ALICE in Afghanistan...

Remember when the caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland was happily smoking his hookah? Hypothetically speaking, chances are that opium came from Afghanistan… No doubt, the metaphor is a stretch, but interesting, right?

Before I begin consider two things:
1. Afghanistan produces 93% of the global
supply of heroin.
2. Afghan heroin is estimated to kill more than 10,000 people a year in NATO
countries…more than five times the NATO troop losses from combat

Here is a report that General McCaffrey recently released:http://www.west-point.org/publications/McCaffrey~November2009.pdf

Just fyi: I’m writing purely from the civilian bystander... so I offer my thoughts only to illustrate what the average Homer Simpson thinks! AND btw: I’m a big fan of Orwell. Ak: Watch out for the animal similes and cynical outbursts. So take what I type with a bucket of salt. No doubt I’m a bit irreverent on the political front, but I must tell you re: General McCaffery- his comment “women are in many cases are merely abused property with less opportunity than a donkey,” in a scholarly document left a bitter taste in my mouth. Now if he could prove that statement up with some factual opportunity-cost/real estate based formula proving such a margin, it might be okay. That said, much of what he said really resonated with my inner journalist.


DTR: Let's define the relationship!

I've heard Obama speak it (and Blitzer and Bush and Gare- with a menagerie of vocabulary terms!) I want to hear that the military and Obama agree! We need to clarify any objective that taps into our own limited resources (the war has a burn rate of $9 billion a month), time, energy, blood. Obama needs to be honest here - It’s far too difficult to give Afghanistan and its 28 million residents a facelift, eradicate drug farming (which generated $200-400 million revenue to al-Qaeda last year), dispose of poverty (5 million starving children) and educate an illiterate population (70%), oh and wait hold peaceful and honest elections in the next 18 months. (Unless we were on amphetamines, but I doubt McCaffrey (a former Drug Czar) would be in favor of that.) If we’re going to have America “Fix” Afghanistan, we need to be realistic about revamping a country full of landmines and starving zealots. What resources beyond money/military should we seek? Hmm. Maybe we can start issuing Afghan treasury... kidding. But seriously, albeit the monetary concerns, can we truly figure out what is wrong? Why this particular country, a land that neither Alexander the Great or the Soviets could tame... has been screwed from the get-go?

WHO/WHAT are we fighting?
Are we (US, EU, NATO) just losing dollars and lives, or are we killing the infectious and rapturous spread of Al-Qaeda? Notice, how many times McCaffrey used the term al-Qaeda in his memorandum!! FYI: Once. He also seemed to vacillate between Afghans being warm and receptive to our efforts and then will quickly jump to how they stone their wives. It seems implausible one could institute in a 21st century-democracy in what is easily a 14th century violent land of religious babble? Now Iraq has worked, is working… but again, we were fighting a system predicated on “human-interest” while it was one human by the name of Sadam Hussein, and his own self-interest, he still didn’t want to die. I’ll throw Iran in there too, while Ahmadinejad isn’t one for compromise, at least he has an email address. Whereas we’re working against the Taliban, they are growing more fierce, not to immediately link them to Al-Qaeda but my question is: Does the military know who in the Taliban is harboring terrorists versus those who are just misogynist lunatics? Hmm... Is there such a thing as an Al-Qaedian mousetrap? I feel like that could be a decent joke.

Again, Sadam was archaic, corrupt and selfish - he lived in a castle. Whereas Bin Laden has clearly capitalized on every communicational device, uses viral networking and does splendid job advertising himself to the masses and still manages to live in a cave. Different scenario entirely. Media/Press need to better articulate the differences in this "warfare" it's easy to lump the Middle East together.

And from a marketing position (use Bush round 2 as the beta) it’s a hell of a lot easier to sell “PROTECTING AMERICANS” than spending billions of dollars helping starving and angry men see the light in micro lending (as I don’t see them jumping on Wall Street). And while Bush has definitely forced Obama to backtrack and reestablish our responsibility as it relates to spreading democracy. I’m a firm believer in instituting democracy and I think it can be done, in baby steps. America did it on its own, and we broke many of the our own “sacred text.” There was no British satellite surveillance or Red Cross workers. Resources were abundant. And what we really did wrong - we shoved/killed Native Americans out of our way, and we “in-sourced” a chunk of Africa. Democracy was not built with democracy, but something much darker. So we cannot expect countries to build what we did without the same resources, tools or bylaws, and abide by our strict regulations. So how does America compensate for this inequitable difference, or better account for it when we're reprimanding countries for not replicating our model?

NARCOTIC CLEANSING
Re: Drugs – okay, well first off let’s go ahead and check the “Why are upwards of 2 million people doing opium” off the list. Afghanistan is a miserable country, providing an even more miserable existence. McCaffery is right that we need to substitute opium farming 7,700 metric tons with any type of alternative - I want to talk about my new seatmate pal (international Cambridge humanitarian and James Beard winner) Frances Lappe, but will save that for another email…. Essentially, I agree. Let’s find the cost of burning down the opium fields (the fiscal costs incurred in addition to the risk involved- talk about creating some local jobs!) and THEN DO IT. IF we can legitimize taking a country over (ak: US Department of Defense plans on spending billions over the next decade building a police force) then we should be able to burn some fields. I’m serious – have they actually done this?

My personal solution would be a campaign on rebranding the enemy. Americans have become CONFUSED with who the Al-Qaeda is, Hamas that, Shiehks blah blah blah (okay, Sheikhs are a little different), but let’s not let people forget there is one group independent from the rest – those who are out to get us.

Okay, work with me: There is a joke that the only thing that will ever bring about world government is aliens invading.

And quite frankly it wouldn’t hurt people to receive al-Qaeda in the same vain they might look upon a lower-key “alien” invasion. They place no value on human life, thus their “soldiers” are dispensable.

Where is the bumper sticker that reads, Alien Invasion: translation: Al-Qaeda. They're after something that has nothing to do with salvaging, protecting, defending - they dont' even want our awesome land... their mission is like none other, it's inhuman. While I’d never suggest a world government, I would suggest that the world build an alliance. While these “Middle-Eastern Aliens” happen to have beards and turbans and appear quasi-human like, what does make them “intrinsically” the same as aliens is, they don’t blink at the face of death. So we (as democratic freedom fighters) need to strategize how to defeat one who operates without the incentive of life, health, prosperity, etc. Ak: While Hitler was a nut job, at least he valued Germans. And while I’d again never suggest a global order - a new type of "militia" I would hope the global media (Larry King and a few features on CNBC) would take the energy to revisit the notion that al- Qaeda is simply a leftover of angry Taliban who are sick of America liberties and exposed skin, but rather a cult whose cause reaches beyond human life, so much so, it can justify any resulting death. Not to bring China into the mix, however I want to point out that it wouldn’t shock me in ten-twenty years if al-Qaeda efforts were relocated. Not that China can boast the next Britney Spears, but they are communist and we already saw what happened the last time the Taliban were annoyed with fundamental Marxists. Anyway, it’s been argued we indirectly/underhandedly funded these guys during the Cyclone (right?) but isn’t it interesting how one could argue China is under handily funding them now.

That said, I really hope some economist out there is projecting how the world would operate sans American consumerism and our enthusiasm…. I mean what other country supports a filibuster to happen? We’d go back to the middle ages, where we all looked the same and spoke different languages.

At the end of the day (and the end of really long emails) I remember this old adage: “Put your oxygen mask on first before assisting a child.” In this case: Afghanistan is the child.


I’ll stop for now. But in brief:
1. Rebrand the enemy
2. Recognize the DRUG problem – MEDIA has faltered here. Farming illegal drugs are means to survival – and while a lot of that is poured into al-Qaeda there aren’t a lot of alternatives. This is where we can reach out globally and redefine who cares about drug problems, and what they’re willing to do – also an opportunity to tap into American brains. ***This is an arena where Dems/Repubs and the occasional Socialist can get along.
3. Be honest. A crucial, but simple point: Any Afghan regardless of how earnest and genetically wired to be grateful for US intervention will identify far more with a Taliban than an American, and changing that could take generations, if ever.
4. Annex Canada. (KIDDING... I just find it funny when people suggest that as a solution to whatever problem is discussed!)

Perfect Weather is Invisible

It’s 4:52 pm in California.

I’m typing in a restaurant booth, surrounded by ocean. The weather is roughly a perfect 70 degrees. All elements are undetectable, except for the occasional warm ray of sun, or soft cool breeze to remind me to be grateful that the weather has chosen to be flawless.

I refer to myself as the “retired seatmate” for obvious reasons… some of the people who’ve randomly sat next to me on airplanes have changed; no, they’ve rerouted my life…

This time zone has maybe an hour before the sun will abandon us. The rest of America has already been dark for hours. And with December dusk also arrives a chilly front. But that won’t prevent me from relishing the view. There is pale light shining through the thick, plush, creamy and rose-colored clouds, suggesting there indeed, are heavens above.

On airplanes, I’ve met a man who saved my life. I’ve sat next to a woman, who is now one of my dearest friends, another woman who lost her leg to the same disease that nearly killed me. There has been someone from my past and someone who paved way for my future. And several days ago I sat next to a person who was desperate, no deserved for somebody, anybody to care. And I was too tired.

