Ooh La La!

“French, you know, is the language of diplomacy…and of love.”

It was my first day at the United Nations and I was slightly taken aback at the macking skills of the handsome, tanned diplomat from Algeria standing before me.  He had just explained to me that he spoke English, French and Arabic, and somehow was using that to kick a lil game.  Diplomatic game. I like it.

“So, in your family, what languages do you speak?” he asked.

“Well, my family is from Sri Lanka, and my sisters and I speak Spanish too-they both married Latino men!”

“So are you going to follow in your sister’s footsteps and marry a Spanish man?” He continued smoothly, “If you want to learn French, I suggest you marry a man who speaks French…You can come back to Algeria with me.”

Wow. And here I heard that the UN is inefficient. This diplomat was about getting business done!

My first day also happened to be the beginning of the three-day summit of world leaders, including Obama, who were meeting to discuss the Millennium Development Goals(MDGs).  The MDGs were set in 2000 as a fifteen-year effort to combat poverty, hunger, and disease. The goals include eradicating poverty and hunger, universal education, gender equality, child health, maternal health, combating HIV/AIDS, environmental sustainability and global partnership.  For instance, one benchmark is to halve, between 1990 and 2015, the proportion of people whose income is less than $1 a day.  Now with only five years left, world leaders were gathering to discuss progress and create a plan of action to achieve the MDGs. (http://www.un.org/millenniumgoals/poverty.shtml)

It was an exciting day to start work, with the hopes for a better world pregnant in the air and shiny, black, police escorted Mercedes whizzing by carrying presidents and diplomats from around the globe.

However, it also meant that waiting in line to get my ID to access the building was endless, as I stood not-so-patiently with the hundreds of diplomats and activists that had traveled far and wide to attend the conference.  I had managed to explain to one of the officials that I was a student here to work, and was able to cut the line, landing me right next to Mr. Algeria.

Today, after 2 weeks of working at the UN, I have mixed opinions about the organization, but am loving the experience.

I am with UNFPA, which is the division dedicated to empowering women around the world and monitoring population trends.  This includes better access to healthcare, ensuring pregnant women’s needs are met, sex education, access to condoms and birth control, and preventing gender-based violence such as rape and domestic violence (DV).  After studying women’s studies in undergrad and working for years in sex education, DV and rape crisis work, it is the perfect fit for me.

Specifically, I am in the humanitarian branch, which makes sure all these needs are met in disaster relief. After a disaster, communities tend to get more violent, so precautions need to be taken to protect women.  For example, after the earthquake in Haiti, all the different UN organizations flew down, such as UNDP (development work), UNICEF (rights of children), UNEP (environmental work).  My branch made sure that pregnant women who suddenly didn’t have hospitals and homes had a safe place to deliver.  There were reports of an increase of rape, with Amnesty even citing that two year olds were getting gang-banged.  In the camps where the people who had lost their homes were living, the latrines were often co-ed.  UNFPA will survey this and make sure that they are separated by gender, in order to decrease the chance of rape.

The people who work in my department are incredible. It actually surprises and delights me how many men are a part of this division, and the women are incredibly fierce.  The director is an OBGYN from Malaysia who tells me the inspiring stories of her world experiences-such as the time she got shot in the foot in Iraq and managed to stay on and perform surgery for 2 more weeks while being propped up by a block, or her many exchanges with various royalty and dignitaries around the globe she encountered while reconstructing homes and building nursing schools.

Ironically, the co-worker I am working most closely with named Jeremy is this really cool guy who did his Masters in Middle Eastern politics in Beirut-and worked for one of the most prolific directors in Hollywood for years! What are the chances of that?! I told him that it must be some sort of divine sign that I was put with him, and I love hearing his comparisons of the two worlds. In short, in the past two weeks, we have decided that both fields attract risk-takers, that the UN work is frustrating but rewarding, and that Hollywood is hands down more fun.

