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. 

WOMEN, MEN, SHOES

How soon do you have to be going with someone to buy her a pair of $300 leather boots? It's a serious question that I've never really come to terms with - like the one about how long do you wait after getting a woman's phone number to call. Too soon and you appear desperate; too long and you risk being perceived as aloof or even an asshole. It's a non-issue for me, really. I truly am desperate most of the time, so I think it's important to be honest and not misrepresent: I call that same night, usually on my way home! I figure if the woman gave me her actual number, she probably wants me to call. Why wait? Plus it prevents the whole "cold feet" syndrome.  

But boots - I'm afraid that's a different thing entirely. There's no denying that all women love nice footwear. They do! It's a fact. But where's the line between a thoughtful gift to show your feelings versus "going too far?" Is it the actual cost? As in $100 boring Danskos are okay, but Fluevogs at $250 are not? Or maybe it's the style of shoe. Certainly a pair of Guiseppe Zanotti pumps (at $774) screams of a deranged affluent pervert. Lord knows I'd like to see my lady-friend accompanying me to dinner in a pair of Zanottis, but I know it would come off all wrong. Her first thought would be, "Oh my god! Nice shoes! But how come if he can afford these he drives a scooter? What's wrong with this picture? Something's got to be wrong with this picture." But what about something really simple, like nice leather riding boots? That's got to be okay, right? I'm talking about a pair of Frye Veronicas, tall ones with a single buckle on the top: very casual, yet elegant, and maybe even a little rock and roll, depending on the clothes. Every woman NEEDS a pair of boots like that, right? And if my lady friend is lacking, then why in the hell can't I buy them for her? Hell, I need to see her in those boots. I mean, she really deserves to have them. That's definitely what I meant. 

Fuck it - I'm buying them. Wish me luck! 

UNITS OF TIME

I took a short trip with my new lady to a quiet little place in the far reaches of Western New York. Nothing there, really, but a couple of bar/restaurants, a single old-fashioned inn, and the ubiquitous Office Max/Home Depot/Walmart/Bed Bath & Beyond/Dollar Store pentaverate. "What the hell are we going to do," J. asked with concern in her voice. Perhaps the thought of spending two solid days alone with me invoked some fear. What - no distractions? We need distractions! 

But I eased her mind with a simple formula that has served me well for years. It's called UNITS OF TIME. UNITS OF TIME is a no-nonsense way to make sure you enjoy your vacation and leisure time. It goes like this: 1.5 hours of activity, followed by 1.5 hours of R&R. That's it! In technical terms, it's a fixed ratio of 1 unit of activity to 1 unit of relaxation. You could try other ratios, but mine is based on extensive field-research. I wouldn't fuck with it. 

An example: J. and I started our first unit of activity with a walk around the downtown section of this quaint little village. We went in a liquor store and picked out a nice bottle of Pinot. Then we stopped in a cafe for coffee and brownies. The brownies were great, but J. got burned on the coffee, which the proprietor talked her into. It was too experimental and had soy milk and some other unsuccessful ingredients. No matter, because a smoke in the parking lot of the inn nicely rounded out the first 1.5 hours of activity. It's important to note that you don't have to keep time or anything. After all, the whole point is to relax and enjoy. But I've been doing this for so long, I can usually hit the 1.5 hour mark within 2 or 3 minutes on either side. 

For the relaxation part, we checked into our suite, took showers, then watched t.v. Our room was really bizarre and had a separate t.v. room with a pull out sofa. We lounged on the pull out and watched a show. Then, we got ready for our next 1.5 hour unit of activity! In this case it turned about to be a short walk to a brewery where we had some decent ales along with burgers and fries. It proved to be a nice dinner. Back at the inn, we took baths, watched t.v., and became a little bit amorous. This blew the whole ratio because went over the 1.5 hour time limit, but it was getting late and we got back on track with a short drive to Tim Horton's, which has the best coffee in all of Western New York. J. had just finished reading Candy Girl, by Diablo Cody, and so we ate chocolate chip cookies and drank coffee while talking about the finer points of that excellent journalistic foray into the nether world of exotic dancing. 

And that's about it. Unit of time: check it out. It works!   

Bad Ithaca Vigilance

Is it me or is Ithaca insane with parking tickets? It's such a nowhere little 12 square mile place, and yet the meter readers patrol with the vigor of nickel and dime nazis. Do you hear me meter readers? You are nickel and dime nazis! Today, I parked by a meter and actually fed it 3 quarters (I rarely bother with this unpleasant task). And then I cut short my coffee date with a lovely lady in order to get back to the car and feed more coins, and BEHOLD! a minute or two after it expired, POOF! A ticket. Where did it come from? There was no meter reader in sight, and yet the time stamp on the ticket was not one minute old. Stealth nazi meter readers. Evil stealth nazi meter readers. Be gone! Bother me no more! 

Personality Test

There are two kinds of people in this world: those who freak out when they get pulled over by a cop, and those who get angry. And you never really know who is who... until the moment of truth. 

I am of the fear-based kind. No matter the circumstances, if I'm even near a cop I tremble. I worry. I second guess. Did I run a red light? Drive too fast? Or maybe one of my tail lights is out. I'm sorry, officer - is there a problem? 

I hate myself for it, but there it is. Cold hard fear. Now my new girlfriend is the other kind; she gets angry. I didn't know this nor even suspect. She's physically very petite and soft. So you can imagine my surprise when we got pulled over in her '68 VW Squareback and she lit into the cop with all kinds of attitude. She barked, "you'd better not tell me I was speeding, because this shitty car can't even go 55 miles an hour." The cop, obviously new, held his ground and explained how it was a school zone with a posted limit of 15 mph. "Well show me a damn child!" She countered. "I don't see any kids. It's like dark out! How can you have school when it's dark out? Tell me that! It's dangerous. Don't you think?" 

It was incredible. You sleep with someone 3 or 4 times and you think you know them! In all honesty, I admired her boldness even if it was a little crazy. But I get really freaked out around cops, so I found myself trying to pacify her. I think the poor guy wanted to let her off with a warning or something. Because as soon as I got her to lighten up, he said, "Miss, would you give me your word that you'll slow down from here on out?" I jabbed her with my elbow and mouthed the words to her. "Yes, officer," she said reluctantly. "Okay. Goodnight now." And that was it!   

Hot Dogs and Fast Cars

You ever drive while doing too many things? Dangerous as hell, I know. But everybody does it, right? So I'm driving my friend Ivan's new 911, which is a tremendously sweet ride. Nothing like it except for maybe something ridiculously exotic like a Ferrari. Only problem is that the horsepower and engineering were totally wasted because of everyone in Ithaca driving their Subarus, Vulva's and Civic Hybrids at about 22.7 miles per hour. What's worse is that they slow down at green lights, ride their brakes down hills, and require a written invitation and a fucking traffic cop to actually make a left turn. But no worries, because Ivan-one-brow, my insanely rich banker friend (who can hardly spell, write a single convincing sentence, or juggle an idea for more than a t.v. commercial break), loaded up on too many gin and tonics and was thereby forced to let me get behind the wheel of the impeccable $80,000 machine. Who pays 80 g's for a car? Assholes like Ivan, that's who. Don't get me wrong - he's a hell of a nice guy: tells a good joke, is pretty generous with his money, and he can open beers with his teeth at parties. But how in the hell did he get to be vice president of his bank when the last book he read was "Lord of Flies" in the tenth grade? Anyway, Ivan was giving me hell about driving his fabulous car while drinking a cherry slush puppy and eating a hot dog (I had just learned that on Friday nights Felicia's Atomic Lounge serves hot dogs boiled in beer and topped with homemade ketchup - I took three to go after last call). 