The glowing ball of fire will cautiously dip into the waves, but as soon as you blink, the sun will have vanished. The pink and yellow and azure blur your vision. The pigments of the buildings, cars, trees and sailboats weaken; the gravity of the ocean beckons the sky. The two will be enveloped by darkness for the next twelve hours and cannot be pulled apart until tomorrow morning.

December 6, 2009 will disappear forever and everything that happened with it. All those who have been born, all those who have passed away, the laughter, the tears, the firsts and the lasts, the choices and actions that dissect our lives, some more pivotal than others. Canonized and captured in photographs, facial expressions turned shadows, voices turned whispers. Just memories.

And before you realize today is over. It has past.

Empathy is a virtue- it is. It is much easier to be kind to strangers, because the assumption is that you’ll never see them again. In my aisle seat I am stressed and exhausted and frustrated. This man asks me how I am and my response is a single syllable “fine.” I’m chugging my then-cold Starbucks.

He asked why I am traveling. I spit out an effortless response, “a hybrid of travel and pleasure.”

Then out of guilt, I mumble, “you?”

Quietly, he says the word I hoped I wouldn’t hear, “family.” He stares at the seat in front of him with sad and empty eyes. He wasn’t waiting, but I could sense that he invited conversation. Myself, pop culture, business, bullshit, chatter, worthless nothingness… anything that wasn’t related to whatever misfortune required booking a plane ticket eight hours ago. But I voluntarily chose not to care. It wasn’t my problem. And so I put on my headphones and then fell asleep.

Now protected by large, gray… molecules of condensation packed tightly, the sun’s fever cannot reach me. Dusk is heavy with a freezing, angst. I’m shivering and my fingers are slow, taking longer to type, and this does not surprise me.

When the flight attendant walked by with the beverage cart I woke up. Completely forgetting our quick exchange I glance over to see if he wants anything to drink. But he is sound asleep. I understood. I’m an insomniac, and the only restful sleep tends to be on any mode of transportation, a car, a plane, and a boat, train. Any vehicle transporting me from then to now… I then wonder if he is dreaming. There are only two dreams for me – they consist of two plots – my family is in harm and it is my responsibility to save them. Or the other dream where I’m flying and the closer and closer I am to landing, the farther away the ground becomes. Maybe he has no dreams, no fantastical thoughts, playing in his head, I wasn’t sure.

He must be around fifty-five or sixty years-old? He seems like a nice, hardworking, family man. A father probably. His hands are intertwined and resting on his lap. He is wearing a wedding ring, it is worn, and I could tell hadn’t been removed in years.

The sun has long since left California. The goose bumps crawling on my arm are begging me to move inside, but this air, this fresh pacific oxygen is far more exhilarating than the electric heaters inside. So I will sit here freezing, calmed by the cadence of waves, and remember what this man said to me only 72 hours ago.

We landed in Los Angeles on time. The man was awake and quiet next to me. I didn’t desire to know where he was going and why. I didn’t have the emotional space, the empathetic room to take on the pain, the anguish of some stranger, it wasn’t my job.

“I hope you have a great trip. California is a lot of fun.” He said genuinely. Vicariously, maybe, maybe just polite. Not too sure.

“Thanks. Good luck with, wherever you’re going.” I said, the comment racing out of my mouth,
“I’ll need it.” He said. He played with the gold band.
“What happened?” And then the journalist in me got the best of me.
“My wife was in a car accident, a semi-truck hit her Volvo.” He paused searching my face to see if I wanted more. I revealed nothing.

“She was on her way to Arizona to pick up our son up from college. Anyway, she died last night. I couldn’t get there in time.” He choked. The truth, his nasty, cruel reality got caught in his esophagus.

“I’m so sorry.” Was all I could muster.

I wandered to baggage claim in a daze. The question screams, “Why do all these stories land next to me on airplanes?” For once, can’t a boring, silent stranger share my armrest, someone unaffected?

But airplanes are never that simple.

He walks ahead of me, carrying a small hunter green duffel bag, to his connecting flight, a steel tube to fly him to a nightmare beyond comprehension. A brutal kick of reality, and I was about to sit on a beach and write and share cocktails with friends. I was off to parties and glitzy experiences.

Life isn’t just unfair, it is bitter, unforgiving, a visceral uncertainty we cannot predict. Each moment encapsulated by the illogical, however pleasurable or painful. We endure. There is no choice.

It’s 5:53 pm and my pupils are wide. They are subconsciously searching for light in the black that has flooded the vibrant, rich sunset the coast was tasting moments ago. The moon has begun its crawl across the veiled horizon and the stars are starting to glisten. I can faintly make out the slices of silver touching the rolling current, illuminating the sound, as they crash onto the beach.

I cannot see the undertow.... the strength of moon's pull.... It is hiding underneath the waters surface. But I know once the wave hits the shore and the foam dissipates on the wet sand, it will be violently sucked back into the depths of the ocean.

It’s invisible. But nonetheless it’s there, waiting.

Him or Her? He or She?

Before the world is split into multi-dimensional matrix – we begin with a simple pronoun.

Him or Her? He or She?

Are you a man or a woman? Can you imagine fitting into both, or fitting into neither? Or the very worst- being trapped inside the wrong body?

This following confession might sound wrong, but I pride myself on my collection of friends – my best friend is a mirror image of myself, family/background/etc, however she reeks of Type-A/Responsible, whereas I’m guilty of type Late/Laidback… One of my oldest amigos is gay, there is the wonderful woman who is a compassionate shoulder, and she is a lesbian, I have plethora of African-American, Chinese, Hispanic, black, you name the race- you’ll find it. Jewish, Christian, Muslim… Wheel chair bound and the most successful writer, I have the most loyal friend who has Asperser’s and he is a genius, a deaf friend whose photography is drop-dead gorgeous. A blind guy who’ll become a politician… A sensitive woman who opened my eyes up to autism, there are the young, the insane, artistic, logical, vagabonds, recovering drunks, overachievers, philanthropic and some a bit selfish – the accountants, the writers, the entrepreneurs, sports-nuts, or scholars. Each character plays a pivotal role in my life – they have challenged me to believe two things:

1. At inception we’re all the same – it’s after that the changes begin to determine who we will become.
2. There is nothing fabulous about not being special.

But in my life, and in my entire repertoire of relationships, I’m yet to trip across a transvestite.

Okay, and that term, well let’s stop beating around the obvious… is painfully an enigma, the three syllables are difficult to say, only because I’ve never been able to tie a personality, a character, a photograph or a friend to the title. It’s beyond my normal comfort zone, Friday nights and editorial meetings, classes and travels… I’m yet to meet someone who has the obstacle, nearly debilitating obstacle – reconcile your body with your brain.

But then again, each of us have methods in which to blend in with the masses, become one in a homogeneous sea of humanity.

And Michelle has done that with such grace. A thick mane of curly red hair, tall with a pink shirt and jeans- her puppy is calm and not annoying and nuts like the majority of the yappy dogs. Michelle tells me that her dog likes me, which is unusual since he doesn’t like most strangers, which is flattering, since I have an affinity for all things canine.

She moved to Denver on a whim two weeks ago after an explosive epiphany in Miami. A right-hand-man for Madonna, Paula Abdul and others, in LA…Michael moved to Miami where he decided to undergo irreversible procedures- invasive, a one-time choice, a decision forever. Michelle has been featured in documentaries, interviewed for features chronicling the lives of “transvestite.” And you’d never know by looking at her -

A man who decided to reconcile his body and brain – is now a woman, a happy, content, fulfilled and driven woman.

Poignant and empathetic, compassionate and kind, my heart reaches out to her – and my respect. I pray that she finds someone who sees her for exactly who she is –a durable, courageous, beautiful and accepting human.

Aside from giving me permission to write about her – she left me with a thought: “I love to hike… Life is one big mountain, we can all take various routes, different trails, see different things on the way up, but at the end, it’s the same view.”

Starbucks - Random

Starbucks offers more than a triple venti latte with soy, half a scoop of cinnamon, and finally a dollop of whip crème. Oh, it’s a hub of business meetings, writers, students and girlfriends catching up, a prime location for first dates, and a desirable neutral/safe zone to hand off kids. Sounds dismal. I spy on a mom with two toddlers - clearly handing them off to a father .He is so excited to hug them and has saved a table in the corner. Two chocolate donuts are waiting on two napkins. She’s giving him a disproving glare. I could stipulate that their normal form of communication involves email and two cc’d lawyers. But that’s just my guess.

There is a homeless guy playing the accordion outside, there are two women dazzling in jewels and then two guys, maybe eighteen or nineteen with calculators and chewing on erasers. The social environment which appears to appeal to all walks of life - you’ll locate familiarity in all of the thousands monopolistic cafes; the same mahogany tables, the calming hunter green and the same vanilla scones- well it’s a classier McDonalds model - the same dependable taste whether I’m in Hong Kong or Sydney, New York, or Plainville, Texas. This is a brilliant conglomerate in which I wholeheartedly support.

