Penis Pasta Feast

If Saturday proved anything, it's that I will go to the ends of the earth to make sure that my friends have the necessary accoutrements for what is essentially a penis-themed party. And by the 'ends of the earth,' I mean all the way to West Hollywood. Not to dis WeHo, which is like Gay Disneyland, but it's just in the middle of the city, miles away from any convenient freeway and always takes forever to get to no matter what time of day it is.

How much do I love dirty puns? THIS MUCH!!!!

Since I had waited to the last minute, as I am wont to do, I was scrambling to locate the primary ingredient for my potluck assignment: penis pasta. Having had no luck in the Valley, I was forced to search over the hill at the one place I knew would carry it: The Pleasure Chest on Santa Monica Blvd. I had been there once before and was very impressed by its selection and friendly, helpful staff. I called ahead, just to make sure the pasta was in stock. They said they had two left, and that if I could be there that night, they would hold them for me.

According to the clerk, this is the classiest kind of penis pasta.

I scurried to get ready and on the road to make the trek down to WeHo. Traffic was actually in my favor and I made it there in record time. But then I waited the same amount of time in the store just to get my damn pasta. This chick was taking forever to buy, well I probably shouldn't tell you what she was buying, but if you've suffered through a particularly disturbing scene from "Requiem for a Dream," then you can imagine how uncomfortable I was whilst waiting my turn. I'm pretty nonjudgmental when it comes to that sort of thing, but I had to stop myself from physically cringing. Stupid Darren Aronofsky.

That bastard. Shudder.

The clerk ended up not being able to find those last two boxes of Mama Peckeroni. Luckily, they did have Macaweenie and Cheese. "The only pasta with a hard-on." It was glorious. Even the directions were dirty. "Do not rinse pasta, as Macaweenie will become flaccid." Tee hee. I also bought a similarly shaped sucker for the bride-to-be and dirty Mad Libs. Because Mad Libs are the Business. As are pot lucks with delicious pot roast, cocktail weenies in a penis-shaped blanket, and my now World Famous Macaweenie and Cheese. And karaoke bars. And hanging with your girls, celebrating an impending marriage, and yelling "WOOOOOO!" a lot.

Penis Pasta Famine

There is a famine in the Valley, one that we never saw coming. In this fertile land of porn stars both legitimate and aspiring, and adult bookstores that litter the land like Starbucks and CVS, you cannot find a single box of pasta shaped like a man's junk. What the hell is this world coming to? (I really really really wanted to hide a dirty pun in that last sentence, but I refrained because I'm classy like that. But I think you can probably figure it out anyway...) I've never actually purchased penis pasta before, or seen it for sale in my limited sex shop experience. But I always thought that it was a major adult novelty item. Not so, as it turns out.

Tee hee. Penis.

I'm kicking myself for waiting until the night before my dear friend and fellow Tomato, Tiffany's bachelorette pot luck and karaoke shindig to purchase what I was so excited to bring: phallic-shaped carbs, hopefully whole wheat if possible so I could actually eat it. I had planned to order it online three weeks ago, but it just kept getting pushed back and neglected until it was too late and overnight shipping was too expensive. Time just flies by when you're avoiding something. I can't believe I even procrastinated this arguably enjoyable task.

What kind of self-respecting adult-oriented establishment doesn't carry penis pasta???

But anyway, here we are, less than 24 hours to go, and no stores within a five mile radius carry penis pasta. (I know five miles isn't very big, but it's late and I have to work tomorrow). One of the stores I called, I could barely understand the guy who answered the phone. I made him repeat the name of the store like five times just to make sure I hadn't misdialed and very awkwardly asked an Old Folks Home if they sold genitalia-themed pasta. But even after I was convinced that it was indeed a sex shop located in Studio City, the answer was no. Not cool, Valley. Not cool.

I also find this vaguely dirty.