"You're going to get in an accident, you fat sonofabitch. Hey! You just dripped ketchup on the leather, mutherfucker!" 

I stuffed the entire hot dog in my mouth in defiance and downshifted on a steep curved grade. The engine roared in a perfection of mechanical synchronicity. The low profile Pirelli tires gripped and grabbed at the pavement. And then BAM! We hit something big. Like a person or a large animal or something. I saw tan flanks and wild eyes. A horse? Shit, I didn't know. "Aaahhh!" screamed Ivan. "Fuck!" I shouted as the car fishtailed and I fought hard to keep it on the road, which was no small feat, because the road was slick with icy rain and still curving sharply downhill. I managed not to wreck us and sighed with relief, only Ivan was hysterical: 

"Ahhh! Frank, I'm bleeding! Something's wrong, Frank. I think I'm hurt badly. Look at all this blood..." 

I skidded to a stop. I looked in horror to see the front of Ivan's starched white oxford absolutely soaked in red cherry-flavored slush. 

"Man, that shirt is ruined." I said. 

"Frank, I'm dying! I feel so cold. You've got to help me, man." His eyes were wide with fear.  

"That's because you're covered in cherry slush, dipshit." 

We began laughing until I drove away and Ivan slowly began to put it all together: that we had hit a massive buck, splattered cherry slush, confused it with blood, and ultimately, dented the hood of his beloved Porsche.  Ivan actually suggested that I pay for the damages! I suggested that he kiss my ass, and now I'm no longer allowed to drive his car. BFD, right? 

Good Times

Went to Rochester for a conference this past weekend. Saw some nice old buildings and a lot of crack being passed through not-so-secret handshakes. Rochester is truly another beautiful decaying rust-belt city (New York's greatest natural resource). I saw some guy get wheeled out of an HSBC branch on a gurney with a nasty head would - not sure how that happens waiting in line at a bank. The fireman cleaning up the scene instructed me to step around the puddle of blood, please. 

Best part of the trip was a great dinner at the Dinosaur Barbecue: chicken and ribs, cole slaw, beans, and corn bread. Washed down with a metal bucket filled with ice and bottles of Pete's Wicked Ale. There was a killer band with 3 drummers, 3 saxophones, a trumpet, a bass, and an electric guitar. They were awesome, as was the mismatched crowd of drunken crazy fiends. Why doesn't Ithaca have a similar joint?    

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The date went exceedingly well. I didn't fuck anything up, and there's evidence that I even did a couple of things right! It has long been my impression that women do like a man who knows how to order a great meal. I took the dark haired beauty to Just a Taste where we had a few glasses of nice white wine and an endless succession of small expensive plates of clams, braised greens, salads, arctic char, brussels sprouts with walnuts, quail, etc. We walked around and had coffee and espresso brownies. She smoked a cigarette and I a cigar. We walked around some more. It was great. I made sure to notice what she was wearing. I've always felt that that is important. And I mean noticing beyond the standard, "You look hot in that." It was really easy in this case because my date looked fucking gorgeous in faded jeans with an unbuttoned white blouse and a tightly fitted brown plaid blazer. How can I explain the effect of that loosely unbuttoned white blouse (and the contents within) underneath the tight jacket? Sensual. And classy. Dizzying. Her shoes were simple canvas wedges, a nice touch, really. I couldn't take my eyes off of her and kept grinning madly. "What's so funny," she asked through her own goofy smile. "Nothing's funny," I said. "You just look very beautiful and I am taking it all in, trying to remember all the different aspects which, combined, make me feel like a happy smiling fool." But seriously, that's what I should have said! I can't remember what I actually said, but it was probably something stupid like, "You look hot in those clothes." Anyway, I must have done okay, because we're going out tomorrow for breakfast. My friend Gene is pissed, because he thinks I am ignoring him which I sure as shit am. Got to go... 

DATE NIGHT

Going out tonight with my Special Lady. It's a black velvet smoking jacket night. This means that, in addition to wearing a velvet jacket, the evening will be velvety smooth, if you know what I mean. In case you don't, I'm thinking of drinks, a good cigar, and some appetizers. Maybe a little dancing. A substantial meal (steak and seafood sounds about right) enjoyed to the backdrop of some good music. Then, of course, desert, coffee, and a long aimless walk to talk of nothing and everything. Sounds nice, eh? But, on the other hand, I could just take her to bowl a couple of games and share an order of wings and a pitcher.  That's pretty nice, too. I can't decide. Will let you know...  

Got my fat ass to the polls today. Since Ithaca is such a flamingly liberal place, I felt compelled to wear full John McCain regalia. I bought a John McCain baseball hat, John McCain t-shirt, and half-a-dozen John McCain campaign buttons. Before voting, I stopped off at Greenstar (the local organic grocery store). I parked next to a row of VW TDIs and Toyota Prius sedans plastered with bumper stickers saying stuff like, "I live the alternative," "Coexist," and "Practice Random Acts of Kindness and Senseless Acts of Beauty." I grabbed a cart and made it as far as the organic apples (a steal at $1 each!) before I was accosted by the most serious woman to ever put on a suit of brown and black Flax sack cloth and a pair of Danskos. 

Lady: "Excuse me." 

   Frank:  "Yes? Did you want one of these apples? They look very delicious." 

Lady:  "No. I wanted to talk with you about your decision. Are you really informed about the differences between the candidates? Because if you were..." 

Frank:  "Why yes. At least I think I am. I watch Fox News every single night. And The Colbert Report. I like John Stewart, too." 

Stoney silence for 10 seconds. I notice a faint muscle tic in her shoulder. 

Frank:  "Actually, I'm undecided."

Lady:  "Undecided?"

Frank:  "Yes. Undecided. I don't know who I'm going to vote for."

By this time, a small crowd has gathered. A man with ebony discs in his earlobes and a macrame hat is pretending to pick through the apples. Some lady in a dust mask is standing within earshot, leaning on her carved walking stick. 

Lady:  "Why are you wearing all those... those clothes... if you haven't made up your mind?"

This is the moment. I pause dramatically, as though I'm deciding whether or not to tell the truth. I look a little embarrassed. 

Frank:  "Because they paid me to." 

The crowd stirs and draws closer. Macrame Hat is now in my personal space. He smells like garlic and cheese. 

Lady:  "Who paid you?"

She says this in a conspiratorial tone, like she's about to draw a great truth out of me. I stick out my chin in childlike defiance.  

Frank:  "The guy from the McCain headquarters."

I say it in the most matter of fact way. Like it's a simple fact. Like I'm proud of it. A gasp emerges from the crowd. They are shocked. They are horrified! Macrame Hat drops his apples. Cold hard liberal hate registers in the Flax Lady's eyes. Dust Mask huffs indignantly. And I... well, I take off across the street to the polls to place my vote for Obama. 