A weird thing happened recently: Serendipity, happenstance, however you want to phrase the absurd conversations that leave me a bit unhinged and more weirded out than say, the average “hola” to my neighbor.

Two Saturday’s ago I ventured into Starbucks on Colo. Blvd. – it was 11pm and I was desperate to see proof of humanity. I’d spent the majority of the blizzard day working in my apartment. Thanks to the Denver population (roughly 17 people) I climbed into my car with sweats to drive through the snow to locate the only 24-hour Starbucks. There is a one almost-empty table, an older man with a leathered briefcase with small circular glasses, dark skin with very short black hair. He is packing his bag, sipping the last of his coffee and brushing the crumbs off the table. I make a run for it.

All I want is to turn on my computer, shut the world out (such an oxymoron, since I’m at Starbucks to see other humans blaring miscellaneous music and pounding out whatever on Apple keyboards, or lost in textbooks), blare my music and continue my love affair with Microsoft Word.

“So why does a woman like you come to Starbucks at 11pm at night?” He probed. He had a thick accent, pausing at the vowels.

I jumped, expecting him to take his briefcase and give me his table... not trying to start talking at this ungodly hour.

“I need some energy.” Was all my brain could rummage up at the moment as I was wiping the whip creme off my chin.

His eyes were skeptical. He questioned my answer, “Like what kind of energy?”

“You know, like I just needed to get out of the house.” I explained, annoyed. He wasn’t leaving the table.

“Sure, I understand.” He said without a clue as to what I was explaining.

I glance at the papers on the table and see foreign formulas in various colors, equations of sorts.

He noticed I was staring, “Oh those are formulas - I’m a physics professor and I was just helping some students better understand Einsten’s Zero-point Energy theory. It’s why I was a bit fascinated when you said you were seeking out energy tonight. Essentially it explains the transmission of energy.

Not only did I get what I was seeking, but I got a full blown explantion of why and how I was receiving exactly what I’d asked the world for, literally. This man and I sat down and talked for an hour. This sixty-something fatherly figured was so eager to explain the law of gravity, how to create magnetic force from mere metal, how the law of relativity is flawed, light-years, space-ships, you name it - this guy could explain it, and I was actually, truly enjoying learning such interesting, scientific theory.

I’m now a believer in the blind law of attraction. Sometimes you get what you want - and sometimes you're given exactly what you've requested, but weren't expecting at all.

Love Will Save Us (and our GDP)... A look at America's most Prized Invention...

Esquire tossed a journalist under an MRI to scan his brain, trying to figure out, scientifically– if there is such a thing as amour?

“I love thee with serotonin produced by my raphe Nuclei. I love thee with testosterone receptors deep in my hypothalamus. I love thee with dopamine that floods my primitive lizard brain.” Says A.J. Jacobs. See link below.

Dave Matthews nailed it for the umpteenth time. He has lured in radio stations and listeners with his comforting, soothing melodic sound, but with every new album arrives even “hippier” lyrics.

Funny the way it is, right or Wrong
Someone’s broken heart,
Becomes your favorite song…

While the irony is unmistakably obvious, Matthews uses his musical manse as a catalyst, challenging listeners to ponder the trenches of our consumer-hungry hearts, eventually breaking down, having a come-to-Jesus, Boulder/Agnostic style. And that is supposed to solve our problems.

But it wasn’t his husky voice that commanded the cult more than a decade ago – it was his distinct ability to have the whole world fall in love with his lyrics.

The way I used to laugh with you was loud and hard
Sweet like Candy to my soul…

Come now- he reeks of a heterosexual version of Whitman - and several half-paragraphs later you wonder what direction is this rambling taking you?

What percentage of our day is haunted by variations, revelations, advice columns, colognes, books, films, movies and therapists all dedicated to making this paramount part of your life livable. And it doesn’t come cheap. Whether you’re single, married, divorced, or independently independent, you can relate to melancholy lyrics, flirty flicks with zero resemblance to reality, and get lost in blogs contemplating which gender is to blame. And what do I think? Well as a capitalist, I say “go you,” as a single woman I say, “let’s get on with it.”

Americans have idealized this notion that this chemical reaction will trip across you at Starbucks, or at the grocery store and there won’t be a thing you can do to stop it.

“It”, being this utopian umbrella that protects all problems, which consequently has been the cause for most of them as well. Wouldn't arranged marriage alleviate all that pressure to constantly make someone else feel obsessed with? And yet, as hundreds of cultures in the last several centuries couldn’t give an iota of energy to this profound invisible existence, it seems to drive, shove, direct American consumerism. But is it love, or lust for something that doesn’t really exist. Is it a deep sentimental recognition of another soul?

Is it simply an attachment to someone who will bear witness to your life?

The best part: There is such an oxymoron. We FLOURISH in the idea that LOVE is out of our control - leave it up to fate, the big guy upstairs - chemistry? But then once we have it, or when we've decided to look for it - we rush out to buy, analyze or redo - to somehow let love manifest itself? So... America and our chick flicks, our self-help books, and our sappy love sagas have indeed entertained the world, while I'm not sure if we've convinced the rest of the world that "amour" is within our reach - it's certainly helped our gdp (how many international tours has Justin Timberlake done, or books Danielle Steel has sold?) Here is a toast to inventing the unstoppable, unpenetratable addiction to amour.

http://www.esquire.com/features/mri-of-love-0609

24 Hours

Our entire day can be remembered in a few seconds. It is funny how a day is comprised of twenty-four hours, but when we reflect on our day; filtering through the wakeup, the commute to work, the trivial conversations, eating, ordering Starbucks, the walk to the car, the traffic, the phone calls and text messages, the gym, the cocktail party, watching the news, or reading a book, it can be remembered in a few seconds. Which makes sense when people die. It is said, “your entire life flashes in front of you.” Apologies for being morbid. But it makes sense, right?

Maybe that is why movies and books appear chronologically logical. They only highlight the significant, life-altering moments, the choices that shift the direction of where we assume we’re going, the conversations paramount to our existence, the fears overcome, the connections made. The stories lure us in, tempting us to turn the page, hungry for a benevolent or happy outcome… but always the outcome, the ending. But we shouldn’t hurry to get there, because once we reach the end, it’s over.

But no, life isn’t that perfect, reality is what happens between the lines of a book, the scenes in a movie. We can’t cut, rewind, pause or erase. We must move forward…. And when we look back, we can barely remember anything at all. Words sometimes flow and other times they get stuck in my throat. I want to get as much out as possible, because my memory will quickly forget the details.

I found this little missive (circa 2005) and thought it was worth sharing.....



October, 2005

The weekend in New York was a blur, staring at the photographs of my friends and me laughing while throwing our scarves into the air, hit me as though that blond girl, FYI- me, decked out in a Burberry rain coat was somebody else. Puffing the cigar belonging between my girlfriend’s fingers; skimming the crowds for celebrities, pretending to be cool in a world so far away from childhood.

Recovering from our deliciously fun Friday night, rendezvousing with old friends and drinking champagne into the wee hours, we were having dinner at a restaurant. I neglected to bring my purse in the stall with me. I left it on the counter where my girlfriend was standing and talking on her cell phone. Washing my hands, and grabbing my satchel my eyes scanned the crowd outside the restroom where she had left to finish her phone call. Scampering to catch a taxi, my watch reminding and that if I didn’t hurry I would miss the Amtrak train to Boston.

The first car that pulled over was a regular sedan, the man hunched over the worn leather of the steering wheel demanding where to drive in a bulky Arabic accent.

“Penn Station, please sir.” I stammered. The Beatles starting belting “yesterday” from my cell phone, my sister had downloaded the new ring, when the music hit the drivers ears the cab nearly collided with a bus next to us, as the bus driver shot us the finger with one hand, and pounded the horn with the other.

A profanity or two escaped the mouth of the Arabic man in the front seat. Catching my apologetic expression in the review mirror for my boisterous phone ring, he softened.

“ So, why are you visiting New York?” He questioned.

“Just visiting some girlfriends.” I explained.

He nodded. Probably not the first time he’d heard that answer.

The traffic from Chelsea was a nightmare; twenty minutes later pulled up to the train station. Rummaging through my bag for my wallet, I frantically discovered an empty space. My wallet was missing. How was I going to pay for this cab, get on my flight home without my id? The innards of my stomach began to turn inside out; nausea hit me as the vision of me laughing in the stall, and abandoning my purse by the soap dispenser with my friend, who had walked outside. There were a dozen girls in that restroom, the vision quickly entered my brain, and sobs began to exit my mouth. I quickly called information and then the restaurant; the manager said that no wallet had been turned in.

Gulping loudly, I began to cry, “Sir, my wallet was stolen. I’m so sorry I don’t know what to do, I need to catch my train to Boston.”

An angry, thunderous voice responded, “Are you sure, do you want to look again.” He thought I was lying. I wasn’t telling some counterfeit excuse to avoid the fee, how was I supposed to get on the airplane if I didn’t even have a license. Sweat mixed with tears stung my cheeks, and I pleaded. “Sir, I’m just going over to that policeman over on that corner to explain the situation.”

