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.