A Few Words with Comedian Brian Posehn

If you haven't heard of funny man Brian Posehn, chances are you've seen his work--with a resume that includes "The Sarah Silverman Show," the original "Comedians of Comedy," regular appearances on Comedy Central's Roasts and "Late Night with Conan O'Brien." This weekend, he's headlining four shows at Comix (Fri. and Sat. at 8pm and 10:30pm; buy tickets here). In honor of his visit to New York, I asked Brian to tell us about five of his favorite places in the city. Here's what he had to say (so now you can stalk him this weekend. You're welcome).



(1) The Burger Joint at the Parker Meridien: It's a burger joint hidden inside the lobby of a fancy pants hotel, like most good burger joints. Perfect, simple burger and a surly but friendly staff straight out of that old "SNL" Cheeseburger Cheeseburger sketch.

(2) Midtown Comics: Huge two-level comic shop right by Times Square. All the nerds are tough New Yorkers. I had never been afraid for my life while perusing Batman trade paperbacks before I found this shop.

(3) Vasacs Horseshoe Bar/ 7B: Great little dive bar in the East Village. The jukebox is totally metal and they have a Buck Hunter game. And you might even glimpse the ghost of David Cross.

(4) Original Original Original Original Ray's Pizza: This is the best one in the city. I forget where it is, I was very drunk. But it is worth finding.

(5) Morimoto NYC: Yes, this is the best sushi I've had in NYC. Yes, it's that frowny "Iron Chef" dude. The real secret to why his food is so awesome is that angels jerk off on it before it makes it to your table. Sounds gross, but try the miso cod and you'll thank me and those angels.

The Gold-Digger's Guide to Meeting Men

Are you an attractive New York woman looking to support your gaudy lifestyle without working or contributing to society in any way? Then you're in luck! At these five bars, there are plenty of wealthy men ready to shower beautiful young ladies with free booze and lavish gifts, and all they require in return is the pleasure of your company. Oh, and also, you might have to sleep with them. (Photo by szlea on Flickr)

Rose Bar:

Few New York hot spots manage to stay hot, but this sleek, swank lounge at the Gramercy Park Hotel has been attracting the rich and famous since 2006. Wear something chic and snag a seat at the bar; then act bored until that dreamy Hermes-clad “hipster” offers to buy you a $20 cocktail. And if he doesn’t, make eyes at the old creep in the corner: If he got in, it’s because he knows how to tip, which is good news for you.

Bemelmans Bar:

Unlike the downtown hot spots, the Carlyle Hotel's timeless cocktail bar attracts a more refined class of well-to-do gentlemen. Sure, they may be fat, bald and married, but so are all the best sugar daddies. Plus, at Bemelmans, a pretty young girl is more of a novelty: The last time these guys got a taste of a 25-year-old, it came in a bottle of Macallan.

The Hustler Club:

All men love strip clubs, and the wealthier ones flock to the Hustler Club for the top-quality steaks and above-average talent. Linger near the private rooms and be prepared to pounce on an overpaid Wall Street executive right after a lap dance. Even for the most homely maiden, seducing a guy who just dropped $1K on a girl who didn’t put out is as easy as, well, seducing a guy who just dropped $1K on a girl who didn’t put out.

Monkey Bar:

Are you searching for your very own Patrick Bateman--tall, dark, handsome and a big deal in the '80s--sans the psycho killer part? If Dorsia was booked, Bateman and his crew might be found at Graydon Carter’s midtown hangout, where a sea of Armani suits gather each night after work to drink heavily, compare business cards and talk about their female coworkers in a way that’s borderline illegal.

Bar & Books:

What happens when you take a swank Upper East Side space and fill it with cigar smoke and fine whiskeys? A would-be sugar baby’s dream scenario. Men who smoke cigars tend to be rich (after all, they can just pay the cancer to go away, right?), and with but a handful of smoke-friendly establishments left in New York, Lexington Bar and Books is a go-to spot for the type of hedge-fund d-bags who only like to hang out with girls too stupid to know what a hedge fund is.

