proudmarylives's Xanga

Let Me Upgrade You

Mon, 15 Jan 2007 07:37:21 GMT

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.

I love you, Del Marquis.

Fri, 29 Sep 2006 06:06:10 GMT

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."

Fri, 22 Sep 2006 08:10:48 GMT

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.

Wednesday, September 20, 2006

Wed, 20 Sep 2006 20:27:40 GMT

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.

Monday, September 18, 2006

Mon, 18 Sep 2006 06:22:55 GMT

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.

She Works Hard for the $$$ (So Hard for the $$$)

Tue, 22 Aug 2006 20:20:15 GMT

I always imagined that most people are like me. It wasn't until I got to work and had to invent a Spanglish definition of the word "relevant" so that my coworkers would understand how a Google search works that I realized this is not the case. Similarly, I was the only person at work who felt it important that my coworker, who wants to start an online business, actually get online in the first place. You know, like actually have broadband (or even dial-up, for Christ's sake) routed to her home. I don't know - it seemed logical, and not at all elitist, to me. When you sit at your desk and are constantly bombarded by requests on how to spell "responsibility" and - Jesus, I wish I was kidding - "shipped," you find yourself routinely questioning just where on your resume you committed so heinous a crime as to warrant a corporate punishment such as this.

To hasten my escape, I've lately been sending out my resume. I'm not an Ivy-League-er by any means, nor am I MBA-bound, but I'm pretty damn proud of the resume I've built. I took time, agonizing over my task descriptions, treating my wording like vials of verbal nitroglycerine, attempting to keep them from exploding into mounds of unverifiable bullshit. I always assumed that other job-seekers treated their resumes with the same delicate touch, understanding that this document would be their first impression on potential employers. I was wrong. Holy God, I was wrong. You see, at the wonderfully wacky world in which I work, we hire based not so much on grammatical precision so much as we do based on, oh, the applicant's ability to spell their own name or answer the phone in anything other than a gutteral growl, and generally frown upon those applicants possessing a credit card, debit card, or bank account. If you use a check-cashing service, you may step to the front of the line. As you can imagine, the resumes sent in to apply for these glorious positions range from mildly amusing to "how do you manage to breathe and blink at the same time?" levels of retardation.

Under "Work Experience," one applicant wrote:

"Olympia (February 1997 - November 1997) Telemarketer

Olmpia is a supplies company. I would telephone unsuspecting businesses and informed them of Olympia specials."

Those poor, unsuspecting businesses never knew what hit them - and who can blame them...is it Olympia or Olmpia? Another possibly mentally-challenged individual sent in this wonderful summation:

In my six years of custome service experience, i have learned strong verbal and written skills. i am also fluent in english and spanish.

For some reason, I do not believe him. It is always good to have a plan, and this girl had one:

Objective: To utilize my skills and high energy levels positively in a nurturing environment, as well, to continue to grow and learn with an expanding company. I would also like to secure a challenging position in a company that will enable me to gain experience to provide room for career advancement.

Strangely enough, the phrase "high energy levels" brings to my mind those two cheerleaders on SNL, played by Cheri Oteri (who I loved more than Molly Shannon, Ana Gasteyer, and Tina Fey combined) and Will Ferrell - not someone I want filing my invoices or making my coffee. I'm already not a morning person, and I'm notorious for my inability to muster even the slightest "good morning" to anyone, let alone a high-octane twat with a penchant for redundant phrasing. But never fear, intrepid administrative-assistant job seekers - continue to assail my inbox with your trumped-up declarations of certified qualification:

Highlights of Qualifications: Proven success in implementing professionalism through strong time management.

Seriously, my head is going to explode.

When You Wish Upon A Star, You Get Shit on with Moondust & Sprinkles

Mon, 21 Aug 2006 06:21:01 GMT

Growing up, I used to go to Disneyland for my birthday every year. My dad would present me with my options: either I could stay at home and have a normal birthday party with my friends, or we could go as a family to Disneyland. Honing the manipulation skills that have now become part of my daily social arsenal, I unflinchingly chose Disneyland, knowing full-well that someone in my huge extended family would throw me a birthday party the day after anyway. And so it went, year after year, summer after summer - my mother, pregnant usually and wheelchair-bound, my dad, a varied assortment of aunties, and a growing list of brothers (we seemed to add a new one to the lineup every year) would make the trek in the hot July heat and braved the sweaty, Mid-Western crowds on my behalf.

I love it. I lived for it. I knew Disneyland like the juicy parts of a well-worn Harlequin romance novel, and tortured my family with demands of "churros churros churros!", "Splash Mountain again!", and "I'm going to kill you, you pregnant beast, if you make us leave before the fireworks have begun." Something changed, though. In the time-span between the Little Mermaid parade I danced in above, and Hercules, some of the Disney magic died. I think it was puberty. There's something very American about leaving your childhood heroes, dreams, and aspirations behind to pursue more noble, real-world dreams and aspirations, like - oh, making the track team, losing one's virginity, buying a house in the Hills, etc. And so it was that I decided that Disney movies, while undoubtedly influential in the stoking of my homosexual fire (who didn't want to be a fucking fairy-tale princess, with vermin to sew your fabulous evening gown and a handsome man to wake you up from your eternal slumber with a kiss regardless of the inevitably heinous morning-breath you'd have, and whisk you away to life of glass slippers and white horses?), had run their course. I shunned all things Disney, including the Disney Store, with those poor, sad, unflattering uniforms and giant wall of televisions playing Beauty and the Beast on an endless loop. I judged boys on Myspace who had Disney characters as friends, and laughed internally at what absolutely fucking fairies they had to be. I mean, who puts Tinkerbell in their "Who I Want To Meet" section?