I guess I'll just have to settle for Penne Pasta with White Sauce and make the argument that 'penne' is as close to 'penis' as pasta gets. In fact I wonder if 'penne' actually means 'penis' in Italian. Excuse me whilst I Google (insert Jeopardy theme song here)... Damn. It's actually derived from the Latin for 'feather' or 'quill.' That's not really dirty or funny. Sad. Oh well. Happy early bachelorette party, Tiffany!!!!! (Though I doubt she's actually reading this...)

A First Concert, A Second Birthday, And Chinese Food Revisited

Sunday will go down in history as the first time the soon-to-be auspicious singing group, the Sally Tomatoes took to the stage (or conference room at an apartment complex leasing office) to the delight of friends, family, and future fans. Though the mid-December day was scorching hot (80+), they braved the weather to see their favorite ladies bring down the house with our catchy ditties, mellifluous harmonies, and gobs of charisma. Highlights include our opening number of "Be My Baby" by the Ronettes (from Dirty Dancing, yay!), "And So It Goes" by Billy Joel (because what's an a cappella choir without Billy, I ask you?), and an assorted selection of holiday classics made new with our fresh and cheeky approach.

The Sally's being silly. We're adorable.

The climax of the night had to be my own personal solo, "Hallelujah," the Rufus Wainwright version (as it appears in Shrek, though that in no way affected my choice). And when I say 'climax,' I mean it wasn't a total disaster. I've been in choirs and musicals all my life, but I'd never really had a full-length solo, just me and the song (I don't count the songs I sang in character for shows like Annie in which I played a drunk 8th grade Miss Hannigan. Not exactly American Idol material). I've always been more of a team player, harmonizing alto singer, not the Star (insert jazz hands here). I was terrified, even though there probably weren't more than thirty or so people in the audience. What I can remember of it (for I tend to forget stressful situations. I have no memory of singing the national anthem in three part harmony at a homecoming game), was that it went pretty well. Not amazing, but I have no specific regrets. Which is a big deal because I always pick apart my performance even while I'm in the midst of it, causing me to forget the words. But I managed to remember this time around. It helps that the entire chorus consists of "hallelujah."

Overall it was an incredible experience that was a long time coming for us as a group. For a while there, it didn't seem like it was going to come together. We're all busy and stressed, and sometimes this one extra obligation seemed like the straw on the tomato's back. But for me, singing with my girls is often the highlight of my week. It's awesome to finally be part of a choir consisting of people who genuinely want to sing. There's no school credit, or money, or religious guilt involved. We get together and just laugh our asses off. We sing what we want to sing, and have a ball doing it. So cheers for the Sally Tomatoes! Be sure to catch our act next Spring!

After the a cappella holiday concert in Marina Del Rey, I proceeded to get lost on the way to West Hollywood for a massive gay-themed AA meeting. No, I'm not gay nor in AA. But I was there to celebrate, or "give a cake," to one of my very best friend's two year anniversary of sobriety. The recipient gathers together their closest friends who literally hand him/her a cake. They playfully refer to it as a 'birthday,' in AA, which I think is a great term for it. It is a milestone that demonstrates how far you've come in your new life. And it is not easy. I've been there through it all, and I am just so incredibly proud and grateful that he is still in my life. I cannot say enough good things about AA. I've been to maybe 4 or 5 meetings, and visited the recovery house that espouses its teachings several times more (not to mention barbecues and drag bingo night). I no longer believe in organized religion, but if I did, I would go to AA just for the uplifting feeling I get after I leave.

For these purposes, we'll call my friend "Marco"

For one thing, alcoholics, especially gay alcoholics, have the best stories. They are the life of the party, even without the sauce, and have a wry sense of humor about the awful turns their lives have taken. So even though they are recounting these horrific events, you find yourself laughing right along with a group of people who have definitely been there before. While I've never been to rock bottom when it comes to drugs or alcohol (my addictions are pretty much food and television related), I can empathize to being in a dark place. As with a regular church, AA believes in a higher power, but as you understand it. There's no denomination and no particular dogma other than "progress, not perfection." When people share, there is nothing but love, respect, and friendship. It is a vast and unconditional circle of support that welcomes everyone, even outsiders like a straight, female, non-alcoholic like me. Upon leaving, I feel happy and grateful that an organization like this exists and that it has the power to change lives.