Best New York Bars for a One-Night Stand

Thank god for alcohol, without which no one would ever have gotten laid--least of all that snaggletoothed disaster sitting at the bar. But after a few car bombs, she starts to look pretty good, and soon it's off to your place for a night of ... well, you know. But not every New York bar is conducive to meeting Mr. or Ms. Right Now. Where to go when you're on the market for a good old-fashioned, no-strings-attached one-night stand? These six bars, where the pretenses are low and the odds of scoring are high. 

Dorrian's:

There's a reason why the notorious Preppy Killer selected his victim at Dorrian's: It's easy to get a girl to leave with you. I don't know whether it's the stench of Burberry cologne on the dudes or the blinding Lily Pulitzer yellows on the girls, but something about Club D makes everyone want to do really depraved things with a stranger. 

Southside:

Are you in the market for a one-night stand, preferably one that involves a fake socialite with a real eating disorder? You're in luck, because overpriced drinks are only one of the things Southside is peddling; guaranteed anonymous hookups are the other. 

Union Pool:

Just because you have an ironic moustache doesn't mean you don't deserve to get laid (or does it?). Regardless, when hipsters get lonely, they head to Williamsburg's most notorious pickup bar to drink heavily and go home with other misbegotten artists (read: bartenders), and then spend the next week trolling the Craigslist "Missed Connections" archives for posts about themselves. 

The Anchor:

Here are some words that come to mind when I think about this Soho spot: Boozy. Sloppy. Sweaty. Crowded. Incidentally, the same words could be used to describe the kind of sexual encounters that tend to result from a long night of drinking at The Anchor--except, perhaps, crowded. Unless you're into that sort of thing. 

No Malice Palace:

Don't let the post-12am line outside fool you: This is a dirty dive bar, through and through. And it's packed with drunken 20-somethings looking to relive their college days by making questionable decisions in someone else's bedroom. If that happens to end with a walk of shame circa 10am, everyone's a winner. 

Botanica Bar:

This hip Lower East Side bar has been helping New Yorkers get laid for years, thanks to super cheap drinks and good music that's just loud enough to discourage excessive getting-to-know-you conversation. Stick the basics--what's your name, where do you live, is it contagious--then book it to her place.

New York Bars I've Fallen Down In

Every true drinker has woken up at least once to discover a bruise or drinking-related injury from the previous night. Me, more than others. Since the day I turned 18--er, 21--I've displayed an almost magnificent tendency to drink, slip and fall, and I've done it at bars across New York City. Why am I telling you all this? Because I'm drunk now, obviously. But seriously, watch your step at these seven bars, or you could end up like me--and as my parents can confirm, you really don't want that. 

Chloe 81:

The stairs that lead down to this exclusive Lower East Side lounge are steep (especially that last one, which is deeper than it looks)--hence the "watch your step" sign. But pounding Jameson on the rocks really isn't conducive to watching anything other than your life flash before your eyes, which might explain why I fell down the whole flight not long ago. Anthony, the bouncer, kindly insisted that it wasn't that bad a fall, but the bruises I incurred told a different story.  

Janis:

Given my penchant for falling, I probably shouldn't be allowed out of the house at all, let alone while rocking four-inch heels. Particularly if it's raining. I made it up the front steps to this West Village hot spot (named for Janis Joplin, who once lived in the building) just fine; the problem arose when I tried to navigate the steps inside to get down to the subterranean lounge. My heels were wet, the stairs were slippery and the crowd of witnesses down below gave me a standing ovation. Hey, at least someone was able to stand. 

Von:

This East Village classic has experienced a resurgence since the debut of its lower-level lounge, which boasts a second bar, a DJ and a more dancey vibe. The plus side about falling down the stairs at Von is that you can't really be seen by anyone because there are doors at both ends. The downside is, when you're even looking for a plus side in this situation, your life is pretty much over.

Southside:

I used to bartend at the now-defunct Martignetti Liquors, so when my bosses opened this swanky subterranean spot in Nolita, it became my very own Cheers bar. Unfortunately, my name wasn't the only thing everyone knew; my inclination to spontaneously fall after one too many Warchild shots (bourbon, peach schnapps and sour mix) was another. If I told you how many times the bouncer, Q, has peeled me up off the stairs, you would feel sick. What's that you say? You already feel sick from reading this?