I was asked to take notes at the first meeting-and they might as well have been speaking Italian. I probably understood about 20% of what was said, and I was really trying hard! UN language is very specific-and you can’t learn it anywhere but there or other organizations like the World Bank.  I am pleased to report that now my comprehension is bumped up to 90%-so at least I can say that I have learned a lot through immersion.

By the way, by the time I got my ID, Mr. Algeria had vanished.  But I had nothing to worry about, because the following week, we had a conference with UNFPA reps from some of the 129 country offices around the world.  No shortage of handsome diplomats here. My favorite from the conference was Jacques, from Paris, who is stationed in Cairo.  Apparently being handsome is a diplomatic requirement.

Next week, I’ll tell you all about Jacques, and of course, about the conference, which really breaks down how we do what we do.  The conference really got me to understand why people are so frustrated in this work, and why they stay. Two weeks in, and am learning more and more each day.  Can’t wait to see what is revealed come spring…

What’s in a Bite?

“I always choose my travels based on food and music. It is the best way to experience a culture.”

I was spending an evening at the home of celebrity chef Alexander Smalls deep in Harlem, feeling drunk off the eclectic vibe he had created with vibrant artwork, the soothing sounds of Curtis Mayfield, animal fur rugs from a jaunt to Africa, and a crystal glass of deep red wine.

Matthew Jordan Smith, the photographer I produced for in LA, was in town for Fashion Week and had invited me to dinner.  We were joined by our dear friend Lisa Butler, the stunning model with smooth cocoa skin who has a presence that exudes a connection with the greater spiritual realm, along with her artist friend Ricky who told me that he has been so inspired lately he had taken to painting directly on doors.

“My specialty is layering flavors in food,” continued Alexander.  “My family is from South Carolina, and Creole cuisine combines African, Caribbean and Asian flavors.” Alexander, a big-made, distinguished, yet homey and inviting gentleman, took a sip of his whiskey.  When he spoke of food, his passion was electric.

“What part of the cuisine is Asian?” I inquired.

“The rice!” he exclaimed.

Ahhh. Rice. I had never thought about it that way. It is truly amazing how food and music carry and merge culture in a way that people have not yet learned to do.  Sounds from Africa, Brazil, Latin America and India all resonate subtly through pop music, even when listeners are oblivious to the fusion. Shakira’s “Hips Don’t Lie” is a pop song, but the drum beat is distinctly Reggaeton.  Jay Z’s Big Pimpin has an Indian flute looped throughout. If only we as people could get along quite as melodically…

I looked around and felt a room filled with passion. Matthew, showing us images of the new alluring models from a recent shoot by the Pacific Ocean; Lisa explaining how she had been feeling a new burst of creativity that she was bubbling to explore; Ricky describing his transformation from a musician to a visual artist; all of us surrounded by the warm and luring scents wafting in from Alexander’s magical kitchen. Having rushed to the party straight from class at Columbia, I exhaled as I soaked in my new artist surroundings.

“The recession has made me more creative,” said Ricky.  All the artists agreed that the greatest inspiration often comes from the most heart wrenching pain.

“That’s why we can be enslaved and singin’ in the bosom of Abraham!” remarked Alexander.

My mind wandered to the topic of the lecture we had in class that day, which broached the subject of arts in Humanitarian Relief.  The class is taught by Professor Gerry Martone, who is sexy in an Indiana-Jones type way.  Martone has traveled the world many times over as a peace corps volunteer, aid worker, and now as a director at the International Rescue Committee.  In class, he shares his stories with us such as the time when he was kidnapped at gunpoint in Liberia and managed to befriend his captors and convince them to set him free.

The topic of the day’s lecture was how to heal the psychological state of a community that has experienced trauma-such as war, an earthquake, or a tsunami.  Here in America, we head to our therapist when we feel stressed or depressed.  But, Martone explained, when an entire community is experiencing these conditions, there are just not enough therapists to treat everyone. So what is the solution?

