Nick's Comedy Stop

The studio lights in Austin hum with a quiet energy as two veterans of the comedy world, Joe Rogan and David Cross, sit across from one another. It has been years since they shared a room, a gap in time that stretches back to the mid-1990s when they both navigated the precarious transition from stand-up stages to the soundstages of network sitcoms. Their conversation begins not with the industry, but with the physical tolls of time—the shared experience of losing hair and the eventual, liberating acceptance of the razor. This opening exchange sets a relaxed, introspective tone for an exploration that spans decades of entertainment history, from the fringe of late-night radio to the cutting edge of artificial intelligence. Blood and laughter on the Boston comedy circuit The narrative quickly shifts to the ancestral home of their respective careers: Boston. During the late 1980s and early 1990s, the city was the epicenter of a gritty, prolific comedy boom. David Cross recalls his early days starting out in 1988, a time when the city was saturated with talent and danger in equal measure. He paints a vivid picture of Nick's Comedy Stop, a legendary venue that felt more like a mob clubhouse than a performance space. Cross describes the intimidation of walking into the back office to get paid, only to find the owner, Dominic, eating manicotti with a napkin tucked into his shirt while a literal gun sat on top of an open safe filled with cash. Joe Rogan echoes these sentiments, recalling the sheer volume of work available. In that era, a comedian could run a circuit of Chinese restaurants and local bars, performing nine shows a weekend for cash under the table. However, this abundance created what Rogan calls a "velvet prison." Many local legends, such as Don Gavin, Steve Sweeney, and Lenny Clarke, became so successful within the city limits that they never felt the need to leave. This provincialism became a trap; their material was so hyper-local—referencing specific Boston streets and regional sports figures like Johnny Most—that it failed to translate once they crossed the state line. Cross and Rogan discuss the resentment that often simmered in these locker rooms, where any comic who sought success in Hollywood was branded a "sellout" by those left behind. The ghost of Barry Crimmins and the gold standard Amidst the chaos of the Boston scene, one figure stood as the moral and intellectual compass: Barry Crimmins. Both men speak of Crimmins with a reverence reserved for a tribal elder. He was the founder of The Ding-Ho, the club that birthed the scene, and he maintained an uncompromising standard for comedic integrity. David Cross admits he was terrified of Crimmins as a young comic, fearing that a single bad set would earn him the permanent disdain of a man who was "clearly smarter than all of us." Crimmins was not just a comedian; he was a political activist and a minor-league baseball catcher who brought a "jock world" credibility to the stage. He famously used his platform to expose the horrors of the Catholic Church and the dangers of online predators during the early days of AOL. Joe Rogan recalls Crimmins' legendary "State of the Union" shows, where the comedian would stand at a podium with a cooler of Budweiser, delivering scathing, hour-long political critiques to a room packed with fellow comics. Crimmins represented the high-water mark of the craft, ensuring that even in a city known for its "hacks," there was always a pull toward something more profound and purposeful. Sitcom success and the creative death of the showrunner The conversation pivots to the mid-90s, when both men were swept up in the network television gold rush. Joe Rogan recounts his unlikely casting in NewsRadio after Ray Romano was famously fired from the pilot. For Rogan, who had no acting aspirations, the job felt like a surreal lottery win. He credits the show's brilliance to creator Paul Sims and star Dave Foley, who fostered an environment where the cast could rewrite lines on the fly and ignore the script in favor of better, spontaneous ideas. David Cross contrasts this with the darker side of the industry. He reflects on the recent frustrations of pitching a project with Bob Odenkirk, only to have it killed by "marketing and analytics" despite having four completed episodes and a full series bible. The duo laments the rise of the "unimpressive executive"—individuals who rely on algorithms rather than creative instinct. Cross describes the "hell" of being on a successful but terrible sitcom, where the financial rewards are high but the creative soul is slowly crushed by the repetition of bad jokes. This segment serves as a cautionary tale about the "velvet prison" of the writer's room, where comics trade their stage time for mortgages and stability, eventually losing the muscle required to perform on the road. From Art Bell to the digital God As the dialogue winds toward the present, the two men explore their shared fascination with the fringe. They reminisce about Art Bell and his iconic radio show, Coast to Coast AM. David Cross recalls the "time traveler line" and Bell's unique ability to give air to the most outlandish claims without judgment. This nostalgia for the "OG" of late-night paranormal talk leads into a sobering discussion about the future of technology. They discuss the rapid advancement of Artificial Intelligence and the looming reality of Artificial General Intelligence (AGI). Joe Rogan expresses a deep-seated anxiety about the loss of privacy and the inevitability of human integration with technology. He references Neuralink and the potential for "wearable" interfaces like AlterEgo that can translate thoughts without vocalization. The narrative reaches a climax as they contemplate the possibility of a "digital God"—an AI that can access all human knowledge instantaneously and improve itself at an exponential rate. Cross, while joking about the potential for high-fidelity VR porn, acknowledges the "heart-sick" feeling of wondering what world his nine-year-old daughter will inherit. They conclude that they may be the "last of the regular people," the final generation to remember a time when you could simply leave the house and be truly lost to the world. The enduring necessity of the stage Despite the looming technological shadows, the conversation finds its resolution in the one thing that has remained constant for both: the stage. David Cross is currently touring his new special, The End of the Beginning of the End, and he describes the arduous, rewarding process of "shooting the shit" at small venues in Brooklyn to find new material. He admits that while he enjoys acting and directing, stand-up is the only thing he "absolutely has to do." Joe Rogan agrees, recalling the near-insanity of the pandemic lockdowns when the ability to perform was taken away. The lesson learned is one of resilience and authenticity; in an age of deep-fakes and algorithms, the act of standing before a live audience and sharing a raw, unedited thought remains the ultimate human experience. As Cross prepares to walk or bike to his next set, the two veterans share a final fist bump, a testament to a craft that has survived mob bosses, network executives, and the dawn of the silicon age.