Grad you could make it

It may be an ominous sign that I’m starting this off with a disclaimer, but here goes: Graduations are wonderful events. They are. They allow students and their families to celebrate a praiseworthy accomplishment, and I know from personal experience that the gowns are almost sweatpants-level comfortable. You can let your belt out a couple of notches and cram down a breakfast of cake and beer and still look great in pictures. That’s not a small thing.

 

What’s frustrating about graduations is that they all follow the same pattern. Every single one.

 

Which wouldn’t normally be an issue. I mean, how many graduations does the typical person attend in their lifetime? Around five at most? Let’s break it down. Person X has to attend her own, of course; her parents made her. That’s one. Years later she has a family of her own, with two lovely children who make it through high school intact. That’s three. One of the children becomes a sword juggler hustling for change on the streetcorners of Bangkok, but the other follows a more traditional route and graduates from Northeastern with a Bachelor’s degree in interspecies electrolysis. Person X is up to four graduations now. Just when she thought she was done with them, her nephew graduates summa cum laude from a little-known university whose mascot appears to be Satan making a welcome mat out of plastic canvas. She attends. Person X has now gone to five graduations throughout her life, and since they were spread out over time, she doesn’t mind that they were all essentially the same, but with the colors and music swapped out.

 

Person X was never a journalist, though. Which means she probably didn’t have to go to three graduations within a two-week span, unless of course her sister, Person Y, has children the exact same age in the next town over. But let’s leave Persons X and Y alone for now. I’m getting tired of the Letter People.

 

The point – and I’m pretty sure there was one – is that a journalist, at least on the local level, goes to a ton of graduations. And since they’re not connected to the graduates in any way, the journalist notices things with a more objective eye, such as the general uniformity that pervades these ceremonies.

 

Think of every one you’ve ever been to. They all follow more or less the same rhythm. The music swells, and the graduates walk to their seats, marching in the awkward lockstep of zombies getting up to pee in the middle of the night. There’s an opening speaker. Then another. Then a musical number. Then two more speakers, then the handing of diplomas. Then everyone throws their caps in the air and cavorts with family before heading off to various graduation parties, many of them consisting of pick-up games of basketball and bittersweet reminiscences of the time they filled Joey Flapperdoodle’s locker with canned foam. Poor Flapperdoodle. Between locker pranks and his penchant for playing chess in Harry Potter garb, the guy just couldn’t catch a break.

 

The cookie-cutter sameness of these ceremonies is somewhat necessary;  budget constraints make it virtually impossible to hire the rock band U2 to send off graduates with a pyrotechnics-laden performance of “Beautiful Day.” And for anyone not suffering from overexposure, these events are still nice capstones for the young men and women in their flowing robes. Graduating high school isn’t as simple as most of us remember, and it’s a milestone worthy of a fuss.

 

Still, in an alternate reality in which money doesn’t matter, it would be nice to stage a really rockin’ extravaganza, something to break through the monotony. For the graduates, yes, but also for we, the jaded journalistic audience.

 

Consider the following fantasy scenario.

 

Awesome High School is about to kick off its commencement ceremony at the former Civic Center in Portland. The lights dim. The audience hushes. Suddenly, the opening chords of “Sweet Emotion” shake the walls as Aerosmith frontman Steven Tyler ziplines from the rafters to the stage, dressed in a zebra-print leotard and combat boots the bright neon green of radioactive chemicals. The curtains part to reveal the rest of the band, decked out in Awesome High School’s trademark purple and orange. (Students endure a lot of headaches at Awesome High School.) After a few choice numbers, the students come running onto the floor full-tilt, bursting through a large paper cutout of their logo, a generic superhero drop-kicking a Nazi in the teeth. They’re ushered in by a recording of the theme music from “Rocky” and an indoor fireworks display just a few degrees cooler than the surface of the sun.

 

Speech time. Only, instead of the usual faculty speeches, comedian Louis C.K. rises to the podium from a hidden trap door and delivers a virtuoso half-hour set, crushing with a riff on how history would have played out had Abraham Lincoln won the presidency in a rap battle. The valedictorian and salutatorian then dazzle with a bravura performance from Riverdance; and festivities come to a close with Megadeth axeman Dave Mustaine shredding on a 12-minute guitar solo while prop comic Gallagher smashes watermelons with a wooden sledgehammer.

