by Peter McGraw
In one HuRL experiment, a researcher approached subjects on campus and asked them to read a scenario inspired by a story about legendarily depraved Rolling Stones guitarist Keith Richards. In the story, Keith’s father tells his son to do whatever he wishes with his cremated remains—so when his father passed away, Keith decided to snort the ashes. Meanwhile, the researcher, who didn’t know what the participants were reading, gauged their facial expressions as they perused the story. Then the subjects were asked about their reactions to the story: Did they find the story wrong, not wrong at all, a bit of both, or neither? As it turned out, those who found the tale of Keith and his obscene schnozz simultaneously “wrong” (a violation) and “not wrong” (benign) were three times more likely to smile or laugh than either those who deemed the story either completely okay or utterly unacceptable.11
Pete and Caleb became more confident. Pete came to believe the benign violation theory could even help people improve their schtick. As he puts it, folks could use his theory to make upsetting concepts more amusing by making them seem more benign. He calls this tactic the Sarah Silverman Strategy, after the comedian who gets away with jokes on abortion and AIDS because the way she tells them is so darn cute. On the flip side, he believes that pointing out what is wrong with our everyday interactions with soup chefs and “close talkers” can help make those experiences hilarious. Pete calls this technique the Seinfeld Strategy.
HuRL’s research has started to gain traction. Pete and Caleb’s first paper on the benign violation theory appeared in one of the top mainstream psychology journals. Meanwhile, some of Pete’s fellow humor researchers are starting to take notice. “I absolutely consider it significant; it furthers the field,” Don Nilsen, co-founder of the International Society for Humor Studies and co-author of the Encyclopedia of 20th-Century American Humor, told me. “I don’t think there are any examples of humor that don’t fit this.”
The benign violation theory has also been endorsed by a very different sort of humor expert: Ben Huh, CEO of the Cheezburger Network, the multimillion-dollar silly-picture web empire that includes sites such as “I Can Has Cheezburger?” and “FAIL Blog,” with whom Pete has shared his research. “I’m a guy who makes his living off of internet humor, and McGraw’s model fits really well,” Huh told me over the phone. Lately he’s been using the model to determine which content could be the next big meme. Take a post about a church funeral getting interrupted by a parishioner’s “Stayin’ Alive” ringtone. “The benign violation theory applies to that,” said Huh: it’s clearly a violation for “Stayin’ Alive” to come on during a memorial for someone who’d just died, but it’s more benign—and therefore funnier—than if somebody purposely turned on the theme to The Walking Dead. All in all, says Huh, “He’s just a lot more right than anyone else.”
But the theory doesn’t impress everyone. The skeptics include Victor Raskin. In the world of humor scholarship, Raskin is a titan. Among other achievements, the Purdue University linguistics professor founded the journal HUMOR, edited the influential tome The Primer of Humor Research, and helped develop the general theory of verbal humor, one of the preeminent theories of how jokes and other funny texts work. He’s also, I discovered, not one to mince words. “What McGraw has come up with is flawed and bullshit—what kind of a theory is that?” he told me in a thick Russian accent. To Raskin, the benign violation theory is at best a “very loose and vague metaphor,” not a functional formula like E=mc2. It doesn’t help that among the tight-knit community of humor scholars, Pete’s few years dabbling in the subject is akin to no time at all. “He is not a humor researcher,” grumbled Raskin. “He has no status.”
Status or not, I decided to reserve judgment on Pete’s theory until I saw it in action. I wanted Pete to put his theory to the test. I asked him to accompany me to a Denver stand-up show so he could use his theory to critique the comedians.
He offered one better. “How about I get up on stage myself?”
“That,” I replied mischievously, “would be a very good idea.”
“Thank you very much,” Pete says into the Squire’s microphone, once he gets it reconnected and begins his act. “Being a professor is a good job. I get to think about interesting things. Sometimes I get my mind on something non-academic. Lately, I have been thinking a lot about nicknames.”
