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…

“You see a lot of smart guys with dumb women, but you hardly ever see a smart woman with a dumb guy.” Erica Jong

Tina Fey "Smart is sexy after all."

I once faulted men for weighing bra size against brilliance, but several “smart” relationships later, I’m almost jealous of an easy-going appetite, hungry for a myriad of perks, literally! Not that I’m as rude as to lump all men into the assumption that looks hold greater value than per say personality. But I’d be liar to argue that some men are content with an average-IQ, as long as an above-average exterior accompanies it. There isn’t space on this blog to demystify and dissect the age-old beauty construct, (unless you’re Dolly Parten) everyone will eventually grow visibly older (and that is the most polite way to phrase the aging process).

It’d be an untruth to not admit I fall victim late at night coveting how easily a man can energetically embrace the “as long as she is smoking hot” methodology. But as the giggling girl climbs in the back of the cab, I quickly recall her eyes are camoflogued by eyeliner.

Eyes, however revealing and beautiful can only communicate a limited number of words. Sure a particular gaze will say, “Come hither,” or “I’m sleepy”, and “not interested”, and eventually when eye flirtation has led to your mouth, I better like what I hear.

So men, let’s (just for kicks) consider the long-term consequences of settling for a ridiculously sexy dumbass. And no, this isn’t just a sales pitch for sassy, smart, educated women who aren’t knockouts, unless you’re losing a battle in a board room to a woman in glasses,suit and even better- sharp attitude!

You can opt to downsize your know-how via a variety of methods (some illegal) in an attempt to match her brain capacity, or can you can invest in routine upkeep and upgrades on her surgical procedures. Without trying to make it to the middle, there is a strong probability your relationship could get boring. A man becoming bored can be the most debilitating problem, one even the sexiest of women can’t solve.

My personal formula (everyone should have one): (Brilliant + Golf) / (Funny) = Perfect

Edible Time and how to effectively waste it.....

It’s a tremendous feat to reflect on youth and using wisdom against years, admit to regret.

It’s 1am and as someone unable to sleep and trying to get off ambien, I hit the elliptical glider with ELLE. I discovered a sassy, bordering on tragic article, “Failure to Launch- When Beauty Ends” by Elizabeth Wurtzel. The same author who wrote the bestselling tome, Prozac Nation and Bitch. Assuming I was going to get lost in psychological dribble intended for those who truly enjoy the illogical mood swings accompanied with PMS, I was startled.

This woman admitted she wasted the “pretty” years. The fragile window when men not only scrutinize your brain, but still check out your ass. And it scared me. People advise, “Auna, don’t waste your youth. Go play, get tipsy and flirt with the bad boys, you’re only going to get older.” And so I listen to these well-intended gnomes, in fear if I don't I'll attempt mini-skirts when my 401 kicks in. I try not to make the mistakes most twenty-something’s screw up on – navigate my way around failure, because there simply isn’t time to fall and fall and fall.

But Wurtzel makes a valid point – she has lived a colorful and rich existence. There are the thirty-somethings and forty-somethings women whose day planners are a true testament to raw, unadulterated fun, proof that mouthwatering success can be achieved, and spontaneous nights being wooed and gawked at were only possible sans domestic dues, but these women arrive home at the end of a decade of exciting memories, and still alone. And that deserves, hell that demands respect.

And yet, the war wounds these cougars use to counter-argue the need for babies is proof they can play with the big boys, but doesn’t seem to mend the missing time – the time that could have been dedicated to husband hunting. Seeking out and reeling in the few “good” guys – the ones worth brining back to Mom and Dad. The men who knock you up and rub your feet, forget flowers on occasion, but always remember how to make you smile.

“I don’t want to look back at what was, tell stories of once upon a long time ago, of what I used to do, of the men I once knew way back when, of 1,001 rapturous nights that were and are no more—I don’t want my life to be the trashy and tragic remains of a really great party, lipstick traces on a burned-out cigarette at the bottom of a near-empty champagne goblet.” Shy says….