Sway:

One of the few Soho spots with real staying power, Sway is like the scene of the crime--where the crime in question is "things I do when I drink." Regulars know that the back room is where it's at: The bar is easier to access than the main bar up front, the banquettes are prime for getting wild and you can easily reach the staircase that leads to the less crowded bathrooms. And that's where I was going when I tripped down about 10 of them. Luckily no one remembers it, least of all me. 

Shoolbred's:

Now I know what you're thinking: "Maybe you should just avoid bars with stairs, Justine." Yes, I probably should. But a recent fall at this cozy East Village pub--think stained glass paneling, a fireplace and a huge selection of Scotch and bourbon--proves that stairs aren't my only problem. So are barstools. Yep, getting off a barstool can be hazardous, in this case because the heel of my shoe got caught on the chair as I tried to dismount. Luckily nobody got hurt, unless you count my pride. Just kidding--I obviously don't have any of that! 

Kenmare:

Falling down the stairs that lead to the subterranean lounge at this Nolita hot spot is like wearing a huge sign on your face that says "I can't hang." It's pretty much the worst thing ever, and after having done it just the other night, I'm pretty much the worst person ever. A room full of fabulously cool people who I'll now never know will be more than happy to confirm that.

Bars That Make Me Wanna Kill Myself

Thirty-year-old frat boys who confuse Murray Hill with Sigma Chi. Hedge fund douche bags who refer to the Hamptons as "The 'Tones." Brainless girls in Jessica Simpson brand stilettos who are about 20 pounds too heavy for that dress. Staten Islanders. These are a few of my least favorite things. And you can find them all at these five bars. (Photo: This girl loves Pacha! I hate her.)

Tonic:
The only thing worse than Tonic East, this Times Square spot is like the seventh circle of hell disguised as a sports bar. 

Bar None:
I used to go to Bar None all time. When I was in high school. That pretty much sums it up. But just in case you need more, it's a popular destination for sailors during Fleet Week and hobos at all times--and if they don't get you, the skanks will. 

Dorrian's:
This is a great bar to meet a one-night stand who you won't ever have to call again. Other than that, it is to be avoided. 

Continental:
There is one single reason why anyone has ever gone to Continental, and that is because it serves five shots of anything for $10. I'm a perpetually broke alcoholic, and you still couldn't get me to go there without a roofie and a blindfold.

Pacha:
Just because it works in Ibiza doesn't mean it works in New York City. 'Nuff said.

Party Like It's Spring Break

It's nearly mid-March, which means that if you're a college student, you're probably getting ready to spend a week with 10 other hoodlums, holed up in some beachside shanty, soaking up moderate quantities of sun and lethal quantities of booze, in honor of that great American pastime known as spring break.

Well, guess what: Even if your undergraduate years are over, you needn't dip to Tijuana to partake in the sort of lewd, depraved behavior pictured above. There are plenty of bars where even the most respectable professionals you can experience the thrills of spring break--from the alcohol poisoning to the scantily clad girls--right here on the Isle of Manhattan.

Click through to read our latest roundup, Party Like It's Spring Break.

And for those of you who are too old for body shots but still long to reconnect with your collegiate days, check out Gigantic Cocktails (one of our new and improved photo roundups)--trust me, after a few mixed drinks served by the pint, no one will notice you're balding, least of all you.

(Photo courtesy of The Big Easy)

Black Out on Leap Day; Wake Up Four Years Later

Are you losing sleep over why it's still February? So am I, or at least I would be, if I had any curiosity about the inner workings of the Gregorian Calendar. Nevertheless, as everyone knows, every four years we tack an extra day onto February--which the crack team over at NASA describes as "relatively rare," as if a Leap Day is an unusual strain of a deadly virus, rather than something that has taken place every four years since 46 B.C.--and today is that day.