 

Now that’s a graduation.

 

But you know what? Maybe I’m being selfish. Even though that epic commencement would be talked about for years – nay, decades – it would be geared primarily toward the rare group that’s perhaps a little grad-weary from years of exposure. The focus should be on the graduates, of course, and it usually is. It’s just that you can’t stop a guy from dreamin’, and I’d like to think that one day, with the right school and under the right circumstances, something spectacular will happen.

 

In case it does, someone should tell Steven Tyler to keep his June schedule clear.

 

According to gym

If you had asked me a couple of years ago whether I was a gym person, I would have replied, “The gym? You mean that place with all the weights and whirring machines and grunting men? Get outta here!” Then I would have pointed at you and laughed, ’cause I’m a tool.

 

Turns out the joke is on me. Here I am, a grunting man with weights in my hands, wondering how on earth I ended up standing in front of a wall-length mirror next to a beefcake clad in a Spider-Man T-shirt. I’m pretty sure he’s wearing cologne to cover up the stink of his sweat, which frankly isn’t working. He just smells like a lilac with armpits.

 

I feel like an intruder.

 

It’s not that I’m a stranger to exercise, exactly. It’s just that, until recently, my workouts have been private affairs – long walks along the banks of a river, quiet bicep curls at home, and maybe some haphazard situps to put a dent in a gut that looks like half a melting coconut. Only in solitude can I let go of self-consciousness and achieve my Zen state, which is another way of saying that I generally look like an ignorant boob while doing this kind of stuff. Full disclosure: I also look like an ignorant boob while not doing this kind of stuff.

 

Then the back injury happened, and the physical therapy, and a new mission statement emerged – to fortify my spine by strengthening the muscles that support it. That meant ditching my humble home setup in favor of the gym’s ample offerings. It also meant taking my scarecrow-esque gyrations out where they could be readily seen and scrutinized, which naturally filled me with trepidation. I’d have been more comfortable with a directive to pee in front of a panel of judges.

 

I figured I was in for a strange world. I wasn’t wrong.

 

The first thing you notice when you walk into the gym is that everyone’s a blur of motion, but nobody’s actually going anywhere. This is in contrast to everyday life, in which people are going somewhere, but at a pace that makes growing grass look like the Indy 500. The second thing you notice is the smell. Apparently, when you work out, your burned-up calories evaporate and collect in the atmosphere like steam, only this calorie-steam brings back memories of when your brother tried to suffocate you with a pair of used socks in middle school. Sidebar: Why did humans evolve to be stinky when they sweat? Think of how much more pleasant exercise would be if we emitted dryer sheet odors during squat thrusts.

 

That’s all stuff you get used to, though. What’s tougher to overcome – at least if you’re a wallflower – is the sense of intimidation.

 

Take the guy next to me in the Spider-Man shirt. His biceps alone are the size of small dogs; he probably gets a decent workout just lifting his arm to pick his nose. Between sets, he walks around with his chest puffed out as if to say, “I’m a bro, bro. I could armwrestle Godzilla and win, bro. I drink protein shakes and own many pairs of neon-colored running shoes. Bro.”

 

To be clear, it’s not his physical strength that intimidates me. I could totally take him in a fight, mostly ’cause I’m kinda weird and I cheat a lot. It’s just that he’s so much better at this whole workout thing than I am. Look at him! He’s lifting 45-lb. weights over his head and smiling! His form is perfect! Meanwhile, in my attempts to gradually re-build a brittle body, I look like a gazelle with a broken leg trying to get out of the way of traffic.

 

What separates a gym person from a non-gym person is not physique, but mindset. People of all shapes and sizes go there, which is awesome – that’s how it should be. But you don’t see a lot of overly neurotic people working on their pecs. Crippling neurosis has always been my great downfall when it comes to doing pretty much anything in a public space. This includes breathing and existing.

 

My main problem is that I think too much. The woman on the stair machine, the dude doing leg lifts – I worry that they’re watching my attempts at rehab and silently mocking me, and honestly I couldn’t blame them if they were. Because of my oddly-shaped frame and gangly limbs, it’s a veritable comedy show when I walk across a room, let alone bang out crunches on a medicine ball. Think of a drunk guy trying to get to his feet after stumbling into a rosebush. That’s more or less what it looks like.