Fuming with frustration at my inability to pay the forty-seven dollar cab fee, I was freaking out… My two girlfriends were already en route to Connecticut and I didn’t know of any banks that would get wired money on a Saturday night. I sprinted in my three inch boots, not conducive to running, toward the uniformed officer. Bewildered by my construed appearance, he patiently listened. “I don’t know what to do, my wallet was stolen, I have to pay the cab fee, I have no credit cards or cash, I just have a train ticket waiting for me at will call.” The police officer was trying to piece together my story with the minimal information I had spat at through my mangled sobs.

A cumbersome figure dressed in a turban appeared next to me, towering over the police officer. “This girl has tried to rip me off, she thinks she does not have to pay for her fee over here.”

Blubbering into my cell phone to my mother, who was trying to hear me over the loud voices of the policeman, cab driver, and the sirens and street merchants, the line suddenly went dead. The demise of my battery had just ended any hope of wiring cash. Besides offering my earrings or watch to this beastly driver, who wouldn’t accept my offer to send him a payment the next day, I felt a tap on my left shoulder.

Through the dark night, the streetlights illuminated gentle eyes. A guy in his twenties stepped into the Bermuda triangle of confusion (the police officer, driver and myself). Me, lugging my red valise, watching the Good Samaritan quietly slice the tension.

“I’ve been listening to the situation from over there,” pointing only a few feet away, where a few people stood, clearly interested in the scene I had caused. “It sounds as though this girl, uh woman, needs to catch her train to Boston, how much is the fee for the cab?” He then looked toward me for approval.

Unsure if we heard correctly, the three of us collectively responded, “huh?”

“Well, it appears this girl will miss her train, so I would like to pay for her cab since she had her wallet stolen, is that correct?”

“Yes, Yes, I left my purse sitting on the counter, where I thought my friend was standing, and wallet with my credit cards, cash, and ID was stolen.” I confessed, wishing anybody would believe me.

His kind face nodded with understanding; he reached into his overall pocket. Wait overall, yes overall. This twenty-something stranger was wearing overalls, even in the midst of crisis; I noticed his out-of-the-ordinary appearance.

The large Arabic man turned to the young savior, “It was forty-seven dollars, without the tip,” in a flat, nonchalant voice.

“Without hesitation, he pulled out two twenties and a ten, placing the cash in the palm of the angry man.”

Speechless and still sobbing, I threw my body into the arms of overalls, proclaiming, “I don’t know how to thank you, oh my gosh, thank you, thank you. I’m so embarrassed, I don’t know what to do, give me your number and address, wait what is your name?”

Watching the drama unravel, the police officer ushered the pulsating crowd aside, gave the guy a pat on the back.

“My name is Matt. You’d better hurry if you want to make your train.” The guy in pinstripes said.
Not having any paper with me, I handed him the book I had been reading; begged him to write his address in the back, so I could compensate properly.”

As he scribbled his information on the last page, I gathered my belongings. I looked up at this man in pinstripes, so curious as to what persuaded him to do such a nice gesture?

Giving him one last, uninvited hug, I ran off into the autumn night. To the train terminal, I was determined to make it to Boston.

Settling into a warm booth in the economy section of the train, the man checking tickets began to wink at me, until he noticed my smudged eyes and tear-stained cheeks. He asked if I was okay. I nodded. I was desperate to crawl into a happy dream that didn’t include an angry taxi driver.

Before my sleepy brain could succumb to the gentle cadence; the hum of the train on the train tracks, I remembered Matt had written his information down. I fumbled to find my book; my puffy eyes fell onto the last page.

The words scrawled in black ink read, “It’s Karma. Good luck with your travels.”

Goosebumps quietly crawled against my shoulder and every hair on my arms stood erect. I had no way to reach this man, to thank him. A soft smile spread across my face realizing that Karma was in my hands. A situation would soon arise, a scene would soon unfold where I could hand it off to somebody else....

Santa Monica

Saturday, 1am
He noticed my girlfriend and I standing by the bar and navigated his way through the salacious silk scarves, the makeshift tops women wore. Approaching us, he hesitated, well-aware that he was outside the acceptable generational barrier. But I was bored, so warned him with the precautionary white-lie: I had a boyfriend and madly smitten, but would gladly accept the merlot and conversation. My girlfriend glared at me as she was on the prowl, whereas I was just a curious journalist sidetracked by a colorful character. Seemingly benign, he appeared out of place in the posh crowd. My Aussie gal was flirting with some bloke, so I sat on the leather stool with whom I learned; a graduate of MIT and Harvard. Now an international lawyer/investor, he specialized in the hospitality sector in China. Not a bad dude to ask for some advice re: my portfolio. Sure, we chatted about how easy it was for him to raise capital in America to invest in international real estate development, which was a bit disconcerting, which eventually brought us back to about two decades before, when he was married to a woman named Mary, She was also from a small city in Kansas. He paused. I paused. I texted Sarah, who’d, disappeared awhile earlier with some guy on the dance floor.

I started to give him grief for roaming a lounge intended for the 35-under crowd, but his sad eyes stopped me. Sure, men tell women random and wacky stories, sure they fake equity in this company, or a claim a faux degree from that college, but when you’ve got an educated and successful, grown man pouring his heart out to stranger and more importantly, he was completely sober, he must have felt alone. Not the type of alone attempted during a weekend away on a reprieve. I cannot imagine that the crowd around us made his gnawing loneliness better, until he said “My son died of leukemia when he was two. My wife and I ended up getting a divorce. In an effort to do something, anything I started building companies. Companies after company, from India, United Arab Emirates, Brazil, China … each merger or acquisition ate up more time, until I looked in the mirror and realized it had been fifteen years since I’d entertained the idea of moving forward. And that was last May.” And i realized that this man wasn't scouting out for the next woman of his life, or business partner or one-night stand... He was simply seeking out humanity at this late hour.

This poor, well, filthy rich man… Life could get ugly no matter how beautiful of clothes you’re wearing. I excused myself to the restroom. Hit his name into google to make sure he wasn’t heaving lies toward my empathetic ears. Sure enough, thousands of results popped up with his name - all legit. I felt like a jerk, but a resourceful journalist. Note: Thank you Blackberry.

Walking back to Channing, who was staring haphazardly out into the crowd of people decades younger, his expression was melancholy; he seemed more comfortable observing from afar, than attempting to join.

Tapping his shoulder lightly, he jumped. "Guess what?" I chirped.

More tomorrow…

BLIND SPOT

AVOIDING CRAIGLIST
Rumors occasionally surface from “missed connections” on Craigslist. Until last night I’d never had reason to venture onto the kooky website. Intrigued I skimmed the posts, ranging from desperate to cryptic, some ominous, several random, but then I would trip across a message – written by a person, who I envision wouldn’t normally expose their search, but their fleeting interaction with a stranger, was worth their every effort, including forfeiting pride. All on the chance that “other” person would identify this “missed connection” bulletin.

Depending on the size of your city, the number of stops you make day-to-day, your routines, your circle of friends, the odds of colliding into that person again aren’t in your favor… And while the majority of the posts were creeperish “Hey, we were at a bar and you left to go to the restroom and you never came back,” terribly pitiful. There was the rare, “Hey, I doubt you’ll find this, but if you were a tall blond at the Broncos game last night… We joked about terrible pizza in line getting beers. We waved to each other on the way out, but you were with your group of friends. I was in the blue #7 jersey. Anyway, if you happen to see this, I’d like to take you to dinner.”

A guy with genuine intentions reaching out to a girl, whose name he didn’t even know? Why couldn’t he have asked for her phone number when they were standing in line? Sounds so easy, right? But the simplicity of a guy hitting on a girl has gotten lost in the clumsiness of society. Our day-to-day interactions with the opposite sex have been hindered by this dire fear of rejection. The necessity of acceptance has been engraved in our egos –so much so, the opportunity to randomly connect in the world is determined by internet sites, worthless 2nd dates and directionless relationships. I despise the term, “pop culture” but it appears twenties-somethings have accepted that a lack of interest from someone is a product of and a fault of us as individuals. We’re “supposed” to be perfect, no rather, idealistic. How about defaulting “rejection” to the obvious: that a lack of interest is a result of a lack of chemistry, not some deformity we can remedy with more makeup or perfume?

Some people exert such effort pleasing the men or women who’ve already come and gone, they’ve lost themselves in the process… the idea of tripping across someone who without effort fits, just fits, seems implausible. When schedules are too busy to take a breath and watch the world around us, we risk missing someone standing in our blind spot, trying to catch our eye.

Thus arrives the unorthodox method of communication, Craigslist “Missed Connections” and while a worthy cause, and a fantastic story if you locate that person, it would be so much more efficient to connect on purpose, in the first place. Isn’t it annoying how a stranger with whom you exchanged few words can escape your mind for a day or two, but eventually the image of them laughing or smiling during your brief interaction continues to pop up, never straying for too long. And then what next? How often does someone make an impression, the type of impression that leaves a dent long after they’ve walked away? Few. So while Craiglist should be heralded and endorsed for all those "reconnections" and I wish those who’ve posted a missed connections the best of luck in their pursuit… It'd be nice to remind everyone that the worst thing that can happen if you ask for a phone number is the person can say no, and the best case scenario, well that's up to fate.