Then I went to Disneyland with my family after my Graduation in June. I felt like I was 8 years-old all over again, and so, naturally, I had to drag my friends into one more round of "You Will Share in the Re-Living of My Childhood Experiences, and You Will Like It" bonding activities.

The faces just got better and better.

Good times, y'all. Good times. I rescind my previous "you are all stupid faggots" attitude, directed at the adult lovers of Disney, and now can say with - uh, pride? - that Disney and I shall never again part. Ok, that's a lie. Disney CORNDOGS and Disney OLD-SCHOOL VHS MOVIE COVERS WITH HIDDEN SEXUAL MESSAGES and I will never again part.

Summer Lovin (Havin' a Blast)

Mon, 14 Aug 2006 07:03:37 GMT

Yeah, I thought it would never happen either. It seems like only yesterday that I gave my own scathing review of the ghetto fashion show at CSUN, lamenting the disgusting heights of tackiness to which my peers flung themselves in the hopes of giving a shout-out on HOT 92 Jamz, the "prize." Three years later, I'm OUT. No more school, no more night classes, and (sadly?) no more legal arguments presented while piss-ass drunk on a vodka cocktail. Thanks for the times that you've given me, CSUN, the mem'ries I'll hold in my heart. And now that we've come to the end of our rainbow, there's one thing I must say out loud: So long, bitches.

And just so you know - I graduated in May. Hopefully this will be the end of my serious Xanga-constipation...get ready for collage after collage after colllage!!!! More of my FABULOUS FACE, coming soon!

Now, for some music:

Party Ben's "Somebody Rock Me," a mashup of The Killers and The Clash, is old, and you may or may not have it, but I discovered it last night on KCRW and I've totally been digging it. Stupid, throw-away fluff...but enjoyable nonetheless.

Jose Gonzalez has been on my radar after making an appearance on Zero 7's latest album, and will be featured at their concert August 27th at the Hollywood Bowl. He was featured on NPR's "All Things Considered," and one of the songs they highlighted was his cover of Kylie Minogue's "Hand on Your Heart," a fun, gay-gay-gay song, and quite possibly the happiest ditty about a breakup ever recorded. After listening to Kylie's original version, take Jose's out for a spin. His double-tracked vocals and quiet delivery give the song the emotional weight it deserves, changing it completely. I'm totally obsessed with his stuff.

Kylie Minogue - Hand on Your Heart

Jose Gonzalez - Hand on Your Heart

Also, just for fun - Jose's raw, unpolished cover of "Teardrop," originally by Massive Attack.

The 6.5-Mile High Club

Fri, 21 Jul 2006 21:00:41 GMT

last night, at 34,000 feet -

I'm listening to Dvorak's Ninth Symphony. Packs of what seem like a million overweight white children are roaming the aisle of my late-night flight into Honolulu, and on-screen, Dante Basco is wowing me in "Learn to Lead" with his continued ability to play a teenaged boy, some four-hundred years after his film debut in "Hook." It's torturous, forcing us to watch this wretched "Dangerous Minds meets Dirty Dancing: Hot Havana Nights meets Puss 'n Boots a.k.a. Antonio Banderas" twice on the same flight, but when viewed with the Spanish-audio accompaniment, it almost realizes its fantastic telenovela potential.

I'm on my way home to attend my younger brother Jamey's wedding. It's jarring, this realization that the boy who once played with his poop in the bathtub ("I sunk your battleship!") feels he is old enough to take a child-bride (ok, so maybe 19 is old enough to vote and star in porn - but to me, she's a child), raise a family, and buy a SUV. At this point, I'm not sure how I feel about it all - I want to be happy for him, but the nagging voices screaming "too young!" are omnipresent. How do you watch your little brother grow up?

That's so me. Taking what is arguably Jamey's most significant life-changing moment to date, and making it about me. How do I deal? How pathetic. I've discovered that in the absense of rampant sexual frustration and nascent bitterness, I've been unable to write much, so here I am, leeching off my brother's happiest moment to find inspiration to whine. It will be wonderful, I'm sure. I'm just an attention-whore who is lost because the ball's not in her honor. There are 500 people coming to this wedding, an outdoor extravaganza that is sure to provide myriad points of inspiration for my own wedding, should someone be foolish enough to sign themselves up for a lifetime of loud, snore-filled nights with my sexy personality. See? Focus on me again.

Oh lord, the plane is dipping, and the night sky is ink-black, moonless. I'm going to die, and the last image I'll have is a half-eaten package of salted peanuts advertising 25-cents off my next purchase.

Obviously, since this has been posted, I did not die. We'll see, though - tomorrow's wedding is full-dress formal. Outdoors. In 89-degree, 60% humidity. I may die yet.

Sunday, July 02, 2006

Sun, 02 Jul 2006 07:26:42 GMT

I'm over it. Visit Emai's site for the full report, now with pictures! And also music! And shiny, flashy things!