It Goes On

Take-out Asian food tonight, of the Korean variety. There's this dish that's cooked in a stone bowl with steamed vegetables and a fried egg on top. Douse it with Asian hot sauce and mix the whole shit up. Amazingly good. Only you don't get the stone bowl in a take-out order, but what the hell. Mood music for my dinner: Impossible Germany by Wilco. Made me lonely in a happy tolerable kind of way. Check it out and you'll see what I mean. Okay. So now we'll move into the religious material. Mack and the boys are on their way in a borrowed truck to catch frogs in order to sell them to Doc in order to get money to throw a party for Doc. The truck breaks down. Gay, the best mechanic of the bunch, says that it needs a needle valve for the carburetor. He takes off hitchhiking to go fetch a new one after saying that he'll be right back: 

"He thumbed three cars before one stopped for him. The boys watched him climb in and start down the hill. They didn't see him again for one hundred and eighty days. 

Oh, the infinity of possibility! How could it happen that the car that picked up Gay broke down before it got into Monterey? If Gay had not been a mechanic, he would not have fixed the car. If he had not fixed it the owner wouldn't have taken him to Jimmy Brucia's for a drink. And why was it Jimmy's birthday? Out of all the possibilities in the world-the millions of them-only events occurred that lead to the Salinas jail. Sparky Enea and Tiny Colletti had made up a quarrel and were helping Jimmy celebrate his birthday. The blonde came in. The musical argument in front of the juke box. Gay's new friend who knew a judo hold and tried to show it to Sparky and got his wrist broken when he hold went wrong. The policeman with a bad stomach-all unrelated, irrelevant details and yet all running in one direction. Fate just didn't intend Gay to go on that frog hunt and Fate took a hell of a lot of trouble and people and accidents to keep him from it. When the final climax came with the front of Holman's bootery broken out and the party trying on the shoes in the display window only Gay didn't hear the fire whistle. Only Gay didn't go to the fire and when the police came they found him sitting all alone in Holman's window wearing one brown oxford and one patent leather dress shoe with a gray cloth top."  (from Cannery Row, by John Steinbeck) 

Next I'll write about the great frog hunt or maybe skip right to the party. We'll see. 

Today's LITERTURE

Day Four of Hibernation is going very nicely. Cooked a nice vegetable soup with chorizo (Portuguese sausage) and parmesan cheese. Took two hot baths in my new jetted tub (one of the best investments I've ever made), with a cheap tea candle and a couple of ice-cold bottles of Spaten beer. Here's the latest from page 20 of the bible of J.S.: 

Doc asked, "How are things going up at the Palace?"

Hazel ran his fingers through his dark hair and he peered into the clutter of his mind. "Pretty good," he said. "That fellow Gay is moving in with us I guess. His wife hits him pretty bad. He don't mind that when he's awake but she waits 'til he gets to sleep and then hits him. He hates that. He has to wake up and beat her up and then when he goes back to sleep she hits him again. He don't get any rest so he's moving in with us." 

"That's a new one," said Doc. "She used to swear out a warrant and put him in jail." 

"Yeah!" said Hazel. "But that was before they built the new jail in Salinas. Used to be thirty days and Gay was pretty ho to get out, but this new jail--radio in the tank and good bunks and the sheriff's a nice fellow. Gay gets in there and he don't want to come out. He likes it so much his wife won't get him arrested any more. So she figured out this hitting him while he's asleep. It's nerve racking, he says. And you know as good as me--Gay never did take any pleasure beating her up. He only done it to keep his self-respect. But he gets tired of it. I guess he'll be with us now." 

Frank's Annual Hibernation

Every year when the weather turns to shit I hibernate. Two solid weeks. Call in sick or take some stress leave. It is good for you and you should try it. Here are the ingredients for an enjoyable and rewarding hibernation: 

• beer (both dark, and amber for variety)
  
• wine
  
• benedictine and brandy
  
• stuff to make caucasians (kahlua, vodka, milk)
  
• homemade soups
  
• homemade stews
  
• take-out menus for when the soups and stews get old
  
• netflix
  
• a woodstove (I recommend the giant Cawley 800 with cast iron beavers and deer on the doors - none of those fancy enameled things)
  
• a kindly outdoorsy neighbor to split and deliver wood to my door each day (bless his backwards country soul!)
  
• a single incredible, life changing book that you will read slowly, only pages per day, in order to appreciate and savor the inexorable goodness of it  
  

So, for this year's rest I chose one of my all-time favorite books: Cannery Row, by John Steinbeck. If you haven't read it, no need; over the course of my two-week boozy retreat I will blog a few choice passages (though there are really too many to narrow down). And if they do not move you to get your own goddamn copy and read it, then piss off. No, I'm kidding. But seriously, you should piss off then. 

"Cannery Row in Monterey California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream. Cannery Row is the gathered and scattered, tin and iron and rust and splintered wood, chipped pavement and weedy lots and junk heaps, sardine canneries of corrugated iron, honky tonks, restaurants and whore houses, and little crowded groceries, and laboratories and flophouses. Its inhabitants are, as the man once said, 'whores, pimps, gamblers, and sons of bitches,' by which he meant Everybody. Had the man looked through another peephole he might have said, 'Saints and angels and martyrs and holy men,' and he would have meant the same thing."

Sleep well,

Frank

Frank's Wild Years

Problem solved: new editor is cool. I can continue with just a couple of "Ithaca references" per column. Thanks to all who emailed their pledges of support and willingness to take up arms. It's nice to know that people have my back and are skilled in the use of nunchucks and throwing bricks. You're a good bunch.

Ithaca Rules

I try not to let things get too personal about writing, but like The Godlfather said, "It's all personal." So here goes: I've been getting some flack from The Ithaca Times about the column. The deal is that it (the column) must be more focused on Ithaca. While it's not a bad place to live (so long as you don't ever have a craving for a decent bacon cheeseburger or a beef on weck sandwich), it is certainly not the beginning, middle, and end of all things holy. For a couple of months now it have been kosher to write in briefly about an Ithaca bar or restaurant, but now... well, I'm not exactly sure. And so I ask you, three loyal readers, what do you think? Thoughts, ideas, threats? 

- Frank

Literary Tattoos are Cool!

I'm going to get a literary tattoo. Only problem is, I can't decide exactly what should grace the ample contours of body. And then there's the questions of location, font, etc.  Here are some possibilities. Feel free to pony up some suggestions of your own. Get out the books. 

The world must be all fucked up when men travel first class and literature goes as freight.

- Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Certain things they should just stay the way they are. You ought to be able to stick them in one of those big glass cases and just leave them alone. I know that's impossible, but it's too bad anyway. 

- J.D.S.

Justice is a knee in the gut from the floor on the chin at night sneaky with ah kmnife brought up down on the magazine of a battleship sandbagged underhanded in the dark without a word of warning. Garroting. That's what justice is. 

- Joseph Heller

Some men are born mediocre, some men achieve mediocrity, and some men have mediocrity thrust upon them. 

