Rolling Stone
September 8, 2005

DANE COOK’S FUNNY BUSINESS
By Andrew Vontz

Outside the Laugh Factory in West Hollywood, the hottest comedian in America is working his young supporters like an underdog politician on the campaign trail: shaking hands, signing autographs, posing for photos. If there were a baby around, Dane Cook would surely kiss it. “Some comics make it and have security behind them, security in front of them,” says Jamie Masada, the Laugh Factory’s owner, watching Cook in action. “Dane’s not like that. He feeds the homeless on Thanksgiving! He’s like the mayor of L.A.” A fan approaches flashing the Super FingerTM, an inverted “Rock-On” symbol that Cook invented six years ago and has done everything in his power to promote. “That’s my brand, my logo,” Cook says, beaming. “How great is it to have a Nike swoosh that’s yours?”

This is the face of the nation’s top comic, circa summer, 2005: a tall, good-looking, overgrown frat boy who combines manic energy of Jim Carrey, the observational riffs of Jerry Seinfeld, and the marketing savvy of Steve Jobs. And it’s all working. After sixteen years on the circuit, tirelessly cultivating a collegiate and young professional fan base through countless TV appearances and, more recently, his own meticulously updated website, Dane Cook is at the top of his game. In late July, his second album, the double CD and DVD Retaliation, debuted at number four on the Billboard charts, the highest charting comedian since Steve Martin a quarter century ago. His tours are sellouts, he has a movie (Waiting) coming out next month, a cable reality show (Tourgasm) based on his recent tour in the can, and a TV pilot (Cooked) in the works. Right now, it’s good to be Dane.

Unlike other recent breakout comedy stars like Chris Rock, Dave Chappelle or even Larry the Cable Guy—guys who built their careers on divisive routines about race, sex and politics—Cook’s comedy goes down easier then Lite Beer. He’s all about being loved. His spiky hair, distressed jeans, motorcycle boots and high-octane persona might seem edgy, but signature bits like impersonating a Speak N Spell or getting wired on Nestle Quik as a kid seem more akin to Cosby than Rock. It’s a well-calibrated mix: lots of weird observations, a bit of naughtiness (“I never understood why a guy would want to watch a woman play with herself—To me it looks like DJ scratching records,”) and a splash of implied violence (“Three weeks ago one of my dreams came true…I finally got to see someone hit by a car!”). At the Laugh Factory show, when a heckler interrupted his set, Cook called the kid out. “Listen, brother. If you continue to talk, I’m going to kick this woman in the head,” he said, nodding at an innocent lady in the front row. The crowd went nuts.

“I’ve done shows where two jokes in, the crowd’s not into it. So I’ll flip it around. I will find my laughs in a crowd,” he says. “I want to be adaptable, a chameleon. I keep my iPod on shuffle – you don’t want to hear ‘80’s metal every day.”

As he heads back to his apartment a few blocks from the venue, Cook reflects on his transformation from shy kid growing up in suburban Boston to comedy superstar. “I was a different entity when I got started: extremely introverted and extremely shy. I’d rather have to learn brain surgery than go back and start stand-up again. Those first five years were just fucking brutal. No money, no benefits. I got a toothache in ’92 and got it fixed in ’95.”

An hour after bringing down the house, Cook is back at home and back at work. If Richard Pryor had his crack pipe, and Dave Chappell his demons, Cook has his command center: a Mac G-5, a 32-inch High Definition monitor, a separate flat-panel TV, and a power book. “I’ve never drank or done a drug in my life,” he says, easing into a high-backed leather chair. “I had an epiphany early on: I’m a competitive person. If I drank I’d have to be the best drinker in the world.”

With a near complete collection of Star Wars and G.I. Joe characters looming on a shelf above his desk, Cook logs onto MySpace, the huge networking site. “I live on MySpace, advertising, talking to people.” As he taps a mouse the surround speakers emit cartoonish squeaks: “New friend requests – 3,562…In the Inbox – 21,916 comments.” He has nearly 300,000 networked “friends” on the site, which he addresses regularly via IM and bulletin board posts. When Napster blew up in the mid-90’s, Cook realized he could use it to promote himself, posting some of his bits with a plug for his web site, www.danecook.com. “My site goes from a hundred hits a week to a couple of thousand. Then I knew that this right here,” he taps the computer, “is where I’m going to make it. I’m going to build a fan base the same way bands did back in the day, but using the internet.”

He also spent a decade gigging nonstop at colleges. “My dad told me, ‘Whatever you discover in your college years, you’ll hold on to for the rest of your life. No matter where your career goes, those people will always support you.’ It’s fucking true man.” And with the internet, Cook can reach out to those fans at all hours. “They can get me 24/7,” he says. “Sometime I’ll put my web cam on and people can watch me do nothing. Whatever I can do to entertain the kids. Hey, let me turn it on right now and show you what happens.” Within seconds of logging in, dozens of messages pop up. One says, Is this really Dane Cook? You’re my favorite comedian ever! Another: Dane you fucking rule!

A pile of scripts sits on the floor waiting to be read, but Cook stays up late into the night stoking his constituents. His way-hot live-in girlfriend, singer/waitress Rachel Houghton, knows to give him his space. “I knew that I had this underground thing happening,” he explains. “The last four or five years on the road, I’m doing 10,000 seaters and selling them out, even though I’m a TV guy, not a movie guy. When Retaliation hit number 4, as much as I was blown away by it, my fans knew it was coming. They were like, yeah man, your turn.” And with that, the hardest-working man in comedy is back at the computer, plotting the next phase of his master plan.