Many years ago, I stupidly suggested my parents watch Pulp Fiction. When they were done with the viewing my dad called me and asked, "What the %*@# did we just watch?" They may have had the same reaction had I suggested they watch Late Night With David Letterman when it debuted 33 years ago. (Of course, they may have also wondered why a seven year old was making 12:30am television viewing recommendations.) No, Late Night was not hilariously violent like Tarantino's masterpiece. No, Letterman didn't accidentally blow of Marvin's head or "Bring out the Gimp", but he brought out Larry "Bud" Melman, Stupid Pet Tricks and the dumbest gags night after night. Discovering Letterman ten years later as a seventeen year old college freshman was a freakin' revelation. In the ensuing twenty-plus years, the only person to bring more joy to my late nights than David Letterman is my wife. (If you know what I mean. Wink.) While it isn't as funny as Adam Sandler's lyrical tribute or as emotional as Norm McDonald's, I wanted to write a brief tribute to the King of Late Night as he signs off for the last time tonight.
Letterman being passed over for the Tonight Show in favor of Jay Leno may have been the best thing to happen to him. He left for CBS and never looked back. When the Late Show debuted in 1993, Dave came out swinging, crashing the 11:30 hour with a force that he may not have had if he had been handed the Tonight Show. We were all better for it. Dave was fearless, sarcastic and hilarious. Jay was safe, comforting, boring, there to tuck you in. Dave was your buddy that dragged you out of bed and said, "Let's get drunk and throw a TV off the roof. Dave made wacky okay. Acting like a dope moved you from the dunce corner to the head of the class.
"Voice of a Generation" is perhaps too strong a designation to hang on a TV host. Maybe that moniker should be reserved for an author, poet or musician. But for twentysomethings in the early 90's was there a better arbiter of cool, hip and funny than Dave Letterman? Maybe the aforementioned Quentin Tarantino. Maybe Kevin Smith. Maybe Dan Patrick and Keith Olbermann glibly doling out the highlights anchoring ESPN's Big Show. But my money's on Dave. He was the ringleader and chief entertainer presiding over a circus five nights a week. Acerbic and absurd met nutty and shameless night after night. Whether throwing footballs into moving taxis or piercing the bloated ego of a celebrity with sarcastic precision, Letterman was defining funny.
My friends and I slurped it up with a spoon. In the pre-internet/pre-DVR age, monologues and Top Ten Lists were appointment television. Dave's catchphrases and comedy bits seeped into our collective consciousness and populated our lexicon. I can all but promise you that the simple act of me writing, "Freeze, Hair Boy!" will elicit a chuckle from my friend Rob if he reads this. And that was a throwaway line from a throwaway bit twenty years ago. But we remember. Our own gags, from shopping cart races to Wacky Hat Night, from a Rascal parade through Wal-mart to a little student film called "Charmin: Not Just for the Bathroom Anymore" were, if not inspired by, were at least unwittingly sanctioned by our TV pal Dave.
As I've gotten older, I am not usually up at 11:30 unless I am weeping through a Capitals' NHL playoff overtime or addicted to a Netflix binge. I had not watched much Late Show over the last few years. When I did tune in, Dave seemed a little tired, not as sharp. (Until these last couple weeks leading to the finale. He seems happy and energized.) Clearly Jimmy and Jimmy,thanks in part to social media and a change in how we consume television, have passed Dave. I'm sure they know the debt they owe Letterman. It's a debt we all owe Letterman. He has been directly or tangentially responsible for millions of laughs. Late night will never be the same. Thanks, Dave.
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
Thursday, May 14, 2015
Cap-sized! Rangers Flip Series, Sink Washington In Seven
I want you to try something. Call a buddy over, you are going to need some help. Stand with your feet shoulder-width apart. Now ask your buddy to kick you in the nuts as hard as he can. I don't mean a gentle toe tap. I mean a kick that drives one of your testicles so far inside you surgery will be required to remove it. Go ahead, I'll wait... Hurts doesn't it? Why would you ask somebody to do that? Are you stupid or somethin'? Now you know how it feels to be a Washington Capitals fan. We stand, feet spread, wincing as we accept, practically beg for, a big 'ol nut punt Spring after Spring.