- Joseph Heller

Continued

To make a long story short, Myron was doing okay. He met a nice girl, Reba, who was into an organic lifestyle, and they started eating healthy food and doing yoga together. Myron changed quite a bit; I was truly surprised: he bought organic hemp clothes, drove a Toyota Prius, and drank only fair trade coffee. Only problem was, being an addict, Myron pushed things to the limit which, in this case, meant bizarre tantric sex with Reba.  Luckily, I never got the details aside from a text that said he was in the middle of a three hour orgasm. I got the message in the middle of a meeting and risked sidelong glances to write back and say, "good for you, asshole, but why are you telling me?" 

And, like the old joke, Myron replied, "because I'm telling everyone!" 

So I forgot all about Myron and his three hour orgasm... until the frantic phone call.

Myron said, "Frank, something's wrong. You need to get here and take me to the hospital." 

"Okay Myron. Tell me?" I said.

Myron proceeded to tell me about the three Viagara pills he popped before having tantric sex with Reba. Everything was great except that, after half an hour, Reba got bored and went out to do some shopping. And Myron was left in their beautiful townhouse with a developing case of ischemic priapism (a really serious condition from long-term erections that can result in permanent damage or even death). After a little bit of scary research online I called an ambulance and, 2.5 hours later, met Myron at Erie County Medical Center where he was undergoing what is called therapeutic aspiration. Don't worry: I won't explain what it is and how they insert a needle to drain blood and then flush it out with saline. And I won't tell you about the emergency shunt they had to use when the aspiration didn't work. Let it suffice to say that Myron got fixed up with no permanent damage. But I spent 3 days taking care of the poor bastard. To add to Myron's troubles, when we returned to the townhouse Reba was long gone. She had packed up almost everything in the condo and left only the briefest note. It read: "Myron I hope it fell off, you selfish asshole. Go fuck yourself with your 3-hour erection." 

Pretty crazy, but true. If I could make up shit like that, I'd probably be going places...

- Frank 

A Night in the Ruts

You won't believe the night I had. Seriously. It's so fucking crazy that it's almost not even possible. Imagine me sitting in my apartment with Gene, my roommate, playing Scrabble for points to see who is going to buy dinner at Maxie's. I'm beating Gene soundly and looking forward to ordering half the damn menu to punish his cheap illiterate ass. I'm going to order appetizers and fried chicken and gumbo and several pints of beer. Plus desert. And coffee. Just as I lay down the tiles to nail Quixotic off of the C in Gene's Socks, the phone rings. It has that indescribable bad news quality, but I answer it anyway, on account of just earning 69 points on my last turn. How could anything go wrong? Easy. The voice on the end is frantic. It's my younger cousin, Myron.

"Frank? Frank? Frank, is that you, Frank? Oh shit, man, I'm in big trouble, Frank. You got to help me."  

Myron is a big-time fuckup, but a pretty decent human being, these two things not being exclusive as I'm sure you know. He developed a pretty bad coke habit in the 90s. It was crazy because he was on the chess team and headed for an Ivy League school to study physics or recombinant gene technology or something. But he fell hard for Cindy Mortellaro, this trashy girl who chain smoked Newports, drove a Camaro, and hung out at the bowling alley. Two months later, Sandy had taken up with Kevin Piworski, a bowler who was supposedly "about to turn pro," and poor Myron was left heartbroken, scoring drugs behind the Armory on Niagara Street. He had cashed in all the Google  stock he had purchased with his Bar Mitzvah money and was living large, but in a bad way. So, after rehab and all the other "interventions," Myron eventually straightened out, made it through college, and fulfilled his destiny as some kind of engineer, designing water pipe systems for cities.  

Sorry cut things off in the middle of the story, but I put a nice olive pizza on the stone in the oven and it's about done. I'll be back tomorrow night...

Frank

Happy Clam Soup

And now for something completely different. Since I know of only 2 actual readers (you know who you are, and thank you both, ladies!), I am going to slow things down a bit and put out a little recipe for a kick-ass Italian clam soup. Not chowder. Not gumbo. No weird ingredients or crock pots or blenders. Just a good easy to make soup to warm your crooked little souls on this shit-ass rainy day. 

But first a word on recipes in general. For the most part, they suck. That's right.  They're not designed for real people who might actually cook the stuff. Who in the hell has the time or the interest to seek such bizarre ingredients as real ground sassafras powder or woodear mushrooms? The way I see it, if you can't find it at any Tops, Shaws, or Super Stop & Shop (I've just covered several states across the country, thank you very much), then the recipe is too damn complicated. And who wants to trim and prep the vegetables, blanch them, saute them, and then set them aside for the next 8 steps? Not this Frank. 

Here's the soup: first, go to the seafood section and buy one of those mesh bags of clams. Anything will do. Littlenecks, mahoganies, whatever. I got a huge bag of some variety that cost only about $3. Don't buy the expensive ones b/c it's just soup. For the hard cash, you could just go to a decent restaurant and buy soup, right? Next, get a bottle of clam juice, and a can of canned clams. Pick up a couple of potatoes, carrots, and celery. Get an onion and some garlic too. Finally, you'll need a couple cans of broth, either chicken, vegetable, or whatever the hell you want. On your way out of the store, get a loaf of crusty french bread, and a hunk of cheese. 

Peel and cube the potatoes. chop the carrots, onion, and celery. Saute the shit in a giant pot with olive oil and garlic. When soft, add the broth, a bay leaf, salt and pepper, and some parsley. Use however much you want. It doesn't matter. If you can't learn to cook by feel, then you're never going to learn how to cook and you may as well just order out. Be brave! 

While that stuff simmers, boil some salty water and toss in the clams. Also drop in some white cooking wine (or beer, if you're out of wine), and some salt and pepper. When the clams are done in a few minutes (they will open up), drain and rinse them. If the broth is good (taste it!) and the potatoes and carrots are soft, add the bottled clam juice, and the canned clams with their liquid. Ladle the broth and vegetables into bowls, and set the clams (shells and all) on top. Take in the aroma! It's simple. It's magnificent in its simplicity. Screw all those t.v. chef assholes. Dip the bread in the broth. Grate some of the cheese on top. Enjoy it, and know that you've accomplished something simple and good. 

- Frank  

Burning Man, Part III

I try to calm Desiree down, but there's no stopping her. 

"I knew you were going to get all controlling and shit, Frank." She said. "It always happens with you guys. One night together and then you think you own me. Nobody owns me, buddy. Got it?"  

I couldn't take it any longer. Who was this woman? There was a dim memory of tequila shots, some laughs, and then a drive into the desert to see the sunrise. We must have crashed out in the back of the truck in Eli, which is pretty damn far from Reno. Nothing in Eli but a gas station and a couple of small crappy casinos. You can hardly even call them casinos, though the locals seem to enjoy them. How did we get married? Why did we get married? I decided it was a bluff. Or a delusion. Or maybe some crazy casino novelty thing that isn't even legal. Are they? I decided not to bother finding out. I would excuse myself to go to the bathroom and then take off. Hitchhike. Run. Or steal some kid's bicycle, if I had to.  Desiree continued. 

"Anyway, I called Johnny, my boyfriend. He's coming to get me - should be here in about 2 hours. He understands me, Frank. You know? Hey - wanna have breakfast together? Kind of a last farewell. What do you think?" 

Unable to even comprehend what was happening, I gave in. Steak and eggs at the casino was 4 bucks per plate including coffee. Desiree chain-smoked Camels and told me her life story in between drags. After an hour-and-a-half she told me I'd better leave. "Johnny's kind of the jealous type," she said with a half-smile. It was all the encouragement I needed. I managed to hitchhike out of Eli and then catch a bus back to the Reno airport. The end, thank god.    

