Monday, April 13, 2015

I Can't Help It, Gas Escapes from My Fundament on the Least Pretext, or: Born 70, 92, & 109 Years Ago Today

Lowell George, born 70 years ago today. I was very lucky to see Little Feat nine of ten times before Lowell's death, Little Feat always playing DC. Little Feat is on the iPod, though I don't listen often enough.

This guy born 109 years ago today.

And in winter, under my greatcoat, I wrapped myself in swathes of newspaper, and did not shed them until the earth awoke, for good, in April. The Times Literary Supplement was admirably adapted to this purpose, of a neverfailing toughness and impermeability. Even farts made no impression on it. I can't help it, gas escapes from my fundament on the least pretext, it's hard not to mention it now and then, however great my distaste. One day I counted them. Three hundred and fifteen farts in nineteen hours, or an average of over sixteen farts an hour. After all it's not excessive. Four farts every fifteen minutes. It's nothing. Not even one fart every four minutes. It's unbelievable. Damn it, I hardly fart at all, I should never have mentioned it.

Beckett, Molloy

My avatar's nemesis was born 92 years ago today.