While it all falls apart

CNN – Smart underwear is making a case for paying closer attention to what comes out of your body. Its creators said they hope that tracking flatulence could eventually give researchers new insight into … what’s happening in the gut. Before smart underwear, there hasn’t been an efficient way to track farts.

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Lots of legitimate scientific approaches available for consideration here, don’t you think? Biology. Physiology. Technology. Fartology. Which one of those, I wonder, would be most helpful in getting us to the, um … bottom of all this?

Perhaps we should start with the aforementioned new insights – although I’m guessing all the data isn’t in. Or maybe out. On the other hand, I suppose we could squeeze our way into the conversation by refamiliarizing ourselves with already existing insights, of which I’m convinced there is a Jupiterian surfeit. By the way, I picked the name of that particular planet to twist into an adjectival abomination because, as the more astute among you will have surmised, it’s a gas giant.

Apparently, one of those existing insights is that flatulence provokes a kind of universal embarrassment – a version of which is evident in my mother’s early admonition that, as a God-fearing seven-year-old, I had to control my emissions during sermons. The same chapel-rattling reverberations the minister was counting on to verbally drive home his point from the pulpit would, she warned, impart an equally amplifying effect on whatever I may have emulsified for breakfast.

“People often worry they fart more than average because we’re all so embarrassed about it,” according to a genuine physician-scientist cited in the CNN report. “Nobody’s counting how often they fart and sharing that number with their best friend.”

Well, I don’t know about your best friend, but …

By the way, I think you’re destined to find happiness in “You’ve Been Pooping All Wrong: How to Make Your Bowel Movements a Joy,” a bona fide book apparently authored by the same CNN medical expert. It’s fairly long, so I recommend that you plan on reading it in several sittings.

In case you’re wondering, (Oh, stop it. You know you are …) the heart of the smart underwear is a small, disc-like measuring device full of electrochemical sensors that snaps onto the back of your Jockey™ shorts and starts counting bursts of hydrogen. Over time, the idea is to determine who farts more, who farts less (I’m told I definitely do not belong in that category) and how the nature of flatulence changes with diet.

Taking things to an even more heightened level of real-life-but-at-the-same-time-you’re-kidding-right? absurdity, the initial results have already been tallied in a volume titled the Human Flatus Atlas, a scientific study in which farticipants – sorry – participants were recruited to walk around with the device sewn into their underpants while they documented everything they ate.

Whew!

Or, if you like … Peew!

I’ll tell you what I’d like. I’d like to know, on average, just how many times a week your normal homo sapiens, um … expresses himself. I mean, just for comparison purposes.

Why? Well, without going into mortifying detail, I’m finding that, too often in elevators and congressional hearings when the subject matter arises, I wind up being identified as the villain of the piece. And, I believe, unjustly so.

Luckily, the Human Flatus Atlas has helped to set things straight. True fact: After users were asked to wear smart underwear 12 hours a day for seven days straight, researchers concluded that, during that specific time span, the average number of emissions per capita amounted to 32 – a half dozen more than my personal best for the same period. So, there you have it. Statistical proof of my innocence.

I accept that – for my diehard critics, anyway – that may not be enough to amount to a credible weather report.

At the very least, though, it should count as a wind advisory.

Pouring down in miniature cataracts – the water kind, not the laser-surgery kind – the tears simply would not stop. Anyone who happened to stumble upon me in my liquid state might suspect that I had been chopping a tubful of onions as part of celebrity chef Giada De Laurentiis’ very own recipe for pasta alla cipollara. But it wasn’t the veggies.

The salty tsunami had been unleashed in true, heart-broken commiseration with Giada, the daughter of famed film director ‘Dino’ De Laurentiis, who Page Six was reporting had injured her toe just before she was about to appear on Dancing With the Stars. She was “for sure going to lose a toenail,” Giada advised the online tabloid.

No. No! Tell me it isn’t so! Tell me it won’t affect the gorgeous pivot turn she was planning to execute with her chiseled young partner – who, in the interest of Aquarian open-mindedness, I acknowledge doesn’t necessarily have to be a man! Tell me her glamorous gown will be color-coordinated to match her black-and-blue appendage!

At the very least, tell me to put down my iPhone™ and get a life.

All right, don’t tell me. I don’t care. That wasn’t going to take my mind off toenails, anyway. The topic just drifted into my consciousness and I don’t know why. Probably because it’s summer and everybody’s wearing open-toed sandals.