Burning Man, Part II

So you want to hear the rest of the story about the whole Burning Man fiasco? Okay. 

(switch to present tense, in case you're wondering) 

I wake up in Eli, Nevada in the back of a pickup.  Whose pickup? I have no idea. There's a fresh tattoo on my arm that looks as though it was done by Henry Rollins in a Jeep going over the Rubicon Trail. A crust of blood or ink or some shmutz has formed and the whole affair is stuck to my shirt; I can make out the crude shape of a Star of David, which is at least appropriate since I'm partly Jewish. Only Jews are forbidden to tattoo their bodies, so I'm damned to hell. But then again, Jews don't really believe in hell, so maybe it's okay. Desiree, a saucy showgirl from Reno with two-tone hair and fake tits, stretches out besides me in a catlike manner that makes me forget all about my hangover, the lightness of my wallet (lost some money at the casino), and the infected mess on my arm. I embrace her quite tenderly only to get rebuffed in a shrill voice that nearly splits my pounding headache in two. "Not now, Frank," she says. "I know we just got married and I do like you that way, but this truck ain't exactly the Howard Johnson's, you know what I mean?" Did she say married? I believe she did. "Listen, Mary," I say in a reasonable tone. "Who are you calling Mary?" She shrieks. Doesn't she know I have a headache? How could I marry such an inconsiderate woman? "Do I look like a fucking Mary to you?" I agree that she does not. "My sister's name is Mary and I fucking hate her. You hear me Frank? I hate her!" A heavy Brooklyn accent has suddenly appeared with her rage. "So don't ever call me that again or so help me, god..." Mary, I mean Desiree, closes her eyes and steadies her hands in front of her in a zen pantomime, as though she is using breathing or something to calm herself. As though there's any chance in hell that she'll control herself. I brace myself for a shit-storm of histrionic drama that is about to fly in my face.

(to be continued) 

Frank's Back

I'M BACK! Where did I go? Well, you probably won't believe this, but I went to Burning Man out in Nevada. But that's not the unbelievable part. Brace yourselves. I GOT THE WRONG FUCKING WEEK! Yes, I flew all the way to Reno, rented a car, and then drove out into the middle of the damn desert. It was ninety something degrees out there and these guys were setting up their kinetic sculptures (giant rolling metal things cannibalized from scrap bicycle parts and junk cars). Don't ask me what the sculptures were supposed to be. I don't understand real art, much less the kind of shit that's put together with a MIG welder and a brick of hash. Anyway, these guys had vintage Airstream and Shasta campers with pink flamingoes and fake green golf carpets under the awnings. It was actually pretty cool, so I hung out for a couple of days. The two guys I became friends with, Rob and Rick, were gay lovers, but they slept in separate campers. "He's a slob," Rick had said. "I can't stand it. I WON'T stand it." Rob, very slovenly but cool, made a display of "accidentally" spilling his Gin Rickey on the green carpet. Rick went crazy and cleaned it up with a wet wipe while Rob spanked his ass smartly. It was funny at first, but after two days of bickering that was far worse than anything I had ever witnessed at home with my parents (think about the Costanzas, only with a Portuguese-Jewish twist), I had to split. So I packed up the rented Nissan Sentra and headed off in search of the nearest all-night casino buffet. Friend's, let me just say that Nevada is beautiful, haunting, lonely, and depraved. I found the all-night buffet. I found the brothel (legal in that state). I found the poker table and won a thousand, only to lose three times that. I found a great pizza joint that happened to be right next to a pawn shop. I found my way back to the casino. You might be interested to learn that, strangely, no matter how tired you might get, you can't fall asleep in those hotel rooms. I dare you to try. It's crazy! You drop on the bed at 4 a.m., only to get up completely manic and ready to go at like 4:15. I still fucking recovering. Anyway, I'm going to go to sleep. Tomorrow I'll write more and tell you about how I blacked out and then found myself in Eli, Nevada in a sleeping bag in the back of a pickup with a fresh tattoo and a 40 year-old showgirl named Desiree.    

BLADE RUNNER STILL WORKS

I called in sick this week and read 18 vintage P.K.D. novels. It was a maniacal thing. Happens to me once a year. Frantic need to search through "the texts" for answers. I paused only to order pizza and change my clothes once or twice (settled on the trusty red silk kimono - truly the most relaxing thing for a fat man). Didn't even watch My Name is Earl, or Reno 911. I was afraid that their influence might dilute the serious philosophical-sci-fi-P.K.D. vibe I was cultivating. 

It was time well spent, I think. It helped remind me that I'm not the only one out there suspicious of reality. It hits me at odd times, like when I'm in one of those highway rest stops. You know, the ones they have along I90. They're decorated in a faux Adirondack Lodge motif, only if you look closely enough, 24 inch tubular ducts pipe chilled air that reverberates with muzak or easy listening favorites. At 2 a.m. you might be one of a handful of weary travellers, eating 4-hour old hepatitis burgers from Roy Rogers (does this franchise exist outside of highway rest stops?), and feeling completely alienated from the rest of the world (at 2 a.m. on the highway does the rest of the world even exist anyway?).  Anyway, back to "the texts." 

Here's a mere sampling of what I read: The Man in the High Castle, UBIK, The Divine Invasion, VALIS, Radio Free Albemuth, Flow My Tears the Policeman Said, The Transmigration of Timothy Archer, Confessions of a Crap Artist, Galactic Pot Healer, and Time Out of Joint. And, of course, Do Android Dream of Electric Sheep (otherwise known as Blade Runner). Even though I've read it and seen the movie several times, I'm still blown away by Electric Sheep. Quite different from the movie. Rick Decker, the bounty hunter, gets into this argument with his wife because she sets her Penfield Mood Machine for a 6 hour self-hating depression. He can't understand why you'd program yourself for a mood that sucks. It defeats the whole purpose of having a mood machine, he says. Well maybe I'm supposed to feel that way, she says. So it goes, Mr. Kurt says. And there's more good stuff! Like what J.R. Isadore, the "special" says about kipple (P.K.D. lingo for junk): it reproduces itself whenever no one is around. That's how come there's always more and more kipple. He lives in an abandoned apartment building and is terrified to go in the empty apartments because the kipple might overtake him.  

Anyway, after my "vacation," I do feel better. I think I am ready to return to reality, whether it's actually real or not. Maybe it doesn't matter? Later, 

Frank

Unknown Novel

Found this in the deep space of the interwebs. Check it: 

Stanley and Joe sped through the night in a stolen Chevy van blitzed on Xanax and cheap wine. It was a good night, filled with potential, and they talked excitedly about adventure, major league baseball playoffs, and the divine convergence of beauty in the universe. As usual, Joe did most of the talking; Stanley listened quietly, nodding his head occasionally. He was happy to be along for the ride.  

