Anyone who knows me well knows that I'm kind of obsessed with late night talk shows. That's something that started with you when I was much to small to be watching. I only knew you in your last half. (Post heart surgery, a lot more humble, but just as goofy as ever.) Watching you became a rare treat, something only reserved for Friday nights when sleep was the enemy and you were the prize. My first memory of watching your show is fittingly bizarre. I was five years old, cuddled against my father on the couch, and Alan was writing "ASS" is bright red lipstick across his forehead. As a brand new reader, I was shocked that bad words could be written down, let alone written on your face. It was shocking, it was revolutionary, and I laughed.
Your "Sink or Float" segment always made me happy when I got to see it. I felt like a genius when I, a small girl in a tiny Utah town sitting in my living room, up way past my bedtime, guessed right and you, with your name on the theater, were wrong.
As I grew older, my love for late night expanded. I watched you more often, Mr. Letterman, and got to know your quirks and habits. My mother would always comment on your tie each night, my dad always interested in the musical guest. I was still just in wonder of it all. Once I could stay up late enough to finish an entire episode of Late Show I started staying up even later to catch Conan's monologues on Late Night, clueless that he was starring in a show that you built.
I was completely clueless to your importance to comedy until I got much older. My mom and dad grew up watching Late Night. It was part of their childhood just like it was a part of mine. If it weren't for you, there would be no Conan O'Brien, no way for weirdos to get their chance to shine on television.
Mr. Letterman, I graduated high school on Wednesday. While you were taping your final show, I walked across a different stage across the country into a new time in my life. Knowing that we were both having life changing afternoons made me feel at piece. We were both entering new chapters in our lives, together but very separate. I missed your final show to go to a graduation party, but at 11:35, I thought of you. The next morning I watched your final Top Ten List, and I cried. This morning, I saw pictures of your set in the dumpster, and I cried again. I've never known a world without your show. In elementary school, I used to wake up to my local radio station replaying your Top Ten List from the night before. For about four years, I woke up to your smarmy wit each morning. (Unfortunately, it didn't really rub off on me.)
Thank you, Mr. Letterman. My entire life you've made me laugh. You've been mentioned in my poetry. You've been the subject of my rambling comedic recaps over stryrofoam lunch trays at school. Thank you for being a key part of my 18 years. Thank you for being smart and weird and willing to push the limits of what's funny and what's stupid. Thank you for making my parents laugh. Thank you for making me laugh. Thank you for making me jealous of Biff because I wanted his job so badly. Thank you for having a show where Paul Shaffer wore wild suits and sunglasses and the Foo Fighters were honored guests. But most of all, Mr. Letterman, thank you for changing television.
Sincerely,
Zoey (Future librarian, or future late night talk show writer, partially thanks to you.)
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