So, in keeping with its tendency to use anything, no matter how banal, as an excuse to throw a party and get people wasted, The Village Pourhouse is celebrating Leap Day with, um, a party where people are gonna get wasted. Specifically, for those born on February 29, this is your chance to celebrate your birthday (on the actual anniversary of your birth) with free beer, and a bunch of activities that probably don't matter as much as the part about free beer:

After four long years of waiting, it is finally time! Calling Leap Year Babies everywhere! Embrace your inner-child and come down to The Village Pourhouse for a birthday party right out of your childhood dreams. Whether it is your sixth, seventh, or eighth, this will be a birthday to remember. There will be bright balloons, fun decorations, delicious cake, and boisterous activities to bring you way back. Don’t miss out on our Pin-the-Tail-on-the Donkey. Be sure to take a big swing at our piñata filled with adult favorites such as drink tickets and free bar tabs at the Village Pourhouse. If you show proof you are an actual leap year baby, you will drink free Bud and Bud Light from 7-9pm.

So, to all the Leap Day babies, head to 11th Street & Third Avenue tonight at 6:59pm to take full advantage of the festivities, and to meet a bunch of bat-wielding, piñata-breaking, 7-year-old drunks.

And if that doesn't appeal to you, check back soon--I can't even imagine what the Pourhouse has planned for Daylight Savings next weekend.

(Photo courtesy of the Village Pourhouse)

On the Menu at Socialista: Mojitos, Empanadas, Hepatitis

It seems that the door policy may not be the only nasty thing at Armin Amiri's uber-exclusive lounge, Socialista. According to a report that first appeared in INF Daily (and then caught fire throughout the blogosphere), anyone who patronized the West Village hot spot on February 7, 8 or 11 may have been exposed to the liver disease Hepatitis A. Worse still (or better yet, depending on your perspective), it just so happens that Ashton Kutcher celebrated his 30th birthday with a bash there on February 7, which was attended by such industry heavyweights as Demi Moore, Madonna, Lucy Liu, Gwyneth Paltrow, Salma Hayek, and "Grey's Anatomy" star Eric "Mr. McSteamy" Dane. The disease is believed to have been tracked into the club by a bartender, and not, as we naturally assumed, by Paris Hilton.

Socialista owner Armin Amiri (a former doorman at Bungalow 8) did release an official statement, part of which was reprinted in the NY Post:

Although no additional cases of illness have been identified, the New York City Department of Health is urging customers to get the vaccination as a precautionary measure. We are grateful for their efforts and we will continue to support them in every way possible.

Although one visit to Socialista was enough for me, those who haven't had the pleasure can now take solace in knowing that the stringent door policy may turn out to have been a blessing in disguise. From here on out, it may be downhill for Socialista--you know what they say, "Once they start letting Hepatitis in, they'll let anyone in."

(Photo via Paper Mag)

Anti-Valentine's Day Planner: Romance is Dead, Get Drunk Instead

Do you think chocolate and flowers are gifts that should be reserved for the terminally ill?

So do we. That's why we're protesting the most useless Hallmark holiday of them all with a special anti-Valentine's Day feature that pays tribute to all things un-romantic.

So, if you're just looking for a bar to get drunk (like any other Thursday night) try Scores--where the only Valentine you'll meet is a stripper with a poorly chosen stage-name. Or, if you're looking to party with other bitter, lonely and desperate singles, head to the Screw Valentine's Day Party, or the Second Annual Anti-Valentine's Day Ball, where strangers in the night will become friends until morning.

And no matter how you choose to spend Valentine's Day, remember: All you need is love--of booze. Click through to read the complete Anti-Valentine's Day Planner, or if you're one half of a couple that makes me sick, maybe this is more your bag.

(Photo borrowed from Stuck in The '80s)

O, Equinox, How You Tease Us With Your Tightly Packaged Flesh!

Evidently The Catholic League is none too pleased about Equinox's latest ad campaign, which depicts a series of sexy, fairytale-esque scenes shot by Ellen von Unwerth. In particular, they take issue with the hot nuns with exposed legs sketching the hot naked dude with exposed everything. The ads aren't in rotation in New York yet, but will be making their city-wide debut forthwith. In the meantime, Equinox is more than happy to exacerbate the situation by giving New Yorkers a sneak peek of what it has in store for our local magazines, billboards, and subways by displaying the new ads in the windows at three of their locations (50th Street, 19th Street and Greenwich Avenue), from now through Friday.

