Traditional - not a transvestite at the Debutante Ball....

My date donned a Scottish kilt last night. No joke. Yes. In a flood of white Vera silk gowns, Armani tuxes, Channel frocks from the fifties there was a man in a kilt. The fete itself is downright incomparable to the modern parties thrown in honor of art/nonprofits/launches of any sort– and while this exclusive affair does donate to important endeavors for those less fortunate – it’s primal purpose is to present the recently arrived pubescent dames to the already-chosen-accepted-society members… To celebrate good cheer and good health- so visit with friends or foe from the past – or possibly encounter someone new- a sparkling transplant from Connecticut. Mostly these are the daughters, nieces, and cousins of those already mingling amongst the hundreds of close friends- familiar by Christmas cards, society pages and well country club gossip– politely sipping champagne while watching the marshmallow gowns descend the grand staircase. The girls, only nineteen or twenty years old smiling broadly at the flashing bulbs courtesy of all the local newspapers… curtseying, and sheepishly waltzing on the arm of their father… Truly it’s an honor as it is an intriguing experiment, ahem, I mean experience.

Now charisma can’t pull off a kilt alone… no not Halloween, or a rumination where men dressed up in their assigned cultural vetements, for a wedding or a parade. No, just something the decedents of Scotts do for only black-tie gatherings… And regardless of the rich history woven into a choice of this kind…Nothing can prepare someone for the “look” the kilt accompanies. The most shocking of questions came not from the slightly tipsy post-debutantes themselves, but rather several of the women from the upper echelons … the mothers to be more precise…who whispered in my ear so slightly I had to bend closer to hear their query, “Is he wearing underpants?”

“Um, excuse me?” Did I just hear this lawyer-gone philanthropist – the queen of society correctly?

She wasn’t the only foxy cougar taking aim under his kilt.

Comparative Advantage

I’ve never liked a good liar, however I respect the hell out of their dexterity.

Your eye hits their eye and unconsciously your brain has just categorized, stereotyped, calculated and formulated a subjective position, completely based on a quick glance. Isn’t it frustrating how people we assume stuffy turn out to be a comedic and endearing, or those who appear organized thrive in chaotic disarray. Then there are the people assumed to be wretched, snobbish or finicky, but eventually become our closest cohorts. And why is it that it’s nearly impossible to predict what people are presuming about us?

To forecast if the ethical mindset of a stranger is “good” or a “bad” is an art in which I admit I have no skill. It’s taken several years of sucking at reading people to recognize this shortcoming. However, the painful repercussions have challenged me to be open to the many things (intelligence, wit, empathy, sheer joy) an individual can offer in exchange for friendship, forcing me to rein back how judgmental I typically prefer to be… because let’s face it, people watching and analyzing the details of apparel or character traits is a frivolous and terribly delightful activity that journalists more than anybody partake in.

While I attempt to rummage up satirical humor to inject into my ramblings, it’s difficult to find anything funny about not being able to read people. It’s important to debunk my personal (narcissist) verbiage to note these entries are scribed upon the request of my friends, who either like to claim they relish my diatribe on a regular basis, or my friends from afar who miss out on my routine rhetoric. Not just to get people to read this stuff and think, wow… she must have a lot of time on her hands. I have hardly any free time (I’m a victim of over committing myself) – while I can’t claim expertise in intuition, I’ve mastered every area of procrastination.

Let me explain. While my biggest blunder is assuming I have the capacity to untangle the intricacies of a personally– I’m damn good at pretending it’s actually my strength. My desire to extract personal information about a stranger couldn’t be more authentic, genuine… it’s what I’ve dedicated my life to – a journalist has the ability to tell one story to thousands of people, which otherwise they never would have heard.

So I guess I can tell you the secret details of a person – their fears, what turns them on – and what turns them off. Ambition and failure – you name it, fetishes and absurd observations they inherently pick up. Their history of mistakes and successes, how they envision their future – I can script the life of a stranger or a confidante in different fonts and vibrant adjectives. I was born a proactive listener (as you read this – I’m sure you have doubts), but if you talk to me, or read my words I can recount verbatim what you said, in what tone, whether it was with enthusiasm, vulnerability and trust, or fear I’d judge. And while I can retell a story with dimension and emotion - I’ve just realized it’s nearly impossible for me to detect whether that person is “good,” or not.

