PLOT SPOILER - AVATAR - WHY I REALLY LOVED IT!!!

Okay before you read be warned: I discuss the ending to this AMAZING movie, but let’s be honest what producer can spend $500 million on groundbreaking technology for 3-d animation, and glorious cinematography to boot. And then have a depressing ending? Nope. Optimistic and broke America won’t have it... Nor will The Academy (ak: Oscars). At the very least (after the trashy, violent and occasionally inane entertainment we watch) movie producers can give people some hope as they wander out to parking lots with their 3D glasses and popcorn hangovers. That said, Titanic did turn out rather depressing, so perhaps James Cameron can keep those of us familiar with his motion pictures, on our toes.

Why did this film out of all the half-dozen per year I see (I’m famous for my lack of pop culture knowledge) tug at our innermost guts and swoon? It’s truly the meeting, melding of Walt Disney and Pixar with some Mother goose and American history woven in…

CAUTION: I've been writing about politics far too much lately, that and other serious issues... and so thought I'd take trivial and observational for a spin!

Themes:
Magical Ecology is in combat with the Americans who are exploiting and pillaging and eventually monetizing metals that do not belong to them, but rather belong to The Avatar People…. Side Bar: Just to defend the mystical trees where the jellyfish bugs live (this will make sense in several paragraphs) if there is a more powerful version of the internet lurking in weeping willow trees, I’m all about conservation... Oh yeah, and the main theme; unconventional love!

Set the scene: You’ve got a tropicalesque world (PLANET PANDORA) with a combination of Star-Wars/Jurassic Park characters on a Neon Fern Gully-esque planet. You also have a “Human” space-zone where you can find the familiar helos, artillery, the whole nine yards. Think, base camp perhaps? We meet the protagonist who is veteran, whose moniker is “meals on wheels,” he is as pathetic as he is endearing (and handsome)…While it’s discovered that his brain is “beautiful” we learn that it isn’t his shrewdness that saves the planet, but his courageous and dedicated heart.

FYI: We’re not talking X-MEN genius. At first we think it’s all about smarts with Jake, but it’s about emotion, acceptance, vulnerability, all those things that mitigate brain cells and directly target audience’s aching souls… Dramatic, huh? You should hear some of the one-liners!

So the obvious protagonist is the mysteriously simple, who has lost his twin brother in war… With no woman in the picture, no life really, no functional legs, surrounded by a bunch of scientists and ravenous capitalists, convinced he isn’t’ capable of the task… While the sexy military thing does a lot for the audience it really works against him when he is abandoned out in the wilderness where monsters and goblins reside. BINGO: Born the perfect character to feel accepted in a voo-doo/glow-in-the-dark rain forest with a badass hottie, MEET Neytiri, teaching him the skills to pay the bills (or become an official tribal member).

THEN….. There is the intriguing MATRIX twist (that appeals to the those born before 1985)… where his brain is connected to his human body, and his “Avatar” body is connected to his human brain… oh quite the complicated Ménage à trois. So however much he loves the Na'vi people, he is forever plastered in his human body… Let’s just hope this doesn’t encourage America’s children to jump headfirst into cyber space and connect over Play Station…

Okay let’s go ahead and cut to the chase. So the REAL reason why I’m ABSOLUTELY obsessed is because of this sweet and terribly inconvenient amour that brings these two little lovebirds, ak: crippled Marine spy and alien-version of Pocahontas together. FIRST: Neytiri is about to kill Jake, but there is a little cotton ball/jelly-fish bug that lands on her bow and arrow, inspiring her to instead of murder him, save his life (or his Avatar body). He follows her like a lost and befuddled man, but once again the all-alluring omnipresent (ak: Jelly Fish things, which is actually from the “ENYRA” trees steps in again)…. She realizes that she must bring him home to her clan, folks and such.