I belong to one of Equinox's competitors, so I can't say I know for sure what their clientele is like. But I can say that my gym is filled with fatties and old people, and if I ever once had to look at someone like the models above while "running" my 12-minute mile, I'd either kill myself or kill them. To be fair though, while these ads don't necessarily make me want to join Equinox (or ever leave my apartment again, for that matter), they do make me want to join a convent and take up sketching.

WWCD? (What Would the Candidates Drink?) A Super Tuesday Special Report

(Image borrowed from President08.net)

Super Tuesday is finally upon us, and while a gaggle of legitimate news outlets will be focused on boring us to death with talk of "precincts," "delegates" and "exit polls," we at Citysearch are bringing you the kind of hard-hitting, no-nonsense reporting that really matters. Specifically, we're investigating a question that is of the utmost importance when it comes to selecting a new leader of the free world: "What would the presidential candidates drink, and where would they drink it?"

So, if you're wondering how Obama's plan to get the hell outta Dodge (where by "Dodge" I mean "Baghdad") compares to McCain's plan to keep us there for another 100 years, I couldn't tell you. And if you're unsure of how Clinton's plan to offer universal health care differs from Romney's plan to withhold it, I just don't know. But what I do know is that by the time the polls close on Tuesday night, all of the candidates, winners and losers alike, will be fiending for a liquid fix.

So here's our take on what and where each of them would drink--if the cameras (and evangelists) weren't watching.

DEMOCRATS

Hillary Clinton:
Everything about the New York Senator--from her infamous pants suits to her fancy Chappaqua digs--says she's a lady who lets loose with a white wine spritzer. And while her husband might prefer to go, uh, downtown, Hil's a definite uptown girl. But if Cafe Des Artistes was booked, perhaps she'd head over to midtown's Yale Club--where her fellow Ivy Leaguers sip Chardonnay at their very own haven away from New Haven. So, rather than let Obama get to her on Super Tuesday, HRC will simply take a deep breath, plaster on a smile and get plastered.

Barack Obama:
He may be from Illinois (by way of Hawaii), but Obama knows how to kick it NYC-style. The Columbia University graduate admits that back in the day he dabbled in drugs and alcohol (which might explain in part why he's carrying the American youth vote), but these days he sticks to throwing punches rather than spiking it. When Obama wants to get his drink on, he likely meets up with celeb supporters like Robert De Niro for sake bombs at Nobu or vino at Tribeca Grill. On second thought, maybe he prefers to show that he's in touch with the Average Joe by grabbing a beer somewhere less elitist, like a dive bar in Brooklyn, or even Staten Island. Just kidding! No one would ever want to go there!

REPUBLICANS

John McCain:
The 72-year-old Republican front-runner probably has to do his boozing on the sly, thanks to his wife Cindy, the Budweiser heiress with a well-documented pill-popping habit. A decorated war veteran (and war advocate), should McCain arrive in New York to find that the officer's club is closed, I suspect he'd drop by the Soldiers', Sailors', Marines' Coast Guard and Airmen's Club and sidle up to the bar with a nice single malt scotch. And once he started feeling tipsy, he would head to the nearest military recruiting station and attempt to re-enlist for active duty, just to prove that he's not too old to be president.

Mitt Romney:
You can always count on a Mormon to be the life of any party, and the former Massachusetts governor is no exception. Although Romney's Church of Latter Day Saints traditionally prohibits the use of alcohol, they have begun to relax their policy slightly, permitting members of the Church to consume small amounts of low-ABV booze. In other words, Romney's a lightweight who probably gets a buzz off a sixer of O'Doul's. That might fly in his Puritan state, but in NYC that ain't gonna cut it. So maybe he'd try to fit in by going to a bar that is happy to make non-alcoholic versions of their cocktails--like Brasserie 8 1/2 or Counter--so he wouldn't have to feel awkward saying, "Would you make that a virgin pina colada, boss?" in public. Actually, he should feel awkward saying that. What an amateur. Do you really want a guy who can't hold his liquor running this ship?