Who needs Prozac when you've got Oprah?

There is something so fabulously sobering about Oprah. I haven't necessarily given the ol' benefit of the doubt to afternoon-diva-psychologist-ceo.... She is like Mother Teresa only a Democrat, wears Jimmy Choos and throws fetes with people like Elton John. I was undergoing a massive pity party around 3am last night and Conan was over, and there you go the only thing on besides acutane infomercials is Oprah.

Thinking she had maybe some author on (the only bonus from her show I figure)... There she is... grinning ear-to-ear discussing what life is like from down under… and not with Dr. Oz (her sidekick). Her guest was a 3-foot-midgit; she was a 26-year-old brunette that was born, just like really small. And she was spunky and sassy and witty as hell! I thought… well who needs Prozac when Oprah can send you on a spellbound guilt trip riddled with gratefulness. Stupefied on the edge of my duvet... that this woman could be so pumped up about life it was my responsibility (as someone born of ordinary height) to save the world.

Mark Cuban... the Willy Wonka of America

He is the ornery, irrational and yet delightful Willy Wonka of America. And you can’t help but admire the guy, and then chuckle. Aside from the SEC’s recent and very legitimate allegations, Cuban is in so little words, someone I'm intrigued by.

What Mark Zucker did to the Rolodex, P. Diddy did for the popular vote, and Sarah Palin did for lacrosse moms (hockey moms are still in exile) Mark Cuban has done for the dorks. He gave them a reason to be cool. Gave permission for big boys to pursue the little boy dreams once assumed collecting dust with Babe Ruth baseball cards. Instead of having a fantasy team or a Playstation he plays basketball coach/commentator/pontificator. He has taken brown-nosing to a respectable level that includes philanthropy and learning how to dance the tango.

Might sound demented but hear me out. I love football. And sometimes when I’m on the elliptical glider and I witness Jay Cutler throwing an interception I sort of make frustrated sounds toward the television and sort of frighten the women huffing on the stationary bikes. Most people would play QB but I’d rather not be responsible for making the calls and being pummeled by 800-pound angry linemen. So instead the position of running back is preferable. Catch the touchdown pass and hump the field goal like Shakira (not that Tatum Bell has ever done that…).

Cuban would make the original Samuel Maverick proud (a 19th century Texas cattleman famous for not branding his animals). Cuban’s interactive NBA purchase isn’t just metaphorical for his actions in life, but every aspect of his biography IS the iconic America story. And if he has anything to do with it, his legend will be passed through generations for millenniums to come. He is the 21st century entrepreneurial hoodlum, a less satirical version of Winston Churchill. He quotes himself as he recently did in his blog, reminding readers how he should have listened to his own insightful premonitions about the ultimate failure of overzealous hedge funds just a year ago.

If he can’t be a basketball coach, he will buy a team. If his wisecrack remarks and millions of dollars fined by the NBA irritate anyone, he’ll justify his sophomoric behavior by donating millions to charity. (Nothing criminal about that.) If Hollywood won’t make him a movie star he’ll produce movies himself. He’s altruistic too… keeping an eye out for the insatiable hunger for unrealistic entertainment the American public is recovering from. In 2006 he hired six individuals to compete for $1 million by accomplishing insane and crazy things. Instead of keeping all the amusement for his own viewing pleasure, he suggested ABC create a reality show, so we could join in the fun.

When he insults refs by yelling, “I wouldn’t hire you to manage a Dairy Queen” and then receives an official complaint by the company, he doesn’t apologize or retract his remark. He spends a day acting as an ice-cream manager, ultimately generating an additional $2 million in revenue for Dairy Queen. He is able to monetize his silliness by responding the way people would at least expect a multi-billionaire to do. It isn’t fodder it’s genius.

