• Image about Andy Samberg
As funnyman Andy Samberg moves on to bigger screens and better things, he enjoys the perks that come with success (including working with his comedy hero) and ponders a future without Saturday Night Live.


NOW YOU KNOW:

Samberg’s comedy troupe got its name from the moniker that The Lonely Island member Akiva Schaffer had given to the L.A. apartment the trio lived in.
---
While writing for the MTV Video Music Awards in 2004, Samberg, Schaffer and Jorma Taccone impressed VMA host Jimmy Fallon,who recommended them to SNL boss Lorne Michaels. All three were hired — Samberg as a featured player and Schaffer and Tacconeas writers.
---
Their breakthrough digital short, “Lazy Sunday,” was actually recorded on a Tuesday.
---
The Lonely Island YouTube channel has more than 2.2 million subscribers and has racked up nearly 1 billion video views.

 Live from New York, it’s a Saturday night. A rare midwinter Saturday night, that is, when Saturday Night Live star Andy Samberg isn’t filming the long-running comedy series that made him — and so many others before him — famous. He’s agreed to meet on his night off at the Spotted Pig, an intimate hangout in Manhattan’s West Village that’s “walking distance” from his home, though that means little in New York City. It’s a spot that’s well known as somewhere the famous go to be incognito, but Samberg manages to go unrecognized most of the time anyway — he looks like half the guys in my Hebrew-school class, and buried beneath layers on this surprisingly bone-chilling night, he’s just another dude strolling the streets of New York.

When they do recognize him, people don’t know what to do when they see him out and about on Saturday nights during the show’s season. They wonder if he’s playing hooky, or if he’s quit the show. Sure enough, on this Saturday night inside the Pig, he’s spotted: a white-haired couple, probably in their mid-60s, approach, eager for a photo with the young man whose digital shorts made SNL popular with kids who may not remember the days when Albert Brooks made movies for Lorne Michaels’ late-night television show.

“Our daughters adore you,” says the woman, who kindly asks if she can interrupt our interview. She’s positively beaming, sweet, fast-talking her way through the always-awkward occasion of bothering a famous person during a private moment in public. “Can my husband take a picture? Thanks. You’re hysterical. Your shorts are the best.” She leans in for the photo; her husband snaps away with the smartphone cam. She doesn’t seem to want to let go. “Your group with your other guys, you’re really good.”