Santa Ellen

This year has been generally pretty awful. But Santa made up for it in a big way by making the last couple weeks be absolutely incredible! This year Santa took the form of a Louisiana lesbian comedian and talk show host, Ellen Degeneres (and also a creepy dancing Elvis elf with an oversized head for some reason, I tried to find a picture, but Google was too scared to post one). Yesterday was the grand return of me and Kelly Bean to Warner Brothers to watch the taping of the Ellen Degeneres Show (since we technically didn't get to last time). I could hardly sleep the night before. It was like Christmas Eve on crack, since my normal Christmas doesn't involve celebrities and an overload of expensive gifts.

Nothing to do with Christmas, but I would have killed to see this episode.

I'll skip right to the show, since we got in the studio with absolutely no drama whatsoever. It felt soooo good to finally be in the crowd, jumping around, dancing, screaming, cheering, and bruising our hands from clapping so hard. Before, we could only hear the fun of the pre-show dance contest (during which two complete strangers who were no spring chickens got DOWN, and by down I mean they basically did the nasty to the beat of "Baby Got Back.") It was awkward and hilarious, my two favorite things. When Ellen came out for her monologue, she remarked about our inherent need to present and shake our booties whenever the occasion arises. She even had her editors compile a monologue of rump-shaking to that effect. Good times.

Then Marky Mark came out (for he will always be Marky Mark to me and the Bean). I'm not an especially big fan, but when I saw those especially big guns he was packing (after having worked out for basically 4 years straight for his role in the Fighter), I couldn't take my eyes off of the point where his Pabst Blue Ribbon t-shirt ended (classy guy), and the biceps began. He wasn't terribly interesting to listen to, and he's a bit of a butterface, but day-amn. He can send good vibrations my way anytime. I don't even remember what he talked about, I was too busy drooling.

Sorry Marky Mark. That's what you get.

Next was a performance by Ciara. Yawn. Totally generic, less than mediocre, poison for my ears song, but the dancing was phenomenal. Usually I don't really care about that kind of thing, but this was stellar showmanship. Sad that it couldn't be for a more talented singer or more worthy song. (We were stuck with the CD afterwards, sigh.) We also got a sneak peek at Grayson Chance (the 12 year old Youtube sensation Ellen discovered)'s new video. He's playing a bland pop song in the rain, on a piano surrounded by a crowed of throbbing, cult-like girls. He's 12! Plus they autotuned the crap out of his amazing voice. Trying to Bieberize him? Not cool, Ellen's record label. Not cool.

The second guest was Olivia Wilde, who most people recognize from House or the new Tron (I hated the first, so I definitely won't be seeing the second), but I will always think of as the badass girlfriend of both Seth and Marissa on the O.C.. I didn't like her then and I didn't think I'd like her now. She has kind of an evil beauty about her, as if in ten years she'd make an excellent wicked step-mother. She reminds me of Voldemort, if Voldemort were an adequately hot chick. Anyway, I was determined not to like her. But she won me over! Who knew she was actually quite charming and adorable beneath her icy cold, pointy-featured exterior? Or else she's a better actress than she seems and she really is a demon...

She's still a demon, even if she is surprisingly likable.

Speaking of demons, I heard the phrase "Ellen feeds off your energy" at least twice more. It's definitely a thing. Ellen claims that she takes that positive energy and sends it back out into the universe, but I think she keeps most of it for herself to stay young and kickass. Just a theory. I don't blame her. I'd do the same if I were a demon.

But enough about the show, y'all just want to hear about the presents!!! For many presents there were! It was crazy, I had kind of forgotten about them. I was totally into the show, though if I had been watching it on TV, I probably would have changed the channel early on. All of a sudden this alarm went off and everyone was jumping up and screaming! I thought it was because that creepy Elvis elf thing came out and started skipping around. But no, PRESENTS!!

Here is what we won:

1. Amazon Kindle

2. Tomtom GPS

3. Fancy Schmancy Bluetooth

4. Camcorder

5. Calphalon Waffle Maker (I'm told it's a good brand)

6. $500 worth of Calphalon pots and pans

7. $100 gift card to the Amazon Denim store

8. Unbearable Lightness by Porti Di Rossi

9. Rock Band 3 Game + Keyboard

10. PS3 with Move

11. Oh, and Ciara's CD (anticlimax)

Isn't my display attractive? I think I could work as a window dresser. I could dress the shit out of windows. Anyway, AMAZING, right? The thing I was most ecstatic about was the GPS. As you all know, I get lost all the frickin' time. I'm a mess in the car. I freak out about the littlest thing and I have absolutely no sense of direction. But I used this handy little gadget today as I had to drive from South Central to Marina Del Rey to Studio City to South Central, and I didn't get lost once! Plus it took me on back roads so I'd miss most traffic. SCORE!! My second cousin and Kelly Bean's mom saw us on today's broadcast and apparently they caught the moment where we high-fived because I wanted that GPS soooo badly!! So sorry, no more hilarious Hutch getting lost stories! Also, I named it Hudson, because Stan's true persona matches that of Stanley Hudson on the office. So Hudson is now Stan's sidekick.