The first? Livelihood. Martone relayed that after the earthquake in Haiti, more than water, food or shelter, people expressed that they wanted a way to make a living, so they would be able to provide for themselves in the future.  This is why NGOs are now focused on building up the economies of countries after a disaster.

According to Martone, there is never a lack of food during a food shortage. The markets are plentiful with fresh fruits, meats and bread. Money, however, is scarce.  We have learned  the hard way that it is a lot cheaper to give people dollars  to buy food in Afghanistan than to ship them grain from Iowa.  As a result, the local marketplaces flourish, and jobs increase. “For some reason, it is such a novel idea to give money to people without money!” says Martone.

The second solution is the one that surprised me. Arts. Yes, arts as a means to heal the psychological state of a community.  Martone said that before all the relief workers arrived in Haiti, people had organized poetry slams, dance concerts, soccer tournaments, and religious services filled with music.

Clowns Without Borders will arrive in Haiti next month, to put on shows and train local clowns to carry on the work, improving communities through laughter and humor (http://cwbsa.org/).  Film Aid, created by award winning producer Caroline Baron, sets up large mobile screens in refugee and IDP camps, using film to entertain and to educate people living in crisis (www.filmaid.org/).  Martone said that organizations are increasingly allocating funding to these types of efforts, amazed at the way these artistic movements rejuvenate traumatized communities.

So whether at a gathering of creative friends in New York City, or through aid relief after a major world crisis, art is a communicator, a healer, and as Alexander expressed through his cuisine-a noble ambassador of culture.  It is easy to pass judgment on aspiring artists or glorify accomplished ones, without ever examining what art does for each one of us every single day.

And the dinner, by the way, did not disappoint.  Smothered chicken with a red wine and cinnamon infused sauce over creamy grits with a red pepper and corn coulis, accompanied by a zucchini and avocado salad. How I love being surrounded by people who are so invested in their art. And trust, I felt Alexander’s passion in every bite.

I’M BACK!!!

A year ago today, I was about to begin my internship at Warner Brothers in Los Angeles.  I had moved across the country pursue a writing career in the entertainment industry. I found Hollywood to be beautiful, but rather uninspiring.  Spiritually stimulating, yet corrupt and vile.

A combination of a romantic interest on the East Coast, disillusionment with LA, and a desire to pursue a more stable and “fulfilling” career brought me back to New York City.  While the love interest ended two weeks BEFORE my move back (and yes, I got that call after I had quit my job, given up my lease, and was surrounded by boxes filled with my life), Columbia University remained faithful.  Today, I am halfway done with my Masters in International Social Welfare Policy and preparing to start my internship at the United Nations on Monday.

From WB to the UN is quite a jump, but this has been the story of my life.  I have always had a love for the deeply creative and the deeply intellectual. I love and respect both worlds, even though they don’t often understand each other. I heard people at school making fun of celebrities who donated money after the disaster in Haiti, forgetting that these “celebrities” are just people who viscerally reacted to the trauma the same as they did. Working in entertainment, I met a lot of people who did not have a connection with what was happening outside the bubble of directors, pop stars, and couture. I have to admit, when I was working in entertainment, I did the same, as it is part of the game to stay on top of what’s hot just to be able to tread water in that scene.

What I love about entertainment is the creative energy, brilliance, passion and most of all COURAGE in the people who choose to dedicate their lives to it.  The hardest part about it? The business. It is as cutthroat, corrupt, and unforgiving as any other.  What I love about social work is being surrounded by a group of people with tremendous HEART, who are selflessly dedicated to improving the world with no expectations or plans to make a lot of money.  The most difficult part is facing some of the most gruesome realities of the world, and while we can do our part, we have to accept that some of it will be impossible to change.

