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.
“Under
the Dome” has jumped the shark
