| Volume I, Issue XIII iowa
has cowtipping...
Call me crazy, but in this great city of ours, there are
some times
when you've just got to let fly and be an idiot, without regard for
the havoc it will wreak upon your cachet, the effects it will have
on your cool quotient, your social standing.
Which is exactly what we were thinking when we went
celeb-
stalking last Saturday night.
Our party of three, consisting of two serious musician
types whose
identities shall be protected for obvious reasons, and myself, who
should know better, (not to mention the fact that I get paid to stalk
famous people by my employer from time to time, for the sake of a
sexy headline) began the evening in a rather unsatisfactory fashion.
We were in the back row snickering at a particularly
horrendous
off-off-way-off Broadway show in which an acquaintance of ours had
a bit part, playing a dancing, singing coffee-cup, and as we stared,
wide-eyed, in horror and amazement at the hat she wore, fashioned
out of large foam sugar cubes, we turned to one another, all at once,
and knew that there was no way in hell that any of us would be
going to bed sober.
We escaped the theater with minor injuries, (although the
loss of
2 hours 25 min with 12 min intermission was substantial) and went to
play in traffic, walking up the middle of Times Square, making a
beeline for the not-so-crowded back room at Siberia, where the
crowds are always well-behaved, the music is loud, the barkeep
wears a tight halter top, pouring shots as ample as her lovely figure.
It was fun, but we were only just getting started.
Out of jing, we headed for an ATM, only slightly tweaked,
the prospect of which compelled us to head for the next watering hole.
So, newly flush with cash, we took up residence at the corner of the bar
at Langan’s on West 47th Street, and oh, did the Ketel One flow.
Fast-forward to 12:30AM, when Saturday Night Live is
in midstream,
we are pointing and laughing like idiots, even though the volume is off.
Tracy Morgan is in a big pink bathrobe and shower cap, madly waving
his arms around.
We're right around the corner from the Studios -- and you
can guess
what happened next.
So as the cast and band are waving behind the rolling
credits, we're
waving to the bartender, grabbing our coats, and running for the door.
It took us just a little while to walk the two and one-half blocks
over there -- for some odd reason, we decided it'd be fun to sit in
the street for a while.
But no matter -- we arrived under the red-neon sign, with
only a
small gaggle of foreigners and visitors from Pennsylvania awaiting the
stream of cast-members that would be exiting the building, heading
into one of the plethora of limos, town-cars and BMW cabs lining the
block.
The security staff was a friendly bunch, and in
hindsight, I highly
recommend staking out the spot if you have out-of-town friends who
sit on their back porches and watch SNL faithfully each week.
Suffice to say, we had our way with all cast-members save Tim
Meadows and Dylan McDermott, who for some reason decided to
escape through the underground concourse. The Foo Fighters we
didn't recognize, but that didn't matter, we hated them anyway.
I got to tell Colin Quinn that I think he sucks (ignored
me). I shook
hands with the sweet-as-pie, hepped-up-on-goofballs Molly Shannon
(ooh it's cold. Is it raining? No. Is it snowing? Whee! Wow! It's
snowing? No. What is it doing?) who gave us a mini meet-and-greet
in the middle of the street. I yelled "Saugerties rocks!" to the
super-talented Jimmy Fallon, who grew up that one town over from
me, Tracy Morgan stopped to accept compliments from us,
Cheri Oteri shrieked "Hi!" and gave us one of those quizzical
glances that make her so funny, Ana Gasteyer, unsung
hero and Martha-impersonator, looked genuinely pleased to see
us notice her, Chris Kattan and Will Ferrell (in snow-plowers suit,
hello) ignored us. Bastards.
To top it off, Lorne Michaels stopped to share a few
words, none
of which I can remember now. All I do know is that he was the
perfect gentleman.
Would I do it sober? No way in hell.
But I'd be lying right now if I didn't tell you that as a
long-time
SNL nut, I couldn't have been a happier drunk.
Siberia (SW corner of 50th &
B'way in the 1/9 downtown entrance)
Langan’s (47th Street between 6th and 7th
Avenues)
NBC Studios (49th Street between 6th Avenue and
Rockefeller Plaza)
Email: dj@asan.com
Next Update: 24 November
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