The last few years I have worked in fashion, film, and tv-working with companies like MTV, editing scripts for one of the former executive producers of Gossip Girl, writing songs for Grammy-Award winning producers, and producing photo shoots for acclaimed photographer Matthew Jordan Smith with celebrities such as Oprah, Angela Bassett and Mandy Moore-to name a few of my experiences.   Not to mention the parties. Parties Parties Parties-for the MTV VMAs, Oscars, Grammys-and the BEST of all- P.Diddy’s birthday party in Morocco.

And with all the glamour comes even more moments of pain and hardship. Some of my greatest lessons were learned from late night conversations with struggling artists-who are, in my opinion, the most beautifully committed and inspiring of them all.

During college and now through my Masters, I worked as a counselor for pregnant teens, a sex education teacher, an HIV-test counselor, and a domestic violence and rape crisis counselor.  I’ve also done this work internationally in Sri Lanka, Spain, and Costa Rica.  Now I will be interning at the UN, hopefully working in gender-based violence prevention programs around the world.

Jumping between these worlds has been an enlightening experience.  Especially when you compare them, the differences are truly illuminated. This blog is a space to write down the thoughts that come pouring into my head…and whoever wants to read it is welcome to share in the journey!

So what does all this mean for me after graduation in May 2011? That remains to be seen.  For now, I hope that you enjoy the ride with me, and just maybe, we can figure it out together along the way.

M.I.A. Born Free

Would the video be more acceptable if the people were brown instead of red? Because last I checked, videos of brown people being shot are played on youtube every day.  It reminds me of the Matthew McConaughey scene in A Time to Kill, when he persuades the jury to sympathize with a little black girl who was raped-by closing their eyes and imagining that she was white.

MIA is amazing. Powerful Message. Powerful song. “Terrorism is a method,” MIA explains.  “Terrorists” are not ALWAYS just evil people. They are the voices of the oppressed, struggling to be heard.

WATCH IT. Very Violent. Very Graphic. Very Real.
http://www.miauk.com/

Then CHECK THIS OUT. Look familiar? Why did youtube ban M.I.A.’s video but this one is allowed? :
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eksn5X7lT6s&feature=related

City of Angels

“NO. NO! NOOOOOO!!!!” I screamed in desperation as the large black Suburban reversed into my little red Volvo in what felt like slow motion.  Who reverses on Sunset Boulevard at a red light without looking behind?! Honestly, people out here can’t drive.

It seemed as if the SUV was attempting a hit and run, but I followed it around the corner and down Highland until it pulled over.  The frazzled, late thirty-something, strung out looking blonde woman jumps out of her car and looks at the crumpled hood of my car in dismay. “The reason I reversed is because the woman in front of me reversed, and where is she now?!” she lamented woefully.

I looked at her and then at my bashed in Volvo in disappointment. “You should have looked.”

This comment snapped her into defensive mode. “Well anyways, I didn’t reverse. You hit me.”

Great.  We exchanged some unpleasant words for awhile and finally her husband shows up. He was staring at me.  He looked familiar.

“What happened?” he asked.

“She hit me!” exclaimed the woman.

I looked him squarely in the eyes. “Your wife is lying to you.”

We waited for 2 and a half hours for the good ole LAPD to show up, which of course, they never did.  We agree to exchange insurance and contact information.  Finally, she trudges over to my car.

“Look,” I say getting out. “I want to try to do this as nicely as possible. Could you please just tell the truth. That’s all I’m asking.”

Her eyes fill with tears. This woman who had been lying and cursing at me for the past 2 hours suddenly became…vulnerable.  “It’s just that, so many women have betrayed me. You just have to protect yourself out here.” she cried.

I sighed. Taking in her sad expression, I say sympathetically, “I’m sorry that’s happened to you.”

We talked for awhile about trust and finally she admits, “Well maybe I did back up a bit.” Her husband looked at her in exasperation.

“And, “ she continues. “Since we all live in the same building…”

So that’s why he looks familiar! Apparently he had recognized me right away from the building.  How crazy is that!

