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…

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....

NAKED WARS: Part II "It Ain't No Catch & Release"

We're just two lost souls 
Swimming in a fish bowl - Pink Floyd

Don’t you want to lick every adjective off the tip of his tongue?

Don’t you want to drown yourself in her sharp observations and crackhead commentary?

How do you prevent yourself from ripping off clothes and indulging in animalistic, cataclysmic action reserved for “his and her only”? Isn’t that what relationships are for – the simple chore of dependable entertainment.

Several nights ago at a cowboy restaurant a cute couple, preppy, right out of a JCrew catalogue had such passivity engraved in their already stoic expressions I seriously considered them dead. I couldn’t figure out if they were on a church retreat thus appearing bored and conservative was part of the consent form, some sort of coming to Jesus. Or rather they were so apathetic toward the other they independently found staring off into space far more stimulating than idle banter?

I wanted to cry out… Why? Why? How could you have changed so much since that first date? The night she spent an hour straightening her hair? The morning he washed his car and changed his socks twice? How much energy has worthless arguments and bickering drained your soul of anything resembling human interaction. What had to occur so that you cannot bear even sight of each other, let alone ignore poor innocent conversation?

What happens once you’ve battled the commitment phobia and you’ve actually obtained a variation of public acknowledgement that you’re (and he is) off the meat market? The calculating games required to “land” have been mutually put away, and shoved under the bed for a rainy afternoon when the electricity has gone out (literally)? The giddiness of readily agreeing to eat your least favorite food has been substituted with nights nervously eating pasta impressing the parents. And obnoxious bars packed full of grizzly bouncers has been replaced with plaid pajamas and netflix.

The thrill of the hunt and the perfume in the air and the high-pitched girl giggle “hehe”… (Complimentary visual image from Adam Ferrara)… are gone. Because the only olfactory enhancer you smell anymore is deodorant, and if lucky, mouthwash. With no reason to be macho and cool, with quick-witted comebacks and impressive tales of heroic survival stories stuck in the Rockies, only for a phone number or a half-assed hug. Nope. No need to put on makeup, or plaster on an artificial grin after rush hour. Let it all hang out because why, why you’ve gone to the trouble of not being single. And what self-sacrificing fool would ever do that? Unless there was an upside… An empathetic ear just a phone call away, the obligatory booty call, a psychologist and travel partner, friend and foe all rolled up into that yummy and delectably delightful person you call “boyfriend”.

But once the above mentions have been met, what’s leftover? Not to insult the sanctity of relationships, but how do couples entertain themselves once they’ve already agreed to just be.

Why is it the cute couples in their forties and fifties you find cuddled up on a park bench, or walking hand-in-hand out of a Viagra commercial tend to be a product of round 2? Why can’t people get it right the first time? It makes finding the initial shot so annoying and daunting and most of all leaves me dubious of a way to keep the embers alive. It seems to me that once the fire dies down, the smoke has cleared there is just a bunch of soot and ashes asking to be cleaned up, or demanding to get laid at 8am on a Thursday morning when all you want is a snooze button. And where is the fun in that?

I ask myself why do we push for commitment, when once the fork in the road is behind us all bets are off? We’ve limited ourselves to a single-party democracy where equitable negotiations no longer equate to compromise, and swallowing your words is far more bitter than swallowing your pride. Pride was tossed out the window with lacy panties, polite conversation and god-forbid, flirtation.

The Secret promises that if you wish for something, write it down, chant it and do rain dances beckoning your deepest desires, it will somehow become your reality. So rather than blowing out birthday candles, praying to Judeo-Christian gods, more and more folk rely on the premise that the power of the golden rule, expecting good when good is given, reigns over all.

But I then ask myself… Are all relationships based on trade, GO ADAM SMIH ….or might there be the rare ones founded on something more? Give and then get and count thy cards? A spade is a spade, but if you trade it for hearts then maybe later your joker won’t be such an asshole and hit you back with a royal flush. The bottom line is: Do people get together so they get what’s missing, or is there an actual added value in 1+1? Aside from the luxuries of not religiously gyming it in fear of cellulite, and having a bed buddy whose snoring eventually becomes a therapeutic distraction, what other bonuses come with being tied down? Where is the advantage in having someone who odds are, will eventually bore you?

Why do we kill ourselves trying to find someone with whom we can relate, laugh and share fond outdoor activities? When a dog or pals can provide the similar companionship? Is there really this indefinable, seemingly intangible feeling we seek out when searching for that thing called love? Or rather are we kidding ourselves and really we’re thirsty for safety and unyielding acceptance that arrives with commitment? Maybe the mirage is a big ass white flag pointing in the direction of the most compatible, logical partner, equally eager for contractual committal trade?

Or maybe there are the few exceptions, when love beat logic. When all the numbers didn’t make sense, but the inexplicable rush from being together was enough of a reason to try. The couple whose laugh lines aren’t all G-rated, and the weathered memories aren’t all enchanting, in fact they’re full of intensity and passion and truth. The couples who fought through the boredom to keep feeling, never allowing the other to settle, always urging the other to reach outside the comfort of commitment, reminding all the while, that they’re not alone.

I don’t know how one prevents the onset of boredom. A debilitating death sentence so viral one must get vaccinated with regular footsie in restaurants, foreplay and the always-occasional banter…

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

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

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

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

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

Mark Cuban... the Willy Wonka of America

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love it when people are LATE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Poker Player...

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

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

The Sinister Wittiness of Australians!

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

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

Regular Nourishment:

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


The Sinister Wittiness of the Locals:

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

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

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

Outdoor Activities:

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

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

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

On to the academia at University of New South Wales:

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

Cheers!