Blond with a Shotgun! OY

While the weather remains a reliable seventy degrees in Texas this time of year, its inhabitants (I'm a native) can’t locate sushi or savvy with a ten-foot pole and a shotgun. That is why I absolutely LOVE this state. It's authentic, American, southern folk who aren't afraid to tell it like it is, and open doors for the women.

I was acting a bit barmy this morning as the snow wouldn’t shut up. Even though I’m tightly wrapped in cashmere I’d prefer to be sunburned and wasting away in margarita Ville, than tripping through Rocky Mountain slush. But then there is skiing this weekend….

Oh the exotic trips that leave me with glossy photographs tucked away in messy corners around my apartment. This was a quick jaunt to the panhandle to eat BBQ, shoot skeet, write three articles, and figure out a strategy to have the magazine outsmart the recession, oh yeah, and relax!

Upon arriving at the Austin airport, greeted by hundreds of professional Frisbee throwers, I mean players; the smell of Schlotzsky's hits my olfactory senses and SHE IS DOWN. Nibbling on my delectable sandwich I mosey over to the Hertz rental car counter to pick up my keys and find my designated vehicle.

Did I check the weather before departing? No, that would require planning. Myers Briggs has argued that my “creative and free-spirited personality” wouldn’t reach its pure potential with directions, or so I convince my lazy self.

“There was a hail storm and the hail was the size of golf balls, no, more like baseballs, and well MAM, there just aren’t any cars left for you.” This woman suffering from a 1980s hairspray commercial croaked. Her accent a dwarfed cross between drawl and monotone.

With every rental car company completely bereft of automobiles I began to panic. What was I to do? It wasn’t although I’ve never been stranded in Brazil with a one-eyed man, who "got" (operative word: got) squatters in the rain forest for a living. (Yes, yes I had.) Or in Nice, abandoned with my second cousin thrice removed (and we have bets on if she is adopted) who is boy-crazed as she is crazy. But this was different. I had to get out of the airport, and a cab sure as heck wasn't going to drive me three hours through the Texas hill country.

With no antidote other than courage, I put on that thinking cap (world series Boston redsox pink hat) and calmly walked to the ACE rental car counter. It was a lone counter with a pathetic sign barely hanging onto the wall. A man in his late thirties either half asleep or all-the-way bored stared at me, waiting for me to say something profound.

“Do you have any cars.” I plea.

“Yes.”

“Huh? No you don’t, really, seriously?” I shout with jubilant excitement.

“Yes we do lady.” A face hollow of expression smirked.

As he handed me the keys and I rushed out into the humidity I spotted my friend for the next four days… do you know those Euro cars that look like toy cars that got dissected and only the front end survived? It was the newest Suzuki, a lawn mower on steroids. And that was the start to an unpredictable weekend.

Universal currencies...

5pm on Wednesday…
Strappy sandals, straw wedges, suede loafers and classic three-inch black heels that scream Nine West. It’s 5pm happy hour on a Wednesday and four girls reunite for 9 ounces of white wine, and finger food. A political PR nut, real estate agent, marketing director and moi. While you might imagine a pretend reenactment of New York’s most feminine fable, this is indeed much uglier, prettier and relatable, why? Because this right now, is this lovely thing we refer to as reality.

I’m a fan of the air kiss… gives off this chic expectation that all people are immediately fond of each other, plus it’s a test. How quickly can you mitigate a hand, enter and exit personal space, I’m at about 3.5 seconds. But with close friends, I’m a hugger- forget your shirt being wrinkle-free; I’m excited to see you!

We clink the glasses to, us! Black heels kissed a crush from two years ago last night while her boyfriend was home planning their vacation… And so we strategize how to break the heart of an amazing man, we secretly covet. Loafer’s beau is currently considering moving half a world away, she had a strong arm, but recently realized that she’d give a limb and a rib to make it work. And so we high-five her for overcoming her commitment phobia…Strappy sandals started seeing someone who she fell for madly, and he fell madly for her back, until several days ago when he started acting fishy… we all tell her to get out, but she doesn’t want to – and so we shake our heads, empathetically knowing next week all will be okay, and we’ll be listening to a glowing rendition of a romantic night before.

And while yes, delicious to discuss… we dig into our days… pulling out the gossip and horrendous co-worker stories… the graphic designer who engulfs Twinkies when he assumes nobody is looking, stapler stealers, or worse those who arrive back at their desks hung-over. Bosses who demand subordinates suffer simply because they themselves don’t have their own lives. Diets, yoga instructors, weekend jaunts to the mountains, and the occasional political insertion of “wow”… because about half of us read the newspaper. And then, as we sip the last of our vino, we air-kiss goodbye and half-stumble back to our cars (because of the height of our heels, not alcohol intake)… and as I turn the key in my ignition I glance in my review mirror, and ask myself, “There has to be more than this.”

Thursday….
“I’m not a politician, I’m an entrepreneur on loan to the city,” chuckled the most respected Denverite around.... He insists I’m a democrat, but I convince him I’m a libertarian, and no, I promise, I’m not in denial. We chat about our shared love for the sunny and cloudless skies, the transplants who love the natives and the natives who won’t forfeit the Rocky Mountain view for an ocean. This is a man who had zero plans to leave his brewery and lead a city to a national convention, out of a recession, earn an unparalleled approval rating, earning his votes in a very unique way, foreign almost… he approaches politics...in every way a politician wouldn’t dare.

Aiming for the firm grip, I say “Thanks for making time for me.”
“Well any young person willing to make time for the city, rather than herself deserves some time.” He said.

Trying to cover the guilty expression, I said thank you. Remembering the pitiful plant on my porch that I was unconsciously torturing to death… Forgetting for a few days outside, then over-watering, and then throwing back out in the sun. If I couldn’t keep a plant alive, how the hell could I rejuvenate the city to want to give again?

Kindness is free and the most stable of currencies… It takes a lot to eat up pride and reach across the aisle to the opposing political party, or to those that you’re not too sure of, and mostly the strangers who cross our path everyday. Anyway, moving along with this down market… Often we forget the most valuable aspects of life are of no personal cost to us… Trade doesn’t require money, while money assigns a value to that trade, expanding accessibility to all…the very bones and roots of humanity are based on free trade. And when we’re faced with uncertainty about the dollar, let’s use the purest of currencies, which include our skill-sets, contacts and encouraging discouraged friends with funny jokes… reaching outside a potentially dismal future to someone else… Even after an exhausting day, surely there is a helpful connection, a random job-lead, or even a “hello” left in you?

Sometimes a simple smile is all it takes to change the direction of someone’s day…

And that was enough.

The Fodder Factor - Where did all the $$$ go?

Benefits don’t include just dental hygiene anymore… But also include massage therapy, mental therapy, and my favorite are the obese people who insist that they're deserving of hundreds of millions of dollars… Just the humdrum handouts unions have increasingly enforced since FDR.

The following items aren’t even perks, rather prime examples of what benefits are in the modern-professional-post-collegiate-yet-sucking-economy collapse, where popularity is a virtue and hard work is a thing of the past, tossed aside with grammar and morals. Note: I get a bit creative with punctuation.

Happy Hours/Steak Dinners/Strip Clubs are regularly expensed on corporate credit (as if corporate credit was a tangible thing). Clothing/Starbucks/aesthetically-enhancing surgery allowances have stretched outside Hollywood hospitals and have been entrenched and consequently embraced in Wall Street cubicles. Which actually has helped the East Coast rid of the stereotype of females- aka: pale and nerdish image…

Not all of this is bad… such consumer-driven services such as laser hair removal and custom-tailed Armani suits for the twenty-something banker, whose only contact to the outside world is by telephone and food delivery guy (Note: Typical entry level bankers eat, sleep, breathe and do all other normal human activities you can imagine within the confines of their given bank. Aka: Goldman Sachs, Merrill Lynch, Citigroup, oh wait, are those the only ones left?). These additional (minor) purchases have indeed given this pitiful American economy a little burst of hope - that maybe America’s future spenders aren’t as shallow as they’ve proven in quarterly-earnings-past… but a wee-bit smarter. Instead of spending their own not-yet-earned income with unlimited credit, throw it to the company, or even better yet, their customers!

I did a bit of math and funny/interesting/sadly a person’s income isn’t related to how hard you toil. Again, ANY ALTRUISTIC DEMOCRAT WILL TELL YOU THAT…. But let’s define hard before moving onward with my ramblings. A stressful combo of sweat, brainpower, smiling, IQ deficit and then spiced with some psychological abuse would be the ultimate equation for determining how brutal your battle is up the career ladder. Once vertical back in the glass ceiling days, the original ladder’s design has taken a paradoxical shift and now accepted as horizontally-challenged. The new ladder can be climbed by ego-driven brains. The only exit strategy that doesn’t require buying more companies, being bought out by the public (or government), painfully pretend merges, or being sued and dragged off to jail, is the coveted “golden parachute”… which forgive me, might be the dumbest metaphor to begin with... Gold is heavy, weighty and a parachute is supposed to be so light you softly land. Harvard Business Review should have rummaged up an idiom that made logical sense, like a “net of trust” or something catchy.