Maybe sadly and maybe proudly if Cuban can’t unearth his next toy, he doesn’t invent it, hire someone to find it, he instead creates an industry, no an entire marketplace for it. Last year he innovated a website www.sharesleuth.com to nail CEO’s for their ill-mannered ethics, my hypothesis is so he could make more money off their malaise, proceeding to short their stocks… it all sounded so lovely. He makes O’Reilly look like a timid pussycat with blog headings such as, “The Stock Market is for Suckers.”

Serious journalists and equity boys are still haughty toward Cuban’s unpredictable and often precocious ways. But regardless of how staunch and boring their Brooks Brothers ways might be, they cannot make the argument that Cuban isn’t a sparkling personality, a mensa in the media world, or doesn’t make large monetary contributions to the community. And while he might irk the LA Lakers, Cuban has handed America something more than High-def TV or a good laugh. Whether his playfulness is benign or a disenchanting echo from our unregulated past....

Cuban has reminded us that the only rulebook we're really restrained to, is our own.

Ode to the Bachelor...

My most favorite friend from college is a man-whore.

I don’t type that lightly, or politely or pausing even momentarily. He was a slut.

The jokes heaved his direction edged on cruel, but never hyperbolic in the slightest. Woman after girl would saunter out of his room… disheveled hair, wearing one of his Belichick-ish ripped sweatshirts… plastered with that sideways smile that shows no shame. The deeds he has done (or at least the ones we know about) are not appropriate for this blog… or appropriate for even a blackmail attempt.

Back to Brian (woops I started to type his name – sorry if you’re reading this, but you’ve been warned the repercussions of being friends with a writer)… He was the best listener. He never failed to call me back, or invite me to the bars when I needed a dry white wine most. (He jokingly said I liked em’ dry like rubbing alcohol.) More importantly whenever (not that I admit this often) I needed someone to flirt incessantly with me at a party, play the role of the dapper date with the WSJ memorized at a company function, offer to share a tub of Ben & Jerry’s and never take a bite, or be the shoulder to cry and blow my nose on…. he was that guy. The guy that all girls dreamed of getting, well… except for the girls he got on.

Girls fell in love with him as quickly as he fell out of interest with them.

Thus arrives the puzzling conundrum. Who is this emotionally unavailable, but never for a shag type of guy? We assume them jerks and write them off as rubbish, loads of leftover baggage feigning sweetness with martini’s and syrupy compliments. But with lovely mothers, well-mannered female chocolate labs and cotillion on their resume… these men cannot be so hate-worthy. I mean they make fabulous, insightful and honest male friends. And they have friends… consider them an entrée to meet male prospects? I mean not all their friends can be the raging man-whores, correct? Or so I bluff…

It’s assumed a man who is famous for bachloresque behavior (which can be achieved by either dating many women at once, or sadly the same reputation arrives with never dating anyone at all)… he isn’t decent.

My dearest friend couldn’t have had a more affable attitude with a deep belly laugh making you feel you were born a comedian. I know the genuinely friendly and helpful bachelor-by-choice will forever be a befuddling and potent combination. A mixture of simplicity and sublime laced with complex…always served warm with a wink.

Ran Away from Freedom

For miles yesterday I ran. I ran away from my to-do lists and piles of laundry. It’s so freeing to watch the world from a pair sneakers, never know what tidbits of life you can see from the pavement. The stories about the couples holding hands, the dogs walking their owners, the strollers being pushed by twentysomethings in maturity clothing, laughing together. Enjoying a moment they're never aware I’m sharing with them, but only for a second, until they're out of sight and behind me.

Viridian camouflage, unmistakable and identifiable from an airport, grocery store aisle, or the front page of the newspaper. The thick material soaked in variations of greens and tans, like a habit to a nun, concealing the body to hide it of its humility, or more likely when it’s a woman, her feminity.

With the bulky boots and stoic expressions, there might as well have had a botox booth set up for the returning army. Underneath the helmet I see eyes looking out to the bodies of civilians that have come to support the troops, arriving in their minivans, with toddles crying and bulky jackets. I’m at 16th and Wynkoop in Downtown Denver and there is a small group of soldiers and a smaller group of citizens, some PR attempt to bring the world back together. The soldiers and the audience are trying to make conversation, polite chatter consisting on anything other than the obvious.

