I must have been 11 years old. Sixth grade. I won a poetry contest organized to commemorate the centennial of the Statue of Liberty—big news in New York public schools in 1985. My prize was a bronze statue of the Statue which doubled as an AM/FM radio. I already owned a more powerful radio…a fire-engine red boom box. But if someone gives you a Statue of Liberty radio when you’re 11 years old, it becomes your go-to radio for at least a week.
And so, at about 5PM during that first week, I turned on my little Statue and fiddled with the dial until I found WNBC. Howard Stern. He was messing around with Dee Snider of Twisted Sister. Somehow, I already knew my mother wouldn’t want me to hear what I was about to hear, so I turned the radio low and pushed my face very close to the Statue’s breasts.
They were playing something called “Penis Ping-Pong.” Howard and Dee ooh’d and ahh’d seductively to the sound of a ping-pong ball knocking back and forth across a table.
Get it?
As if they were using their penises as paddles.
Two idiots in a studio making noises. Ping…”ooh.” Pong…”ah.” Somehow it was the dirtiest thing I’d ever heard.
What I didn’t realize at the time was that something even better was happening in one of the other studios in Howard’s building—where David Letterman was taping Late Night.
I was a little young for Letterman in 1985. I knew about his show and, from what little I had seen, I understood the basic premise. I understood that the whole carnival, including the bad jokes, was a put-on. And I loved that. But I wasn’t allowed to stay up late enough to watch him.
Eventually, my parents relented. I saw “Monkey-cam” and the Velcro suit. And I can see now that it was Letterman, not Stern, who became a part of me.
From Dave I learned to keep telling the same unfunny punchline until the telling itself becomes funny.
I learned that a man should always own at least one pair of beat-up canvas sneakers.
I learned that every so often you’ll stumble across something that actually matters—even though most things are too stupid matter.
All of these things were going through my head as I watched Howard and Dave reminisce during Letterman’s final week. These two men, once equally dangerous in their own ways, spoke as if they no longer have anything left to learn…which they don’t. They spoke like winners…which they are. They sounded satisfied.
And that’s precisely why we Letterman fanatics—see Jimmy Kimmel or Norm Macdonald—get a little teary about Dave’s retirement.
We don’t begrudge him his peace. He’s won. He has nothing left to learn. But we’re still trying to learn. From him. From anyone.
We’re not satisfied—and that has nothing to do with Letterman and his show.
Letterman’s moved on but we’re still here. And that stings a bit.