Les McCurdy is having a bad day, and it’s barely 8 a.m. His headliner for the weekend, Caroline Rhea, is stuck in New York, a victim of the Valentine’s Day snowstorm, and the slate of publicity appearances he has lined up for her is crumbling before his eyes. Right now he’s at Clear Channel in Northgate Industrial Park, appearing on radio station WSRZ, and he’s doing his best to keep laughing.

At this point in his career, keeping things funny is second nature to Les. He’s in the studio with morning show hosts David Jones and Christina Crane, and the banter is fast and furious. True, Caroline is not there, but at least they’re talking about her. And her boyfriend, Costaki Economopoulos, is filling in. Costaki is also a standup comic. He has, in fact, been appearing at Les’ comedy club for the past two nights, and will “open” for Caroline during her schedule of five shows to take place over the weekend.

As I listen in, it occurs to me that a DJ and a comedian is virtually the same thing. Each has to keep talking no matter what, and each is expected to be witty and quick and spontaneous. Consequently, with four experts in the tiny studio, the pace never slows down.

Most of the humor deals with Costaki’s position as Caroline’s boyfriend. “Her boy toy, her Stedman,” as David puts it. Les is mostly silent but chimes in now and then. His job at the moment is to keep reminding the listeners that, snowstorm or not, Caroline Rhea will be appearing at McCurdy’s Comedy Theatre starting tonight.

Free tickets are offered to the next caller. Christina watches the little switchboard in front of her. A line immediately lights up. In the fluster of winning and suddenly being on the radio, the caller can’t remember her last name—a stroke of luck, humor-wise.

While on the air, the four of them are on a roll of jokes and one-liners. Christina tells the audience I’m in the studio with them, writing an article for SARASOTA Magazine. “Can you make sure I’m skinny in your article?” she begs. When the show goes to break, the jokes continue, but they soon give way to what comedians like to do more than anything else—gossip about other comedians. Les describes the stage fright he’s seen in some of the performers at his club. One would throw up just before going on stage, just from sheer nerves. Then the name Mitch Hedberg comes up, and a little murmur goes through the studio.

Hedberg, who died of a drug overdose in 2005, was a comic’s comic. His stage fright was so bad that he would perform with his hair covering his face or his back to the audience. But his jokes were good. “A severed foot is the best stocking stuffer.” And, more ominously, “I used to do drugs. I still do, but I used to, too.”

“Oh, God,” says Christina, looking at me. “I hope this guy doesn’t write that all we talk about is heroin addiction.”

Costaki manages to reach Caroline, who’s sitting in an airport somewhere, on her cell phone. While they talk to her on air, Les takes me out to the hall to fill me in. The snowstorm has dealt him a serious problem. He even considered chartering a plane to get her down here, but the price quoted to him was $17,000. He whoops with laughter. Then he recounts the best itinerary Delta could come up with—she drives to Hartford, Conn., flies to Reagan National Airport, transfers to Dulles, flies to Atlanta, changes planes for Gainesville, then drives from there. He whoops again. The itinerary is so improbable, so extreme, so perfect, that it has already entered his comic repertoire.

 

Will Ferrell once called standup “hard, lonely, and vicious.” Its practitioners are often thought to be flawed personalities, full of anger and unhappiness, driven by inexplicable demons into drugs and alcohol. The list of famously unhappy comedians goes on and on. In addition to Mitch Hedberg, there’s Sam Kiniston, Richard Pryor, Jerry Lewis, Phil Hartman, John Belushi, Paula Poundstone, and most recently, Michael Richards. It goes all the way back, in fact, to the man who virtually invented the art form, the brilliant but all-but- forgotten Frank Fay. Before him there were comedians, to be sure, but they wore funny clothes and told broad jokes in ethnic accents and squirted each other with seltzer bottles.

Then one day at the Palace Theater in New York, the management decided that instead of announcing the vaudeville acts via placards on an easel, they would have it done live, by a master of ceremonies. A Broadway actor named Frank Fay was thrust into the role. He came out impeccably dressed in white tie and tails and was matinee-idol handsome. As he introduced the acts he would make little remarks about them, seemingly off the cuff. He would comment on what was in the news. He would banter with the audience. One woman told him she was just back from the beauty parlor. “What happened?” he asked. “They couldn’t fit you in?” With that joke, insult comedy was born.