That, and sheer coincidence. While doing a little internet research on a completely different subject, I happened to come across an article in Science ABC capped with the headline “Why Do Humans Have Fingernails and Toenails?” Not possessing that particular snippet of useless information, I scratched the surface (seems like an appropriate verb under the circumstances) and learned that homo sapiens inherited toenails from our primitive ancestors, who used them to grip branches with their feet. I’m not sure which branch they were referring to: the one hanging from the tree in my backyard, or the one on Main Street with the ATM. I’m banking on the Norway Maple.

Interestingly enough, in the darkroom of my mind I also developed the memory of an old black-and-white photo I think I once saw of a guy from India – a yogin – who couldn’t be bothered to interrupt his meditations, even to cut his toenails. Suffice it to say that he easily qualified for a stall on the carnival midway next to the Alligator Man.

Which brings me once again to what has become known globally as the Library of the Strange and Inexplicable that I keep in the dank and candlelit recesses of my clothes hamper. This time around I was able to extricate a little-known volume titled Clipper’s Compendium of Nearly Socially Acceptable Toenail Tidbits, which, you won’t be surprised to learn, contains a short chapter on expectations regarding manicure. You know: When to polish. When to trim. When to stop fixating on the damn things.

Here, then, for your edification and derision, are several entries from a questionable section of that chapter, subtitled You Should be Thinking About Trimming Your Toenails When …

• You notice your shoes are size 12, and two weeks ago they were 10½.

• Your bed partner starts wearing shin guards.

• Your friends won’t go to the beach with you anymore because potential pickups assiduously avoid your blanket.

• The oak flooring in your bedroom needs constant refinishing. And finally …

• You can no longer afford to buy new socks every two hours.

All right, I think I’m finished now. And I have to say, I’m pretty proud of the way I handled what I’m sure you’ll agree could have been an awkward point of discussion. Lots of clinical detail. A variety of perspectives. A sensitive approach to matters of personal hygiene. A security check to make sure no one can get in touch with me.

Yup.

Pretty much nailed it.

SOMEWHERE BETWEEN NEPAL AND CHINA  (The New York Times) – Mount Everest is in transition … with researchers estimating that about three million kilograms of glacial ice and snow [are] lost each spring. One of the most shocking findings: Human urine is responsible for (approximately) 154 tons of melt in the Khumbu Glacier. More than 6,000 liters are produced daily by thousands of climbers and guides.

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Don’t panic. It’s bad, yes, but there is some reason to be optimistic. I do a little climbing myself. Usually out of bed, three or four (hundred) times a night, to stay on the happy side of Mr. Bladder. The good news is that I have no desire to conquer Mount Everest.

From Kathmandu to Bhojpur, dozens of grizzled sherpas are breathing a sigh of relief.

And honestly, the headlines may be, well … a touch hyperbolic. Sure, there’s some concern about possibly contaminating an ice-cold source of drinking water for lower-level mountain communities, but when you think about it, fighting downhill pollution has always been an uphill battle, hasn’t it?

The truth is, humans across the globe have relied for centuries on leach fields to return their reluctant but necessary contributions to subterranean water sources in a relatively pure form. And that’s not even figuring in the renal offerings of about 10 million other species – including the Himalayas’ dreaded abominable snowman – which somehow get treated naturally on their organic flow into artesian aquifers.

Consider this: The Chinese city of Guangzhou, currently the world’s most populated metropolitan area, manages to handle the daily excretory output of some 72 million inhabitants without triggering environmental disaster. Six thousand liters is a skate in the frozen park. 

By the way, this might be a suitable moment to remind people about a scientifically supported phenomenon called fecal veneer. And no, I’m not making this up. Every Earth-bound life form we’ve run into so far – from amoebas to tyrannosaurus rex to that kid down the street who appears to be so blithely unfamiliar with the concept of bathtub – needs to empty itself in order to be fulfilled. It’s how we all undeniably waste our lives.

Now think about 3.5 billion years of bacterial and animal output spread across the planet in a molecule-thin film, covering everything in an invisible frosting. Yup. It’s there, people. And don’t fool yourself. Nobody gives a sh_t.

And why should they, really. Like a yellow stain in the snow and ice, it’s all quite natural, and eventually will take care of itself.

Which is not to suggest that global warming – the real troublemaker when it comes to melting glaciers – couldn’t use a little more attention. Compared to all the fuel used for cooking, lighting, heated tent floors and hot showers at Everest Base Camp, blaming glacial melt on a little voiding alfresco turns out to be a piss-poor excuse.

Like everything else … it all Depend®s.

YENICE, Turkey (The New York Times) – A woman in white took to the floor and began to spin. [It] was the start of a recent gathering in southwestern Turkey focused on the ancient tradition of sema, the spinning form of prayer made famous by the so-called whirling dervishes. This event, however, was open to everyone. Instead of the classic white outfits … they spun in embroidered shirts, baggy dresses, jeans, T-shirts and polka-dot socks. The whirling would continue nonstop for seven days and nights.

