Subversive Comedy Amidst The Mothballs: How Dave Letterman Became My Comedic Hero

In my early teen years, I spent many hours lying on the floor of my bedroom closet, watching “Late Night with David Letterman.”

Let me explain.

Back then, you see, Letterman’s show came on at 12:30 a.m., after Carson. My parents thought that seemed a little late to be staying up, especially for someone who had the appalling nerve to sleep past 8 a.m. on occasion as it is.

So I got all McGyver down at the Radio Shack. I found a black & white TV in the garage that probably last showed “I Love Lucy,” strung coax cable underneath my bedroom carpet, into the closet, behind a small cutout door, and into an attic extension/storage area. I hooked up the TV, pummeled it several times, and was in business. I mean, I could sort of tell it was a person talking on a decrepit TV—but the audio was loud and clear.

This all seemed important to me. Because Letterman was this comedic force that had blasted everything you thought was rote about late-night TV in specific and comedy in general right out of the water. Here was this gangly, gap-toothed awkward figure who seemed to be ill-suited for the medium and looked like no one you’d ever seen on TV.

But this goofy-looking Midwesterner was raw, unfiltered, original comedy in physical form. He asked the questions no one else would, he ego-checked the celebrities that no one else dared, he Velcroed himself to things that no one else considered, he threw things from heights that no one else wanted to. He was Uncle Dave, a buzz-drunk prankster out to impress the neighborhood kids—and piss off the HOA at the same time.

Letterman became this anti-establishment cult figure, not just pushing the envelope, but dousing it with gasoline, lighting it on fire, taping Rolaids to it, and seeing if it would float. He commandeered his show with barely disguised disdain, as if someone forced him to host a late-night show, so he figured he would keep pressing buttons and spinning dials until someone got up enough energy to fire him.

The Atlantic dubbed his style “alternative comedy,” with David Sims writing that “In his earlier days, Letterman came across as someone who had stolen a camera crew and broken into an empty studio.”

In those earlier days, he also had a contempt of marketing façade and publicist-created celebrities, and he could slice, dice, and essentially end careers with his on-air interviews. He mellowed considerably after his open-heart surgery and the birth of his son, but he never slowed down—fast, clever, and timely with his on-the-fly remarks to the end.

Oh, he was fallible; make no mistake. He was overly acerbic at times, was an admitted alcoholic, and tended toward self-flagellation. He creeped a bit too hard on young actresses and later owned up to taking advantage of his position by sleeping with subordinates. He must have come close to losing his gig more times than anyone truly realizes.

But through it all, he never pretended to be anything other than a hick from Indiana who woke up every morning thinking, “How the hell did I get a TV show?” He changed the tone, tenor, and look of comedy, and his impact was felt in all corners of entertainment. During his stretch run, I was blown away by how many big names were moved to tears by Letterman’s impact on the course of their lives—from Adam Sandler to Ray Romano to Jimmy Kimmel to Norm Macdonald to Conan O’Brien.

“He was the North Star for me and every comic of my generation,” said O’Brien.

Personally, I always saw Letterman through the lens of generational conflict. My Mom didn’t like him; found him too coarse, too sardonic, too mean-spirited. He belonged to the rebellious youth, all rumpled with a too-long tie and unscripted barbs, while Jay Leno was your parents’ choice—the staid, polite-chuckle presence, a cue-card reader, milquetoast in a pressed suit. Half out of exasperation and half out of my ability to make her laugh, my Mom often suggested I consider writing for late-night TV; now that she’s passed, in my heart of hearts, I know she really meant, “Go write for David Letterman.”

But writing took me in a different direction, and I’ll have to settle for living vicariously through Letterman as my comedic hero. And maybe I’ve mellowed like Dave over the years, a husband and father of two more likely to watch “Doc McStuffins” than toss a microwave filled with marbles off an office roof.

Part of me, though, will always be on the floor of that closet, awash in black and white, breaking the rules of the house to watch a one-man laugh revolution break all the rules of comedy. Waiting to be discovered by my parents. Waiting for the renegade camera crew to show up. Waiting for Uncle Dave to do something outrageous.

Waiting for one last laugh that’ll always be just out of reach … yet never completely lost.

Thanks, Dave. I’ll leave the closet light on for you.