The Kindle I was also excited about. I have such ADD when it comes to books and I'm always reading like 30 at a time. I like options, so it's nice to always have it on me in case I get stuck waiting somewhere like I did this morning and I could just plop right into the Secret Garden. I don't like that you have to pay for books, but there's tons of free public domain stuff that I'd be reading anyway, and libraries have some ebooks you can check out for free too. So sweet!

I already sold the pots, pans, and the waffle maker to a friend who will actually give them a good home. In my tiny kitchen, they'd end up feeling lonely and neglected, never to reach their full potential. I'm also most likely selling the PS3 and Rock Band. It would be fun, but I honestly don't think I'd use it that much. I have my Wii, so anything else is kind of redundant. I'm not a gamer whatsoever, but I like that the Wii has real games like tennis and basketball, not video games which don't interest me. So if anyone is interested, make me an offer! But I won't ship.

Sorry about the product placement, but I'm just super stoked about all this loot! We managed to wrangle a Subaru with folding back seats, so we could take everything home. All that times two definitely wouldn't have fit in Stan. Also in case you were wondering, my first day work went fantastic today. I'm not technically allowed to blog about it (apparently I work for the CIA or something), but I will say that I scored a catered Persian lunch, free Starbucks, and delicious cake. Apparently I love Persian food. Who knew?

I should be turned on, but this is really just unsettling.

Do his abs seem wonky to you? Also, he looks plastic. Yeeech.

UPDATE!!! Oh my god, I totally forgot to mention Slater! I knew I should have taken notes. So yeah, after the show was over, they told us they needed to film a segment for Extra. So Mario Lopez came out! Huzzah! I was super excited, having been a HUGE Saved By the Bell fan back in the day (and to this day if truth be told). Though my heart belonged to Zack, I wouldn't have said no to Slater. But throughout the course of Slater's interview, he became creepier and creepier. He has this perfect, blindingly white smile that doesn't reach his dead eyes. And even though he talked about his wife and new baby daughter, Kelly Bean and I agreed that there's no way he's straight. It's ok, Slater. We'll still love you if you love yourself enough to admit the truth. So yeah. Woo!

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.

Why UPS is Dumb: The Sequel

It seems like every story I have starts and/or ends with me getting horribly horribly lost. This one is no exception. I finally decided to attempt the journey Downtown to pick up my mystery Amazon package (tee hee) from the UPS center. I left an hour early, and luckily didn't hit any serious traffic. I was making good time until I got off the freeway into the one-way wasteland that is Downtown Los Angeles. After turning around in a complete circle, and driving for a good mile or two without seeing my next turn, I was frustrated to tears. "It shouldn't be this difficult!" I screamed to myself more than once. Finally I decided, you know what, fuck it. I'll reimburse my friend for whatever she spent on the present and just do without. I got back on the 110 South and cried out, "Oh there it is!"-Me. So I got back off the freeway and found it no problem.

Don't be fooled. Satan lives here.

I was the first one at the UPS center when an older Asian gentleman in shockingly short, tight brown shorts came to assist me. He asked for my driver's license and chortled when he saw the picture. I was slightly offended, since I think I'm one of the few people who actually has a good ID photo. "High school?" he asked. "Oh, yeah." I replied. I realized that the reason he was laughing was that I was 15 when that picture was taken. I remember that day because I had just come from basketball practice, so my face was kind of red and shiny. But I was just so excited to be getting my license that the grin on my face was undeniable. I thought I hadn't changed much since then (besides putting on more than a couple pounds.) But what the UPS guy saw in front of him was a young, professional woman in a trench coat, not a fresh-faced, smiling teenager. (Though I only looked fresh-faced. I was pretty angsty and more stressed out at 15 than I've ever been since.) He saw someone who was impatiently tapping her pointy-heeled foot, slightly irritated at the inconvenience of being there, and anxious about getting across town to the office during rush hour traffic. Someone who, that very morning, had suddenly worried for the first time about getting crow's feet. He gave me my package (tee hee), and sent me on my way.

My present!

When I opened the package, I discovered it was a book called "My Listography." As you may have noticed I LOVE lists, and here was an entire book dedicated to listing my favorite foods, songs, vacations, people, etc. It was obviously meant for much younger list-enthusiasts, with suggestions like "Outlaw homework" "Banish brussel sprouts" "Make curfew 4AM." But this gift meant a lot to me, especially at this point in my life when I'm grasping at any reminder of childhood (I just added Season One of the Rugrats to my Netflix queue). So I'm excited to fill out the book and I might include some of the lists on Sporadic Sporkitudes if I'm feeling saucy. So thank you Jessica, the sender of the mystery Amazon package! I apologize for whining and making you feel guilty for just trying to do something nice for my birthday.

Also, I think I deserve high fives all around for making it from South Central to Downtown and all the way to Westwood before 8:30 in the morning on a Tuesday.