Mike Huckabee:
The Southern Baptist and former governor of Arkansas may have vetoed a bill in his state that would have made public drinking in "entertainment districts" legal, but that doesn't mean he's not a hardcore boozer in private. This dude wouldn't know what the hell to do with himself in the big city, and would likely end up hanging out somewhere exotic and touristy, like New Jersey or Planet Hollywood or Jekyll & Hyde, where he'd order something creepy and overly complex--you know, like a drink that looks and smells like it belongs in a witches cauldron rather than a glass. It doesn't really matter though, because despite his victory in Iowa, it seems like it's only a matter of time before Huckabee drops out ofthe race. Then again, it wouldn't be the first time that an Arkansas governor turned out to be a nuisance for Hillary Clinton.

Ron Paul:
I'll be honest, I don't know much about Texas congressman Ron Paul, except that he looks suspiciously like my grandpa, and that he's a doctor who doesn't believe in evolution--which means he's clearly suffering from a kind of denial seen only among people who drink a whole hell of a lot. It's not a stretch to imagine that if he weren't a politician, he'd be standing on a crate somewhere, rocking a Members Only jacket and polyester pants with a razor-sharp crease, ranting about how social welfare programs are un-American, and how the government oughtta' give everyone a semi-automatic weapon instead of universal health care. But if Ronnie found himself in Manhattan, I'm guessing he'd probably split his time evenly between the OTB and dirty bars like Charlie O's, where he'd alternate between Bud tallboys and Jack Daniels, depending on the time of day.

Look, we don't know if any of the above is true (actually, it's almost certainly not true), but we do know that one of these people will be the next President of the United States. So, just in case you didn't already have a reason to hit the bottle, now you have six.

A Citysearch Special Report: Places We'd Like To See Squashed by the "Cloverfield" Monster

Lady Liberty is just one of the New York City landmarks that takes a beating in the highly anticipated new monster movie, "Cloverfield," which hits theaters today. From what I can surmise, the premise goes something like this: Young, fun-loving crowd of New Yorkers are at one of those cheesy parties where the hosts videotape their guests talking about how totally awesome the party is, when all hell breaks loose. Suddenly New York is under attack by a savage, futuristic-Godzilla-style monster. Chaos and massive destruction ensue as said monster proceeds to obliterate everything (and everyone) in its path, all but leveling the city. But every movie has a hero (although judging from the "Cloverfield" cast, that hero needn't be a celebrity), and ours turns out to be one of the dudes who was at that party before all the madness began. Ultimately, that guy, whoever he is, leads a mission to defeat the monster, thereby restoring order and saving the city.

With any luck, "Cloverfield" will deliver at least one good old-fashioned impaling--perhaps one that involves the Empire State Building needle, for example--but suffice it to say that there will be blood. So, at the risk of offending a broad spectrum of our audience, we're paying tribute to this epic movie with a little hit list of our own: Places We'd Like to See Squashed by the "Cloverfield" Monster.

Duane Reade (any and all locations)
Sorry, "Cloverfield," but we've already got a monster that's hell-bent on destroying this town!

Manhattan Mall
This unfortunate attempt at an urban strip mall has only one redeeming characteristic: Keeping property values down in Herald Square--and to be fair, some of the credit for that also goes to Penn Station, Madison Square Garden and Macy's.

Southern Hospitality
JT, JT, JT... Like we said a few weeks ago when your restaurant snagged the No. 1 spot on our list of the 10 Worst Restaurants of 2007: Just because you can do everything, doesn't mean you should.

Dave and Buster's
A D&B is just fine in a suburban mall--or a suburban anything--but if this is the "new" Times Square, we'll take the seedy strip joints, panhandlers, and meth-heads of yesteryear.

MacDougal Street (Between West 3rd and Bleecker)
Ever wondered what it would look like if a drunken fraternity convention plopped itself down in the West Village and refused to leave? Well, this is what that would look like.

Mars 2112
I'd sooner volunteer to be mangled by a rabid pit bull than spend five minutes at this space-themed travesty of a restaurant.

Staten Island
Relax, we don't literally want to see S.I. crushed by a monster, it's more of a figurative thing. Like, if the five boroughs were stranded on a desert island, and they had to eat one of the boroughs to ensure the survival of the other four ...

Agree? Disagree? Send us your beef via email, or leave a comment here and tell everyone what places you'd like the see squashed by the "Cloverfield" monster.