Before I close this randomness I ask you to consider two things:
1. I’m not a socialist… merely an observer of how the invisible hand has assigned a monetary value to each of us.
2. If you’re worried about losing your job in this economy I have a feeling Vegas will never go out of business…

Twilight Zone

Washington Park is centrally located in the wholesome city of Denver … grass generously spread across acres, sprinkled with gardens, ponds and walking trails. The usual crowd on weekday afternoons is comprised of runners with labs, bikers in packs, girls power walking and gossiping, newlyweds pushing strollers, sometimes a lone soul reading or sketching under a maple tree. And my favorite, people walking their dogs. Dogs tend to match their owners, no?

A dozen neon pink dresses stand out against the green… ruffles and braids of black hair are what I noticed entering the park this past Saturday. White chairs and a podium are planted next to several rose beds. There is a woman in a white, and suddenly I realize this is quite the colorful Spanish wedding. Twenty yards further I notice two small boys with dark complexions in penguin suits following their father decked out in tails… headed for the opposite side of the park to another wedding. What was it? International day of nuptials?

Two blonds in full-out Irish dresses waltz by, I fully expected them to offer whatever was on tap… Rounding the corner there are four hippies playing foursquare. Squatted nearby are their girlfriends, touting dreadlocks by a bonfire. Yes, a bonfire at 4pm in sunny, dry, heat. Near the lake are two midgets, mid-fifties, chuckling on at a picket table, their shrunken legs barely able to reach the ground, alternately tossing a bone into the water for their cocker spaniel. There are tennis players sweating and chugging Gatorade… guys without shirts throwing Frisbees and impressing groups of gals lying out in bikini tops on towels. There is a father teaching his daughter how to ride a bike without training wheels, and her mother snapping photos of the milestone. And the older couple, peacefully sitting on the park bench together, hair the same shade of silver… hands interlaced, and while I couldn’t see any words exchanged, knowing eyes told me a different story.

Observing the busy park robust and bursting with energy – the two watched from afar, enjoying the Saturday afternoon from a far wiser place, and from years of memories I’d yet to experience.

I confess that whenever I see someone older in a coffee shop, grocery store, or post office, and alone- it tugs my heart, it saddens me… In my twenties it is expected to be independent, and even down the road there are friends, family, commitments and careers to keep busy. But to reach my seventies or eighties without someone else I believe is my gravest fear – to reach the end, and have nobody bear witness to my life.

When I saw the elderly couple this past weekend, their image was the antithesis of loneliness… there was an overwhelming sense of closeness. When they noticed I had been watching them, they gave me a little wave... softly smiling, as though they had been keeping a secret for decades.

An orange, some teriyaki stir-fry and half a bottle of bubbly later

Re: Geithner in Beijing... and his road-show across the world. The moment Obama was sworn in – it feels like the US IPO’d on the international markets. I’m hedging on the sheikhs, not for the ROI, but the pure ego trip. Obama needs to create a colorful media kit, encourage unemployed Americans to start selling the future of the US Gov to wealthy Americans (they can take a commission). Let’s save ourselves, instead of convincing China we’re not screwing them by printing USD, and
encouraging them to anti-up energy/ag.

(Marx was an idealist, not a retard.)

Did you know pelican’s cannon ball face first? They glide, bow their roman beak and plunge with pure vertical force into the ocean. It’s awesome. I spotted my first dolphin a few hours ago and squealed with delight (all those Shamu shows at Seaworld really got me revved up about Tursiops truncates (ps. Wiki Answers pales in comparison to wikipedia)) then realizing there was nobody here to hear me. Hmm. An orange, some teriyaki stir-fry and half a bottle of bubbly later, I was perched by the ocean and watching the friendly little mammals, contemplating irony. Hmm. Debating how to poll people on it – trying to differentiate irony and serendipity… But now the sun has set and the dolphins have blended into the waves. I either see hundreds of frolicking amongst the ADD pelicans or none at all; God was wicked smart upon inventing the fin.

My afternoon was spent gorging Mexican and shopping with four Argentine women, and damn they’ve mastered the art of both eating/purchasing power. My brain is currently yammering in Spanish, which would be fabulous except the only Spanish words I’m familiar with include: hola, hasta, and muchacha!

All day I smiled at this foreign dialogue like an idiot. And then occasionally one of the Argentines would give me a confused
expression. I had nodded at the wrong question (You don’t think your dad will lose this polo match, no?) or disagreed to the right answer (Your sister is studying fashion, yes?) Throw me to the hearing impaired or cows, I’m smooth. Get me around anyone speaking Spanish and I’m screwed!

Bumming re: Santa Barbara. NOBODY will go surfing/kayaking/swimming with me, so I’m trying to convince one of my buds from San Diego to drive up! Gah. And nobody will go whale watching with me (sea-sickness my ass) AH. I’m the only Jornayvaz who gets itchy for water in my land-locked state; I’m related to a bunch of boring horse-lovers. If only I had a pet dolphin to join me on my ocean endeavors… like golden retrievers and hiking, both mammals emote such giddy companionship.
And yes, I’m writing this sober.

Preparing myself to enter humanity in approx. 12 hours. I forget how I love the secluded existence until the trenches are screaming my name (guilt implosion). (Wrong word usage.) The hackneyed utopia where women gossip about men who aren’t worth breathing space, let alone contemplation. I hope my brain doesn’t abandon this relaxed state of Zen, however fleeting history has proven it may be.

ANACONDA IN BRAZIL

I was seventeen and spent the summer before my senior year visiting my uncle (ex-marine, fought in Kuwait) in Xingu Brazil. His wife Kika’s father has a large cattle ranch he took over… long story short they have American investors visit them for chunks of time, buy the land to preserve rain forest. On this particular day we’re on a rafting trip with a bunch of businessmen, who instead of wives/daughters all bring their 20-22 year-old sons, who all happened to be SAE’s at UT. Okay, to my chagrin- they were that rugged cute, (rugged as spoiled twenty-two year old guys can be), but riddled with egotistical obnoxiousness! So suddenly my summer with extended-family-fun was hijacked by mascara applications and avoiding subjects about anything that didn’t make me cool/terribly desirable by frat boy standards. Damn cowboy boots do it every time.

We’re on this excruciatingly long rafting trip and I had the speedo my aunt offered to load or my cute (zebra print) bikini, and although my SUPER conservative aunt/uncle mildly suggested the ugly suit, I wore the bikini (duh). Three rafts. 1) Aunt (her Brazilian brother- gay) eight-year-old cousin Ella, six-year-old cousin Roberto and myself 2) My uncle, two of the dads and two of the sons. 3) Two of the dads and the other two sons.

It's early afternoon, we're halfway down the river, and well... let's just say there is not an "accessible" powder room. Since my aunt is Brazilian which automatically qualifies her as wilderness expert, she says we’re nearing a shallow end, and we can pull over quickly so I can hop out… I quickly jump out of the boat, swim over by the shallow area ready to find cover behind some brush so none of the boys/men/uncle will see me, plus they are still a few minutes behind us.

The rapid is too quick and around the corner I hear the men and their beer and suddenly my uncle sees me in the water. He doesn’t know that I’m desperately trying to hide myself, and he assumes the boat has capsized (which is ridiculous because my cousins and aunt and half-uncle are pulled by the side of the river waiting for me). He paddles his raft toward me standing behind the brush in thigh-high feet deep water, and then yells, “Auna GET IN THE BOAT NOW!” At this point I cant paddle over there - because of well, obvious reasons.

He screams again (this is a man who has spent two weeks in a 10 x10 x10 hole in the desert) AUNA THERE IS AN ANACONDA UNDER THE BANK OF THE RIVER. SHE IS MOVING. GET IN THIS BOAT NOW.

So I tug on my bikini, shaking as I swim over to his boat – knowing full well there is a twenty-foot water snake yards away from me. All three rafts are watching this entire scene unfold – my aunt holding my cousins, the smaller raft with both the guys and their dads. And then my uncle who is so furious, his facial veins are pulsating, all because my small bladder happens to coincide with a location of an evil angry river snake, not exactly my fault. He grabs my arms and pulls me up into the raft. My body is convulsing, so much so, I don’t notice that my swimsuit is twisted and I've made an utter fool of myself, simply because I don't like the way speedos look.

Inside every cynical person, there is a disappointed idealist. - GC

Where did all the smart people go?

There was once a professional with an undiluted ethic. A genuine, tried-and-true, knock ‘em dead with brilliant, karate-in-the-groin, touché-my-ass, savant-skills.

But, these young, professional, awesome assets have seem to be hijacked by the lazy ingrown leftover businessmen, who, were on their way to being dismissed as archaic and dusty. However, I’ve recently realized these fogies are anything but benign, in fact, they’re using age as an alias, and exercising time against us young folk– and the penance we pay to survive in a pool full of potbellies, is our pride.

Recently endured/survived/subsequently sat through two meetings with two very prominent businessmen…now because this blog is read by Denverites, (and I have the utmost respect for these two individuals) they will remain nameless, and however their questionably shrewd business tactics shall not.