Practically everyone you meet automatically introduces themselves with a hug or a handshake and makes sure to remember your name, even months after meeting you. They also compliment your shoes or your sweater, or notice when you lose weight. And while many are struggling with their own problems, they focus on the positive. Like taking over the Kung Pao Bistro in WeHo in a grand birthday celebration, complete with cake. I've mentioned before that the very thought of Chinese food is revolting to me. But that night wasn't about me, it was about my friend and his peeps. So I oh-so-graciously agreed to come along and brave the Kung Pao. Plus I was starving and would have eaten almost anything at that point.

I ordered a chicken salad, since I figured I couldn't really go wrong. I just wouldn't eat the sour-smelling and foul-looking dressing and I'd be ok. Wrong. The ginormous plate arrived and the lettuce was covered in sesame seeds and mandarin oranges. (I don't believe in putting fruit on things that should not be fruity, and seeds just get in the way). And the chicken, which I was expecting to be grilled, or at least microwaved, was freezing cold, boiled white, and was clammy, chewy, and altogether unappetizing. It took all my focus just to swallow and not throw up (that's what she said.) One piece was all I could manage. I am not the type to send food back. I believe in suffering in silence (at least until I can get back home to rant about it via the blog). But I was surrounded by strong-willed gays who insisted that I get my money's worth. So they sent it back for me, bless them. I then got vegetarian firecracker chicken, because I shockingly loved what my friend had ordered. Vegetarian chicken, you ask? How is that possible? Well I'll tell you...I didn't ask and I don't want to know the answer. It was ten times better than the real chicken on my salad.

The true measure of adulthood.

The long, non-sequitur evening ended and I took my friend back to his place. It's not been an easy few years, but things finally look like they're turning around. He just got a new job, and I'm like a proud mama. I drove back home, feeling content and accomplished (having sung a solo AND eaten Chinese food all in the same night). Of course three hours later, I awoke from a deep sleep and had to spew up all that firecracker chicken. I knew there was a reason I don't eat Chinese food. It might have been the disgusting salad chicken causing me such gastric unpleasantness. But in any case, I still ate my leftovers for lunch the next day. I felt so cosmopolitan with those little white square takeout boxes in my fridge. Almost like a real grown-up. Strange how that's my definition of being grown-up: Chinese takeout.

Ok, done rambling for now. But just you wait, big things are a-brewing here at Sporadic Sporkitudes! First of all, today is my Twelve Days of giveaways show on ELLEN!!!!! They seriously called me to recommend bringing a "large vehicle." Apparently we are going to score on a massive scale today, so wish us luck! Also, tomorrow is the first day of my new job, so huzzah on that note as well! Done for real now.

Sally Tomatoes out on the Town

I have managed to stave off the boredom of unemployment for a few days now, celebrating my freedom instead of lamenting it. Friday night I set aside my deep abiding hatred for all things that end in 'z' when they should end in 's' and hit up Popstarz (shudder) night at the Factory in West Hollywood. This marked the second time the Sally Tomatoes have painted the town in our own special shade of red (the first being our kickass karaoke excursion last month). And WeHo will never be the same.

As with any time I ever try to leave my house, I got lost on the way to pick up two of my friends, Eric and Michelle. I'm probably the only person who gets consistently lost even when I've been to the destination several times before. It was around ten when we finally pulled into the valet parking lot. Normally I'm against valet parking, and paying to park in general when it can be avoided. But in West Hollywood, you can waste half the night hunting for street parking, and then the other half walking to and from the club (in painful shoes no less). So I bit the bullet and handed over my baby to the valet guys, uncertain that they would understand how to operate a delicate automobile like Stan.