 

In reality, it’s likely that no one cares how I look, and can’t be bothered to expend precious energy on mocking. But I obsess, because I do mock. I’ve got it coming, and it’s only a matter of time before someone derisively notes that I’m wearing white socks with black windpants.

 

I’ve gradually become accustomed to going to the gym, like any routine. In my case, it’s worth the imagined public shaming, since my upper back in particular is no longer feeble, like a collapsing accordion. The body is an amazing machine; given enough time and patience, you can direct its development to an uncanny degree, even if you create a YouTube-worthy spectacle in the process. It shouldn’t matter what other people think, because improved health is the endgame, and there are many roads that lead to this goal.

 

But that doesn’t mean I’ll ever think of myself as a “gym person,” per se. I don’t own nearly enough Spandex. Is that a stereotype? That’s probably a stereotype.

 

My good buddy Spider-Man just re-racked his weights and headed back toward the changing room. Not a moment too soon, if you ask me. Maybe now I can finally concentrate.

 

Childspeak

If everybody spoke the way a child did, the world would be a much more honest place. More ridiculous, as well, since world leaders would frequently call each other “booger faces” and shoot spitballs at each other. But at least they’d be saying what they’re thinking.

 

On a recent lazy Sunday, in the midst of an afternoon which demanded that one spend time in the sunkissed outdoors, I drove down to Rotary Park in Biddeford with a camping chair and a book, intent on reading the afternoon away while a warm river breeze caressed my face. I found a shady spot on the riverbank, started unfolding the chair, and looked down to find a small blond boy staring up at me with a Kool-Aid-stained grin spread from cheek to cheek. He held a stick in each hand.

 

“I’m gonna throw this stick in the river!” he announced emphatically. He then followed up on his promise with a mighty chuck, the stick tumbling end over end as it smacked the water’s surface. Not a bad arm for a kid probably no older than 4.

 

“Nice work,” I said.

 

The boy’s demeanor and countenance then took a sharp detour. This happens with some kids. One minute they’re happy-go-lucky bundles of positivity, the next they’re sulking like a caped avenger brooding over a bank robbery. His grin became a frown, tinged with confusion.

 

“Are you sticking around for marshmallows?” he asked.

 

Needless to say, I had not planned on marshmallows. The boy’s family apparently had, for nearby in the park, I could hear the sounds of an imminent barbecue; a woman, presumably the boy’s mother, appeared from between a thicket of trees, approaching us and looking positively horrified.

 

“No,” I told the boy, “I love marshmallows, but I forgot to bring mine.”

 

A beat passed. And then, just as his mother came within earshot, the boy said, “You forgot to bring your hair.”

 

I’ve got to hand it to him. That was a pretty awesome line.

 

Mom came and whisked him away, shooting me an apologetic look, and as they retreated back to their area of the park I could hear the poor woman explaining to her son that some people shave their heads as a matter of style; she still sounded embarassed.

 

Only she had no reason to be. I was fine with the whole encounter. The boy was just speaking his mind, and that’s what kids do.

 

We lose that as we grow into adults, largely out of pure necessity. Daily life requires some modicum of tact. Imaging if we introduced the loose tak of youth into everyday situations –

 

At work: “Hey boss, your ideas are stupid and you smell like an armpit!”

 

At a job interview: “Why are your eyes so big? Is it because of those dumb glasses?”

 

At the movies: “Nice underwater escape, Stallone! ADRIAAAAANNN!”

 

You can see how this would be problematic.

 

By the same token, adults often have a tendency to play it too safe, and could probably learn a thing or two from their diminutive counterparts.

 

I offer the English language itself as proof of this. The more adept we become at playing the whole adulthood game – and it’s definitely a game – the more we hide behind euphemisms, mask our true intentions, and say things without actually saying them. We ensconce ourselves in a complex web of B.S.