The Bonds of Stupidity

You ever screw up so big that you can never outrun it? Not even if you lived to be 113 years-old?Like, there would be only one other person alive who remembered the embarrassing event, but that would be enough. The guy would be sitting in the lounge of the nursing home, telling all the other old timers about it. Passing it down to the younger ones so it will never be forgotten. Well, here it is: 

It was my sister's wedding (last weekend). She married this Hassidic guy, Meir, only his real name is Mark. This is no big deal because my sister, Avivit, is really named Gloria. As you might guess, she's changed. So they had this beautiful traditional wedding, and everything was great. There was the best Jewish food in the world: blintzes, and pickles, and matzot-ball soup, and noodle coogle. And my father's side of the family cooked Portuguese: arroz demarisco, chouricos, and cozido a portuguesa. They had the usual stuff too: cheesecakes, strawberries, and the ubiquitous chocolate fountain. 

So right in the middle of all the toasts, I settled in with a cup of strong coffee and a nice piece of yellow cheesecake. It was gorgeous, this cheesecake. The texture was light and creamy, and it looked like there was no crust. And I wondered how in the hell they made it without any crust? Must have been some insane genius of a pastry chef. I decided to meet him after the wedding and shake his hand. Maybe buy him a beer. 

I put a giant forkful in my mouth just as my father was giving his toast. Now, you've got to know something about my father. He never cries. He's one of those old fashioned tough guys, like Sinatra or Bogart, only Portuguese. But sure enough, there he was at the podium, talking about Gloria, I mean Avivit, with real tears in his eyes. It was beautiful the things he was saying. My little girl...may she be as happy as she's made me, etc. You could tell everyone at the wedding was getting choked up too. And that's when it hit me, what had happened. What was happening. I stood up abruptly, spilling my wine and water glass everywhere. I clutched my throat in horror. I screamed! Yes, without thinking, in a panic-reflex of stupidity and poor taste, I shouted above my weeping 67 year-old father who was giving his only daughter away to some nutjob black-hat who sold junk bonds and collected toy railroad trains. This is what I said: 

"It's FUCKING BUTTER! This isn't cheesecake. It's FUCKING BUTTER!"

There. I'm not proud of it. Actually, I'm quite embarrassed. I mean there I stood in the center of everyone's attention, with a giant lump of butter in my mouth and my sister, Gloria, I mean Avivit, trying to melt my face off with her laser eyes. And my father, well... let's just say I've got some making up to do.        

 

THE ONION DEFENSE

I just visited a friend in Buffalo. He lives in a terrible neighborhood, which I understand isn't so hard to arrange in that rusting city. Anyway, I was cooking a big dinner (jambalaya) and needed an onion. This sorry bastard (my friend) didn't have a single onion in his house! Can you believe it? I couldn't either. So I walked a couple of blocks to this really great old Italian market called Guercio's, on Grant Street. I bought one large Vidalia, wrapped in a plastic grocery bag. It was the size of a grapefruit, and hard as a baseball; I marveled at it's superiority.

In the street, from a tall skinny man who was obviously insane, on crack, and in desperate need of a dentist: "Hey, motherfucker!" 

A voice called out. To me? I didn't really know anybody on the West Side, other than my onionless friend. But my attention was definitely being solicited.  

"Yeah, you. I'm talking to you, bitch."

What do you do in a situation like this? I'm a relatively nonviolent person. It took me seven years to earn a Bachelor's degree, and not one class ever covered what to do when threatened by a street tough. My mind scanned all the cool movies I'd ever seen. But they involved actual punching, karate moves, and a substantial loss of blood. Not that I'm incapable of fighting. Not at all! I actually kicked Ronny Dermot's ass in the 3rd grade. You should have seen it! But on this day, I couldn't fight because I really wanted to get home and cook that jambalaya. 

Walking away, I said over my shoulder, "I have to go now. I defrosted some giant prawns, and I don't want them to spoil." 

He quickened his pace. Said, "What? What did you say? You got some money for me, bitch?"

So I did the only thing that made sense at the time. I faced the guy and planted my feet firmly. I twisted the bag around the onion so it looked kind of like one of those prehistoric weapons - I think it's called a bola - only it had one onion tethered to the end of a plastic bag instead of 3 stones connected by rawhide thongs. Then I started swinging it in a giant arc. I think I even managed a menacing smile, as if to say, bring it on you deranged-crack-addled-person-with-poor-dental-hygiene. Bring it on. 

Incredibly, he stopped dead in his tracks and began to twitch and jitter. He was evidently making a decision. Do I stab the fat man with the onion, or go find an easier target? But then it looked like his thoughts got confused. Find fat onions in easier places? What? Not making sense fat onions."  

"Shit!" He cursed to the street. "Crazy motherfucker. I'd mess you up if you wasn't so damn crazy."

And with this pronouncement, he walked away. And so that's the story of how that one single Vidalia onion served me in battle and then in the kitchen. No bullshit!   

 

BEING FAT WITH IMPUNITY

Some tips for you brave fat ones living in the harsh world of thin beauties: 

1. Stare back. Dare them to judge you. Remember that your fat is just as good as anyone else's. If you're at a restaurant, lean over and ask, "are you going to eat your fat?"

2. Come up with your own soundtrack. Walk through the hip shopping district playing something kick-ass like Heaven 90210 by Urge Overkill (my current favorite song) or virtually anything by The White Stripes. If you've got a good soundtrack, who gives a shit if you're fat? All people will see is that you've got it going on. Unfortunately, I don't have an Ipod, so I just sing. 

3. Dress to eat.  Think loose fitting and stylish. You say it can't be done? Check me out sometime then. I prefer baggy trousers of natural fibers. If you are lucky enough to find pants with a built-in belt, buy several pairs. 

IDIOTS FOR DUMMIES

You know those stupid books like Juggling for Idiots, or Windows for Dummies? There's about a million of them and, although they pretty much suck, I want in on the action. I figured that a nice 10k advance would help me buy that new Vespa Granturismo 200 and get most of the way to Vegas (the great Cross-America scooter adventure). 

But I want to write about stuff that people really need to know. Useful things. Like how to make a really good zabaglione. How fat is too fat? Or what to do when you're on a date and you've forgotten your wallet! Who cares about juggling and the internet, right? So here's my idea: Idiots for Dummies. A brief sample of the contents (feel free to write in any you can think of - I'll post the best ones later in the week): 

IDIOTS FOR DUMMIES

1. Fashion: Stretch pants, dickies, and mullets for the rest of us. 

2. Sex: Can you really catch something from yourself? All about Solitary Social Diseases     

     (SSDs). 

3.  Superstition: The new science. Even crazier than Scientology. 

4.  Reading: Not all it's cracked up to be. Are adult picture books the next big thing? 

5.  Scratch tickets, coffee, and nicotine. Oh my! A look at what really makes the world run. 

6.   Programming your VCR: You can master the technology in 2.6 hours. 

7.  Ecological street drugs: an abuser's guide to saving the environment. 

Urge Overkill

Check out Heaven 90210, by Urge Overkill. They rock. Plus they're very stylish.

"When she comes for me

     and takes my hand

     and pain is all I know.

  

     She gives me heavenly thrills

     90210" 

Where is P.K.D. when you need him?

Imaginary phone conversation with my hero, Philip K. Dick, science fiction luminary and crackpot philosopher: 

"Phil, what the fuck! You don't return my phone calls anymore? Too damn famous since Blade Runner."

"Franklin, your phone has been disconnected. Are you drunk?" 

