The Sea Monkey Diaries: On Novelty and Fartifice

My Sea Monkeys resemble eyeball floaters. You know, those bits of fuzz and dots that appear in your field of vision at the most inopportune times. Rather than the detritus of the interior of the eyeball, this detritus is suspended in a cheap plastic ‘ocean zoo’.  My giddiness over welcoming these playful childhood sigils is waning. Also, an unusual quantity of tiny bubbles is collecting on the surface of the ocean zoo. Visibility of the Sea monkey hatchlings is severely compromised. What if they don’t hatch? What if I got a bum batch? I don’t know if my emotions can handle this level of uncertainty. 

Infatuation with novelty is quixotic.  A neuroscientist, perhaps a behavioral psychologist (and undoubtedly countless health and fitness gurus) might attribute my waxing and waning attitude towards novelty as a form of hedonic adaptions. Humans are apparently wired to be stimulated by novel experiences. They are also incredibly adaptable, and the novel and unique are eventually doomed to become banal and quotidian. We are primed to seek out the novel.

The thing is, my need to grow Sea Monkeys isn’t necessarily a desire for the novel. I know what Sea Monkeys are. I recall memories of imagined delight at the prospect of training my own aquatic denizen to perform tricks by following my penlight. That actually used to be a part of the ad copy: ‘Teach them tricks!’ A miniature circus in your bedroom. You  trot your acts out, and demonstrate your prowess to the adulation of friends and family. That’s the allure. Whoopee cushions, Sea Monkeys, fake poo and magic tricks are all sold with an eye towards improving your chances at friendship and acceptance.

In the right hands, objects like whoopee cushions and disappearing hankies can lead to mirth and camaraderie. However, they are tools, not a panacea. Every novel intervention requires a social catalyst, a means of deploying the novelty. Also, the deployer should probably understand the circumstances in which they’ll be deploying said item. For instance, I love whoopee cushions. I do. The pink rubber has a delightful texture and when inflated emits a wonderful sound. Many equate the sound of the whoopee cushion with bodily functions, specifically flatulence.  I prefer to elevate the function of the whoopee cushion. Yes, it simulates flatus. However, limiting oneself to the placing of a whoopee cushion on a chair in hopes of surprising the next occupant with an artificial fart (fartifice if you will) strikes me as uncreative, and a tad cruel. The potential joy that a whoopee cushion might emit is limited by strict associations with this sitting scenario. Poo poo, I say. The whoopee cushion has so much more to offer.

I have explored the intricacies of simulacral flatus in person, in cinema, and in psychoanalysis, which has led me to conclude that the art of the fart (or fartifice) is undervalued, and under appreciated.  It is also quite potent as a disruptive force.

Everybody farts, right?  A significant percentage of the animal kingdom farts. We are all connected through the fart. I once farted in 6th grade, while we were silently reading.  Fortunately, it led to an eruption of laughter, and that was the end. I farted in 10th grade gym class, too.

It’s my first day of school at Our Lady of Walsingham Academy in Williamsburg VA. I’m a sophomore in high school. Coach Cacetta, the guy’s gym teacher, had a bark, but not much of a bite. We had separate guy and girl gym teachers and classes.  Small Catholic school in Williamsburg Virginia, split into primary and secondary. We wear uniforms, including for PE. Mine hadn’t come in yet. So the rest of the class is wearing red shorts, with a grey-T-shirt emblazoned with the Walsingham Academy logo: The Trojans. This irony is not lost on teenagers.  

Instead of a uniform to match my peers, I wore neon blue and pink swim trunks and an OP T-shirt. I’m the new kid, and I don’t have the anonymity that a shared uniform provides. Double whammy.  We’re training for the United States Presidential Physical Fitness award: push-ups, sit-ups, and chin-ups. A giant paper banner with the words ‘House of Pain’ etched in a magic marker hangs over the entrance to the gymnasium. Chin-ups aren’t going to happen. Push-ups can be faked...sort-of.  

I get the impression that many of these kids have been together at least a few years, some longer.  They’ve got a certain teasing vocabulary, and way of handling each other that I’m wary of (I’m the new kid, after all). I watch, and listen, and hopefully not stick out. It’s a survival strategy picked up from my multiple school moves.

“Sit-ups,” Coach Cacetta barks. He’s not unfriendly. I think he’s from New York. Probably the Bronx.

We pair up, one partner lies on the floor, the other holds their feet.  Perform as many sit-ups as you can in 60 seconds, while your partner counts.  My goal is to make a showing that doesn’t suck, but that doesn’t necessarily stick out either. I don’t want to stick out. I just want to ...blend...even in my dayglow shorts.

“Switch”

I lay down on the cool, polished tile while my partner grabs my ankles.  

“1...2…3…”

I’m quite pleased with my progress. It doesn’t feel as difficult as I anticipated.  My dad always said, “The Wilsons aren’t athletes.” 

“15...16...17…”

There are other guys who are struggling, and a couple who are going after it like gangbusters. I’m comfortably in the middle.  Not noticeable.

“23...24…BRRRRRAAAAAAAAP.

I couldn’t help it. A long,low, and startlingly loud eruption courses through the gymnasium.

“Brp..Brp..Brp..” 

A series of short bursts punctuate each of my movements. The guys stop.  The girls stop. Their coach looks at the boys in disgust. I can’t continue, horrified. I’m the new kid on my first day of school and I farted in gym class. The guys lose it, laughing.  I’m convinced we’ll descend into a chorus of ‘plug it up, plug it up’, throwing wads of toilet paper at me. Instead, Tobin starts making fart noises, and a few other guys join in. Coach Cacetta barks “Alright, alright”...and that’s it. 

I farted on my first day of school, and escaped unscathed, untraumatized. I was not turned into a sacrificial victim. I did not earn a moniker that would haunt me and my yearbook. My fart was a social catalyst, disrupting my fellow adolescents from their own self-policing with internal high-school gym hellscapes.