 

Here’s a for-instance for you. You’re on a first date. It’s going badly. The person sitting across from you forgot to shower, and smells like a plastic bag of animal hair burning in an oil field. She’s eating spaghetti with her fingers and can’t stop talking about how Hitler really wasn’t such a bad guy. Clearly, things aren’t going to work out. You handle the situation by politely engaging in small talk – “So, it sure has been humid lately!” – and refraining from rude behavior, like checking the time on your phone, or silently weeping into your mashed potatoes. Then, as you’re about to part ways for the night, you compose a parting line: “Thanks for coming out tonight. I’ll call you sometime.” You call her sometime, but only to inform her that you won’t be treating her to enchilladas in the near future.

 

That’s typical adult-speak.

 

Child-speak would go something like this: “You’re a smelly, racist pig! See you later, butthead!”

 

It’s mean, but there’s something cathartic and no-nonsense about the child’s approach. It leaves no wiggle room, no space for interpretation. It’s pure honesty, unmolested by airs. And you don’t even have to call her again! What an adult can learn from this situation is to meld their grown-up tact with a child’s forthrightness, and say something like, “Thanks for coming out tonight. I didn’t feel a spark, but I wish you the very best.” No games, no messing around. Just the truth. And you don’t even have to call her again!

 

Here’s another one. You’re at a family reunion, and you’re locked into a conversation with crazy Uncle Lenny, to whom you haven’t spoken in about six years, mostly because he spends the majority of his time tripping on acid and staring at his Hubert Humphrey campaign bumper sticker. You’re trying to extricate yourself from the encounter when he floats you an unappealing invitation: to help him choreograph a Barry Manilow-themed dance number for his “America’s Got Talent” audition.

 

The adult lies: “Sorry, I’m having an operation to remove my sphincter. I’ll be out of commission for a while.”

 

The child tells the truth: “That sounds dumb. You’re dumb. I want cake!”

 

In a way, I admire the blond boy for speaking his mind – even as I’m jealous that he can get away with it. But there’ll come a time, one day soon, when he’ll walk up to another head-shaver, and instead of saying, “You forgot your hair,” he’ll say, “I really like your hair-do,” and the person he’s speaking to won’t be  certain as to whether there’s a hint of sarcasm buried under the surface. 

 

On that day, the boy will become a man.

To everything churn, churn, churn

Enduring an hour-long commute to work every morning would be an absolute nightmare. The monotony of the highway, the too-slow passage of time ... heck, even talk radio would get old after an hour. By my second week on the job, I’d be at the library, checking out audiobooks on the history of fertilizer, just to keep my road-addled mind occupied on the daily slog. That would be my life: Work and poop.

 

Well, I’ve got a friend in pretty much that exact situation. An hour to work, an hour back, day after day, week after week. It’s a testament to her will power that she hasn’t snapped and drop-kicked a family of beavers to vent her frustration. It’s also fortunate for the beavers.

 

I’d like to think I help her out in this regard. Every once in a while I’ll root through my substantial collection of music and make her a mix CD, usually a winding romp through myriad genres of rock – some classics, a few comedy tunes, and a dose of heavy metal to add a little punch to her coma-inducing journeys. If there’s anything that can keep you awake on the turnpike at 5 in the evening, it’s a squealing guitar solo that could melt the eyes of a south African meerkat. 

 

(In case you’re thinking it, no, I don’t have it in for the entire animal kingdom. Just wallabies. Those kangaroo-wannabe bastards.)

 

There are two reasons I make her these CDs. The first and most obvious reason is that I’m a completely awesome friend in every way, minus my tendency to eat all of her York Peppermint Paddies. The second is simple. I like making mix CDs. It’s a fun hobby.

 

Only this hobby is quickly vanishing.

 

Every generation goes through this to some extent – the hobbies and pastimes that define an age eventually give way to new technologies, new ways of doing things. Making a mix CD – indeed, listening to a CD at all – is an activity that’s quickly going the route of stamp collecting and model shipbuilding. It’s passé, and it’s dating me. Living history museums employ actors to fill the roles of bygone artisans, such as butter churners with their musty barrels and oar-like stirring plungers; in another 30 years, these characters will be replaced by a guy sitting at a laptop, trying to find just the right song to transition between Dire Straits’ “Sultans of Swing” and Van Halen’s “Run With the Devil.” People will take photos of this antiquated endeavor, because by that point laptops will be replaced by brain chips and we’ll all be cyborgs eating old engine parts for sustenance.

