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...