Okay, before I finish the rest of the story about the crazy shit that has transpired during the past year, here's a link for writers for a very cool contest. This really talented photographer is offering a photo-shoot-type-thing for the winner's book:

http://vlcphoto.blogspot.com/2010/02/new-contest-for-authors.html

What can I say about my absence these past eleven months? You might have speculated that I had a religious conversion, or was recruited by an elite undercover spy outfit. Well, friends, I'm not ashamed to admit that the ticking clock of love forced my hand in a way that I was simply not prepared for.

It began like any other perfect day with a full breakfast, coffee, a couple of Bavarian creme doughnuts, and a White Russian served in an extra large jelly jar. I had just called in sick for the rest of the week (it was a Tuesday), and had put the finishing touches on a chourico, yellow onion, and cheddar frittata with one of those tiny propane chef's torches (highly recommended for your kitchen if you don't have one!). And, if that wasn't enough, a soft haze of sun provided the perfect light by which to read the vast array of comics and graphic novels I had had Lizzie pick up for me (after an amorous morning, I chose to stay in bed for an extra hour of sleep).

I was sitting at the kitchen table in my favorite red silk kimono, reading my latest copy of Unwritten, when she asked the question. What I mean is, she asked THE QUESTION.

"Where exactly do you think this relationship is going, Frank?"

Now, if you've ever been in this kind of situation, then you're familiar with the ringing in the ears and the sudden drop in blood pressure. And, let's face it: once you've heard something like this, you just can't go and unhear it. You have to accept that things have officially changed; they have become complicated, and there's no going back to the simpler times, the good times, the days of obligatory monogamous weekend sex, staying out with your friends for three-day dungeons and dragons festivals, and generally living a happy and fulfilled life without the pressures of having to remember every goddamned birthday, christmas, anniversary, valentine's day, and whatever other mind-numbing convention the relationship fascists have stuck in your ass like a giant hypodermic needle filled with anti-fun serum.

I don't mean to be dramatic - but, friends, I saw my fate laid out before me like Odysseus when he put that heavy oar on his shoulder and turned his back on the sea. Real salt tears fell off my face and onto the forkful of frittata that was making its way to my mouth. At that precise moment, I wondered about greatness. Did it come to a man unbidden, or did he have to find it within himself, through blood and sweat and ordeal? In any event, it was time to nut up, so to speak.

(will continue with the story in a couple of days!)

I'M BACK!

Where have I been? Sick as a dog. Got some kind of infection and the doctor wanted a... urinalysis sample. Embarrassing, I know. So I bargained for the right to bring one in from home at my own convenience (I can't bear the thought of having to "produce" on demand). 

The nurse gave me this little plastic cup; needless to say, I promptly lost it and had to use an empty mason jar I found in the recycling bin. On my way to the Doc's, I stopped at the Commons. It was such a nice warm day, and I wanted to sit outside and have a coffee, a burrito, and a couple slices of pizza. Now here's the crazy part: relaxing on a bench, I spotted at least three other people walking around with Mason jars, presumably containing their "samples." What were the chances, I wondered? Had they too lost their plastic specimen cups?

One of the jar carriers actually sat down next to me and struck up a conversation about the weather and birds and shit. He was a pasty frail-looking guy in a beard, knee high Muck boots, and one of those sweaters your grandma knits for you when you're 14; I only hoped that my urine sample didn't come up positive for whatever he had. I mean, I'd love to be skinny, but not see-through, and certainly not if it meant looking like a cast-off from the Organic Goat Farm version of Survivor.   

A couple of days later, I got a call from the Doctor's office. "Mr. Santos, are you aware that your urine sample contained 70% organic green tea and 30% pear juice?" asked the nurse. 

I explained that I was not a tea drinker, and didn't even know there was such a thing as pear juice. There must have been some mistake, I said. 

"No mistake, Mr. Santos. I've been a nurse for 20 years, and yours was the only sample I've ever seen that arrived in a jelly jar." 

And then it dawned on me. The frail guy in the Muck boots had been carrying his tea in a mason jar. But why? I really didn't know. Maybe it was some local culture thing, like women wearing skirts over their jeans. Or maybe the $15 Lexan water bottles and the $25 stainless steel ones that they sell at EMS and Wegman's had been outed as unsafe. Perhaps the only safe drinking bottle in the world now is the glass mason jar! And maybe we will all be doomed to walk the commons in ridiculous hundred dollar farm boots, cradling the handle-less glass vessels, our teas and vanilla chais and juice blends sloshing gently within. A work of caution, though, if you're going to carry one around: be careful who you sit next to. And to the poor guy who ended up with my jar, sorry dude!         