 

Those in my parents’ generation already have much to lament. My own were a bit nervous buying me my first Nintendo Entertainment System when I was a kid, thinking that perhaps I’d spend all my time indoors, eschewing the outside world in favor of shooting fireballs at spike-shelled turtles and monsters that looked like Ed McMahon. Their fears were partially grounded. I didn’t avoid outdoor play entirely, but I did spend an inordinate amount of time with an electronic laser gun in my hand, shooting computer ducks and bad-boy desperadoes with the twitchy nostrils of coke fiends. That I turned out the way I did is perhaps unsurprising. If there’d been mutant killer turtles at the playground, I might have gone out more, weighed less than a Buick filled with sand bags, and grown up to be a Major League pitcher. This is clearly what would have happened.

 

As things turned out, I became more fully integrated into an age group that was fast adopting video games as a lifestyle – a lifestyle many of us continue to this day. (Though not me; I’m too busy writing screeds about flatulence.) What’s a little off-putting is that the generation below mine – the so-called “Millennials” – have taken preoccupation with screens to another dimension. Twenty years ago, if you wanted to guide Mario through a go-kart course littered with banana peels, you had to actually sit down in front of a wired television, turn on a machine, and play at a fixed location. But everything’s portable now. The lines have blurred. Gaming is no longer an activity for which you set aside a specific time; you do it on the subway, you do it in class, you do it at Denny’s to take your mind off the fact that you’re at Denny’s. The old gives way to the new, and those in the old-school lament the change, believing – perhaps rightly, perhaps wrongly – that their way was better. It’s the same ol’ song and dance, repeating endlessly through time.

 

Phones have replaced CDs as the music platform of choice. Tracklists are now playlists. And the hobbies that once defined my youth now place me firmly in a specific historical period – the period of neon slap-bracelets and headbands, of waiting for a song to come on the radio so it can be recorded on a warbly cassette tape. Yeesh. Someone hand be a butter churn.

 

Could these generational divisions have always been so drastic? Doubtful. Youths always break from the traditions of their forebears, but the accelerated pace of technological innovation has an amplifying effect, compartmentalizing each generation into their own distinct eras: The era of the 8-track, the era of the VCR, the era of nudie pictures on phones. (This last era isn’t so bad.) These things no longer evolve. They just change, suddenly and without warning, and one day you’re making a mix CD and wondering why everyone’s lookin’ at you funny.

 

Like many who are faced with this sort of thing, I’m sticking to what feels right. That means sitting down and selecting, song by song, a tracklist – not a playlist – to ease the psychic burden of my commuter friend’s daily pilgrimage. This either means I’m steadfast in my commitment to an era-specific hobby, or I need to join some kind of club. Probably both.

 

And for the record, the song that should fit between “Sultans of Swing” and “Runnin’ With the Devil?” “Still of the Night” by Whitesnake.

 

Like I said. I’m an awesome friend.

 

The place beyond the pineapple

There’s a friend of mine who can’t stand the taste of carrots. I’ve got a suspicion he may be clinically insane.

 

I mean, they’re just so good. Not Krispy Kreme or birthday cake good, but good nonetheless. And even if carrots aren’t really your thing, the idea of finding them actively disgusting is wholly foreign to me. Sure, I can understand that some people may find them bland or unexciting, but to actively hate them? To catch the flavor on one’s tongue and spit them out like so much spoiled meat? Blasphemy. The carrot gods are frowning in disapproval – inasmuch as they’re capable of frowning, being that they probably look like giant carrots.

 

But hey, I can’t be one to judge. Everyone’s got different tastes, different foods that are on their do-not-consume list.

 

For me, it’s pineapple. Acidic, tangy, chop-my-tongue-off-with-a-carving-knife pineapple. The flavor is pure, distilled evil. If crying children had a taste, they would taste like pineapple – the grossest and most offensive of all fruits, somewhere on the Ick-O-Meter between two-headed snakes and a basket full of scorpion droppings. If I’m ever captured by armed militants, the best way for the terrorists to inflict torture would be to feed me spoonfuls of this gag-inducing food; I’d reveal state secrets in about two seconds flat if it meant wrapping my lips around a palate-cleansing steak.

 

“Fine, you’ve got me! The missiles are in a bunker under Pauly Shore’s house! For the love of Pete, get me a damn doughnut!”

 

This is why I never joined the military.

