart. But one does not always look for direct cause when flatulating. The ideal way to undergo this quite normal biological process is when there is nobody around. As I’ve insinuated here, this was neither the worst fart I’ve ever emitted, nor the best fart. I’m pleased to report that the fart harmed no one. It was a fart somewhere on the left of middle C, although I wasn’t paying too much attention to the precise frequency. If the fart were political, and the middle C represented a centrist way of thinking, then I’d probably style this fart as soft left. Probably the kind of fart you’d see attending a few rallies, but not hard-core enough to become a full-blown Marxist.
Fart
– October 29, 2008Posted in: Farting
The Call by Yannick Murphy: The always interesting author of Here They Come and Signed, Mata Hari returns with a novel that whips up a worldview from a rather quirky set of limitations: namely, the call logs that a veterinarian maintains as his son is unexpectedly put into a coma and an unforgiving economy denies him work. What emerges is a surprisingly optimistic, often funny, and very moving account on how one family uses acceptance and forgiveness as a way to atone for hard knocks. (
Birds of Paradise by Diana Abu-Jaber: Forget Franzen and Eugenides. If you're looking for a social novel that counts, Diana Abu-Jaber is the author you're looking for. Building from the free-form exploration of consciousness and identity in Crescent and the gripping procedural structure of Origin, Abu-Jaber's latest novel is her finest, equally fluent with gutterpunk culture and smarmy real estate men. It has been suggested by The Washington Post's Ron Charles that you will likely gain some pounds while reading this novel. This is certainly true. Abu-Jaber's description of food is so precise that it often made me want to do more cooking. But I very much admired the way in which Abu-Jaber presents all her characters as unwitting victims of rough capitalism, which permits them some dignity even as they perform terrible acts.
The Last of the Live Nude Girls by Sheila McClear: This memoir isn't so much about the decline of the Times Square peepshow, as it is about one young woman's efforts to pull herself up by by her bootstraps when presented with few economic options. Filled with self-introspective candor and a quiet dignity, McClear's story is one that might befall any of us in these volatile times. While McClear does get back on her feet, her book leads one contemplating the terrible fates of other young women now moving to New York and falling into deadlier vocations. (
Hrmm . . . And, it may be just hot air from over here; but, did you lean when you let go, Eddo? If so, it’s imperative you let us know. (That would’ve made it a Bb kind of event, right? Patsy Cline’s natural key, BTW. Not sure if she cut loose that way, intentionally.) And, you do know that Norman Mailer said that women don’t lean when they fart? Now, this subject has endlessly fascinated me; I have done an informal survey on it, as a matter of’art; and, when it comes to female fartitiousness, IMO, Mailer was gasping at last ahhhs!