We finally entered the Factory, a hip gay club off of La Peer, 20 minutes later. Not because we had to stand in line with hoards of other sequined revelers. But because we couldn't find the damn thing. Seriously. There were at least three clubs that shared the same building. We asked at Ultra Suede and some cool nameless club with a red carpet (which I thought might be the Factory, but Eric was scared of the intimidating black folks outside and insisted that that wasn't it. Sidebar, Eric happens to be black. I'm more ghetto than he is.) So we wandered around the building, going through some sketch looking alley and another parking lot and finally found our Popstarz night.

The Factory

The organizer of our get-together had the foresight to have us sign up to be on the guest list so we could get in for free. God knows I love free. And the fruity delicious drinks like my pomegranate cosmo were only three bucks! Now this was my kinda place! (Most other clubs/bars in WeHo and LA in general are so outrageously expensive, that I tend to stay at home and mix my own vodka tonics). Armed with our pink cocktails, dangly earrings, and sparkly shoes, the Sallys (plus Eric) hit the dance floor. Normally I'm not a big fan of pop top 40 kind of music. I'd much rather listen to Social Distortion, Dropkick Murphy's, or classic CCR, etc.. But Popstarz night means they bring back all our old favorites from middle school. So there we were, eight twenty-something grown women (plus Eric), rocking out to Britney, the Spice Girls, 'N Sync, Backstreet Boys, and Destiny's Child. That's my idea of a party. And naturally because we're all choir geeks, we were singing our little hearts out, the lyrics still memorized from ten years before.

Sounds of my childhood.

Serious nostalgia, combined with deceptively strong cosmos, and the wild abandon that accompanies dancing at a gay club where you don't have to feel self-conscious or impress anyone, made for one stellar evening. Whenever a song came on that we weren't a fan of, we'd run over to the second dance floor to hear more contemporary girlie anthems from Rihanna, Lady Gaga, and Kelly Clarkson. Later on, we even braved the raised platform and performed our best 90s moves (including the Running Man and the Humpty Hump) for the crowd of adoring gays and the girls that love them. Sadly though, I brought it so hard that I think I pulled something in my knee. I rocked out so hard I injured myself. The very definition of go big or go home. So I had to take it easy the rest of the night.

Promoting the new Cher/Christina Aguilera film "Burlesque" to the only audience who will appreciate it, was the group Barbie's Addiction. I didn't catch her name, but the drag queen in Ke$ha garb with wicked lip liner issues, owned her lip synch number of Rihanna's "Only Girl in the World." She pranced about surrounded by adorable, scantily-clad boy gogo dancers who seemed to worship the ground she strutted on. One of the gogo boys was especially mesmerizing. Wearing only what could be described as 'man panties,' this guy was a vision in spandex. He moved with a ballet dancer's grace and a stripper's sensibility. We think he might have been half-asian and half-black, which made him strikingly beautiful and exotic looking. Whenever he was onstage, the crowd could look at no one else. He seemed to be so lost in the music that you just wanted to lose yourself right along with him.

As the magical night wore on, however, things started to go downhill a bit. It's my theory that the club kind of wants you to leave as it gets closer and closer to 2am, the Cinderella hour. The music starts to get even more generic. The sweaty, stinky sensation from dancing hard for hours on end becomes unbearable. The crowd becomes suffocating as people push and shove their way past you with their full, icy drinks perilously perched in their unstable grasp. I can't dance if I don't have space. That's why it was so fun at the beginning. The Sallys dominated the floor, inspiring the wallflowers to join us in our revelry. But when you're packed in so tightly that you can barely move (and it hurts to move if you have a hurt knee), it's no longer fun. Not to mention, I usually go to bed around 9:30 and it was past 1am. I finally dragged Eric and Michelle away from the floor to go pick up my car from the valet.

Exhausted, in pain, freezing, hungry, and in all other ways crankypants, we limped back to the parking podium. But no, you can't pick up your car where you dropped it off. So we had to walk what felt like two excruciating blocks to the pickup station. Waiting in line in the cold, we saw a group of girls stumbling towards their car. The driver was a girl who was probably my size (read, not small) in a dress so short, her vajajay was completely hanging out. Seriously. She was wearing underwear, thank god, but we were scandalized. Women of any size should not be walking around with their junk out in the open, but this was just wrong. If you don't even notice that you're feeling a bit too free and breezy, chances are you aren't sober enough to drive. But she got into the car and drove away. We wanted to tell someone, but what can you say? Open vajajay isn't strictly proof of inebriation (at least not in this town). So we were glad that it took forever to get Stan back, just for safety's sake.