While this particular entry lacks coherence and possibly direction all together, there is indeed frustration swimming in the midst of my babble. I’m done with people not doing their homework before negotiations, so in the place of hard numbers and data, in which decisions should be founded, these men are pontificating about this and that circa 200 NOBODY GIVES A DAMN, just to frighten me off. No, their vacuous attempts to frighten are simply preposterous and annoying. And just because they graduated a few generations before me doesn’t equate to knowing how to penetrate a demographic they share zero commonalities (aside from breathing space). Seriously, intimidation only gets people so far, and then people actually have to practice polite manners and common sense, and god forbid an iota of logic.

And while brains occasionally require more effort than say, indignation, disrespect and apathy when someone says, “hello”…. It’s an ingratiated part of our society, that through this bearish economic collapse, climb, crash, rise again, us youngsters are supposed to buddy-up, hold hands and sing kumbaya. But, would someone please recognize that Generation Y being trampled by frightened and pride-thirsty baby boomers ain’t the most effective way in approaching business deals.

Yes, we’re younger. Yes, they’re older. Yes, there have been babies and mortgages, wars requiring global attention, and yes, days when you had to be strategic enough to function without google, blackberry, facebook, and navigate the opposite gender without match.com. WE GET IT.

That said, the two meetings this past week were brutal, and little blond Auna was bullied....not because the content or matter in which we were discussing was anything but mesmerizing to me (as I love the business model and strategy I develop), however I’ve never encountered men so frozen in their approach to people… and it was exhausting.

I just wish I could have a dinner with George Carlin. I have a feeling he’d make me feel better about all this....

The All-American Dog, A Yellow Lab

Often I separate my childhood into two time frames, there was during Chester, and then there was after. Chester was our family lab that lived to be seventeen years old.

Just finished watching the movie, Marley and Me with my dad (over pizza- how American of us!) .. our “Marley,” was a birthday gift my mom gave my dad on their second wedding anniversary. While my parents joke that I’m the eldest, they always remind me I was indeed, not their first “child”.

Chester didn’t stir quite the raucous the infamous Marley did to the Grogan family, however he is licking one of the Jornayvaz faces in the majority of our Christmas cards, slept in all of our beds at some point, and kept us all awake all night while roaming the neighborhoods on more than one occasion. Our home was several blocks from a morning bakery, and everyone knew Chester by name… we’d often find him hanging out with the bakers, who fed him fresh bread regularly.

When I was about eleven, so Chester would have been thirteen years old – he disappeared. That afternoon we weren’t worried, but once night arrived, it was terrible. It was several days after New Years, and so the city was full of fireworks; it was freezing outside. The following week was miserable.... posters, newspaper ads, rewards, and daily calls to every animal shelter. Even though my dad complained about Chester’s need for 2am trips to the backyard, it was my sensible and linear dad, who never gave up hope. He called Boulder and Vail, weeks after us kids we accepted that Chester was gone, my dad kept searching even when the odds were simply, against us.

My parents were strict when it came to bedtime. My little sister and I shared a bedroom. It was late on a school night, in early February. My mom and dad rushed in together and woke us up. This was a first. My four-year-old brother was already trailing behind my father, having heard the commotion. My dad scooped up all three children in our pajamas, and told us quietly to climb into the minivan. He told us we had a visitor.

Twenty minutes later we arrived at a fenced yard. An older man wandered outside. We were all confused, who was he? But following him was a yellow lab. It was Chester…. I’ve never been more excited or relieved or awed to see his smiling eyes, but when I saw him familiar face, I realized I wasn’t surprised… like any lab, Chester was incredibly loyal. The three kids slept in my parents’ bed with Chester that night. I think my parents stayed awake until sunrise, talking in the living room over coffee, peaceful knowing their happy family had been pieced back together.

It was several years later when each Jornayvaz child held onto one of Chester’s paws, my mom by his tail, my dad knelt by his face. We sat on the floor of the veterinary hospital in silence as Chester was put down. It was the first, and last time I’ve ever seen my Dad cry.

Dogs do that to people…. Dogs have the ability to make people feel, make them feel needed. It’s amazing how friends and family attempt to make us feel needed for years and years, but dogs can make you feel worthy of it in seconds.

It’s the classic American story – every young couple finds that “dog” to be their starter child…. But thinking back, I believe every dog chooses to find his or her own starter family.

Oh Facebook, I love thee....

Facebook is like the Ben & Jerry’s you hide in the fridge. You’ve been good all day long; you pretend to ignore the temptation, the deep desire to log on, to check in – to post a silly inside joke on someone’s wall….

Facebook is a giant, sticky spider web, slowly expanding across demographics, spreading to all corners of the earth, and bleeding into every crevice of our brains.

Yep. That is what I said, BLEED… The ultimate question: How does one efficiently and effectively navigate around the applications, the personality tests, the “news feeds”, pictures albums, and worst of all, the dreaded, forbidden and addictive “wall posts”.

Is there such a thing, as Facebook protocol? I can't remember if you can even poke people anymore? What is a "poke" anyway?

Facebook unearthed something wildly inherent in the homo sapiens- there is something fantastic about celebrity-izing ourselves… to the point at which, we leave messages for each other- with the intent on everyone else, seeing them. It’s credence to a measurable level, its pompous, favor trading, and down right delicious.

Sure, stay connected with friends – a message here or there, years can move by, and you remain close – throw out the Christmas cards, who needs 'em.

But a single question beckons to be answered: WHAT ABOUT THE PEOPLE WITH WHOM YOU DON”T WANT TO STILL BE FRIENDS?

I’m referring to exes. Earlier today, a friend mentioned that his former girlfriend (who didn’t take the breakup with any type of sanity) began spreading virulent rumors. He “unfriended” her, as by any standard, she did not deserve his friendship, even if it was defined solely by an Internet algorithm. However, she friended him again. He is polite and considerate, so under the premise of "friends" he accepted. Yes with hesitation, and utter annoyance. But more than the irritation of being "friends" again with her, he was baffled, isn’t there a facebook, ex-etiquette involved?

You want to rid of exes, entirely. You want to forget they existed, waltzed into your life and stormed out, but thanks to Uncle Zuckerman, we’re forever tied to the people who piss us off. Unless we continue to unfriend the unfortunate souls, there isn’t a whole lot we can do…. People can no longer wander off into the distance, their shadows eventually fading away, and your only chance of seeing them is random and happenstance, twenty years down the road, when you could care less. Nope, now you can google/skype/gmail/facebook/twitter the hell out of your ex-significant other. You can pinpoint (thanks to google maps) exactly what restaurant they’re eating at, how often, what kind of car they drive, and the kicker: with whom it is they’re sipping that cocktail.

WE DON’T WANT TO KNOW… but sometimes we can’t help it… It’s like ol’ Ben & Jerry… you want to throw out the fudge brownie flavor, but you haven’t even opened it yet. It is safe knowing, in case there was a famine – the brothers would be there to save you with their delectable dairy… You always know updates on your ex, are just a click away…. So when the past is so convenient, how can one comfortably move forward?

So my conclusion is this: Thanks to the Internet you can no longer properly and appropriately remove previous loves from your life, they’re forever tangled in your web of networks….

Solution: don’t forget that a “facebook friend” will always outlive a first date, no matter how bad....

The Night Ron Jeremy Made A Fool of Me

Canonizing Reality

There are two ways of telling a story, skimming the surface and pausing at the chapter headings for a witticism or insightful quote. Then there is digging deep into the trenches of our stubborn history tugging at the debris of leftover memories. And only once that happens, you can thoughtfully move forward.

However, sometimes the most pivotal part of a story is the part we try to forget.

It’s the part where the “protagonist” fails. But it is a crucial element in any storyline. It isn’t fair for a reader to see solely the strength in a protagonist, rather than be witness to vulnerabilities too. It is impossible in nonfiction to pretend that every chapter ended perfectly.

Nonfictions are supposed to be about suffering as a human, and coming out at the end accepting that is what we are. As a writer, I prefer not to talk about the parts in my life I’m not proud of, but that’s only human of me right?

We each have two sides. What we keep inside, and the outside. The thoughts we think and the things we actually say and while the two are related, they’re never exactly the same.

But no real memoir has a perfect ending, because a memory is only a thread, a single account. A memoir is a life dissected by pages and paragraphs, alarm clocks and holidays. Its purpose; somehow analyze and make sense of an existence, one that is temporal and fleeting.

There are certain characters in my narratives who are now, just ghosts to me. There are certain people who slip in, unassuming and unarmed for a minute or two. They must make an appearance for the entire story to make sense, but if they stayed any longer, there couldn’t be an ending.

Sometimes fate will throw you a bone, Lord know I was handed enough luck to keep people entertained for hours, but as a writer, it isn’t difficult to manipulate fate a little bit too.

In what phenomenal and inspirational nonfiction is there not an element of transformation on the protagonist’s part?

Transformation, whether voluntary or not, isn’t simple, it’s barely describable, pulls you out of reality so instead of colors and voices the world is garbled together like static.


Several Autumns Ago….