One pair of eyes shadowed by the brim of a helmet catch mine as I run by. I feel guilty that I don’t stop, that I don’t wave, that instead of making eye contact I turn up my ipod and sprint farther away. Running from the eyes that have witnessed a world I cannot even imagine.

The November sunset makes the air chillier and suddenly the warmth of the afternoon has left and my pace is quickened against the gravel. My legs are fatigued and my lungs angry at the altitude. And even though the reality check of soldiers returning home from war is blocks away, I'm not ready to return to my quiet apartment. The soldiers now healed from the shrapnel wounds, the lacerations so horrific, leaving veterans strapped in wheel chairs, those are courageous ones. The ones I want to run up and hug and cry and thank for their strength and endurance. But right now I don't want to. I’m tired.

I reach out at every opportunity I get. I know this. I met a woman in an airport in Austin, she was taking her boots off at the metal detector and I tapped her shoulder, “I don’t know you, but I admire you,” is what I said. She had been deployed several weeks after delivering a baby girl. Can you imagine leaving an infant to powdered milk and instead of rocking and singing lullubyes, hauling a machine gun around the Middle East?

Whenever I see the uniform of patriotism I wince. A bit of guilt for not volunteering as often as I should, a bit of pride to be a native of the same country, but I mostly wince because I don’t want to understand the pain they know, they have felt and that will torture them. I prefer to run far away from the news stations and reality that our world isn’t really the dogs, and strollers and couples laughing over triple vent lattés, it’s a world outside our fictious peaceful American walls. A world where suffering is the norm and people’s only chance for freedom is running away....

I love it when people are LATE

I love it when people are late. A little pat on the back that maybe, I’m not alone in being known for my constantly-late endearing quality, but yes, there are other, creatively-like minded people-pleasers (no doubt a hint of procrastination prone) rushing to find the next location in their life.

Such an event occurred around 7pm last Thursday night. Posh and polished in a designer number reserved for invoking a “Hey-Wow” head-turn. My feet touting slick Jimmy Choo peek-toes, which would no doubt would require Advil hours later. I saunter through the Sushi restaurant with a powerful agenda, Ahem three men in mind.

I hate to say it, but I don’t mind writing it so much. Life is strung together by hours, night turns into day, and it’s easy to forget that time is spent quickly. Opportunity can dwindle, and dreams are like batteries in a drawer, you reach a point where you either hook em’ up or they go dead because you waited too long to ever turn them on.

God has always graced me with the second chances. Most of my flaws are by no means unconscious. When I weigh my options I choose the more fun, exciting, titillating of paths. Forgetting that every iota of fate in my life has been carefully calculated and subsequently capitalized on. No luck goes unspent. And while I believe in making friends like stacking US treasury bonds (because I love people, the stories of people, the way people act and think and feel) I never understood what cashing out looks like.

And while I pinch myself and knock on every viable wood surface… I shrug, knowing that at the end, if I kept moving forward, there was no choice, but to happen.

The three men had started an internet company, so brilliant and unique it made facebook look like kid’s play. And they wanted me, Auna Jornayvaz to be the girl that helped turned it on. To help them shape a concept so hot it could turn itself on.

Flushed I reached the table where they were already sipping their expensive wine. Staring up towards me they smiled, aware I was a bit flustered from being late. “Not to worry, we were late too. We just arrived.” The oldest (25-years-old) handsome man said.

I breathed a sigh of relief and settled into the chair left empty at their table, the chair they reserved. The space in their company that they said, only I could fill.

“So, where shall we start? Target demo? Generate media buzz? Entrench ourselves in the community of power players?” Quickly skimming my brain for the necessary conversation that took a trip to Manhattan to make.

“Let’s start with the wine list.” The one in the suede azure jacket laughed.

The Poker Player...

"With enthusiasm he recounted escapades too risqué for any eavesdroppers. His deadpan expressions concealing a worthless pair of threes that won him a Rolex in Russia, parties in China and South America, which I assumed included drugs and the occasional underage escort. Men who had penthouses broken into (I suspected he might have broken into a penthouse or two), folding a hand on a Ferraris, and my favorite, the woman, whom he described as a bombshell, outsmarting the most masculine poker playing prodigies.