“First, a good nickname is mildly inappropriate,” he says. “An ex-girlfriend referred to me to her friends as ‘Pete the Professor.’ Not inappropriate, and not good. Now, if she referred to me as ‘Pete the Penetrating PhD-Packing Professor’—mildly inappropriate, and thus a good nickname.”
But Pete trips over the words “Pete the Penetrating PhD-Packing Professor” and doesn’t get a laugh. Nor do folks chuckle at the other funny names he tries out: Terry the Dingleberry. Thomas the Vomit Comet.
He throws out a line about “a well-endowed African American gentleman,” hoping to get some snickers, but it’s too pedestrian for a crowd used to hearing about late-term abortions and the joys of meth. He does get a few laughs when he says that most good nicknames involve alliteration and then pauses to explain the meaning of “alliteration”—although it’s possible folks were just laughing at the professor’s presumption.
People turn away and get lost in small talk. By the time Pete gets to the end of his four-minute routine—with a zinger about a 35-year-old virgin nicknamed Clumpy Chicken—he’s lost much of the audience.
“Thanks. Have a good night,” Pete says, then leaves the stage amid polite applause. He’s replaced by the open mike’s MC, who’s eager to punch the crowd back up. He has the perfect target.
“I thought you were going to talk about your humor theory!” the comic calls after the professor. “He has this theory, see . . . well, who cares. Obviously, it’s WRONG!”
The crowd’s back, laughing uproariously. But the MC’s not finished.
“All you black people, that’s a sweater vest he’s wearing, not a bulletproof vest.”
He waits a beat. “So go ahead and shoot him.”
Standing at the bar after his act, Pete considers his performance. “You can’t just get up there and expect to kill.”
But why didn’t he kill? He spends the night mulling it over. “I clearly underestimated the audience and the challenges in creating sufficient violations,” he tells me later. “This means the Seinfeld Strategy would have needed to be multiplied severalfold.” Of course, trying to outdo the other comedians in Squire-appropriate violations wouldn’t have been a good move, either. Once word got out about the professor who spouts one-liners about slavery and crack cocaine, Pete might have had to start looking for another job.
Pete’s stand-up attempt gives the usually confident professor pause. It’s clear, he tells me once the article comes out, that he has a ways to go before he understands the vagaries of comedy—and HuRL alone won’t take him the rest of the way. There’s a big, comical world out there, he says, and if he wants to figure out what really makes things funny, he’s got to venture beyond the confines of his lab.
But he can’t do it alone. Just as his scholarship needs to be vetted by his academic colleagues, he needs an objective observer, someone willing to call him out if his conclusions don’t pass muster.
Someone, in other words, like me.
I’m in. The adventure sounds like a blast, plus it may help me figure out why I am such a screwed-up, hopelessly lighthearted reporter. It will be like Eat, Pray, Love, but with awkward guy hugs and dick jokes.
Still, I offer a condition. At the end of the journey, Pete has to again try his hand at stand-up. But this time, at a slightly bigger stage than the Squire: The Just for Laughs comedy festival in Montreal, the biggest comedy event in the world. Comics work for years to earn a shot there, and a single routine can make or break a comedy career. If Pete thinks that he’s going to crack the humor code, he has to get up at the festival—and win one for science.
2
LOS ANGELES
Who is funny?
It’s a half hour to show time, and Louis C.K. looks miserable. The comic is slumped alone in a chair in the dingy greenroom of Denver’s Paramount Theatre, the toll of weeks on the road apparent on his face. Clearly, all he wants to do is eat his ham sandwich and get ready for his show. But instead he has to contend with the likes of us—an overexcited professor and a nervous journalist who’ve just barged in to ask him to deconstruct what he does on stage.
It’s a wonder we got back here at all. C.K., with his stand-up specials and hit FX series Louie, is one of the biggest names in the stand-up business. Every one of the 1,800 or so seats for the show tonight at the Paramount Theatre—one of the largest and swankiest venues for comedy in the region—has long been sold out.