Craigslist Keepers: Post of the Century

Tell your co-workers that for the rest of the afternoon you'll be busy sending mass emails to everyone you know.

Now, this is not even remotely related to New York, let alone nightlife, but it just seemed inhumane not to share the above Craiglist post, which was placed on the Greenville, South Carolina, "strictly platonic" personals boards several days ago, but only just came to my attention. It says:

Wanted: Somebody to go back in time with me. This is not a joke. You'll get paid after we get back. Must bring your own weapons. Safety not guaranteed. I have only done this once before.

Whomever conceived this is my new personal hero, and I am going to reply to the post and inquire as to whether I can accompany him on his quest in time back to the '80s, when that whole high-top-fade-meets-mullet look was in vogue.

Saturday Night Live Writers, Performers, and Andy Samberg Groupies Turn Out to Support Writers Guild

Surprise guest Janeane Garofalo opened for "SNL" vet Darrell Hammond, below, on Monday night at Comix

It was a full house Monday evening at Comix where assorted "Saturday Night Live" writers and players both past and present participated in a comedy event to benefit the striking Writers Guild of America, East. In keeping with the trend of wearing your support for the writers on your face, "strike beards" were in full effect, and the overall mood seemed to indicate that no one expects to return to work anytime soon.

Hosted by Jason Sudeikis (who joined the cast of "SNL" in 2005 after spending several years in the writers' room, and who also played Floyd on the first season of "30 Rock"), the original lineup boasted appearances by Andy Samberg and Fred Armisen, though in the end, neither of them were able to do so, for reasons unknown. But everything was still kosher thanks to those who did perform, including "SNL" writers Bryan Tucker ("Chappelle's Show"), 25-year-old Harvard success story (it's about time!) Colin Jost, and former staff writer Leo Allen (one half of the comedy duo Slovin & Allen). Several video clips were shown, most notably an hilarious commercial parody starring Kristin Wiig and a digital short starring Armisen and Samberg, directed by the latter's Lonely Island cohort/ "SNL" writer Akiva Schaffer, who was also in the audience at Comix but dipped out halfway through the show.

Although at least one unfortunate heckler made it known that she had only come to see unlikely dreamboat du jour Andy Samberg--whose rise to fame began two years ago with a video about cupcakes and was sustained by a video about his junk--his failure to show up was well-compensated with a special guest set by Janeane Garofalo. As always, her best material was political, and though she generally laid-off the Democratic candidates, she was more than happy to riff on their Republicans counterparts, making light of the fact that three of them "actually believe the jury's still out on evolution." Which is funny--and at the same time not so funny--'cause it's true.

But the real highlight of the evening?

Headliner Darrell Hammond, who announced right off the bat that he was jacked up on Vicodin, although it was unclear whether or not he was kidding, and his behavior throughout the rest of his set made it no clearer. After commenting that he'd just come from Penn Station ("For those of you from out of town, that's the place that inspired all of Stephen King's novels"), the 13-year veteran of "SNL" went on to perform virtually every impression for which he is most famous: Donald Trump, Tony Soprano, Bill Clinton, Sean Connery, Dr. Phil and a dead-on
George W. Bush. (Though, for the record, Sudeikis plays the president in current "SNL" sketches. Or at least he did, when there were current sketches.)

Hammond's musings on the Clintons--particularly his point that if Hilary wins the election, Bill's job will literally be to socialize with and entertain the first ladies of other nations ("Hey there Mrs. Putin, this here is the Lincoln Bedroom. And this is the Lincoln bed")--were a hit, as were his observations about President Bush ("He starts out with the intention of making a point, and then mid-sentence, he decides he simply doesn't feel like it: 'The American people are tirelessly [pause]... They're tireless'").

If you don't consider the cancellation of the Golden Globes to be any great casualty, then you may think that because there is new programming on TV this week, the strike doesn't impact you. But the networks are down to the sitcom reserve supply, and when the scripts run out several weeks down the line, there's going to be no new content on prime-time television until the strike is resolved (unless you count "Celebrity Apprentice," which I refuse to do). And while the networks are making a ton of money off the exploitation of their writers and the strike itself, the people who really make the magic happen are starving to death. Fine,
that last part may not be true, but it totally might be if this doesn't end soon.

