Flatulence. Let’s discuss it.
Now, just fyi – this is going to definitely fall into a “tmi” or perhaps even “tmfi” category for many people, so for convenience I’m going to provide a link to go to the NEXT entry if you’d just as soon not know these things. If you’re hot, then you should probably go ahead and click it and proceed with the knowledge that I actually have no asshole and I only process waste into dainty little balls which I cough quietly into a tissue once every morning in the privacy of a lavendar-scented restroom. However, if you’re REALLY a spectacular woman then you should probably go ahead and read everything, so that when we fall head-over-heels in Love with one another you’re not nastily surprised at some later date.
Jay of White Rose Confession and the absolutely bizarre stage decoration at Mill Street Brews in Southampton, Massachusetts. He freaked me out the whole night. Scary scary thing. I’m glad it didn’t move. This was just before we found out that the venue sucked ass, and this photograph manages to capture one of the last moments of mirth of the night. 
Ato of White Rose Confession has the BIGGEST pedal board of anyone I know. Yes, even including Brennan. Sorry Brennan. You may have more little fiddly bits, but his really is MUCH bigger.
In any case. flatulence. Everyone passes the gas. I read that in a kid’s book somewhere. It’s the sequal to “Everybody Poops”. I’m not kidding. But I have some additional gastrointestinal difficulties. Nothing vast – I’m lactose intolerant and ocassionally I’m weak and really, really need chocolate or coffee or cheesecake or any number of other products where the milk is necessary. And yes, there’s soy milk, and yes there’s lactaid, but I’m a wanting person who NEEDS sometimes. really, really needs.and by “needs” I mean “yes, I’d like the chocolate cheesecake with a side of fudge ice cream and if possible, the dark silk mousse please”.
Everyone knows their own body, knows that they’re going to respond to certain foods in certain ways, knows those rumblings that warn them to stay away from enclosed spaces – and I feel like I’m a good general, and that I marshal my location and company accordingly. but sometimes. well. sometimes. Sometimes you’ve got an eight hour drive and all you can do is apologize to your road-wearied partner from the passenger seat. Sometimes you really feel bad for Rowan who’s trapped DIRECTLY BEHIND you on stage. Sometimes you don’t dare let anyone spoon BEHIND you because it’s a warm night already.
You try to be polite, you try to be kind, but hey – we’re all adults here. We know that
sometimes things just happen. We grimace at smells and go on with our conversations. We apologize to our friends. If you’re Sharif you sometimes lock the power windows and grin like a maniac and reap the whirlwind. so to speak. I’m generally good at at least being silent, but I don’t always win that battle. and then what? Would I rather be manly and ripping? Letting flatulence fly with cheek-rippling, earth-shattering quakes that let everyone in the room know “rob farted! But DAMN it was a MAN’S fart!!!” – perhaps I should try to knock over a mic stand with it? Would it be better if you saw the posters on the walls ripple? You know, should I pass gas with majesty!!! Or do you squeeze and hope that you’re subtle? A squeak? A tiny minute movement? Something that can be excused with a hand over the mouth and an “excuse me”? Probably not even the whole hand, but just two fingers. Slightly feminine, certainly – and perhaps the inspiration for prison-sex jokes. but at least not capable of silencing a room or a song or damaging the subwoofers.
In short, I’m a pretty effeminite creature as is. Should I reclaim my manliness through my gaseous emissions? Probably the answer is “no” and I should attempt to keep to SBDs and maybe even take up anal ventriloquism in the hopes that I can throw these noises to adjacent asses and pass the blame as well as the gas.
But in a different world I could be a monster. A master. A mover of continents. I feel