It makes sense to start our search for the secrets of humor by talking to comedians like C.K. In many ways, stand-up is the perfect petri dish for figuring out why we find things funny. It’s comedy boiled down to basics—just a comedian and an audience, no backstory, no sets, no editors or producers or censors, a place where you either score a laugh or you don’t. Stand-up is one of the country’s most prominent cultural inventions. Thanks to The Tonight Show and Seinfeld, the work of American comedians now influences comedy all over the world. Plus, judging from his performance at the Squire, Pete could use a few tips.
So, what turned Louis C.K. into Louis C.K.? How does someone be funny? Is it an innate talent, something you’re born with or that arises from the right conglomeration of instincts and personality traits? Or is it something that develops over time, either through absorbing the right rules or personal trial and error? And what about other variables to consider, such as childhood baggage and the quirks of various comedy clubs? How do they all influence someone’s ability to be hilarious?
We’re here hoping that C.K. can provide us with some answers. Heck, maybe the king of stand-up will be so taken with our endeavor that he’ll show us the secrets to being funny. Our quest will be over as soon as it’s begun.
Knowing that he has only a few minutes, Pete launches into the benign violation theory, but he only gets halfway through before C.K. cuts him off. “I don’t think it’s that simple,” he grumbles. “There are thousands of kinds of jokes. I just don’t believe that there’s one explanation.”
His research dismissed, his theory shot down, Pete casts about for something to talk about. “So I was actually chatting with some of your fans in the lobby, and I asked them what questions I should ask you . . .” he begins.
My stomach drops. When an older woman who had made one too many trips to the Paramount’s bar heard we were interviewing C.K., she shrieked out a question. But surely there is no way Pete would ask it.
I’m wrong.
“So one woman wanted to know how big your penis is.”
C.K. cracks the faintest of smiles but shakes his head. “I am not going to answer that.”
“I wouldn’t, either,” Pete responds. “But I’ve heard that if you don’t answer that, it means it’s small.”
Now there’s no smile.
Sensing we’ve overstayed, we head for the door. Clearly, we’re going to have to look elsewhere to figure out what makes people funny. So, we figure, why not go where many comedians go to try to break into the big time, to hone their acts and get noticed by agents and talent scouts and TV execs? Why not go where up-and-comers go to become the next Louis C.K.?
And with that, we’re off to Los Angeles to see how many more people Pete will alienate with penis questions. For science.
“Welcome to the La Scala of comedy,” says Alf LaMont. ‘This is where it all happened.”
We’re standing in front of the Comedy Store, a black bunker of a building surrounded by palm trees. Beside us, Maseratis and BMWs glide through the night along the Sunset Strip, the billboard-lined mile-and-a-half stretch of pavement curving through West Hollywood that’s always been steeped in a heady cocktail of fame and vice.
This part of town has long been a place of wise guys and movie stars, beatniks and go-go dancers, groupies and glam rockers—and, here at the Comedy Store, some of the pivotal moments in stand-up history. Los Angeles is bursting at the seams with comedy. There are stand-up shows big and small every night of the week at comedy clubs and improv theaters and cabaret clubs, even in the Masonic lodge of a local cemetery. There are podcast tapings and comedic web-video shoots and several major comedy festivals. There’s even a new academic concentration in comedy at the University of Southern California. The seeds of this bustling comedy scene can be traced here, to this spot, in 1972, with the opening of the city’s first dedicated comedy club.
“All the other comedy clubs got rid of their history, or never had it to begin with,” says LaMont, head of marketing for the Comedy Store. “Here, it seeps through the very building.” It might not be the only thing seeping through the cracks. LaMont, who resembles a carnival barker with his handlebar mustache, escorts us through a maze of scuffed floors and dingy hallways, describing the club like an out-of-control circus: Here, by the front entrance, are black-and-white photos from when the building housed Ciro’s, a celebrity nightclub with Mob ties, years before comics Sammy Shore and Rudy DeLuca rented the space and turned it into a stand-up joint.
