A Thank You Letter to Conan O’Brien

When I was a little boy Jay Leno

My mother tells me that on our very first night home from the hospital we watched The Johnny Carson Show together. I watched from a baby basinet, my eyes transfixed to the screen. Mom also tells me that I shut the fuck up and stopped crying as soon as he came on the television.

Years later I would be a thirteen, fourteen, fifteen year old boy doing his Math homework late at night with the TV on, NBC specifically.  For a while, I thought Jay Leno’s “Headlines” section was pretty fuckin’ hilarious, the goofy last-named married couple section specifically.  I also really enjoyed Kevin Eubanks. I mean really, who doesn’t want a black sidekick that fucking shreds axe? And don’t even get me started on Smitty — that homie can wail!

One day I turned sixteen and got a driver’s license, which meant I could now cruise the streets of LA in search of pussy all night long as long as I called my parents to let them know I wasn’t dead, or worse, in jail. I started staying out later. I started staying up later.  I started learning what was good in the world. I don’t remember when, but sometime around this period in my life I fell in love with a goofy, lanky, tall-as-fuck red-haired genius who used to write for THE SIMPSONS. His name was Conan O’Brien and I would eventually end up living in his hometown all throughout college (Brookline, MA — whatttup?) Over the years I would fall asleep with Conan nearly four/five nights a week laughing aloud to my bedspread.  From making fun of his horn section, La Bamba in particular, to the masturbating bear and Max Weinberg, I had truly found my hero. See, I wanted to be Conan O’Brien. I still do. I perform stand-up from time to time, write this here blog, write TV shows, host my own Facebook Talk Show, all in the name of hopefully someday filling his shoes and having my own Talk Show. I know it’s a long shot, but if I’ve learned anything from Conan, it’s that you can really do anything. You think he ever thought he’d be broadcasting to millions of Americans as a tall, lanky, goofy red-haired guy in his younger years? I don’t think so. He wrote, and wrote and wrote some more. There’s only one way to greatness and greatness is the way.

I guess what I’m trying to say is Thank You, Conan. Thank you for not only making me piss my pajama pants on a nightly basis, but for also ingraining the idea in my brain that I could do anything as an Al Franken looking Jew: get out of any trouble, get into any conversation, and bang any girl on the planet so long as I continue to make people laugh.

GO GET ‘EM TIGER! There’s a desk at Fox just waiting for you.