"What? Oh yeah. I forgot to pay my bill. I am a little inebriated. How could you tell?"

"Never mind, Franklin. Listen, I've been thinking about your critique of my draft of Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said. You really think the two strangers at the gas station should embrace?"

"Yes! Why, you don't think it works? You don't trust me anymore, Phil?"

"I don't know, Franklin. They're strangers. Plus, Felix has just lost his sister. His career has crumbled. He's numb." 

"I know, Phil. But that's the whole point of it. He's a fucking wreck, and he has no one left. He sees this guy and they exchange small talk. It's such a nothing kind of connection, but so what? Maybe that's it, Phil - what you've been searching for: the enormity of the universe and none of it makes any sense, but there's this one guy, and he's all fucked up, but he's still trying. Right? He should just quit and cash out his chips, but he doesn't. He keeps trying, Phil." 

"Okay, Franklin. I'm with you. Keep going." 

"And so he reaches out. At a damn gas station. With a stranger. For no reason. 

"Other than he's profoundly alone." 

"That's right, Phil. And, in that instant, everything is restored." 

"What? You mean his job and his sister's life?"

"No, dammit. His hope."

"Ah. I like it, Franklin. Let me think about it. You want to go get some pizza and then bowl a few games?"

"Sure, Phil. But none of that Hawaiian shit with the pineapples and ham. I don't know how you can stand it." 

"Sausage and cheese?" 

"You're on."

QUORN

Last week, on my birthday, I got one of those annoying phone calls from my doctor. You know, the kind that says, "Frank, tests came back. Got to lose 50 pounds or you're a dead man. Cholesterol, high blood pressure, hypertension, gout, sleep apnea, etc., etc." Like I've never heard that before! So I started in on a hearty breakfast of double-yoked eggs, sausage links, and fried potatoes. I like to break the yokes, mix everything together, and then douse it with salt, ketchup, and hot sauce. It gives me strength for the day ahead. But before I could take a bite, my mother (yes, I live with my mother, but it's just temporary) threw my food away in a fit of rage. Probably some kind of intervention she saw on Dr. Phil. 

"Franklin," she shrieked, "I've put up with a lot of crap from you. You're thirty-six years old, Franklin. When are you going to throw away those damn comic books and get a job - after your heart attack?" 

There was a lot more but I'll share only that plenty of guys my age still play Dungeons and Dragons and have Star Wars wallpaper - or at least they would if their wives allowed it, which is a sadness of its own. But then I've always been able to place others' misfortunes ahead of mine. Now to be fair, my "comic books" are really graphic novels. On the literary scale of things, there's quite a difference. 

 
But you can't explain these things to a mother, especially one who's hopped up on Dr. Phil and is also playing the rent, job and food card. So I made a loose commitment to change and, upon my mother's directive, went to the supermarket to buy some healthy food. I must admit that the fruit and produce was lovely. However, since I don't eat fruits and vegetables, this was of little help. Neither was the extensive selection of ersatz not-meat food products, goat milk yogurt, and barley groats. It begs the question, "What is a groat?" The only item I recognized was corn, only it was spelled QUORN on a box in the frozen section and is technically called Fusarium Venenatum, a fungus native to Buckinghamshire, England. It made no sense. I began to feel out of place and a little paranoid. Perhaps my mother and Dr. Phil were right: I was a hopeless case, a walking heart-attack at the tender age of thirty-six. 
Indeed, when I asked a stock boy (name tag: Gene) where in the health food aisle I could find mortadella, Gene said, "Morta-what?" I told him it was a special type of bologna made from finely hashed/ground heat-cured pork sausage. He looked concerned. So I explained the whole thing: about high cholesterol, my mother's threats, and Star Wars. 
Gene proved to be an excellent listener and, in a wave of nostalgia that touched my heart, disclosed that his girlfriend had made him take down the Star Trek wallpaper in his own apartment. 

She also pressured him to give up his weekly Dungeon's and Dragons game despite his status as an especially revered Dungeon Master. He was obviously distraught. You can see where all of this is going, I'm sure. With my help, Gene called his girlfriend and confronted her. She immediately packed her bags and left - an unforeseen event that goes to show you really can't trust women. 

Because of his flagrant sobbing, I deduced that Gene was in no shape to work. And, like any responsible citizen, I took Gene across the parking lot to Chili's for nachos, ribs, and a couple molten lava chocolate cakes. Four beers and as many appetizer platters later, Gene regained some of his wits; he called three of his D&D friends to set up an emergency "after-hours" game. We all met at Gene's empty apartment (girlfriend took furniture) for an epic D&D game that lasted through the next day. Gene's friends were very cool and offered to split rent on account that Gene got fired. I agreed to move in as well, with my share of rent to be held in abeyance until suitable work should present itself. The situation was a positive one for us all, although Gene complained about losing his bedroom. He did understand that it was only because of my sleep apnea and other health risks that I needed a private space. 
As for my mother, I still love her dearly, but she'll have to find someone else to practice her interventions on. And when I'm ready to lose those 50 pounds I will do whatever it takes aside from diet and exercise. 
Why? Because I am my own man. And I, Frank Santos, have my very own 5th of an apartment and I am currently the most feared D&D Rogue in the greater Ithaca metropolitan region.

I feel there is no explanation needed for this post. It gets me choked up every time I hear the words: 

  "Warm beer and cold women, I just don't fit in. 

     Every joint I stumbled into tonight

     that's just how it's been.

     All these double knit strangers with gin and vermouth

     And recycled stories in the naugahyde booths." 

   - Tom Waits

Goodbye Money

I quit my job at an anonymous investment company, which I will call Morgan Stanley. The good people there (facetious!) paid me quite well and I had a beautiful office, a nice benefits package, the whole deal. Also, I drove a Z3 convertible and got to wear these beautiful English suits with Johnson & Murphy shoes . But eventually, they used my love of these things to steal my soul and stifle my natural creativity. They accomplished this through subtle and insidious tactics such as giving me promotions and extra responsibilities. The two-hour lunch and post-meal nap gave way to grueling meetings and these things they called "brainstorming sessions."

So I finally confronted my boss and accused him of wrecking my life and trying to steal my soul. He just laughed, saying, "Frank, first of all, you have no life. Second, I worked damn hard to get rid of my own soul. What the hell would I want with yours?" He was very evasive like this, never answering questions directly. 

The pressure and competitiveness of corporate work had left me feeling hollow and empty, which is ironic since I'm quite a few pounds overweight (all the two-hour lunches, I know). And there were other inconsistencies! Like getting free airline tickets and gym club memberships as perks, when I don't fly, and I'm afraid of exercise. I complained on the phone, but they pretended it was a bad connection. I can't be sure, but I think they were crumpling paper near the mouthpiece to imitate static. I called back and they explained that perks were perks and not entitlements: "Frank, give them to someone you like or set them on fire. We don't give a shit. But, if you think you're getting something else, forget it." 