We’re about 40 minutes into the film. SO FAR: nothing is a matter of free will, so far “signs” have determined the fate of these folks, which is fascinating to me… What does that say about American Culture? There is something warm and fuzzy about “supposed to” right? That all the “signs” will point us in the right “fated” direction, I believe the reason why we like the illusion of “Fate” is because it negates any possibility of risking the “Screw Up”– well, because if it’s "supposed to" it will regardless of a screw up, and if not… well let’s get a move on! But if it’s all in our control we could mess up or miss out big time. FYI: the idea of fate is nice for the busy girl like myself, the more decisions I can outsource the better! That said, I also consider "supposed to" a quasi-weak position of default, I'd rather to believe I carve my own path, make my own decisions... I know, you're totally thinking "control freak".

Neytiri’s parents insist she educate and teach “enemy retard” how to be part of her clan. This feels very “Lion-King” … (SIDE PLOT: Man she is “pre-arranged to marry wants to kill Jake… do I sense a little, Shrek?) Nice little bonus: Mating immediately equates marriage… sort of a hybrid version of Common Law. Oh yeah, and each warrior has his or her own dragon. That said, I totally dig all the mono relationships – dragons and warriors, man and woman… Each person has a little “antennae” that links to the animal or significant other's antennae, and immediately you subconsciously connect… very special. FYI: The following animals mate for life: Gibbon apes, wolves, termites, coyotes, barn owls, beavers, bald eagles, golden eagles, condors, swans, brolga cranes, French angel fish, sandhill cranes, pigeons, prions (a seabird), red-tailed hawks, anglerfish, ospreys, prairie voles (a rodent), and black vulture..

Notice Homo sapiens aren’t on that list?


SO as the plot thickens TWO Things happen while he is melding into the Avartian culture:
1. He remembers how nice it is to have legs. He enjoys the wilderness, the fresh air (which is carbon monoxide to humans)… oh yeah and he is falling madly, smitten.
2. He is also realizing that his life as a human sucks and might be worth nixing in an exchange to make this “alternate-reality” reality.

SIDE HISTORICAL NOTE: Humans, ak: Rabid Free Market Zealots are mining for “Unobtainium” (COULD CAMERON BE MORE SUBSTLE?) under the Avatar “tree of life” thus human’s reason for killing off the indigenous. I believe this is metaphorical for the “early settlers” ak: Christopher Columbus days?

SO back to the juicy love story: Neytiri tells Jake it is time for him to select a dame, he replies that he has in fact already chosen, but the real choice is hers, -… get the tissues. The passion builds. Voila, they mate (not as procreate, but as in PG-13 version for consummate), conclude they’re a couple. Ooooo the suspense is building… Will he abandon his wheel chair and McDonalds for his true love and net Hammocks? (I sure would – who doesn’t like a nap in a comfortable hammock?) How is it that Disney/Pixar, can make the passion of Lions, a Beauty/Beast, Dogs, Mice, Aliens… so umm… real? Hmm… I’ve never identified while watching the above at a zoo or the Discovery channel, but you name any movie and I swoon. Cameron really perfected the personification of the animal.

Back to the “Shrek” angle. For a moment Jake is dying (again) and Neytiri jumps, rather leaps through broken glass to save him with a human oxygen mask. An Amazonian vibe; a large blue woman is cradling a malnourished and poorly shaven man; it is mesmerizing and powerful moment no less… that there is truly no wall, whether it's the air we breathe or the bodies we inhibit that prohibits love. OOOO. What’s even cooler is that this ex-marine sans legs falls for something outside of his realm, his relatable stratosphere, and he himself becomes the hero and leader of an entire Planet Pandora (don’t ya know) that he was once trying to destroy, oh yeah…


Lessons to Take Away:

- Nature: And its keepers/protectors (Indians/aliens) will always persevere, especially if it/they glow in the dark.
- Career: Hunters and Gathers don’t have to worry about income taxes.
- Love: Can exist between any two species as long as they're part of the same Genus biological classification.
- Stereotypes are rubbish. There is a chance that those you assume are the most different from you are actually those with whom you feel the most at home.