So here's my plea: Stop watching episodes of "30 Rock" online, grow a beard, join the picketers, or do whatever else you can to help ensure that the networks start feeling the pain of this strike the way the writers are. If not for them, do it for me-- because with the exception of booze, television is the closest thing I have to a boyfriend.

Human Giant Saves MTV: Suck On This, Spencer Pratt

Above: Rob Huebel, Paul Scheer and Aziz Ansari are Human Giant

Ordinarily, the chances of me going out on a Monday night are nil, especially in this brick-ass cold. But with my television withdrawal giving me an increasingly nasty case of the shakes, I took the opportunity to check out last night's sneak preview of the new season of "Human Giant"--the best thing to happen to MTV's comedy programming (or rather, MTV period) since "The State"-- hosted by the Human Giants themselves.

As any proper night should, this one began with drinks. Various members of the press (editors and writers from Maxim, the NY Post, the Village Voice, ASCAP, Giant, and other publications) assembled beforehand at West Chelsea haunt Half King, along with the show's stars, Rob Huebel, Paul Scheer and Aziz Ansari, before making the troupe to the UCB Theater.

It may have been after 11pm on a weeknight, but you wouldn't have known it from the size of the crowd, which was spilling out into the aisles. Granted, the show was free, but it was clear that these people would probably have paid to see it. And for good reason--the raw and uncut clips screened last night were so outrageous, explicit and unbelievably hilarious, it's difficult to imagine that the Standards Department at MTV would even entertain the possibility of airing them, even after heavy editing. (Case in point: A sketch called "Car Accident," which tells the tale of Bruce Penis (Huebel), a deceased gay porn star whose ghost haunts his supposed killer (Ansari) by violating him physically in order to open his, uh, eyes to the truth.)

Afterwards, those of us who aren't a bunch of lightweights and whiners--winos, perhaps, but not whiners--returned to Half King for more drinks with Rob, Paul and Aziz and friends that included several Saturday Night Live writers and performer Bill Hader.

I had the chance to spend some time chatting with Rob (who has frequently appeared on "Best Week Ever" and played the memorable Dr. Mark character in several episodes of "Curb Your Enthusiasm"), and he told me that filming for season two is going well, but admits that it can be quite a lot of work writing and developing consistently funny material that can carry through several hours of sketches (a full season of "Human Giant").

If the material that aired on the first season of the show--which got the green light for season two after MTV execs let the guys take over control of the airwaves for 24-straight hours of programming, broadcast live from the network's Times Square studios--and what we saw last night is any indication, then their hard work is well worth it. Nothing is off-limits (including, but not limited to, 9/11, which they famously parodied last season in a number of episodic sketches entitled "Lil' 9/11").

Though the beer wasn't free (it never is, sadly), getting to see the show was certainly worth every bit of pain I experienced this morning, when my alarm clock began taunting me to rise at the ungodly hour of 9:30am. But more importantly, it's reassuring to know that in March '08, "Human Giant" will be back on the air, giving people like me--who would sooner slit our wrists than watch 30 minutes (let alone a 12-hour programming block) of shows about Heidi Montag, her deadbeat boyfriend Spencer Pratt, and the trials and tribulations of their beef with Lauren Conrad--a reason to watch MTV.

Portable Beer Pong Table: Because Meatheads Like to Recieve Gifts Too

The only thing better than absurd drinking paraphernalia is absurd drinking-game paraphernalia, and nothing says "I'm a douchebag" quite like carrying around an inflatable beer pong table. Which is exactly why the $45 Portopong will make the perfect holiday gift for that special frat boy* in your life. As with most alcohol-related products--like the booze belt, another real gem--the Portopong is entirely practical to haul around town, you know, just in case you find yourself back in college. Then again, if you carry both the Portopong and an air mattress around with you at all times, you can play beer pong whenever you want without ever having to worry about where you're going to pass out afterwards. Order now before the manufacturer jacks up the price due to overwhelming demand. Just kidding.

*Contrary to the scene depicted in the photo, this is obviously not a toy for nerds, but rather for the quarterbacks who torment them. It's just that that photo was taken at a Yale tailgating party. Go figure.