Fay was a sensation. He was mean, to be sure, but he was meanest to himself. He cultivated little onstage mannerisms that hinted at enormous vanity, ego, jealousy and pretension. He would examine his fingernails. He would fuss with his hair. His mincing gait—the famous “hint of mint” as he walked on stage—was stolen by Bob Hope. And Jack Benny. And Johnny Carson.

He was also the archetypal tortured comic. He was a drunk. His peers hated him. Milton Berle said Fay’s friends could be counted on the fingers of an armless man. Fred Allen said he saw Frank Fay walking down Lover’s Lane, hand in hand with himself. Today he is remembered, if at all, as the prototype for Norman Maine, the drunken Hollywood has-been Judy Garland tragically marries in the film A Star Is Born.

Yet this man invented an art form. Jay Leno, David Letterman, Jerry Seinfeld—Frank Fay is their artistic grandfather.

Fortunately, Les McCurdy doesn’t seem to have inherited Frank Fay’s self-destructive genes. He leads a famously pulled-together life. His comedy club is one of the top clubs in the country, attracting all the big names—Jackie Mason, David Brenner, Chris Rock, Jeff Foxworthy. He runs a standup comedy school. He and his performing partner, Ken Sons, conduct seminars for big businesses. He’s a fixture on the social scene, in demand as an emcee and auctioneer at charity events. He’s been happily married to his wife, Pam, for 15STILL C HECKING THIS years (she manages the club and is a former FSU/Asolo Conservatory actress). His 13-year-old daughter, Taylor, even seems to like him. I noticed a picture of her appears when he turns on his cell phone. She makes sure he gets a new one each day. And it turns out that her teacher from McIntosh Middle is coming to see Caroline Rhea tonight. 

So are a lot of other people. Three phones are being worked in the office, each staffer taking reservations and giving out information—driving directions, beverage service (full bar), food availability (microwave only—“We have no grease pit,” as Les puts it). He thought about serving real food but opted against it. He and Pam decided they were in the comedy business, not the restaurant business.

The club is located in what many old-time Sarasotans still call the Teatro, an old movie theater on the North Trail formerly famous for its dollar admission price. The McCurdys leveled the sloping floor and changed the layout slightly, putting the stage along the side. This gives it a perfect comedy club layout. There are no pillars, and no seat is more than 40 feet from the stage.

The club can break even with as few as 40 people in the audience. Tonight, though, they have 240 reservations for the first show alone, as many as the fire laws allow. The second show, the Friday-night late show, will not sell out. That’s the nature of the business. Even for as big a star as Caroline Rhea, there are, so far, only 80 reservations. Friday-night late shows are dreaded by most comedians. The crowd is tired, they’ve been working all day, they’ve been drinking since happy hour, they’re unfocused and hard to please. And there are fewer of them. “Someone asked Steve Martin why he stopped doing standup,” Les tells me. “He had a four-word answer: Friday night late show.”

 

Les has had three great loves in his life: his family, comedy, and Sarasota. When he and Pam were just starting out as struggling performers, their master plan was to conquer the entertainment business in either New York or Los Angeles and then retire to Sarasota and go to the beach. The epiphany of his life was the realization that maybe he didn’t have to leave Sarasota at all.

Les’ love for Sarasota is that of a kid from Chattanooga. He likes the weather, the beach lifestyle, the hanging out with friends. When he was in his 20s—he’s 51 now—it seemed the perfect way to live. But Sarasota played a trick on him: Instead of turning him into a beach bum, it made him an entrepreneur.