My white corduroy jacket with princess sleeves is being harassed by an unidentifiable rank odor. Why do some cabs seem infected with vermin and lice and the residue of people who have just hooked up? I’m not going to lie, I don’t shower every day, but I also don’t usually share this information. The driver of this cab almost certainly smells, he probably retreats home everyday so sickened by the stench of his cab… which must permeate his clothing, having a necessary quick rinse to even kiss a wife hello. I wonder if people who work in the porn industry shower everyday. I hope they do, it would be absolutely grotesque if they didn’t, however it might not be as vulgar because they’re sharing so many bodily fluids, so maybe it’s more the merrier in regards to the germs.

My mind cannot dislodge the visual image of Ron Jeremy in a man thong. Harsh I know, but with hundreds of filmed titled "Blank Blank Blank Blank" my feelings toward him are a big skewed, even if he claims that he is empowering women. I’m surprised he still has a rattail, I’m sure it dates him. The porn king/guru- C Hollywood star, porn director/producer is also scholarly. He actually has a Masters in special education- of all concentrations. Please forgive my inappropriate assumption, but did he earn this degree to facilitate communication with his colleagues? I’m curious if a graduate degree in special education was the only route to understand such “touchy” issues? Don’t get me wrong, it’s commendable to dedicate your life to helping those who have extraordinary needs, but should an inability to climax four times in two minutes (biggest problem in porn industry) be categorized as a special need?

Last night a debate was held on Huntington Street in South Boston between the Porn Guru/God himself Ron Jeremy, and an ultra conservative Priest. They argued the ethics of the porn industry, its influence on pop culture, children, and crime and most importantly, us college students.

Peering out from the third row in the large auditorium cascading with college student’s popped collars, seven jeans, nose rings, and Uggs. Dead silence was followed by the brisk; formal taps of expensive shoes on wooden stage floor. The shoes belonged to a very metro non-denominational priest. He sported shaggy, sandy blond hair, a veneer- engineered smile and twinkle blue eyes. Come now. Come on, I just thought he might look more like priest. Especially considering, hairy ape man, whose 30-year-old rattail had yet to be cut off. Ron Jeremy could not look any more like the stereotypical porno dude. I don’t even know the proper title for people in that industry, actors, models, and the imaginary titles need to stop.

Ron trained his eyes to look up and down every body, if not for his own pleasure, but the pleasure of making the body observed uncomfortable. The awkwardness between Ron and the priest (whose name we never learned) was disquieting. Even before the debate began, ooohhhh, ahhhh, booos and the unsettling, romping cheers for Ron filled the auditorium. It was frightening knowing that each male cheering a little too inappropriately had seen his member, and fully erect. Ron was the greasiest version of the grossest person you can conceivably imagine. And the funny thing is, he is the only person who can accurately represent the porno prodigy is himself, Ron Jeremy. In addition to his 1,800-porno flicks he also made, “making the movie of Ron Jeremy”. As Jeremy’s rebuttal began my friend leaned to me with a whisper similar to a whisper intended for telling 40 kindergarten children it was nap time, “You know his blank is blank inches long, it has some sort of record or something.” My mind went black, and thank God no visual picture accompanied that factoid….

The eruptions of perverted guys all around us put my feminist bitch attitude in four-wheel drive, which started revving when Ron refuted the Priest with, “Pornography is empowering for women….”. I had unconsciously stood up, thrown my jacked on my friend (for safe-keeping) and publicly throated a “WHAT” and began to descend down the stairs to get to have a word with the legend himself….

In transit, shaking starts under my feet, I grab the hand0rail, vibrations are everywhere, my mind retraces this feeling, and I remember lying awake in Costa Rica feeling an earthquake. Suddenly the sound of stampeding has stopped, which has been replaced by deafening laughter and screaming, STREAKER…

The rest tomorrow…

"IN TREES WE TRUST"

China owns 24% of America's liabilities.

China has a billion more people than America.

Do the math, it ain't pretty.

Just finished an article in TIME. And while the writer characterizes FDR with astounding applause, he fails to mention the horrific acceptance of the deficit, which yes dates back to 1700, but grew significantly with the inception of " The New Deal."

Pondering the deficit, while from a financial standpoint (and those who know how to balance a checkbook, or god forbid understand a balance sheet), its implications are frightening, yet even to us aren’t close to debilitating… as far as “Joe” knows the government is visibly handing out “invisible” money, and who cares where it’s coming from? Or did Obama lose all sense of “where”… just because paper comes from trees, doesn’t mean the trees will back our spending. I think Obama is trying to make "inflation" popular... inflation, a cousin to the word "infection"....

In a society where “citizens” cannot take responsibility for their own actions, spending dollars they don’t have (and aren’t projected to make), on credit they cannot fairly be accounted for? Our only options are threatening to post a link to bank statements on people’s facebook profiles? Along with “photos, hobbies, quotes are also a lovely links to credit scores." And if that somehow goes against our “private rights”, then we might be abandoned with our favorite/most-disturbing theorist... (see below). And, while the “war of terror” didn’t frighten the most retarded of liberal pundits, I hate to say it, but a war against our kids and their piggybanks should scare the hell out of all of us...

*** The personal “Auna” solution would be highlight the “fun” in investments… this is where my great belief that while mutual funds are titillating (kidding)... Seriously, our banks should have VC booths set up ... Some of our money could be allocated to investing in other people? Sort of like Wall Street minus SEC on a smaller scale?

Why does that sound familiar? I’m thinking Sweden?

An excerpt taken from the FDR TIMES article (our of context it might not make sense), but Obama needs to answer how we’ll stimulate the economy while being the consumer-hungry economy we are…

“Next came tax. Instead of reversing Hoover’s tax-hike error, Roosevelt compounded it by raising taxes again and again. His treasury also cobbled together new businesses taxes. The same caution that had led banks to accumulate reserves during the worst of the downturn had moved corporations to put aside extra cash instead of using it to expand. Roosevelt, angered that firms were not spending to stimulate the economy, retaliated with an undistributed-profits tax on top of ordinary corporate taxes. Taken aback, observers accused him of ‘breaking the nest egg’.”


Revisiting our dear friend (and foe) ethos, I’m curious how to sculpt an argument, which will address not only what the deficit will do to our children, but somehow quantify through tangible scenarios. Is that even possible? Not what the deficit going to do to our kids, or grandchildren… and not from their checkbooks, or student loans, but how exactly that affects us through examples that can be easily understood, not by numbers, but the honest repercussions of losing our country to ourselves.

Here is how I envision a metaphor… A tennis match. We’re at the US Open and we’re the predicted champions, year after year we take home the gold. But instead of practicing our serve, it is far more exhilarating to find practice partners (Mexico/Canada). Killing opponents with our overheads, backhands, and volleys, (Iraq), but through whatever means we can justify (tanks, bombs, first-aid to Africa), we refuse to practice our serve (self-awareness/responsibility). And at the end, we lose the match.

Too many defaults later- we’ve run out of second chances, and we’ve run out of ways to win.

While we aren’t afraid to dip into international political, ideological, and ethical stratosphere, we’ll let them (China) eventually own our debt? Until our country files a Chapter 11. The country needs to go on a freaking diet. Rid of our adipose tissue, addiction to trash television (hell, let’s forgo porn), and habitual trips to the shopping mall.

A scenario even the shrewdest of journalists are too afraid to take seriously.

So little me is thinking… a campaign argued through numbers would be so difficult to capture attention (yes, even in Vegas (where my friend is running for Congress)), and so maybe a way to get people to pay attention to date, is illustrate the unfathomable scenarios, which leads me back to Machiavelli and the Prince. Is fear more powerful? Obama is frustrating, while inspiration is beautiful and tastes yummy, and offers the laziest of Americans warm and fuzzy feelings, pushing aside duty and responsibility, for the future to do lists… Let’s face it – and I can vouch as business development – it is wayyyy more fun to start stuff, than clean up messes.

So all this BS leads us to believe in a greater tomorrow, but sure isn’t helping us achieve that “great tomorrow,” today. Besides isn’t that Oprah’s job? Entertainers and priests, etc. Sure let’s do a check-up every once in awhile on our president, but it isn’t policy-makers beaming smiles that are going to reinvigorate the work ethic of the American spiraling into debt and despair via videogames and McDonalds.

Nope, monopoly money won’t be a national currency this time.

So there you go: Paint a pretty (sad/scary) picture of a future full of debt – and this time there isn’t an American government to bail anyone out. Sure, Japan can bail us out, or hell let’s give India a shot (they've been picking up the phone long enough), but at the end of the day would we rather save a little more, spend a little less or turn to the rest of the world for help, when for so many years we've boasted our capitalistic economy?” It isn’t so black and white. But everything eventually is black and white – when you’ve hit rock bottom. There is only one option. Seeking help, and unless the rock we’ve landed on is solid diamond, we’re screwed.


Obama isn't A Bad Guy:

Enough of my Obama bashing, I do have some respect for the guy- it appears that he has a healthy marriage. What is it with charismatic democrats (or politicians in general) cheating on their wives? Lately the media has uncovered affair after affair, governor after senator caught red-handed, in some intern/secretary/aid’s panties. Seriously, half of why I’d vote Romney is his odds cheating are nearly zip. FDR lost my respect purely for his outlandish affairs.

The only way to come out on top - isn't to cheat the system...