Dear Town Pump: In the future, please do not display a marquee as amazing as this and then follow through with such wedding reception hits as TLC's "Waterfalls" and the "American Idol"-ravaged "Signed, Sealed, Delivered I'm Yours." The hard-drinking dirtbag regulars who come in to slide your shuffleboard pucks and sit on your porch and lay waste to your Jell-o shots on karaoke night are expecting, if nothing else, a musical selection that moves their sneakers and doesn't banish them to the tiki bar out back. Seriously, some of us like to dance, in public and embarrassing fashion, and all it takes is a real melody, the sort of bass line that shatters your fillings or the sort of song crassly engineered solely to move your ass, and it doesn't take a whole lot to inspire us. Our bodies want to become the music. Just not worn-out or flaccid music.
I think Jimmy Fallon's about as innately funny as the nutrition label on a bag of flour, but as long as he can stick guys like Hannibal Buress in front of a camera, he's welcome to keep making television.
The amusing part about this arrangement, aside from Burress, is that he's the anti-Fallon. Whereas Fallon can't walk past his own reflection without biting his teeth, smirking, tearing up and abandoning a little-known comic technique called "staying in character," Buress can get through an entire set with a casual demeanor that smacks of natural ability. I caught his act last night at Comix in Manhattan; it didn't surprise me to hear afterward Saturday Night Live has hired him as a writer. If Tina Fey ever decides to abdicate as Weekend Update anchor, Buress' borderline-deadpan ass would fit that chair nicely.