To mitigate stupidity, laugh off the idea of settling down, barricading my feelings so my only obstacle is the career ladder in which I climb mercilessly. Right. There are so many essays and stories and novels and books written for us. The early-mid twenty professional who stereotypically seem to waste this precious window of opportunity, the years intended to build a foundation for the future, while taking tequila shots and dating .

These are the seconds and minutes that are golden and edible. The question begs for a pregnant pause: How does one spend this time, so when youth begins to fade there is no longer a need for it anyway?

http://www.elle.com/Beauty/Health-Fitness/Failure-to-Launch-When-Beauty-Fades

Caveat Emptor: POWERFUL CAREER MY ASS

A touchy subject, a sensitive issue even to broach, especially for someone who isn’t yet subjected to the one double standard our society has set. Instead of pondering such debilitating and often painful truths I tried to rummage up something cutesy or funny, I even came up with this: Picture this: Blond hair (desperately needing to be highlighted) windows down, driving on University Boulevard in my 2008 Escape, I’m singing, pumping my fists, swaying my body to Flo Rider’s “Right Around”, which is the hottest rap song to hit high schools and subsequently waspy white girls’ hybrids.

Parallel parking in between a Jeep and a Jetta, both pimped out with ski and bike racks at Washington Park I’m reminded I’m in twenty-to-thrity-ville Colorado. The first day of spring and everyone including the birds and the bees, and the yellow and chocolate labs skipping alongside their taut owners, is happily bopping to their iTunes, a 2009 version of the first scene of “Sound of Music”. While a serious republican, I’ve finally fallen victim to believing in this whole scientific frenzy dubbed, “global warming”. The sixty-degree weather I’ve enjoyed since last March now has me concerned.

Boring right? Who gives a hell about global warming except for the mountain folk (and condolences to the mountain folk). Well I’m not in the mood to write about the sunny afternoons 90210 style, in fact dittying that diatribe only makes me want to get a personal trainer and locate a husband and/or burgeoning career pronto. So often I’ve said (and meant), “Oh if only I could be gender neutral, only if I could be A-sexual,” and my favorite, “My goal is to be so narcissistic I won’t want anyone.” Simply with the objective of avoiding this whole nasty, but sociologically fascinating conundrum… the two biological clocks. The female clock, which ticks disturbingly loud with a quota of “snoozes” and then the male clock, which is infinite as it is silent.

My Mom (who spent twenty years in television journalism, had her own company and her stories were syndicated nationally, oh right and now she is a portrait artist painting a president), but she is a freak example of someone who could pull off both the business card and the diaper bag. And those women I have SO much respect for... to love your kids enough to role model a career - but it isn't everyone who can pull off such a daunting feat. Not that anyone is holding a gun to my early-twenty-something brain demanding I give notice of my breeding intentions, but I’m witnessing my closest cohorts around me drop like flies, caring less about creating a “knock-em dead PowerPoint” which has now been substituted with, “he is obsessed with his nieces and neither of his sister-in-laws work. Isn’t that great!” again, choke, check out reflection, and proceed to vomit. But, I’m trying not to judge. Because I’m just praying my clock will wait quite awhile to turn on.

A friend (who owns his own company) mentioned that he cannot help but consider if a twenty-something employee will cut and run once a diamond has been cemented on her finger, but would he have the same hesitation about a man, no... And, even in the most equal opportunity of companies, how can an employer neglect the fact when an applicant vying for an engineering position (100-hour weeks) walks in pregnant? And the whole Sarah Palin thing? Do not get me started! Fascinating how 35,000 books have been written on the subject, and more than 211,000 websites pop up when googled, “Balancing work with motherhood.” What does this tell us? There is clearly a problem deeply entrenched in working America, and it isn’t if women can work and have kids, but rather how.

