Ever wonder what a porn novel written by Andy Rooney would look like? Me neither. But with "The Fermata" Nicholson Baker has provided us with an answer to that question anyway. Like Rooney, Baker's narrator is endlessly digressive and fascinated by by the minutiae of nearly everything he encounters: the workings of a cassette tape, the difference between the way a woman sounds when she pees and the way a man sounds when he pees, the workings of a centrifuge. Like Rooney, Baker is a good writer, and so he manages to make these musings entertaining most of the time and sometimes even profound-sounding. But long before you reach page 100 you'll begin to appreciate the wisdom of "Sixty Minutes" producer Don Hewitt's decision to allot only two or three minutes a week to Rooney's ramblings. At book-length, such digressive and destinationless diatribes -- even when the subject is sex -- tend to become deadeningly dull. One could argue that this is just another example of Baker's genius: He has written a book about the stoppage of time so slow that the reader often feels as though time for him really HAS stopped. A literary example of form following function. But don't let this observation keep you from reading the book. Taken in small doses, "The Fermata" can be hugely enjoyable. In fact, Baker is a better writer than Rooney, so you should be able to spend much more time with him than just a couple of minutes per week. But when you're done reading "The Fermata", you may end up asking yourself, a la, Rooney: "Dija ever wonder why Nicholson Baker, a writer who seems to be fascinated by just about everything, has never managed to interest himself in the plotting of a novel?"