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All right, people. Listen up. My name is Stan Continople, your Sufi guide, and yes, in the next few hours we fully expect to be generating that gigantic vortex of spiritual energy we talked about last night. You’ll know it when you feel it – that is, unless one of those miscreants from the local boys’ school manages to sneak past security and slip unnoticed into the crowd. They sometimes like to take advantage of the trance many of you are sure to fall into and pinball around in the rotating swarm for kicks. It could be them.

And a reminder: Besides all that free-flowing prana, we’re bound to be stirring up a good deal of dust, too. Hey. It’s rural Turkey. Not a lot of hardwood floor discounters out here, you know? If you have allergies, please try not to sneeze in the face of spinning passers-by. Bring your meds to the front desk and we’ll do our best to dig up some water to help wash them down. Unfortunately, that may actually involve a shovel.

By now it should be plain that free-thinking is an absolute necessity at a transcendental event such as ours, though we’re sure you’ll agree that, in the interest of decorum, even the most open of minds needs to be gently constrained by a few simple protocols. Spinning is fine, but spinning out of control isn’t.

Which is why we ask you to adhere to a few rules and regulations, the first of which is: No tear-away suits allowed. We’re going to be generating some serious RPMs here, and the last thing we need is unsecured shirts, blouses and thread-bare underwear succumbing to powerful centrifugal forces and flying across the room. If nothing else, it amounts to a tripping hazard.

In a similar vein, no exposed chests, backs or bellies are permitted in public spinning areas. Take my word for it: It’s going to be crowded in there, and getting slapped with fleshy protuberances traveling at high speed can leave a welt.

Additionally, it should be remembered that achieving a successful, protracted whirl requires a delicate and symmetrical degree of balance, which is why ladies should never attempt to spin with a purse draped over their shoulders. The same admonition applies to men, of course. A wallet bulging asymmetrically from either cheek will ultimately generate unstable axial vectors and leave you spiraling wildly onto the floor. It is highly recommended that handbags and billfolds be checked at the door with event personnel, who will leave them in a large woven basket in the middle of the street.

Finally, in the wake of disturbing news stories related to last year’s event that, unfortunately, were picked up and distributed globally by the Dissociated Press, the production company has decided to ban multicolored socks. As you may recall, after accelerating into hyper-drive, several participants in the class of 2025 experienced seizures while focusing on fellow whirlers dressed in hose bearing outrageously bright pigments and patterns. A cataclysmic collapse of dancers resulted in multiple injuries and pregnancies.

So … with those few helpful admonishments, we offer you a warm and wonderful welcome to the world of whirling!

Oh, yeah. I almost forgot. No fist-bumping allowed.

ARDAHAN, Turkey (The New York Times) – The governor of Ardahan, a province of about 90,000 people in northeast Turkey … was fired last week, and some people quickly started speculating that he had been fired because of his bicycle pants. (As) a bicycle enthusiast … he often posts photos of himself, generally wearing the kind of skin-tight leggings and jerseys commonly worn by serious cyclists. [One political opponent was quoted as saying] “This is not how a governor should act.” Many on social media seized on the athletic wear controversy, citing it as the reason for his ouster.

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Yes. There is, in fact, a substantial risk that I’ll be forever branded as a poor loser, a bad sport, an adult crybaby – lying on his back, kicking and mewling in a hot-tub-size crib with a martini in one hand and a cellphone connected to a white-shoe lawyer in the other.

But dammit, I’m absolutely sure that this is what really happened – as sure as I am that the lawyer will eventually wind up suing me for non-payment. The real reason I wasn’t picked for that recent vacancy on the town zoning board was because I showed up at a meeting wearing capris.

You know, the things we used to call clamdiggers – colorful, tight-fitting pants ending in the middle of your calf and drawing irresistible attention to whatever horrific collection of varicose veins and desiccated epidermis you happened to be advertising that day. And, yes, I realize it was the middle of winter, but I had no choice. They were the only clean trousers available to me while my washing machine endured agonizingly slow repair by one of the only plumbers in the county specializing in the use of all-natural tools. You have no idea how difficult it is to loosen a machine screw with nothing but two sticks.

It was an awkward showing, I admit, but did anyone on the board bother to ask if my regular chinos were OK, and hadn’t been damaged in a biking accident or something? No. Of course not. And was there any suggestion of concern for my personal health, given that I had trekked on foot through sub-freezing temperatures to make an appearance before their zoning eminences? The chairman has a prize-winning case of gout, for crying out loud, so I know he had a heating pad somewhere in his desk. Not even a hint that he’d be willing to lend it to someone with an obvious case of spider veins.