 

Back in college, I had a buddy who delivered pizza for a major chain. Occasionally, at the end of his shift, they’d have a “junk pie” lying around – a pizza with no home. (Is there a sadder image?) Perhaps they tried to deliver it and no one answered the door. Or maybe they made a mistake while prepping it – slipped while cutting it, for instance, resulting in a pie chopped into the shape of Ronald McDonald giving the middle finger. These were pizzas that would be thrown away if not consumed, and this was considered an egregious waste of ingredients. So some nights, on his way home, our pizza buddy would drop by with a free pie, and our hungry little group of cereal-eating college kids would nosh on a mouth-watering treat. This was many moons and about 50 pounds ago. If pizza were still free, I’d have to be airlifted out of my office chair by the National Guard.

 

Delivery Guy dropped by one night with a pineapple pizza, not knowing I had a visceral aversion to this Satanic edible. And in sneaky fashion, the pineapple was cooked underneath a camouflage of cheese and onions. Because cheese and onions are glorious foods, worthy of a seat next to the Norse gods of Valhalla, I recklessly chomped a bite off the biggest slice in the box.

 

Ptoooey! Out shot the nasty pineapple-infected bite. Because my reaction to the enemy fruit was so immediate and powerful, the flying, chewed-up wad of nastiness achieved a remarkable velocity, ramming into a refrigerator magnet with an audible thwap – the sound of a spitball striking a blackboard. The magnet was a picture of me backstage with the frontman for Megadeth. A little to the left, and the pineapple-and-cheese mush would have struck Dave Mustaine right in the kisser.

 

A lesson was learned that day: Never hand me a piece of pineapple anything. It will end up on a musician’s face.

 

Yet there are those who would scarf this stuff by the ton. Curious how one man’s trash is another’s treasure. There’s an age-old question in science – and in drunken conversations with philosophy majors – which asks, “How do you know everyone sees the color red the same way? Maybe my red is your blue.” It’s a tantalizing hypothetical, and perhaps an unanswerable one. It can easily be adapted to address how we perceive flavor. How do we know pineapple tastes the same for everybody? If I were to switch palates with someone, would pineapple then taste like a smoked ham? Or a mound of blueberries lathered in whipped cream? Maybe some people bite into a pineapple and taste something even worse, like the sweaty armpit of a hygienically-challenged professional wrestler. Something tells me that flavor has never been incorporated into a pizza.

 

If there are two things I’m good at, they’re geeking out over scientific advancements and daydreaming about ridiculously farfetched scenarios. (If there’s a third thing I’m good at, it’s playing the theme song from “Shaft” on a kazoo.) It’s in this spirit that I pine for a technology which would allow us to alter our perceptions of the flavor of various foods – thus making it easier to eat more healthfully. For example, we push a button, and voila! Tomatoes taste like Double-Stuffed Oreos. Push another button, and poof! Lettuce tastes like vanilla ice cream. In this fantasy situation, I could gobble down all the nutrient-rich pineapple I could handle, with nary an offense to my sensitive taste buds. Of course, this technology could easily be abused; vampires could use it to make human blood taste like Dr. Pepper. But hey, every technology comes with risks. Paintball, anyone? I rest my case.

 

Honestly, though, what I’d really like to do with this whimsical invention is install it into the brain of my carrot-hating friend. Dislike for carrots is an unspeakable atrocity, and this could easily be remedied by programming it to taste like one of his favorite foods. I’d just sit down with him and ask him what he likes.

 

But if he says pineapple, I’m slugging him.

 

Raising a stink

Flatulence. It’s a real gas.
 

Zing! Thank you folks, I’m here all week. Be sure to tip your waitresses.
 

This particular rumination is dedicated in part to my father, who can consistently be relied upon to double over in laughter whenever someone within earshot releases a gaseous emission longer than a radio commercial and louder than a shotgun blast. Once a toot reaches the three-second mark, his dimples start to crinkle, his eyes fill with mirth, and his delight is matched only by unabashed jealousy. He likes to claim the longest and loudest for himself, and achieves this feat fairly often, though this is usually accompanied by the kinds of noxious fumes that could paralyze the front lines of an advancing 18th-Century British army. Had he been alive during the Revolutionary War, the Americans would have claimed victory in about two weeks, aided by a biological assault fueled by a diet of cabbage and beer.
 