We hug. And she promises to tell the truth.  But refuses to sign a piece of paper saying she reversed.  She drives off.  My faith in trust and the world is restored

At that moment a large, burly man ambles towards me. “I saw what happened,” he says matter-of-factly. “You’re gonna need a witness.  Here’s my number.  My Name’s Eli.  My friend owns a body shop too. Call him. “ And then he was off.

Who was that man? I took his information, amazed at how kind he was, but knowing that I didn’t really need his help.  She admitted fault right?

Of course, 2 days later, after avoiding multiple calls from the insurance company, the woman gave the statement…that I hit her.  Luckily, I had my star witness who vouched for my story and gave me a slim hope that I might not be liable for this accident.

I wondered, had I been nicer to the woman when I first got out of the car, would she have reacted differently? My first instinct was to reprimand her because I was upset, but once I was kinder to her, she responded back with honesty. Nevertheless, she changed her story and lied anyways when it most mattered.  Still, I am glad that in the midst of crisis I chose to correct my tone and treat her better than how I viscerally wanted to treat her.

And Eli.  Eli was truly the angel of the night. Most people wouldn’t have bothered to get involved, but he made the effort for me, without asking for anything in return.  My friend Alana came by to rescue me. Angel #2. And the guy at the body shop took excellent care of me. Angel #3.

How many moments in life exist where we are given the choice to react to someone out of anger or react out of understanding? Or given the choice to help someone or walk on by? Yes, there are undoubtedly Angels among us, even on Sunset Boulevard.  The question is, when you are given the choice to act as angel or evil, which do you choose?  Lucky for me, Eli chose Angel.  I hope in the future I do too.

Up Up and Away!!

I just have to say, we had a pool in my backyard growing up and my mom was careful to fence it off so we wouldn’t fall in and drown.  You’d think if you had a weather balloon behind your home with a 6 year old you might consider blocking that off too?!

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/33330516/ns/us_news-life/?GT1=43001

Woman in the Mirror

I had to try it.

After belly dance class last night, I peeked over once again at the Jamaican Dance Hall class across the way. Except tonight, there was no pulsating soca music blaring from the speakers but a live Cuban drummer surrounded by 7 women wrapped up in colorful togas.  The lively teacher met my inquisitive gaze.

“Come. Join us,” she called.  “We are doing the WOMAN IN THE MIRROR class.”

Her soothing voice and fierce spiritual presence was hard to resist. I wasn’t sure who was in the mirror, but I do love a live drum.   My experience with it was mainly limited to late night NYC nightclubs in the Meatpacking district when the live drummer bangs along with the dj.  The crowd goes into a trance and my hips just can’t stop moving.

After several failed attempts to artfully wrap the bright tangerine floral beach wrap into a toga around my body, I finally tucked it into my sports bra and joined the circle.  I glanced around at the meditative faces of the other women whose eyes were closed, wondering what I was in for.

“Hands in the circle!” chanted the teacher.  “Goddesses, join the circle and move with me!”

Oh boy.  I choked back a giggle and placed my hand on top of the other women’s hands that met in the center of the circle and followed their lead, sashaying my hips and moving around the circle. Doom. Da. Da. Doom, went the drum.

“To the mirror,” she instructed us. We followed her and each took a place in front of the mirror in a line.

“Now look at the woman in the mirror.” Doom. Da. Da. Doom.

I looked around the room at the other women and they were taking these instructions seriously.  I looked at my reflection in the mirror.

“Breathe! Contract! Drop! Drop! To the Left! To the right! Now Drop! Drop!”

Her voice broke into my reverie, and I concentrated on trying to copy the intense African dance movements.  She looked like a wild woman-but beautifully wild. Confident, graceful, and free.  Maybe she knows something that we don’t.

The instructor came up behind me and popped me square on the behind.  “OPEN UP YOUR SEXUAL CHAKRA!”

Oh. Great. So that’s blocked too.  I felt stiff and a little uncomfortable. But I followed the movements, the drums, and after awhile was out of breath but having an outrageously good time.