GIVING UP

Okay, I give. My effort to forego technology for 2 weeks was a total failure. But it's not like I didn't try! On my fifth day, that little fucker, Esteban, upped his rates to 20 bucks per typed post. Can you believe it? I know, he'll probably make a great corporate guy some day. But on this day I wasn't taking any of his shit, so I pulled the plug on the whole project and told him to piss off. Then he threatened to strong-arm me and hack into my site and crash it. I had no choice but to let the air out of his bicycle tires and tell his girlfriend (who just happened to be parking her car in the street) that Esteban had left for the free clinic to get some treatment for his social disease. 

So on to bigger and better things.  Tonight I started a new book: Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon. Amazing book, if you haven't already had the pleasure. Here's a random line from the 4th page: 

"Although I had the vague impression that my oldest friend was speaking to me in tones of anger and remonstrance, his words just blew by me, like curling scraps of excelsior and fish wrap, and I waved at them as they passed."   

I don't know about you, but I've never before heard of "fish wrap." What the hell is it? And what's excelsior? I read about it in Cannery Row where Frankie, the messed up kid who hangs out at Doc's lab, used to climb in the excelsior box when he was scared. But I still don't know what it is. If I had the energy, I'd probably look it up. But I don't really care about the meaning. What I care about is how Chabon can use language and crazy words that I don't know and will never know  so beautifully. Words blowing by me like curling scraps of excelsior and fish wrap. It's pretty cool, isn't it? Come on. Admit it! So read something good tonight. Pick up a book by someone who really knows what he or she is doing. Absorb yourself in that person's characters' world. Open a bottle of something you've been saving. Eat something totally fattening and unhealthy that tastes really good. Open the doors to the woods stove and bask in the heat! Because that's what I'm doing tonight. See ya.

Frank 

DAY ONE: NO TECHNOLOGY

Saturday was the first day of my self-imposed withdrawal from high technology. It sucked. I didn't have my nice alarm clock/Ipod docking station, so I accidentally slept until 12:30 and so missed the bank and the post office. Thus, no money. Thus, I had to cook for myself and there was not much in the kitchen. Managed to throw together a decent seafood bisque, though, using some frozen shrimp, scallops, and calimari. Also, because the P.O. was closed by the time I made it out of the house, I never mailed in the final revisions to the publisher on my graphic novel, Serial Psycho. I actually had to pay the neighbor kid, a 14 year-old hacker named Esteban, $10 just to type this in to my Blogger account! The little bastard tried to bump the price up to $15 - but he backed off once I threatened to tell his mother about the MySpace page where he goes by the name of Super Pimp, Stevie Rios. 

And if all that wasn't bad enough, work turned out to be a fucking nightmare without my Palm Pilot. I missed two meetings and had to feign an abscessed tooth so I didn't look totally incompetent (better to look unhealthy than stupid). I really want to make it through the week without needing the interwebs, but it's getting tough. About all I can do is watch t.v. (hardly technology, right?), smoke cigars, and eat. Come to think of it, maybe this won't be so bad. Will have to treat myself to a box of something really special though. Maybe some Hemmingways. And some good brandy. Maybe some steaks. Alright - got to go shopping. 

Later! 

Frank's Wild Years

After nearly going blind from an 18 hour video game marathon with a few of my friends, I decided to unplug myself from all technology for two whole weeks. That's right. No Ipod, Blackberry, laptop, desktop, etc. No email. No MyFace. No PlayStation Portable. No Nintendo DS Lite. No vintage Atari. No bluetooth. Nada. What will happen, I wonder? Will I find peace, just like Henry David Thoreau when he managed to live for an entire year on Walden Pond without his MacBook? Or will I crash and burn like my friend Melvin Cylart (a.k.a., FlyFart) who got caught breaking and entering into a neighbor's house when his computer fried and he couldn't think of another way to logon and get to Second Life at a critical moment? I am willing enter this brave frontier and write about it for your entertainment on this blog. I will keep you posted. 

- Frank

WTF?

