I passed gas. It
didn’t even have to be silent because I was standing in a small venue listening
to disproportionately loud performers.
Luckily there was a pudgy bald chap near me that was probably blamed for
the incident. Perfect. It was a risky move with this LA crowd in the
music café, but hey gastric distress can’t be helped. I’m pretty sure the Nashville rock duo drowned
out the slightest bit of noise; and any lingering smells were quickly distilled
by the bouquet of sweat, perfume, wet clothing, and spilled libations.
My kids, of course, call it farting. My mother-in-law called it “tooting” but she
was from England where everything sounds better with the British accent, and
even corporeal activities take on an air of royalty. Because my mom was a nurse, we used more
proper, anatomically correct terms. We
didn’t poop; we made “BMs” short for bowel movements. And of course, my mother actually ran to the
bathroom to “pass gas”, she never did it in front of her family and certainly
not in a public space. My father did not
share her modesty in that department. He
treated it as a game of sorts to see what kind of creative sounds he could make
(the crescendo was a nice touch) and whom he could blame them on – tree frogs
were a popular scapegoat. When we inquired about this obvious lack of
chemistry, my mom informed us that my dad always opened the car door for her
during their courtship, which provided the perfect opportunity to break wind
and maintain a sense of relationship propriety.
This guise (one of many I should add) was promptly dropped after the
wedding. And then there’s my
grandmother, who was on a whole different level. She didn’t refer to the act at all, she would freely let things go and proceed as if nothing had happened. My brother and I would giggle and she would
look at us with an air of confidence mixed with nonchalance. You had to admire such grace in the world of
bodily functions. In the right situation (or sometimes the wrong
one) I can still belly laugh at the sound of a good fart; I’ve never lost my
sense of humor when it comes to potty talk.
Judge me, as you will, in fact you probably already have seeing as how I
just confessed to public flatulence and letting an innocent man take the fall. But I digress….
My husband interrupts my juvenile thoughts as he shouts in
my ear over the crowd, “Hey, do you want another drink?”
“Yes please”, I yelled back.
I notice him inspecting the women in seasonally
inappropriate clothing as he makes his way to the bar. He
might want to be more discreet as he could be cited for visual harassment in the
near future. I take the time to peruse
my surroundings as well. Everyone thinks
they are going to see someone famous at these film festivals, but actual sightings
are rare. The stars don’t wear their
usual Hollywood glitz, they dress in some carefully appointed “mountain”
ensemble which usually includes a flannel shirt, oversized pom-pom hat, and an
inflated outer garment, so they fit in reasonably well. Usually the ones dressed like it is 75 degrees
when it is actually 20 degrees and snowing are just groupies. I’ve made these staggering observations after
13 years of festival attendance. The
most interesting people look like you and me, but maybe with a NY edge to their
demeanor. The people you really want to
encounter are being whisked about via private car service anyway, not wanting
to soil their Prada velvet combat boots in the slushy streets of Park City.
I’ve recently returned to my pre-technical roots and avoid
using my cell phone while waiting in the Sundance lines in an effort to meet
new people. I examined the queue of at
least 250 people and 95% of them were looking down at their phones. It was pathetic (not to mention bad for your
spinal column)- all of us human beings here to open our minds to creative film
and none of us could tear ourselves away from our handheld devices to actually
start a conversation. Consequently, I
put my phone in my pocket and initiated a chat with a nice woman from NYC who
finances women directed films. Brilliant. Enlightening.
Way better than being provoked by some fake news on Facebook. I must admit, I gave up Facebook for the
month of January along with shopping and sugar, so I didn’t have much to do on
my phone with three of my primary vices temporarily barred from my life.
In addition to the dramas, documentaries, and the dreaded foreign
subtitle films, there was an anniversary celebration for women’s rights held
during the festival. This year it was
downgraded to a more manageable rally, as opposed to the show-stopping march
from last year. One of my friends
encouraged me to go, “Come on, Jane Fonda is going to be there, it will be like
‘Nam”. I just couldn’t muster the
energy, and my daughter now disdains feminists because the traffic from the rally
ruined her powder day. Such are the priorities
of the young and untainted, who will enjoy the ability to vote, run for office,
and get an abortion if necessary without having to put up a fight.
Inevitably at Sundance, I am reminded of my complete lack of
impact on the world, which always sends me into a slump. There is a profusion of talented folk out
there writing creative stories, making movies about relevant political events,
women lawyers who have changed laws to help minorities, women judges who have
battled sexism their whole lives, refugees who have overcome unmentionable
horror to find a new destiny for their children.
Christ, what have I done with my life?
No wonder my kids can’t write a decent college essay, adversity and grandeur
have been largely absent from our existence.
What is my legacy going to be? Only
Sundance can make me feel incredibly inspired and hopelessly belittled all in
the same sitting, but at least I’m not bloated ;-)
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