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…

Wolverine Meets Jim Carrey and Kate Winselt at a Bar...

Only if Clementine and Joel had some adamantium… amnesia would have been far less painful.

Carmelo Anthony hopefully has that sick shot he hit two seconds before the buzzer against Dallas engraved deep in his brain. Not only do Denver fans have it etched in forever, but also Mark Cuban certainly won’t dismiss that painstakingly spectacular play.

Right now the hundreds of emails, phone messages and errands demanding attention tomorrow are eating away at my snoozing hours tonight.

I fantasize one day I’ll awake with total command of my thoughts, or the digressions or derivatives, the random flurries of nonsense that fall and sneeze on each other while I’m trying to be productive at the magazine. I'll reach over to hit my alarm and, WHAM discover this pre-programmed remote control, user-friendly buttons, to easily switch channels from friends to cocktails, to sports to the golf course, a pedicure and eating something awesome. Finally with the ability to TiVo certain situations I"m not in the mood to participate, and rewind for later use.

But what if the brain were a sponge, no rather, an organized filing cabinet, the colorful steel boxes from Target, or better yet, an unbreakable hard drive. So upon approaching capacity, there was an option to filter through the moments, and delete what is no longer worth reconsidering, or replaying. So instead of letting my present get burned by my past, I could hold on to the good stuff.

But in two of my favorite films, Wolverine and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, (which could possibly be metaphorical for real-time examples), each protagonist faces a similar challenge, should some of the mind be deleted, and if so, which parts?

It appears in both films that the really good stuff is eventually what both characters erase.

And the bad stuff will be left in decent condition for reminiscing purposes... to scold and teach, and reenforce how “good” things currently are. Because if we tasted the good for how great it actually was, it would be painful to know it no longer exists.

Clementine: This is it, Joel. It's going to be gone soon.
Joel: I know.
Clementine: What do we do?
Joel: Enjoy it.

And so as the sunshine peeks over the tall buildings and floods my bedroom come 6am, my blackberry, a photo shoot, the dry cleaner will drown me. Followed the chaos will be a desperate drive in attempt to make my red eye flight. And chances are I’ll forget that I wrote this entire rambling to begin with. But chances are a funny thing …

It is impressive when an individual can leave the past in a alphabetized scrapbook, and then has the self-discipline to pull out a fading moment with only the intention to shine, buff and neatly tuck away like an old photograph for safekeeping. There are the few recollections that haven't found a home. The delicate times that can't be inserted into a labeled folder, an old drawer, or shoved into a space in the back of my brain for a particular chapter.

These are the depreciating memories taking up occupancy, the ones I expect to lose value, and once that happens they'll be replaced by moments even more wonderful. But as stubborn as they were real, these silly little memories hold on through the night, stick with me through the chilly seasons, warm me when I lose hope, and keep me awake when the calendar becomes too comfortable.

The unexpected surprises, unanticipated opportunities, the successful triumps, and the unpredictable losses. There is love, and then there is strength, when injustice took a punch, and you proved to yourself you were stronger than fear, and the odds.

Those are the powerful memories, the moments so good they hurt, and they never fail to remind me where in life I’m headed, and what has already been left behind.

"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

Oh Drama is fabulous!

“If you’re bored – you’re probably boring.”

Just walked out of the drugstore and of course next to the gum and lighters were the standard Us Weekly and People. Those are glossies I veer away from (and sometimes sneer at), and while the juicy gossip (most of it fictional and apparently so) are delightful to indulge in – an outlet for the humdrum individual to tip-toe into a fantasyland where toned bodies and thousand-dollar handbags are the norm.

How does one separate the drama from our own lives and the drama in the magazines, the “FOX NEWS ALERT” some baby was born in Hollywood… the TV shows dedicated to excavating any dirt on the famous, digging through their rubbish and scrutinizing every ensemble choice… and how is that entertaining? Why couldn’t the energy we allocate to the energy we pay attention to these people… to something more, like ourselves? Or even better – the people we love?