More important, what about the list of exceptionally creative recommendations for improving the curb appeal of the commercial plaza being constructed along Main Street that I managed to extract from the pocket of my frozen clamdiggers? Yes, I copied the photos from a coffee table book of Frank Gehry designs, but, as you can well imagine, the top of my washing machine wasn’t available to allow me to sketch my own architectural masterpieces.

I’m sorry, but all the evidence points to what I maintain is a stunningly flagrant example of discrimination against not only clamdiggers, but anyone daring enough to wear them in January. I and my forward-thinking zoning proposals were summarily and unfairly rejected because my pants failed to reach my feet.

This is not how government in smalltown America is supposed to function, ladies and gentlemen, and I for one will not stand by while our democracy is assaulted.

Well … not in my capris, anyway.

THE NEW YORK TIMES – (An) offbeat market in Minikowo, Poland, attracted Dutch salesmen and more than a dozen Polish agricultural suppliers and farm representatives on a recent sunny afternoon. The prospective buyers eyeballed, sniffed and ran their fingers through the merchandise. The product? Manure from Dutch cows and pigs, muck that farmers in the Netherlands are desperate to sell. There were lectures, a happy hour and a speed-dating session between customers and sellers, complete with demonstrations and take-home samples.

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Speed Dating: This Way

WANDA:   “Hi, there. Have a seat. Been wanting to meet since I saw you at the semi-liquid byproducts booth. I’m an agri-business representative from the Central Lowlands, near Warsaw. I’d shake your hand, but I’ve just been pawing through some of the finest pig droppings I’ve ever had the privilege of lodging under my fingernails.

(holds out a plate of host-provided canapés) Appetizer? Try the puff pastries with the savory spread. They’re yummy!”

FINN:    “Umm … I’ll pass, thanks.”

WANDA:    “Nice threads, by the way. So, where’re you from? An Armani jacket like that doesn’t usually get featured in Farm and Field.” (winks)

FINN:    “Yeah, I guess so. I’m here with the Dutch Dung Council. Flew in from Amsterdam this morning. We’re making a presentation later this afternoon on new developments in the compost sector.”

WANDA:    “Hmm. I don’t see it here in the program.”

FINN:    “I’m not surprised. It’s a late addition. The guys from Syndicated Stool just, um, dropped out, so to speak, and we got called in.”

WANDA:    “What’s the title?”

FINN:    “It’s called Slops and Night Soil: The Great Waste of Our Time. All about natural fertilizer.”

WANDA:    “Sounds like a growth industry.”

FINN:    “Yeah. The big boys are in it up to their necks, hoping to eventually clean up.”

WANDA:    “Sounds interesting. Any sample cups available at the display table?”

FINN:    “Not yet. Sponsors don’t want to take any chances. They’re waiting until after lunch, so they don’t get things mixed up with the Wacky Cake dessert.”

WANDA:    “Gówno …”

FINN:    “Exactly.”

WANDA:    “You know … (lowering her voice), we probably wouldn’t be here in the first place if it weren’t for that Strait of Hormuz thing. Pretty simple, right? No oil … no chemical fertilizer. What the hell did they think they were doing, anyway?”

FINN:    “Same thing as us, I guess: Mucking things up and selling people a load.

WANDA:    “I have to say, though, it’s been an interesting few days. My colleagues and I have been picking up some interesting concepts …”

FINN:    “Wearing gloves, I hope…”

WANDA:    “… but realistically, we’re not sure the market is ready for wide-spread dealing in this stuff. It’s pretty wet and heavy, you know, and that’s going to have an effect on transportation costs.

FINN:   “Yeah, we get it. You guys don’t take a lot of crap. We think we’ve done a good job anticipating that, though, with the development of something new called Manure Lite. Very little alcohol and only 60 calories.

WANDA:    “Interesting …”

FINN:    Have you met our manure ambassador yet?”   

WANDA:   (surprised) “No. I haven’t. Didn’t realize you had one. Would I recognize him?”

FINN:   Reddish beard. Good looking guy. Doesn’t really stand out that much. Well … except for the cologne. For some reason he wears a ton of it.”

WANDA: (coquettishly) “Well … he couldn’t possibly be as good-looking as you.”

FINN:   “Oh. (following an awkward pause) Say, are you doing anything after the lecture? Would you like to have dinner?”

WANDA:    (smiling) “I thought you’d never ask.”

FINN:   “Great. I’ll pick you up at 7. Would that be all right?”

WANDA:    “Sure.”

FINN:    “Just one thing …”

WANDA:    “What’s that?”

FINN:    “You’ll be showering, right?”