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proudmarylives
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Country: United States
State: California
Metro: Los Angeles
Birthday: 7/10/1982
Gender: Male
Interests: dining out, foreign films, drinking with friends, drinking without friends, shopping, cooking, reading, writing, stalking, hiking, camping, singing, dancing, and driving long distances for no particular reason other than to see you
Expertise: gourmet food production and fakery, customer ass-kissin, paper bullshitting, fashion consulting for fashion victims, all around guru
Occupation: Student
Industry: Textiles
Message: message meEmail: email me
AIM:  jaycenlee82
Member Since:
3/26/2003
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| Let Me Upgrade You 
Beyonce Knowles, for all the retardness her soundbytes imply, has simply got me beat in the dancing department. Plus, unlike me, she doesn't appear to be helping a large cantaloupe shimmy its way out of her birth canal while she rocks to the beat of "Proud Mary." The holidays added more than joy to my life this year - they added a few more inches of padding which must be burned off like old growth in the forest. While dancing might be considered the right antidote to bloat, if you take into consideration the amount of alcohol required to contort my body into that position, well - we might as well call it a draw. Beyonce may be functionally retarded, but this one-trick-pony found a helluva trick to exploit, capturing the inertia generated by her enormous gyrating hips and riding them, literally, to the top. I'm currently engaged in the search for my own ridable talent to take me to the top and leave my truly retarded self behind (all ridable talent 8" or more, step to the front of the line! haha, I KID).
My mind is still recovering from the Great Trim-Spa Debacle of 2005, and while my "do you like my bodyyyyyy" outbursts have been curtailed so far to the bedroom, I find myself rambling more and more like a disciple of Paula Abdul. You know Paula. Not the beloved "Coldhearted Snake" enchantress of yesterdecade, but the current American Idol co-host/stroke-victim iteration, whose facial movements are inversely proportional to the number of words uttered. How did it come to this? I have no idea. I do say some stupid shit, especially around my boyfriend, but you know how that goes. You try to say the right, cute things, so that your whole relationship is like When Harry Met Sally come to life, and you end up sounding more like a character in a pointless Sylvester Stallone vehicle, attempting to say with a straight face that humans in the 21st century wipe their asses with one of three seashells. So I mean, I can understand why he sometimes suspects that I may be just the tiniest bit retarded, but he lets it go because I make a kick-ass Dijon Turkey Leg and he knows that if he would like to keep eating such succulent meals, then he had better at least acknowledge my few intellectual moments with all the enthusiasm of a new pet-owner who is trying to train his puppy to shit on the little mat, and not on the Berber rug.
My self-consciousness has everything to do with the fact that this year, 2007, I turn 25, and I'm desperately searching for relevance. Not like, what's relevant to ME, per se, but trying to feel relevant to THE WORLD. You hit that wall where you realize that everyone whose music you admire, books you've read, movies you lost yourself in, even friends whose professional accomplishements inspired you - you realize that in most cases, they were at least on that track for sucess before they hit 25. And you wonder if, since you're nowhere near the purchase of your first Bentley, you'll ever see that sort of success. You crush yourself wondering if the fact that you majored in Asian American Studies from a school of lesser-reknown is going to kill your career prospects before they've hatched. You speculate that perhaps because you slacked off in that public high school and intentionally skipped taking AP classes because you thought the "smart" students who took the "smart" classes were too stuffy for your liking will now mean that you're doomed to a life of lesser achievements. It's all bullshit - the battle is fought internally, and no one knows that better than me.