I'm a little late on this one, but in the name of truth and justice I must speak. A couple of weeks ago, The Ithaca Times wrote a full article on something called Laughter Yoga, which is a loose amalgam of simple yoga poses and fake laughing. Incredible, but true! Apparently there are over 6,000 social laughter yoga clubs around the world and the number is growing! Why, you ask? I have no fucking clue. Maybe it's just another phenomenon that confirms that the universe is indeed a mysterious place. Maybe, in the grand scheme of things, amidst all the other crazy shit in the world, some nutty fruitloop had lighted upon a good idea? I decided to try and open my mind... to crystals, past life regression, wheatgrass milkshakes, and even laughter yoga.

But here's the problem: try as I might to embrace the flaming stupidity of it, I just couldn't extract the image from my mind of a group of strangers contorting into the cat pose and forcing themselves to crack up.  I pictured them, gathered in one of those large open fitness rooms with walls of mirrors and swedish exercise balls and racks of chrome dumbbells, holding their bellies in mock theatrical laughter. My mind worked this scene over repeatedly, created abhorring figures such as Rolf, who smelled of raw garlic and wore a beret, a striped mime shirt, and a pencil-thin goatee. Frankly, just the thought of Rolf and his friends was disturbing to me. It was so disturbing to me that I was forced - in the name of science, mind you -  to go check out this laughter yoga bullshit. I would either prove myself wrong (year, right!) or at least confront the madness face to face.  

Here's what I found: Sanisatya, the lithe and attractive Certified Laughter Yoga Teacher, apparently was the leader of this particular fruitloop freakshow. But, aside from the Far East stage name, she did not look very freaky. On the contrary, she had silky raven hair, beautiful pale skin, and was clad in some very comfy velvet-pajama-looking-things. I wondered if they (the clothes) came in men's plus sizes? But what really got my attention were 

Sanisatya's bare feet, which were small, shapely, and lovely; I imagined them in a pair of Bella-Vita slingbacks coordinated with a long suede skirt and a plain white silk blouse. I began to lose focus. 

"Frank," the soft voice of Sanisatya called to me, bringing me back from our imaginary date (which had been going quite well in my head, I should add). "Frank, are you still with us?" 

"Yes," I said, somewhat startled. I think I blushed, such was my enchantment with the lovely-footed instructor-goddess Sanisatya. "I'm here, Your Highness. Ready to laugh!" 

She smiled benevolently and said, "Okay, class. I want you all to inhale as you bend over and touch your toes. On your way up, exhale and say HOO HOO HAA HAA. Repeat ten times, please." 

Everybody bent over obediently. The limber bastards touched their toes with ease and began to HOO and HAA. They did it easily, with grace and fluidity, which forced me to curse them under my breath. I watched them in disbelief and wondered if Sanisatya really expected me to do that. Was she blind? Did she not see the entirety of my fat ass? Did she not notice my pear-shaped body that had certainly not been designed to bend in half. And that's when it happened. That's when the damn of laughter burst within me and I truly grasped the insane genius of laughter yoga. It started with an idea: the idea of me, a two-hundred and eighty pound man clad in a pizza stained Gostbusters t-shirt, bending over and coming anywhere near to touching my toes. Now that was funny, and it started me laughing! The laughter fed on itself. I pictured it again only, as I bent and grunted, my pants split. And I farted. Just a small one, but the timing was perfect! This sent me into paroxysms of laughter. I laughed my ass off! But strangely, no one else was laughing. Why weren't they laughing? What the hell was going on? 

Everybody stood still, staring at me. Something weird was going on - even more weird than laughter yoga. It was like that time when I accidently ate one of my friend Andy's "special" brownies, thinking it was a regular brownie, and suddenly realized that I was the only one in the room experiencing a different reality. Why weren't they laughing? Why were they all looking at me with such sober expressions on their faces? But I couldn't stop laughing long enough to find out. I was in the middle of a laughing fit. I couldn't stop! My initial chuckles turned into deep belly laughs, which eventually turned into a wet hacking cough. And that's when their faces turned dark and malevolent. I had crossed an invisible line, broken the sacred code of laughter yoga. 

"Stop!" they shouted. 

"That's enough!" they wailed. 

"You're ruining it!" they whined. "That's bad laughter. You're laughing at us, not with us!" 

In between coughs I tried to remind them of their basic tenets: that there is no such thing as bad laughter ("All laughter is good laughter," they had said). But they weren't hearing any of it. They threw me out! The bastards tossed me out on the street and told me to never come back. 

So there you have it! Laughter Yoga, friends.