It's like some sort of decades-long fraternity hazing. Thank you, Sir! May I have another? Yes, I will stand here and endure all these Daniel-san crane kicks to the ballbag, but it will all be worth it because at some point I will get my pledge pin and get to play beer pong with pretty girls, right? No dumbass! You are going to take all those scrote-ripping groin busters and the big Swedish goaltender is still going to kick in the door, steal all your Milwaukee's Best and take your woman upstairs.
I mean, seriously? Can something be inevitable and impossible at the same time? 101 seconds from Round 3. A disallowed goal. A puck deflecting off a defenseman's skate, through the goalie's pads to be tapped in for a goal with .3 seconds left in the period. Simply more markers on the road map charting the Hockey Heartbreak Highway that Caps fans have traveled for decades. Run your fingers along the route with me. (Not that longtime fans need a map. We can find every exit and way station with our eyes closed.) Gonchar falling in OT. Joe Juneau failing to convert an overtime penalty shot. Tom Poti's penalty. Esa Tikkanen. I've got a dozen more, but you get the point.
This blog, whether discussing my dad skills or my favorite teams, is frequently fueled by pessimism and incompetence. In this regard, the Capitals are a flippin' nuclear reactor. The negative energy emanating from this franchise is unreal. Almost literally unreal. It seems impossible that every time they land in a Game 7 after blowing a 3-1 series lead they end up completing the fall. But here we are, 5 for 5. Impossible yet inevitable. Who didn't think when they lost Game 5 in OT that they were done? Liar. Then a frantic comeback in Game 6 provided false hope that maybe they could pull something off in Game 7. Lucy pulling the football from Charlie Brown one more time. Good Grief indeed, Chuck. There will be fans talking about what a great game Game 7 was. They will tell you it could have gone either way. They will tell you the Caps stood toe to toe with the better, favored, President's Trophy-winning Rangers through seven one goal games. This is all true. Also true, however, is that Washington once again choked away a 3-1 series lead. I don't care how big an underdog you are, you must finish that series.
Because if you don't, despite having a new coach and a new GM and new players and a new attitude and new resolve, you are still just the same old Caps. Is it October yet?
It's like some sort of decades-long fraternity hazing. Thank you, Sir! May I have another? Yes, I will stand here and endure all these Daniel-san crane kicks to the ballbag, but it will all be worth it because at some point I will get my pledge pin and get to play beer pong with pretty girls, right? No dumbass! You are going to take all those scrote-ripping groin busters and the big Swedish goaltender is still going to kick in the door, steal all your Milwaukee's Best and take your woman upstairs.
I mean, seriously? Can something be inevitable and impossible at the same time? 101 seconds from Round 3. A disallowed goal. A puck deflecting off a defenseman's skate, through the goalie's pads to be tapped in for a goal with .3 seconds left in the period. Simply more markers on the road map charting the Hockey Heartbreak Highway that Caps fans have traveled for decades. Run your fingers along the route with me. (Not that longtime fans need a map. We can find every exit and way station with our eyes closed.) Gonchar falling in OT. Joe Juneau failing to convert an overtime penalty shot. Tom Poti's penalty. Esa Tikkanen. I've got a dozen more, but you get the point.
This blog, whether discussing my dad skills or my favorite teams, is frequently fueled by pessimism and incompetence. In this regard, the Capitals are a flippin' nuclear reactor. The negative energy emanating from this franchise is unreal. Almost literally unreal. It seems impossible that every time they land in a Game 7 after blowing a 3-1 series lead they end up completing the fall. But here we are, 5 for 5. Impossible yet inevitable. Who didn't think when they lost Game 5 in OT that they were done? Liar. Then a frantic comeback in Game 6 provided false hope that maybe they could pull something off in Game 7. Lucy pulling the football from Charlie Brown one more time. Good Grief indeed, Chuck. There will be fans talking about what a great game Game 7 was. They will tell you it could have gone either way. They will tell you the Caps stood toe to toe with the better, favored, President's Trophy-winning Rangers through seven one goal games. This is all true. Also true, however, is that Washington once again choked away a 3-1 series lead. I don't care how big an underdog you are, you must finish that series.