This is what I grew up with. Thanks, Dad.
 

Thing is, you’ve got to pick your spots. If you’re going to impress someone – or drive them to gather their belongings and move to Barbados – you can’t just do it any old place, at any old time. It’s socially unacceptable. There are mores about this kind of thing, guidelines which must be scrupulously followed.
 

Guideline number one: Make sure you’re surrounded by an appreciative audience.
 

The younger you are, the easier it is to get a laugh in this manner. Kids enjoy farts. Like comic books and chocolate milk, it’s a part of their world. The best time to unleash the beast, therefore, is in grade school, when you can squeak ’em out as often as you want to without being permanently branded a social pariah. Unsurprisingly, I used to be known for this kind of thing; the fact that my last name is “Lagasse” played perfectly into this, as the words “gas” and “ass” are both contained therein. The trick is to strategically employ comedic timing. When you feel one building up, the best moment at which to let it loose is just after the teacher asks an innocent question of the classroom. “So, does anyone know what the boiling point of mercury is?” Brrrrrrap. Works every time. Kiddos, you can have that one for free.
 

This segues nicely into guideline number two: Utilize your environment for maximum amplification.
 

Wooden chairs. Need I say more?
 

Again, academia is the best environment for this endeavor. My fascination with the well-timed butt-blast lasted well beyond its acceptable shelf life, continuing through my senior year of high school. I was sitting one day in my calculus class, scrupulously taking notes rife with impressive-sounding words like “sine” and “cosine,” when a boy sitting next to me – I’ll call him “Thundercheeks” – let loose an unplanned emission, one of those weak surprises which sounds like air being slowly let out of a balloon. Embarrassed, he immediately blushed and offered a timid “Excuse me,” which was met by mild giggling.
 

Not wanting to be dethroned, I shot him a defiant look, leaned at about a 45-degree angle, and fired off a rocket that could have blown the eyebrows off a Japanese samurai. The trick was the angle; given a wooden chair, all it takes is positioning to turn a medium-sized explosion into an auditory offensive dwarfed only by nuclear bomb explosions.
 

After shattering a few eardrums, I turned to Thundercheeks and said, “Now that’s a fart.” I then became something of a legend. Sadly, this is one of my greatest accomplishments.
 

Guideline number three: You are what you eat. And so are your trumpet notes.
 

High school again. (Where else?) Earth science, last period. It was closing in on 2 p.m., the final bell of the day was imminent, and I could tell something magical was happening by the sheer volume and tenacity of my gurgling gut. School lunches make for the best fart ingredients by far, especially in the right combinations. Chicken nuggets, macaroni and cheese, and Humpty Dumpty potato chips are an elixir so potent the United Nations should start issuing sanctions.
 

With two minutes left ’till quittin’ time, I let one loose.
 

Now, there’s often a downside to all this high-falutin’ tootin’, and that’s the olfactory offense it can cause. One by one, in slow waves forming concentric circles around my little nucleus, eyes began to widen in dawning awareness. Noses crinkled. Someone asked, “Who was that?” And then, like horses dashing through the gates at the Kentucky Derby, a mass exodus ensued, students tripping over forgotten book bags to catch a breath of fresh air just outside the classroom door. Even the teacher fled, leaving her swivel chair spinning languidly behind an empty desk. At that point, the jig was pretty well up; I was the only one left in the room, the rest relegated to peeking in at me from safer ground, most with facial expressions that were equal parts puzzlement and wonder.
 

In the final minute before the bell, I walked over to the teacher’s chair, took a seat, and put my feet up on the desk, grateful for the unexpected quiet. Rather than succumbing to embarrassment, I chose to mark the moment as a small victory, silent but deadly. Two things were responsible for evacuated classrooms that year: fire drills and my gastrointestinal system. How that didn’t make the yearbook is a mystery.
 

There’s a fourth guideline, folks, and it’s this: Never do any of the above in professional settings or polite company. Ever. I’ve tried it, and it doesn’t work.
 

Somehow Dad forgot to mention that one when he was indoctrinating me in his flatulent ways. Certain things you’ve simply got to learn the hard way. Let’s just say that the next time I’m sandwiched in the middle of the back seat during a long road trip, I’m holding it in.