Envisioning myself touting some exotic Versace wrap, camouflaging an insidious smirk with Gucci sunglasses, beating out egocentric males in world-class casinos, all sounded far more alluring than becoming a soccer mom." June 20, 2007

How would children ever learn to walk if they were afraid to fall?

Randomness Extracted from 2007....

"How would children ever learn to walk if they were afraid to fall? A bearded man orchestrating jovial arms through a brown tweed jacket; coos at who I'm assuming to be his grandchild. Clutching the two-year-old inside the fluffy pink dress, blond curls topped with a bow, squeals in delight as her grandpa picked her up and swung her into the air, never letting her go. Unconsciously safe within her grandfather’s grasp, the child laughed freely into the sky. The two unaware, through the crowds outside of FAO Swartz , I'm sitting next to my crutches, and my eyes are watching them.

When in life do we begin to hold on? When do we start looking for railing by the staircases? Once we’ve balanced our choices on the assurance and stability of the ground, are we disabled from unfolding our arms and trying to fly? Are we constantly eyeballing underneath us, into our future in search for a net? Find some inflatable cushion to pad our fall, so gravity doesn’t throw us against the floor too hard, physical pain teases mental sanity, but it’s temporary, and easy to forgo. The mental stuff… that stays locked in our memory forever.

My laptop teeter-tots on my left leg as I pound my thoughts into Microsoft Word, the movements of the laptop shake and stir with the hesitation and hurry as each letter, like each pigment, creates a word, like pigments makeup a picture. The process of remembering feels similar to fingernails on a snare drum, a lone beat, penetrating silence, echoed with a rattlesnake voice that erects goose bumps. The single tap on the snare ignites sound, and although it fills the air with a single octave, the sound is empty of rhythm. Without the base, the cymbal, and the lyrics, the beat of the snare rips through time momentarily, only to remind us how alone a sound can feel. The single snap of a snare can shatter a daze, but it cannot rummage inside of our hearts without the help of another sound, the resonance of two hits you differently.

Sometimes silence is far more deafening than noise.

The vision of the child dissipates into the autumn foliage as I slowly crutch away from the crowded sidewalk. I'm invisible to the street venders and New York businessmen briskly scurrying through their day. Only aware of themselves, they are tending to the necessary tools of cell phones and watches, reminding those of importance to quicken their cadence against the New York Tar."

The Sinister Wittiness of Australians!

So as I continue my ramblings while abroad… I must apologize for any incoherency you might find in this letter- it is 4am here on St. Patrick’s Day and for some odd reason I’ve decided it’s imperative I inscribe installment 3 right now- while my brain is a ticking!

St. Patrick’s day in Sydney isn’t all that different from any other large city- except one in Ireland, bustling with people attempting to claim they are 100% Irish and feigning terrible Irish accents. I wonder what spending St. Patty’s day in Ireland would be like? Similar to mardigras in New Orleans?

Regular Nourishment:

The food here is delish/questionable. The Thai is amazing! Our main street is lined with various BYOs (bring your own wine!!!) A few nights a week my girlfriends and I stop off to purchase a ten dollar bottle of New Zealand Sav la Blanc- and cozy ourselves into our favorite, The Spicy Box. For the interesting part: The 3am food of choice is a meat-pie. Yes- I know- us Americans associate pie with fruits or crèmes- dessert yumminess. Occasionally we think of a quiche or very rarely we remember the pock-pie from Boston Market eons ago, but a meat-pie? Heavens No, it sounds like a punishment for prisoners. So just like Aussies and Europeans call the “loo” a toilet- the term “Meat-pie” doesn’t render a sour expression here at all! There are little shops dedicated to the meat-pie, cooked with mystery-beef/pork/???? The guys gobble these hand-held delicacies by the dozens, which is repugnant to the girls (aka: Me!) who avoid hot-dogs, even at fourth of July.


The Sinister Wittiness of the Locals:

Assuming us abroad students are dull and foreign to humor entirely- the study abroad guys (all handsome Aussies searching for the gorgeous American gal- to be their pal for a definitive 6 months) heave sarcasm at us, while at the same time incessant compliments! These guys are so smooth and tell stories and Australian with such sincerity and vigor- how would we know they are just gauging how gullible we are?