My concern isn’t the “Mompreneurs”, or the women fortunate to have husbands with the income to provide for her and the kiddos, but my real ethical concerns remain with the women who have worked their asses off in corporate America. Now in their late thirties and early forties they’ve reached the pinnacle, a point in their career when they can focus on something other than climbing the vicious ladder. And once surfaced (and callused) from heels and pantsuits they're ready to dive into the “sea of fish”, aka: the men their same age, who have a genuine desire to get married, produce 2.5 beautiful children and build a picket fence. But this sea might as well be a pitiful fish tank. And the men in the same position, well they’re just hitting up the twenty-something, fresh and eager to settle down with the more established men (who have toiled so they could financially provide). So what is an educated woman with drive, a passion to make a difference in her industry, and enjoys having the ability to independently take care of her own needs do? Logically, if it takes 10-15 years to get to the top… which is about the same time your clock will start running out…. That said, the women who care enough about their career to shove estrogen aside and bite the bullet - make it.

But, before you buy into your dream of becoming a powerful CEO of a major company, beware. The truth about having it all down the road is only as pretty as it appears...

Zero-Sum Game

Whoever said counting cards was breaking the rules simply was too stupid to learn how to count.

My Theory: Women are willing to do anything for men to a certain extent in order to avoid being alone. Men are willing to do anything to avoid not being alone (single) unless she is the right one, and then all bets are off.

It is only recently that I respect the hell out of cougars. These are the women who a take sexuality into their own hands, the reins of their libidos; their dayplanners completely liberated.

If he isn’t falling all over you, if he hasn’t called you, if he doesn’t hang on every word you’re saying, and I don’t care if you have kissed him, your boss set you up on a blind date, if he called you to listen to you talk about nothing, you know deep down in that sick and twisted and honest part of your gut if someone is INTO YOU… the same place those annoying butterflies swarm.

And guess what? And this isn’t being very fuzzy, or warm or domestic of me, but you’re doing yourself a disservice by allowing someone to walk into your life, if they aren’t obsessed with you. Essentially if someone isn’t treating you like the princess that you, thanks to your estrogen, your empathetic sense of nature, (and shoe addiction) are, well then he is isn’t worth your time. Because there is someone out there who can, and if you let him find you… will.

And what happened to calculated risk?

The movie “He Just Isn’t that Into You” made women out to be these pitiful heart wrenching losers. Losers are actually a really nice way of describing the disrespect they tolerated and sadly instigated out of self-consciousness. And for a republican (and trust me…republican women are either identified as butch and brilliant, or blond and mentally challenged)… Let’s just say that I highlight my hair and I make the occasional silly comment, but when push comes to shove I sure as hell shove.

I shall make it abundantly clear that if any of those situations arose, and any men treated any of my dearest women friends in the way in which those characters in that “chic flick” (which was really only a movie to illustrate our dire attempts to make men happy and a “sour puss” perspective into the vulnerable and fragile state of how our society perceives the world of dating)…. Well then I’d immediately insist upon some push-up bras, Chip & Dales, makeup sessions (and all other shallow ways to help you feel like you own your womanhood) to plump up the self-confidence. Because nobody deserves to be played or utilized as backup, ever.

If only the poor fools knew that the 99% of the women they dated were only around because it was easier than being alone… then what? When the hell are men going to get a reality check?

You can still be ladylike and not fall victim to sleazy and beyond cheesy pick-up lines… Don’t give men your phone number. Take their number, and if you like them... or fantasize about them using impressive vocabulary words, or you envision them feeding you chocolate cake then give ‘em a ring... That way you’re not left wondering what the hell? Until then, don’t forfeit your right as a non-retarded (aka: intelligent) female.

"Meet Market"

Finding “The One” isn’t always easy. Do you trust fate to drop him in your lap — metaphorically — or do you get proactive?

As I step into the darkened lounge, my eyes focus on 20 or so individuals with numbers pinned to blazers and blouses, nervously sipping cocktails. The awkwardness and tension is soon sliced by a cheerful voice: “Welcome to speed dating! Are you ready for the most exciting or most miserable five minutes of your life?”

I am a stranger to the world of speed dating. I silently pray tonight won’t include an unanticipated rendezvous with an old classmate or, God forbid, a former flame. Like many single professionals in Denver, I’m looking for the right man, one who prefers white to red and skiing to snowboarding, is addicted to golf, and is brilliant — with more than adequate culinary skills. (Too much to ask?) And if I happened to find him in five minutes, well, that would be fabulous.