Like I'm entitled. They're the entitled ones! I told them so, pointing my finger of justice, threatening to set their plane tickets on fire in their very office of lies. There's a lot more, but I'll skip to the 911 call and the restraining order part, and how it was a blessing in disguise. House arrest gave me the time I needed to discover my true passion: creative candle making. The pay is poor, and I had to move back in with my mother, but I'm my own boss. At least I am while my mother is watching her shows on TV. Other plusses? I've met some really interesting people, even if they lack the most basic personal hygiene skills and dress in what appears to be brightly colored rags that give me migraines. The candle making community is pretty small, but we're a vibrant bunch! There's been a lot of sharing: of ideas, wax, and sometimes sandwiches. Who knew there were 23 different kinds of hummus? I've also learned that there's so much more to candle making than melting wax and inserting some cotton wicking. For example, there's the part about choosing colors. And the container, which I like to call the vessel. Basically, I can see myself doing this for the rest of my life. 

So goodbye Morgan Stanley, with your beautiful offices filled with polished marble, walnut, and leather. Goodbye to the crisp linen and wool suits, and the oxfords hand-sewn with pigment dyed leathers. And, goodbye to the BMW Z3 convertible. May your seven layers of hand-rubbed lacquer clear coat shine for some other soulless corporate drone. I am a new and improved man with freedom, creativity, and only 75 more hours of community service.  

Voluntary house arrest: Yes, please!

I was inspired not too long ago by some college students who placed themselves under house arrest to protest something political (didn't pay attention to the actual cause). I wanted to jump on the bandwagon, but they neglected to list guidelines for a beginner like me. I wanted to know about the line between house arrest and simply hanging out at home. After consulting with the experts, I can only say that the line is fine indeed. 

For example, lounging in sweats and a t-shirt watching Star Trek reruns falls into the category of "hanging out." However, if you put on a pair of French Blue Poplin Pajamas from The Gap, then you're surely "doing time." Just the bottoms cost $19.95, but they look remarkably like prison clothes. Bleach them out in the sun for a couple of days and you'll have that Cool Hand Luke look for sure. If the line is still blurry, I've provided some official Frank Santos House Arrest Rules. They are as follows: 

1. Give yourself a sentence: say 24 hours or, if you're really nuts, 48 or 72 hours. I think increments of 24 make a rather bold statement. Don't you?

2. Stock up on snacks, DVDs, and video games. Make sure your internet service provider is a good one. Extended house-jail time with dial-up can be unnecessarily tedious.

3. Make provisions for what those in the corrections business call "good behavior." And what constitutes good behavior? Just what you'd think: cleaning up after yourself, turning lights off in unused rooms to save electricity, stuff like that. Depending on how far you want to go, you could put some signs up around the house. My favorite is, "Pick up your mess, FRESH FISH! Your mother doesn't live in this voluntary-house-arrest prison."

4. Last, have some inspirational material handy for the tough times. It's not uncommon for Voluntary House-Arrested Cons to get down in the dumps after "lights-out." Books like Don't Sweat the Small Stuff, and the ever popular Chicken Soup series have worked well for me. 

The other rules are just what you'd expect: half-hour conjugal visits, shoelaces removed at night, and long-distance phone calls only during reduced-rate hours.

Finally, you may not have picked a cause on which to base your voluntary house arrest experience. I'm told there are services on the web that will help you with this for a nominal fee. But don't sweat this part. I never actually got around to picking a cause and my experience went very well. Anyway, good luck and see you on the "outside." 

Ithaca Times - Voluntary house arrest: Yes, please!

Self-Correcting Universe

Writing today to let you all know that things have been set right in the world. After some bizarre experiences in the YMCA locker room, I decided to give it one more try. I had a nice float in the pool (I don't swim but I am naturally buoyant), then braved the sauna. Miracle of all miracles, it was empty AND blazing hot. I settled in for a long soak, delighted to have the whole place to myself: no grape seed oil nutjobs or flatulant body cleansers; just me... and a deep rich baritone voice coming from outside the sauna. The voice gave perfect rendering of a gospel song I had never heard (I've got peace like a river). And, although I even lack the energy and conviction required to be an atheist (trust me - believing in nothing can be exhausting!), I found the experience quite pleasant. 

I've got peace like a river  

I've got peace like a river

I've got peace like a river in my soul

I've got peace like a river

I've got peace like a river

I've got peace like a river in my soul

Shvitz Rules

Weird shit at the Y sauna. Check it out: last week while enjoying a relaxing shvitz, some guy came in and stood butt naked, anointing himself  with grape seed oil (and I'm talking his whole body). He explained that he had been afflicted with dry skin. And the heat of the sauna helped the oil penetrate well. Did I want some? What I wanted, friends,  was to shove his crazy grape seed oiled ass back out the door. But The Frank Santos Code of Sauna Conduct strictly states that one must never touch a naked man anointed with any kind of oil, even if the contact is limited to a firm shove. I figured the steroid guy sitting next to me with the Marine tattoos on his biceps would set the situation right. Next day the grape seed oil dude was gone, only to be replaced by an even crazier guy with spandex bicycle shorts and a gallon jug of distilled water. Dripping with sweat, he slid off the bench and lay himself out on the floor where he proceeded to break wind in the most fearsome way - like he had eaten nothing but Beefarino for a month. And to make matters worse, the rotten bastard took up the whole floor, blocking the door. I nearly stepped on him in my desperate escape. I resolved never to go back. So now tell me, good people of the InterWebs, am I overreacting or that seriously some weird shit?   

Cell Phone Smackdown

I'm at the theatre watching No Country for Old Men, and the schmuck in front of me answers his cell phone. It's the bloodbath scene when the psycho, Anton Chigurh, unloads with his crazy oxygen tank/nail-gun-shooter-thing. I love Joel and Ethan Coen and I love this movie. But the cell phone! It's killing me with its crappy-ring-tone song, which happens to be, "I'm a flirt," by R. Kelly. This is kind of ironic since the phone's owner is about a hundred and twenty pounds and looks like he works at Radio Shack. Not that there's anything wrong with the guys who work at Radio Shack. Damn knowledgeable fellows, for the most part. But you wouldn't expect one to violate the sanctity of a big screen showing of a new Coen Bro's movie with some hip-hopanonymous shite on a Motorola. The Radio Shack R. Kelly answers his phone:   

"Hey, man. I'm watching a movie. What are you doing?"

"Oh, that's cool. Hey check this out..." 

He holds the phone up in the air so the person on the other end can hear the audio from the movie. And that's precisely when I lose my patience, grab the phone from his outstretched hand, and toss it clattering down the sloped movie theatre aisle. It was a very satisfying sound, that clattering. 

Fall Down Stupid

I got bit by the fitness bug today. Thought I'd walk down the hill for some fresh air and a pint. The weather was just right: cool and crisp, with the scent of spruce needles and wood smoke. Actually, all I smelled through my stuffed nose was my cigar, but the other stuff sounded more... appropriate. The exercise must have boosted my metabolism because I polished off half of a smoked chicken, beans, slaw, cornbread, a bowl of gumbo, chocolate silk cake, and then two more pints. The walk home was disastrous. First, I almost stroked out on a particularly foreboding incline. I used some secret ninja breathing tricks to work through the tachycardia, the stitch in my side, and the shooting pains in my chest. That's when I slipped on what must have been the very last patch of snow/ice/black-crusty-stuff in my neighborhood. Let's just say that I went down like a ton of bricks. Split my favorite pair of trousers (nice wool herringbone with real silk lining) and bruised my tailbone. Writing this post standing up (pain in coccyx), my big wish is that I had ordered the chocolate silk cake to go.