And here, scrawled on the walls, are the signatures of up-and-coming comics who flocked to the Comedy Store when Shore’s wife, Mitzi, took control of the operation and it became known as the proving grounds to get on The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson. This who’s who of comedy includes David Letterman, Jay Leno, Andy Kaufman, Steve Martin, Elayne Boosler, Richard Lewis, Robin Williams, Arsenio Hall, and Richard Pryor. Here’s the bullet hole resulting from the time Sam Kinison got into an argument with Andrew Dice Clay and pulled a gun. (“Sam wasn’t trying to kill Andrew,” says LaMont. “I don’t think.”)
“And here,” says LaMont, guiding us to a forlorn spot in the Comedy Store’s parking lot, “is where things stopped being funny.” In 1979, comics formed a labor union and demanded to be paid for their performances, something the club had never done. The Comedy Store eventually began compensating comedians, but some union members were blacklisted. That included Steve Lubetkin, who, on June 1, 1979, jumped from the roof of the thirteen-story Continental Hyatt House next door, landing on the pavement where we’re standing. He left behind a note: “I used to work at the Comedy Store. Maybe this will help to bring about fairness.”
We stop in the Original Room, a space up front that’s known as the toughest room in the country. To show us why, LaMont has us walk on stage and he lowers the lights. Looking out, all we see is pure darkness, with a single, blinding spotlight shining straight at us like an oncoming train. “It’s important to hear the audience, not see it,” LaMont tells us.
LaMont’s tour ends in the Comedy Store’s Belly Room, a murky shoe box of a performance space up a rickety flight of stairs at the back of the club. We’re here to meet Josh Friedman, a clean-cut 22-year-old financial consultant who’s a friend of a friend. The year before, Friedman had tried out on a whim for a stand-up competition and ended up winning the contest at a big downtown club. Now he wants to see if he has the potential to go further—which is why he’s here in the Belly Room about to perform for the first time.
We take our seats, and the show begins. Soon the young comic is up. Friedman begins with a tale of a drunken night in Shanghai that ends with him taking a spin on what he thinks is a stripper pole, ripping out a support beam, and knocking out an old Chinese lady. Then he goes on to point out that people who complain that Doritos are like crack don’t know what they’re talking about: “You eat too many Doritos and it’s like, ‘My stomach hurts.’ You smoke too much crack and it’s like, ‘My teeth are gone.’ ” He ends with a bit about his doctor asking to look at his penis: “I was like, ‘Oh, my God, this guy is trying to molest me!’ And then I realized how ridiculous I was being. He’s not some random guy off the street. He’s my optometrist!”
The six-minute set
isn’t bad, but we’re biased. We like Friedman. For the real verdict, we’ll leave it up to a couple of pros we’ve invited to the show. One is Sarah Klegman, a young dynamo of a manager for Levity, one of the biggest comedy agencies in LA. The other is Jeff Singer, a hip-looking guy with black plastic glasses who’s the executive talent scout for the Just For Laughs comedy festival. These two spend their days watching stand-up reels and grilling club owners, their nights haunting open mikes and talent showcases, looking for the next big thing. And we want to know if Friedman has a shot at the title.
Klegman and Singer, who both watched the performance impassively, divide their comments into good and bad news: the good news is that Friedman has impressive confidence for someone so green. Now for the bad news. He’s too long-winded with little payoff, says Singer. “In a six-minute set, you have to get funny quick.” And that line about Doritos and crack? “He telegraphed that like a bad boxer.”
Klegman has her own critiques. He has no personality on stage, no particular voice, she says. Plus, his beats were off. If he’s going to tell stories, “he’s gotta dance into it.” Finally, he missed an opportunity with his appearance: “He looks like a gay fourteen-year-old,” says Klegman. “He should talk about that.”
If Friedman is serious about comedy, say Klegman and Singer, he has to get to work. He needs to get on stage four times a week, minimum. If he keeps at it, who knows, maybe he’ll be worth their time—five to eight years down the road.
That seems like a lot of time and effort to see if someone has what it takes to be funny. Could there be an easier method, a way to measure somebody’s sense of humor, like modern-day baseball scouts use on-base percentages or unintentional walk and strikeout rates to predict a player’s future performance?