Because if you don't, despite having a new coach and a new GM and new players and a new attitude and new resolve, you are still just the same old Caps. Is it October yet?
Friday, May 08, 2015
Who You Gonna Call?
Well, here we are. The place any team would love to be. The place any fan base would love to be. The Washington Capitals are one win from their first trip to the Conference Finals in seventeen years. One win from Alex Ovechkin's first venture beyond the second round. With Wednesday night's victory the Caps built a commanding (legally required to use that cliche there) three games to one series lead over the hated Rangers. But Caps fans know well the perils of 3-1 series lead. We have borne witness to blown leads and choke jobs. We have watched helplessly as the likes of Lemieux and LaFontaine, Jagr and Halak, have yanked our hockey hearts from our chests and mercilessly ground them under their skate boot. Out of two hundred seventy occurrences of a team holding a 3-1 series lead, only ten percent of the teams have blown that lead. Four of those twenty-seven teams,the most in NHL history, have been the Capitals. Four times I have watched as a team unraveled, as history repeated itself, as a series slipped away almost cosmically as if it were a fate preordained by the hockey gods.
Don't get me wrong; I haven't fired up the Doomsday Siren yet. Yet. But I am looking for the keys just in case. Such is the life of Caps fans. The worry reflex has kicked in. Muscle memory instructs us to expect the worst. We are wary when things are riding too high. I'll watch Game 5 through my fingers. A Game 6 would elicit the paces of an expectant father. A Game 7 would tighten sphincters across the region. I have seen what can happen and it's not pretty. It is hard to shake the feeling that New York has us right where they want us.
So, why can't I get my head around the idea that these might not be the same ol' Caps? Maybe because, unlike the opening round, I have been able to watch precious little of this series. In fact, I have seen less than twenty minutes of game action combined through four games (fortunately, a few of those minutes included Joel Ward's Game One buzzer-beater). I can't really speak to how the Caps are playing. Everything I read, hear and see in the highlights seems to indicate, carrying over from the first round, that they feel "different". Quotes from the locker room indicate the players are quite serious about finshing the Rangers. Unfortunately, this is typically where teams of the past, and Ovi's Caps, let up. Whether in an individual game or in playoff series, the Caps tend to let teams off the mat. The Rangers are good. Lundqvist is good. Good enough to come back and win this series. That's why I worry. However, in Round One optimism was my vow and a Ghost of Playoffs past was banished. Once again, I'm willing to let optimism be my spirit guide. Somebody call Ray Parker Jr. For now, I ain't afraid of no (playoff) ghosts.
Don't get me wrong; I haven't fired up the Doomsday Siren yet. Yet. But I am looking for the keys just in case. Such is the life of Caps fans. The worry reflex has kicked in. Muscle memory instructs us to expect the worst. We are wary when things are riding too high. I'll watch Game 5 through my fingers. A Game 6 would elicit the paces of an expectant father. A Game 7 would tighten sphincters across the region. I have seen what can happen and it's not pretty. It is hard to shake the feeling that New York has us right where they want us.
So, why can't I get my head around the idea that these might not be the same ol' Caps? Maybe because, unlike the opening round, I have been able to watch precious little of this series. In fact, I have seen less than twenty minutes of game action combined through four games (fortunately, a few of those minutes included Joel Ward's Game One buzzer-beater). I can't really speak to how the Caps are playing. Everything I read, hear and see in the highlights seems to indicate, carrying over from the first round, that they feel "different". Quotes from the locker room indicate the players are quite serious about finshing the Rangers. Unfortunately, this is typically where teams of the past, and Ovi's Caps, let up. Whether in an individual game or in playoff series, the Caps tend to let teams off the mat. The Rangers are good. Lundqvist is good. Good enough to come back and win this series. That's why I worry. However, in Round One optimism was my vow and a Ghost of Playoffs past was banished. Once again, I'm willing to let optimism be my spirit guide. Somebody call Ray Parker Jr. For now, I ain't afraid of no (playoff) ghosts.