“Now ladies. Stop. Look into the mirror. Really look in her eyes. And tell her you love her.”

And so I looked.  Really looked.  Into my eyes. They looked startled.

How many times do we ever really look, I mean really look deep into our own eyes. And say that we love what we see?

We are obsessed with searching for someone to love us-friends, family, partners.  But do we ever tell ourselves that we love what we see?

Not the esoteric concept of self-love, but the physical act of really looking in a mirror and telling ourselves-that despite the failures, the mistakes, the pain, the lack of accomplishments, the bad relationships, the not-so great-job, the not-so-perfect body, despite all of that-that we truly love what we see.

“This time when you jump, it’s like you are giving yourself a hug! Tell her that you love her. Now JUMP! JUMP! JUMP!”

And then, I let loose. I got lost in the drum. I was jumping, contracting, and probably flailing in front of the mirror. My hair came loose from the rubber band and flew all around my face and soon I was moving so fast I think I even felt a little drool coming down the side of my mouth.

“YES! YES!! YES!!!!!” She screamed.  The rest of the class stopped to watch me. They were all clapping and screaming.  DOOOM DOOOM.  The drummer started beating faster and faster and faster. I was lost. Somewhere. I went to a place I never felt before. But it felt AMAZING. And I felt so free.

And then it was over.

“Thank you goddesses! See you next week.  Good job you,” she said, nodding to me.

I don’t know what happened in there. But today, I can’t seem to turn my neck from left to right properly.

But on the other hand, I also feel incredibly…free and strong.  Like something in me clicked.  Like I forgave myself for all the disappointments in my life, and just embraced being me.

So I challenge you, to go to a mirror, and actually look at the woman or man in the reflection, even though it may seem silly.   Say that you love what you see, despite the imperfection, despite the pain, despite the inadequacies.

Just be sure to stretch out your neck before you bust out the African dance moves!

Dancehall Queen

“I’m really good at that.”

I turned around to see if she was joking.  But her fresh 19 year old face gazed back at me with complete earnestness. Her confidence was astounding.

We had just left belly dance class and were watching the Jamaican dance class across the hall.   Sweaty bodies wining, chair dancing, pole humping, and even grinding on top of each other-guaranteed to open up the “sexual chakras” as the teacher promised.   Once you get past the initial embarrassment of feeling like you are in a sex class, it is actually an incredible workout.  It takes extreme concentration and technique to ensure that you don’t look like a flailing booty bumper but more like a skilled Caribbean dancehall queen.

So what was amazing about this 19 year old, is that based on our belly dance class, I can safely confirm that her dancing is lacking.  It is extremely doubtful that she has mastered any form of dance.  And gazing into her expression, I wondered how someone could be so oblivious to reality.

But on a closer look, I also noticed something else. She looked extremely peaceful and happy.  I am a more advanced dancer than her, having danced my whole life, and am always focused on what is lacking in my technique and how I can be better.  It makes me constantly grow as a dancer, but it also makes me frustrated at times.  But Ms.19 seemed just…happy.  Which I am sure also makes her pretty attractive.

If you ask most people, they will say they are “better than average” drivers.  I have also read that depressed people have surprisingly more realistic view of themselves than others, which is why they are depressed in the first place.

So which is better?  To be aware of your shortcomings and constantly strive for perfection or to be blissfully unaware and live in an unrealistic but contented view of yourself?

“Harder! Push it! Faster! Lower!” screamed the instructor with her smooth tanned caramel skin and goddess-like presence, interrupting my reverie.  I sighed.  Even if I tried, I could never be like Ms.19.  I think too damn much.  However, I need to take this Jamaican dance class. I bet it does wonders for the booty and the self-esteem.

ZEE FRENCH MEN!!

One Wednesday afternoon at my Pilates studio on Melrose, my vivacious French instructor Josette bounced in with a little extra jolt of her typical joie de vivre.  “Oh zee French men!” she exclamined. “I just got back from Paree, and I got FAT!  And zee French men, zey love my fat. Zey make you feel so sooo…BEEE-A-U-TIFUL!!”