Getting Personal
While there may be a number of men matching my above criteria floating around the Mile High City, I’ve yet to meet Mr. Right — or even Mr. Maybe. I’m willing to don heels on a Friday night and am game for the occasional blind date, but the sparkling optimism that a room abundant with singles once brought or the notion that a potential suitor will wink from across a bar in LoDo has lost its luster.

Lately, I’ve found myself growing less skeptical of the chemistry born out of Internet algorithms or professional matchmakers promising to connect me to a viable mate. Why should the most crucial aspect of life be left to fate on the off chance I’ll find love while taking tequila shots with the girls?

I started by logging on to both eHarmony and Match.com, curious to see if real love can be discovered virtually. Scouring my brain to pinpoint personality types and hobbies vital to my modern-day Casanova was fun. Three hours later, I had nutshelled my entire personality into 3,000 characters, uploaded a picture and browsed available men like I would shop for shoes on Piperlime. Headers such as, “Hot Woman with a Brain Wanted” and “Goin’ Fishin’ for You” made me laugh but were not enough to make me want to “see more.” Before signing off, I checked my inbox to find 13 emails from men aged 20 to 40, living everywhere from India to the Amazon River Valley.

Although the allure of the Internet playground was enticing, filtering through virtual profiles — half of which belonged to men living on the other side of the equator — would take forever. I couldn’t justify staying up all night to sort through this melange just for a coffee date. And while I can respect the never-married Helen Morrison for publishing the first personal ad in 1727, the possibility of being seen as single and desperate by one of my parents’ divorced friends was enough to make me deactivate both accounts. There had to be a more efficient way.

Relieving the Pressure
Melissa Jannetta from It’s Just Lunch called to schedule an initial interview. I arrived early (a first) and waited quietly until a beautiful woman in her late twenties emerged and correctly pronounced my name (again, a first). Melissa began by asking questions about my job and hobbies and then explained how her team personally interviews clients and then brainstorms potential matches. It’s Just Lunch felt safer than the online sites, and instead of handing me a cookie cutter of a man I’ve never met, Melissa took the reins and posed questions I never considered pertinent to defining “the one.”

Slowly, I unfolded the story of my life. An hour into the interview, her gentle interrogation bordered on the personal, but she listened intently and took notes until I fully articulated my responses. She empathized with my bar-scene frustrations. In another situation, I would have been uncomfortable revealing my failures in prior relationships or deep commitment fears, but our two hours together felt like a refreshing therapy session rather than a matchmaking assessment.

As confident as I was coming out of my interview, I was equally nervous going into my first date. Running into the restaurant, slightly disheveled with damp hair from the snow, I slid into the booth and broke into a big smile. The man across the table could not have been more handsome and seemed reasonably normal. Our conversation moved from the Broncos to golf courses to the tumultuous economy.

We didn’t discuss the trouble we each took to meet the other, but we shared an unspoken understanding that we both cared enough about our futures to go to such extremes. We exchanged a hug before bidding farewell, and while I don’t think either one of us is what the other envisions as our perfect match, we were each one step closer. The date reassured me that the type of man who bears the qualities I cherish does, in fact, exist.

Around in Circles
Of all the available dating resources, the one I dreaded most was speed dating. I cautiously entered the Jet Hotel, took my number and mentally prepared. The premise is fairly simple: Every five minutes, a whistle blows and a different man strides toward my small chaise and begins to chatter. I heard every excuse from “I’m interviewing for a new job and thought this would be good practice” to “I just moved to town and wanted to get to know people.” Overall, the men were gregarious and interesting, but after my final five-minute date shook my hand, I wandered out to my car feeling like a failure.

The next evening, I found myself explaining to a girlfriend just how exhausting the previous few weeks of dating had been. Two drinks into the night, we were both laughing hysterically, so much so I barely noticed the handsome blonde approaching us. People always say when you stop looking that’s when you find the one, but the truth is it wasn’t until I started seriously looking that I figured out who I was trying to find all along.

www.denvermagazine.com, Feb 2009 - Drawing by: Matt Vincent

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