“Do you have any idea how much weed I smoke with your mom?” The room breaks into laughter. Will basks in his punchline, soaking up the spotlight. He saunters across the stage smiling, his eyes down, as if his next joke is written out on the floor. He stops and winces, pointing up at the lights glaring down on him. “I’m Irish Catholic, if you can’t tell by the burn I’m getting right now.” Laughter falls from the audience, while beer and wine seeps from their pores. It’s 8:30 on rainy night in Boston, and the underground bar is filled with people ready to laugh and drink, but maybe not as much as they expected to, on both fronts. Ten years ago, on a summer night, Will Noonan was sitting at the back of a bar in New York City. …