So last night I learned (wink-wink) during the dry season the Koala bears get drunk on Eucalyptus trees- the Eucalyptus leaves produce an alcohol, so the poor Koala bears get hallucinogenic, tumble to the ground from their perches, and tall Aussie’s are hired to put the fallen ones back on the trees.
All of us girls oohed and ahhhed at the empathy of these Koala caregivers… until one of the guys could not contain his laughter, spoiling the image all of us had of a Koala in the strong arms of an Aussie. Erupting in sinister chortling- us American’s were a lost cause and targets of their arid sense of humor. And because I’m SO not in the market for a 6 month Aussie boyfriend (I’m quite complacent with my amazing boyfriend at home) I’ve made it my goal to retort in a spicy tongue- giving these Aussie’s a taste of their own malicious sarcasm.

An example I’m very proud of occurred yesterday: When telling an Aussie I was from Denver… he exclaimed in a very interested voice, “Really? I actually have a good friend that is from Denver.”
Trying to formulate a strategy that would leave one of these Aussies aghast of my ability to outwit them… I reply to his comment with a fabricated fascination, “Who is it? I might know them?”
Naively saying the name, “Brian Walters.”
Taking a stab, I thought of the most common looking guy, “Wait a second . . . is he sort of tall with brown hair???”
Gleefully buying that I actually knew his friend (Come on in a city of 3 million) he grew excited, “Yes, Yes, That is him.”
Remorsefully staring off into space, I slowly whispered, “I’m so sorry to hear of your loss.”
“Wait, Wait… what are you talking about?” He slowly pieced together what I was saying.
“Didn’t you know that Brian died?”
“Wait What?”
Feeling the triumph of my successful jaunt, I fessed up, “Ha-ha I don’t actually know your friend…come on, can’t you take a joke?”
Without guilt I sauntered into the next room… my inner dialogue asking, “Auna who are you turning into? Is this country really bringing out this horrible side in you?” And then I thought again… that was hilarious!

Outdoor Activities:

Clouds have lately taken residence in the sky- covering up any sun. I believe my skin is paler here than it was in Colorado, in the dead of winter. All of us study abroad students are rather confused there is a lack of sunshine- we believed when coming to Australia laying out would be a daily ritual, whereas toting an umbrella was not!

Beach sitting is really fun mostly for the people watching. I am unsure if there is anything more entertaining then watching an older couple in their usually matching swimsuits walking down the beach together (most likely a couple that retired here) totally smitten. Or there is always innocent couple in their early teens… sort of holding hands… nervous that maybe they shouldn’t like the opposite gender quite yet. Reaching over to pick up the random seashell, shining it off with his hand and presenting to her as a small gift. My second favorite is seeing the children sometimes naked, kicking sand with tiny feet. The parents always parents trying to relax, yet watch their playful children with angst. Whenever tiny kid voices speak with squeaky Australian accents, they seem to sound so smart and well behaved. How I reached this conclusion: I haven’t a clue.

Drum roll. . . . My all time favorite beach pastime: I think its uber fun to watch the Europeans (usually German) throw a Frisbee in itsy bitsy Speedo’s. I enjoy watching them not for any pleasure derived from watching the rock hard figures flex and flaunt much pampered muscles, but because they are men with shaved heads that take this Frisbee tossing ridiculously seriously. Weaving and skipping through the labyrinth of basking bodies… these guys run after that plastic plate similar to how a lab would run after a bone. And, so the entertainment value is high when they miss or trip into the sand, yes slightly disgusted with myself… I promise if any of you would see these Frisbee tossers on “German’s funniest home videos” it would be difficult not to chuckle.

On to the academia at University of New South Wales:

The population 40,000! The campus is so large I often meander the matching buildings, like a lost pup, searching for my classrooms. This being my fourth University and by far largest- the maps with arrows, helping you locate your attempting location by red “you are here” are life-size! The tropical trees and immense flowers remind me of Rodeo drive… although the immense focus required to understand my professors Australian enunciation has reminded me of my actual whereabouts.

Cheers!