05/29/2006: "David Letterman"

Hi All,

Been staying up lately to watch David Letterman.

When I was in my undergrad years at Trent U in sunny Peterborough, Ontario, David Letterman was my idol. On nights when we weren’t drunk (or too drunk), me and my buds would head to the Common Room to check out the Late Show.

The Common Room at our dorm house was a bit of a warzone. It’s a pretty artsy university, so often we’d find it occupied by some interpretive dance troupe: a bunch of weirdos in serapes and headbands rolling around on the carpet as in the grips of a communal grande mal seizure, tribal music playing while the director goes, “That’s right—feel the ENERGY of the piece. Let the music flow through you, animate you. You are putty and the music is your sculptor...” etc, and c. Or else a pack of bozos watching some foreign movie filled with angst, cavorting midgets, and incest. If we were lucky we might find the room occupied by a bunch of stoners, who’d been drawn to the TV like dozy, half-smiling flies to a bug zapper; they didn’t mind what they watched, delighted as they were by flickering images of any sort.

Anyway, a Battle of the Nerds would ensue (make no mistake, me and my buds were the Letterman Nerds, and every bit as appalling as the dance troupe nerds and foreign film nerds; we were half so affected, but nerds nonetheless), and if we won the Nerd standoff, the other nerds vacated the Common Room and we got to watch Letterman.

My devotion was such that one summer I got tickets and me and my buds Neil, Ryan and Pete headed down to NY City to catch the show. We took the bus down from Niagara Falls, a 12-hour jaunt. I don’t think any of us were wise enough to exchange our Canadian money for US greenback, which made me realize how pathetic our currency is to Americans. I remember in the Buffalo Greyhound shelter I tried to buy a Jamaican Patty from a robust, jovial lady who would have none of it.

ME: One Jamaican Patty, please.

ROBUST LADY [Buffalo accent]: Chicken or bif?

ME: Beef. [proffering $5 Canadian] Can I pay with Canadian cash?

ROBUST LADY [laughing uproariously]: Wassa? No, I ain’t taking dat!

ME: Why not? It’s legal tender.

ROBUST LADY [flapping hands dismissively]: Get outta here wid dat! Trow day away! Trow dat in da gaaaaaa-bidge!

While I did not take her advice to throw my money in the garbage, I was not able to purchase a single thing until I made it to NY, to a Times Square money-changer, where I was summarily raped on the exchange rate, ending up with seven dollars and a handful of change for $100 Can. (No, okay, it wasn’t that bad).

So we’re in NY. WE hadn’t thought to reserve a hotel room, so I seem to recall a lot of our afternoon was taken up getting one. Once we had a hotel room, we sallied forth to the nearest bodega, bought some alcohol—“I want Zima!” I said. “I’ve heard lots of good stuff about it!” (those reports of Zima’s deliciousness, I came to realize, were way off base: it tasted like 7-Up mixed with St. Ides malt liquor)—and spent the early evening getting drunk.

Suitably fortified on Zima, we sallied forth into the Big Apple. The local homeless contingent must’ve smelled the Zima on our breath, or in some other way sensed our helplessness, the way leopards smell a sick antelope, because what ensued was a 30-minute period I now refer to as:

THE BLOODLETTING OF FOUR SAD-SACK CANADIANS BY CRAFTY NY BUMS.

Now, listen, we all have had experiences with people begging change. Anytime I go to downtown Calgary, I carry a few bucks in change to give to the homeless people camped out on various corners; I consider it toll fees. They are pretty persistent, in Calgary: they’ll sidle up to you at crosswalks or follow you for a quarter-block—and if you don’t give them anything, they might have a harsh word or two for you, depending on how their day has been going. But most of them just sit with their hats out and if you drop something in, fine. Or they’ll play an instrument with varying levels of competence, or offer you a pamphlet.

This is all to say, I felt pretty confident about how to handle these situations. But that was before New York—New York bums are wily predators. The four of us were totally outmatched.

BLOODLETTING #1: The first one appeared, like a vampire, from a shadowy alcove of a bank building. He approached us like we were old friends—“My men! My men! How y’all doin’?”—and we, our eyes big as dinnerplates, said we were fine. He asked us where we were from and his eyes lit up when he heard Canada. He launched into an impromptu rap about Toronto, about the Blue Jays (who’d recently won the World Series) culminating his song with a heroic, Joe Carter-esque homerun stroke.

Then he held his hand out.

I think one of us slapped it, like “Gimme Five!” style. But he just held it out again. Before long we took his point and put money in it. I think he earned ten bucks for that rap.

BLOODLETTING #2: The second one approached us not more than ten feet later. I think news of us had gotten out over the homeless wire—“4 sheep, ripe for the shearing, heading up 10th toward Times Square!”—and we were doomed.

The second guy again materialized as if from thin air. He asked us where we were going, and we said we didn’t know. The bum donned an invisible Tourist’s Guide hat, then took my arm and led us not more than five feet up the block, until the marquee of a Times Square peep show theater was visible. He pointed at it wordlessly and cocked an eyebrow. “Eh?” he said. “Eh?”

Then he held out his hand.

Not yet recovered from the rapping bum, still dazed, we forked over more dough to the Tourist Guide, who melted into the shadows again.

BLOODLETTING #3: We sat there, wondering what the hell we were going to do, when another guy came up to us. This guy just held a coffee cup with a few coins in it, jiggling it at us as we stood there on the sidewalk. He didn’t say a thing—his purpose was pretty self-evident, I guess. He wouldn’t even look at us; it was like we weren’t even there at all. We kept talking, trying to ignore him, but he butted his way into our group so that he was basically in the middle of us. he just kept jiggling the cup, but more insistently. ANGRILY. We ended up dropping coins into it and he seemed overjoyed, if confused, as to how they’d gotten there: his face seemed to indicate they’d fallen out of the sky. He looked down into his cup and saw there was some Canadian change in there, mixed in with the US; these he picked out and dropped on the sidewalk, like trash—like gaaaaa-bidge—before moving on.

By now our funds had been completely devastated by this invasion of locust-like bums. Fearing their next move would be to simply walk up to us and rummage through our pockets, helping themselves, we scurried back to our hotel room, where our Zimas were still cold.

The next day we caught Letterman. It was all worth it. We were only in the theater for an hour, maybe an hour and a half all told, but it seemed like it was over in a minute. The guests were David Schwimmer and Bon Jovi, who put on a street concert.

Over the years I stopped watching Letterman. I don’t know why. I didn’t switch to Leno, who I think is an ass-kisser; I just got the sense Letterman wasn’t really enjoying himself.

Now, though, I’m loving his show. He’s so goddamn CRUSTY. He’s a fearless interviewer, too; he’s out there cutting into Bill O’Reilly (if you want to see this clip, head to www.youtube.com and type David Letterman into the search engine), Mary Cheney, and others. He’s really prying and pushy with his celeb guests, not treating them with kid gloves at all. He’s reached the ultimate “Like I Give a Fuck” stage, and it is great to see. He’s in fine form.

So if you haven’t checked out Dave in awhile, I suggest doing so. Any show on that long endures peaks and valleys, and it’s at a peak right now.

I can only hope they bring back Paul Schaeffer’s alter-ego, Johnny Carwash.

All best, Craig.