Imagine if Dorothy stayed in the Emerald City to look for trouble


My Mum always told me Kool-Aid’s bad for you

It’s refreshing to work for a company that doesn’t force me to drink it!

In the presence of intelligence, insight, talent and teamwork, I recovered quickly from the daily drink forced on me by my previous employer. That syrupy sweet, cheap as f@ck beverage that helps makes Ed Hardy attire, gratuitous use of little people and irrefutably awkward public speaking engagements easier to swallow.

My priorities transitioning to this role, 4.5 years ago, were the same as they had always been – work hard for the boss, work harder for your clients and build something to be truly proud of. The difference of course was I no longer had to focus any energy on ridiculous ego-centric enterprises and my hard work, dealing with loyal revenue-generating partners, never again went unnoticed.

Staying classy about my past employer, and remaining grateful for the experience, was easy for me – I was raised right. The managers who mentored me and the exceptional colleagues I left behind as I moved across town are people I still count as friends. This industry is far too small and much too enjoyable to act petty towards your competitors. It amazes me that the company claiming to be the end-all-be-all, the one we all allegedly covet the ‘magic formula’ for behaves so blatantly jealous and infantile.

Recent editorial hooey about my company; so slippery with lube and rife with contradiction, has me wondering how such weak brown-nosing journalists find work. Reading the ‘articles’ through the cracks in my fingers I can’t feel anything but sheer embarrassment for the author. Fontrum actually – that’s more accurate – it’s shame taken to a whole new level. At least 11 days into his employment our friend with the pen clearly has his finger on the pulse and is somehow convinced all past employees were lobotomized upon exit.

The first article references some form of karmic retribution for stolen key staff and strategies nearly five years ago. The follow-up piece insists that only the most ineffective, low-level staff moved over anyway – none of whom were ever within 100 yards of the big man’s office. Make up your narrow mind! Did our departure leave a dent in the organization; and our owners should be feeling a sting for similar (and apparently deserved) circumstances, or are we the useless bottom-feeding crap employees depicted in your sycophantic editorial? Incidentally Mr. Tablog, the over-the-top portrayal of these ‘traitor’ personnel as worthless illustrates precisely why staff left in the first place. It is appreciation and respect that employees value above all not a well-deserved salary – though that didn’t hurt one bit.

It’s a good time to remind you that although grape can be tasty in small doses, drinking the Kool-Aid impairs judgment and can cause embarrassing moments of nob-gobbling.


So you think you can Mariachi!

It’s embarrassing the intense love I feel for Mariachi musicians. You know how in boy bands there’s the cute one, the gay one, the irrelevant one and the one who goes on to a promising solo career? I’m convinced that such a pecking order exists in Mariachi culture as well but I’m too busy tracing the outline of their naughty bits in their skintight pants to care.

I have now been an important part of two weddings where I completely lost interest in the nuptials altogether when the sombreros and obscure instruments came out. What kind of a friend blocks out ‘to have and to hold’ in favor of dreaming of ‘having and holding’ any one of the hired musicians in big sequined hats?

If you know me at all you know I have a strict ‘no uniform’ policy when it comes to the men in my life. No cops, no firemen, no pilots, no parking attendants, no doctors, no wanna-be cops customs officers, no exceptions – that is unless you are a Mexican with mad skillz and a sewing machine. This is an area I couldn’t possibly discriminate. I love the tall guy (5.9), the slick guy, the one who reaches my navel, the guy with the biggest instrument, the one with Dos Equis belly, tiny ukulele guy and the one who’s there strictly for decoration. Sigh!

Many normal people fantasize about threesomes with Hollywood’s elite or romantic, rose petal moments with Harlequin heroes. I dream of inappropriate touching hour with Juan Gabriel’s stage musicians. I’m not proud of course but it’s fresh. Two nights in a row there have been Mariachi bands in my hotel lobby. I am fairly certain they’ve been sent to test me. When El Fogoncito and boatloads of Tequila appear on my expense report my fantasy will be fulfilled…and inevitably exposed.

If it’s rainy and dark, and I have beans & rice in front of me, I MUST be in Costa Rica!

Not the fancy-shmancy Costa Rica – famous for celebrity hideouts, hot spring resorts and out of the way beaches – the capital city known primarily for prostitution, feline-sized insects and chicken wings. I have not a single pair of shoes that enjoys coming to Costa Rica and generally-speaking they all beg to jump in the bag when I travel. When the news of two ruined pairs, from this trip alone, reaches my closet I’ll be lucky if I don’t return barefoot.

I can’t speak publicly about my disdain for the taxi drivers here in San Jose. To do so would surely implicate me when the next lying, cheating, leering, dangerous, foul-mouthed, grouchy @#$% gets what’s coming to him.

After 6 trips already this year, the sad truth is that visiting a brothel (other than the Del Ray), and an unexpected trip to the remarkably dodgy P’lufo’s strip joint, remain highlights. Honorable mention however goes to the wings at Hooligan’s and the consistent gratuitous run of CSI on AXN – 4th and 5th place atop the list respectively. 

The best part though of my broken-Spanish, alter ego life – in my home-away-from home – is without a doubt the people. If not for Monkey, Buttons, Marcie, Harv, PLo, Alex, Deep, Rolo, Marco, Shanny, Angel, Uncle, Jefe, Katz, Bake, Cyns, Riccardo, the beautiful Mexicans, my fabulous team and above all my dearest friend Kitty I might just choose my own ending – drowning by way of Salsa Lizano of course!  Pura Vida San Jose, see you again soon.