I smiled as a mental image of her jaunt to France conjured up in my mind.  How we all would like a handsome Frenchman to whisper sweet French phrases in our ear about our illustrious beauty while enjoying some wine and cheese.

“Zee men in LA,” she continued, “Are so stupeed.  Zey spend all zeir money on zeir cars. And zee apartments are shiiiit!  In France, zee cars are soo bad…but OOH LA LA, we love zee nightlife! Zee food, zee wine, zee partiees!”

My mind riveted back to my time as an exchange student in Alicante, a small city on the Mediterranean coastline of Southern Spain.  Everyday from 12 to 3 the whole city shuts down for a siesta.   As students, we went home to enjoy paella and sangria with our Spanish families and then take a nap. Only to wake up, have some tea and a croissant, and walk to the beach at sunset. That mid day nap provided the energy to truly explore the nightlife where people of all ages danced at the clubs on the port by the sea till dawn.  It was like a dream.   Can you imagine the chaos in New York or LA if every restaurant, shop, and bank was closed for 3 hours in the middle of the day?

And although many families in Alicante were not wealthy, they seemed to have a better quality of life-to enjoy their lives more.  Less consumed with acquiring wealth, and more interested in appreciating life.

In LA, everyone is trying to make a dollar and land a dream.  There is a frenzy in the air that seems to drive people to extreme frustration.  Spending your money on a flashy Mercedes while living in a shoebox, well, it is all a part of creating the illusion of wealth. Why? So you can feign “importance” with hopes of landing the coveted career.  It is ultimately about money and success, but it feels like a lie.

Over sushi on Sunset today, an Indian friend of mine recounted his experience from a recent trip to Japan.  He said, “In Japan, people tend to put their money on electronics and cars and fashion.  In my culture, we tend to spend more on homes and education.”

So if these cultural trends on where money is spent really do exist, what does that say about the values of each society?  Does one choice bring more happiness? Southern Spain definitely seemed more content than all the Ferrari drivers in LA combined.  Ambition is healthy, but not at the expense of sacrificing the simple joys on this earth.

Where do you spend the most cash? And what does that say about what is important to you?

As for me, I’d head to Paris, and find those Frenchmen that made Josette glow.

For Money or For Love?

In college, when they ask you to pick your major, why do they tell you to choose what you love? With little thought as to what career that might lead to?  Overindulgent liberal arts educations where we study a little of this and a little of that without any specific job-oriented training.  And we wonder why 30 is the new 20, why in cities like New York and LA, you see a bunch of 40 year olds still partying in an overextended adolescence. The Challenge: What am I going to be when I grow up? And Who am I going to Become?

In LA, the city of dreamers-of writers, actors, singers, dancers-most will have to find another career at some point of their lives. People who risk it all for passion, hoping to come into money. But few do. So then what? Have their lives been a failure, because they don’t find success in the world that idolizes fake tittied Playboy bunnies and rapist athletes?

Personally, I admire those inspired enough to place the bet, whether or not they win or lose the game. Ironically, most of the heavyweights I meet in entertainment who do make the millions seem to do so with devastating cost to their personal lives. Famous musicians who are too tempted by the gorgeous women on tour to stay faithful to their wives at home; Powerful executives that have the dream job but little time to cultivate a strong family life. I simply have not met many people here that have struck a good balance.

So even when you come into success and money, it clearly doesn’t buy happiness. Then which is better, to pursue a job that is financially rewarding or a job that you love?

I speak to lawyers who make the bucks, but hate their jobs. To producers who love their work, but can’t stand the stress and the hours. To stay at home moms, who greatly value their time with their children, but long for more intellectual stimulation than what a 2 year old can provide. Life is full of hard choices.

So what do you choose? Money or love? Or are you one of the lucky ones where the two intersected? And if you could do it all over again, would you choose the same thing?