Does one want to separate the drama off the big screen and now the music scene from the trivial drama that gives color and dimension to our lives (or mine)?
And then there is Obama and he was chastised for being a celebrity himself? When does it end… with us? Facebook and Myspace and Twitter and GPS cell phone tracking devices are only helping this addiction we have not just with each other, but a fierce addiction to ourselves. People now have the tools to create their own fan clubs (both real and virtual), but where is the line drawn, or maybe it’s better if it wasn’t… Is productivity a result of all this networking, or are these sites encouraging cultish behavior. Truly what is more alluring than being convinced by masses of people that our existence reeks of celebrity… which is really a screwed up way of saying we illicit curiosity... But I have to say that a spoonful of excitement never did any harm… in fact it’s a lovely, picture-friendly way to show you care about something, that you love them so much to get all dramatic.

I’m guilty: Opening the pages of the mag and when my eyes hit my byline, By: Auna Jornayvaz...A silly tickle starts at my toes and by the time it has snaked its way to my brain (Note: I don’t say ego- my managing editor puts me at my place with her red pen) … I’m focused on my next project, researching the next article, collaborating some sponsorship or scribbling some blog entry. The cycle of running away from the evil of boredom has already begun! And some have the nerve to call me a Drama Queen!

Musicians, Writers and Radio DJs the opportunity to code cryptic messages in lyrics, stories, or poems – privy to the mass public, so while strangers interpret and translate and entangle PERSON A's soul into their own life.... one wonders - what might happen if artists didn't let their soul bleed into the minds of the public? Those who seem to regularly read this blog (and readers who don’t- have voiced their thoughts- AND THANK YOU!!!). And without doubt I’ve exercised this blog in a myriad of ways, from dissing bachelors, celebrating Mark Cuban, missing Australia, but recently I admit the website has been a catalyst to voice my deep fears – not to navigate my way around serious conversations with people who are actually characters in my life, but because these emotional obstacles are ones I believe readers can identify with, and maybe won’t feel so alone when signing out. Emotions that we can rationalize our way out of tend to make us (me) feel isolated, and so if a twenty-something chic can feel the same way – maybe even if their is a solution, there is empathy? And while there is a bigger world out there full of “dancing with the stars” and the magazines and TV convince us our days pale in comparison to the celebs... The drama, the unanswered questions, and the confuisng choices haunt us just the same as any movie star (sans the medication and therapists).

The only thing to fear is fear itself, right? I disagree… my biggest fear is boredom, and what is the opposite of boredom? Not relaxation, not a catnap or a break from the grind, or a round of golf… I’m referring to the type of boredom that strips people of genuine curiously, pushes them into dark, repetitive corners where years pass so slowly without pain or change. Some might say a color-coded day planner bursting with meetings, coffees, spinning classes, football games, dates and exclusive activities is the way to negate boredom…. and while I’m also guilty of that… my fear resides much deeper in my psyche… what if there wasn’t another story to chase? A stranger to befriend? A food to try, a country to visit, a song to hear and later dissect the lyrics - only to try and relate to an artist who doesn’t even know I exist. Who I’ll probably write a letter to only to tell them how much I adore their brilliance….And what would happen if there were no more books to read - the drama of others I can vicariously experience (and learn from)? Could we go back and rehash the past, relive every tantalizing detail – knowing we’d given it our all and our memories can keep us company forever?

Are these times contagious
I’ve never been this bored before
Is this the prize I’ve waited for
Now with the hours passing
There’s nothing left here to insure
I long to find a messenger

Have I got a long way to run
Have I got a long way to run
Yeah, I run

Is there a cure among us
From this processed sanity
I weaken with each voice that sings
Now, in this world of purchase
Im going to buy back memories
To awaken some old qualities – collective soul

Who needs Prozac when you've got Oprah?

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

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

Mark Cuban... the Willy Wonka of America

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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