This is more my style.

I dropped off Eric and Michelle and headed back home to South Central. I was terrified that I was going to get pulled over for my busted headlight again. Unlike vaj-girl, I was completely sober, having danced all of the effects of my cosmo out hours before. But I made it back sans-fix-it ticket and all was well. So even though it started and ended kind of rocky, Popstarz night was a resounding success. Normally I'm not a big fan of clubbing. I'd much rather spend the evening as I did on Saturday, hanging out with my friends, playing rock band and holding a Freaks and Geeks marathon. But with the free entry, cheap drinks, and infectious (the good kind) atmosphere, I'd definitely hit up Popstarz again. Just leave early and beware of exposed vagina.

Introducing the Sally Tomatoes!

I've already posted this on Facebook, but just in case you were on the edge of your seat, dying to hear news of the name of my little a cappella singing group, we've finally chosen...the Sally Tomatoes!! The following are the reasons why this name rocks:

1. I (kind of) suggested it, so yay me!

2. It's not a silly musical pun that most people won't get (ie, Circle of Fifths, Here comes Treble, the Acafellas, etc.)

3. It's an obscure reference to the classic Audrey Hepburn film "Breakfast at Tiffany's" Holly Golightly regularly visits a mob boss named Sally Tomato in jail to give him "the weather report." If you haven't seen the movie I suppose that sounds like a euphemism for conjugal visits. But it's not...

4. It's also an homage to our unlikely patron saint, Ray, or as I like to call him, Sally Tomato (I'm nothing if not repetitious). For those of you who don't remember as far back as last Friday, Ray bought us drinks at Gabe's on karaoke night. He was an adorable old drunk who sang "I Got You Babe" after telling us his friend's brother had 6 months to live.

5. It sounds random, which I love, but is actually steeped in our (week old) mythology with great and somewhat badass significance.

6. If nothing else, we've been trying to come up with a name for months and then there's that one moment when someone says something and everyone goes quiet. Then it's all, "I kinda like that..." and a legacy is born. Ok, so it's not like the Sally Tomatoes are poised to take over the world or anything, but a name solidifies us and makes it real :D

Anyway, can you handle how cute that is?

PS, I tried to post a picture of a tomato, just in case you didn't know what one looked like, but it didn't work and I'm tired. So yeah. Picture a tomato here.

Clash of the Commitments

I am a commitment-phobe after burning myself out in middle and high school with far too many extra-curricular activities that involved several 16-19 hour days a week. Not to mention belonging to a church that takes up half of your free time with lessons, gatherings, and other various obligations. So for the past few years all I've wanted to do is go to work/school and come home. But I love singing and I miss being in a choir. So I finally joined one after searching for a low-cost, low-commitment, non-professional group for several months now. It's a small all-girls (: ( ) a cappella group, and it's been so challenging but much fun!

I discovered recently however that this group meets on Thursdays. Being unemployed I have very few time slots that are filled, but once a month on a Thursday, I have my ScreenplayLab Mixer networking event (see previous post Shmoozing Part 2). This is probably the one organization that could really help my career and I have to miss it because I committed to this group. We only meet for an hour and a half once a week and I don't want to be the girl who ducks out early to drive all the way to Beverly Hills just to stand around awkwardly.

It's not a big deal, it's just I wish I could do both. Hopefully I'll get a job without the help of this ridiculous tradition of networking and I won't have to feel guilty about missing my singing group. I do still have the other networking thing I go to, but that's mostly just sit around and pretend you can hear what people are saying. Ok, gotta get back to reading scripts! I've been able to take in a lot, and it's really been improving my own screenwriting skills.