This ain't an original conundrum. I know millions of people have gone through their quarter-life crisis and emerged unscathed (except for back in the days before the 20th century, when "quarter-life" was more like, 13 years old), and I'm just the most verbose one, fated to ramble endlessly online about the direness of my situation before retiring at the end of the night to masturbate and sleep. I'm sure Beyonce has had similar discussions with Mama Tina, about whether an earlier costume disaster involving Mediterranean Blue sequins being mistakenly applied to LaTavia's corset instead of the correct Cerulean Blue sequins (thus causing the group to implode, because everyone knows that Mediterranean is totally like, THREE SHADES lighter than Cerulean) meant that although she'd be financially and professionally successful with Jay-Z, she'd forever be cursed to a life sleeping next to ugliness personified (See, B's just like you and me. She ponders the DEEP SHIT.) Either way, as long as homegirl and I keep working out our dance routines, I'm sure these minor quarter-life quibbles will be over in a 5-6-7-8 kick step kick sidebend booty bounce drop to the floor and OUT.
Or whatever.
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| I love you, Del Marquis. 
I saw the Scissor Sisters at the Shrine last (Thursday) night - and they kicked ass. I had gone initially to see Jake Shears do his go-go boy routine, but totally fell in love instead with Del Marquis, the guitarist on the right.
Look at that shit. He wore a black pinstriped version of those same high-waisted pants, and good LORD I was so in love. Maybe it's because I just want the pants, or the ability to wear something like that, but yeah - now I'm buying their second album.
Fantastic show - if they're coming to your town, plunk down the $35 for a ticket - they fuckin' rocked the house. | | |
| "If you don't know me by now...you ain't never ever gonna know me." 
Free DVD my ass. If I wanted to play with silicone, I'd just bust out my dildo.
On the other hand...they have really good jokes. | | |
| Ok, so maybe I just need to adjust the color, and trim the bangs...but otherwise, very Anna-Wintour, no?
Only this devil wears Prada found at Loehman's. | | |
| On Saturday, our jaws dropped when we were overtaken at the LA County fair by an old woman on a motorized wheelchair, speeding past us like a banshee on her way to the pony rides. It wasn't her full head of Doc-from-Back-to-the-Future white hair, nor the large "RENTAL" sticker emblazoned on the back of her seat that had us transfixed. It wasn't even small, terrified, whisp of a boy tethered to the steering handles, stradling her lap, fearing for his life. No, it was the fact that wheelchair was playing music. Leaving not only a trail of dust but of tunes as well, this wheelchair was tricked out to the nines, the parapalegic's answer to the "premium luxury" upgrade at Budget Rental Car. "Where the fuck are we?" we wondered aloud. Over the course of the day, we witnessed several accidents and even more near-misses involving motorized wheelchairs piloted not by the disabled or elderly, but rather, the morbidly obese. What draws these human pachyderms out of the relative comfort of their domestic-made vehicles and ranch homes?
Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the Deep-Fried Oreo. You would think that perhaps the very fact that a trip to the fair requires a rental of a motorized wheelchair to save you from crushing your legs might be reason enough to forgo this heart-stopper, but then you would be wrong. So wrong.
 
Even avocado-shaped nuns come out for crazy fried shit. And seriously - CRAZY FRIED SHIT.
As you might imagine, such gluttony does not attract the most discerning, sophisticated attendees, but you have to give it to the fair's organizers, who, knowing their attendees' limitations, devised a sensational cross-promotional marketing campaign that caught even me off-guard:
Related: if you like cheap beer, you might also like beating your wife! (But if you like Stella-Artois, you might also like men.)
We visited the horse races, and were quite entertained. Not so much by the actual horses, as by the woman in front of us.
"What's that, La Verne? You can't read that there small print? Well let me use my other pair of glasses and help you! God Bless America!"
Here we have Greg (wonder why I'm not bitter/lonely/frustrated lately? blame/thank Greg), Barry, and Davey. My horse won, but that's only because I kept changing the horse I was rooting for until I chose the one that was about to cross the finish line.
And finally, is there any more appropriate way to entertain the kiddies?
No, I think a giant, inflatable, sinking Titanic does just fine, thank you. Ha! And look - even in the playground version, there aren't enough lifeboats! History is fun again.
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