Certifiably Jonathan is a charming documentary on the past comedic works of 85 year old Jonathan Winters, which serves as an introduction to his entire other career as an incredible painter. As a comedian Jonathan Winters is a genius, and this film brings together a huge group of people – including Robin Williams to Sarah Silverman – who have been influenced by his decidedly quirky brand of humor. Directed by Jim Pasternak, this documentary turned mockumentary is hilarious the whole way through, and contains more amazing cameos then you can imagine. There are very few living legends today, and he is one of them. In the footage of him and Robin Williams, the chemistry and energy between them is just unbelievable.
This Sunday (Feb 13th) our very special in-studio guests will be LA’s very own 19 piece 1930s New Orleans Orchestra and Cabaret – Vaud and the Villains. Every Saint has a past, every sinner has a future, and SuicideGirls hanging with Vaud and his Villains will make for a very entertaining present.
This Sunday (Feb 6th) our very special in-studio guests will be psychedelic pop/rock dandy Kristian Hoffman and Mexican masked wrestling/burlesque/comedy ensemble Lucha VaVoom. It’s guaranteed to be a fabulously stylish and whimsically colorful show.
“It all begins and ends with Animal from The Muppets.”
-Rainn Wilson
Robert “Fish” Fishman is in his early 40s. He spends his days as a quiet pencil-pusher in a Cleveland office park and his nights trying to forget about the time, 20 years ago, when he was the drummer of a rising pop-metal band called Vesuvius and was unfairly bounced from their lineup before they blasted off into the rock n’ roll stratosphere. On the eve of the band’s induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, he decides to distract himself by doing a little drumming for his nephew’s high-school garage band, led by the talented Curtis (singer Teddy Geiger) and the cute Amelia (Superbad’s Emma Stone) and that’s when fate opens up a window for an unlikely second chance at rock glory.
Rainn Wilson called up SuicideGirls recently to talk about The Rocker – how he relates to late-bloomers like Fish, why he thinks drumming is “inherently funny” and whether hair metal bands actually belong in the Hall of Fame.
Subway trains come fitted with the perfect poles for dancing – and an inbuilt audience – so it’s almost churlish not to make use of the facilities at hand.
“They handed Franco the bag of weed. They gave me the lighter.”
– Seth Rogan
Seth Rogen is not a pothead. He only plays them in movies. His Knocked Up character sat around smoking all day, and his newest movie, Pineapple Express, is an action comedy about a stoner and his dealer on the run after witnessing a corrupt cop shooting.
For many men, one of the most confusing facets of the transition from college to the workplace occurs not in the proverbial boardroom or conference room, but in the restroom. Navigating the many pitfalls of office social conventions is difficult enough without the constant fear and uncertainty that accompanies every trip to the office bathroom, not to mention the gnawing trepidation that follows the morning Grande Drip from Peet’s or the afternoon guacamole and chitlins pick-me-up.
Although utilized just as frequently, the workplace restroom offers the average male none of the treasured comforts of the apartment bathroom – most obviously, complete and total privacy. There is never any fear when using the toilet at home that your actions are being overheard by a gossipy coworker or disapproving (or, more disturbingly, approving) boss. That soggy stack of New Yorkers and the vintage 2003 Rose McGowan-adorned Maxim on top of the toilet shelf is yours and yours alone, free from the judgment and/or unauthorized use of Gary in accounting.
This loss of privacy would be fine if the workplace restroom was truly a public restroom, in the Dodger Stadium pee trough sense of the word. But it’s not. The workplace restroom lacks the reassuring anonymity and freedom of a public restroom, where at least in male-dom one is secure in the thought that you could do anything up to and including murder within the confines of the stall and no one is going to care. Those who have ever visited a beach or sporting event may rightly point out that a public bathroom’s liberating anonymity comes at a steep cost – typically in the hygiene department. But given the choice between an aspiring Jackson Pollack wielding his asshole like a paintbrush above the hand dryer, or making eye contact with my company’s CFO while pissing in neighboring urinals, I’ll take the Ed Harris butt art. Every time.
