Letterman Playboy Interview 1984 part 1(long as hell post)
kpan...@yahoo.com
this. Take note of Dave's leisure activity of choice during the morning
show sturm and drang.
PLAYBOY INTERVIEW: DAVID LETTERMAN
NBC's sixth floor at 30 Rockefeller Plaza is the birthplace of the
modern television talk show. Steve Allen hosted "The Tonight Show' there
for three years, followed by Jack Paar and Johnny Carson. In 1972, "The
Tonight Show'went West, and a year and a half later, Tom Snyder moved in
for an eight-year stint. Now Snyder is gone and a new breed of talk-show
audience is filling studio 6A's 250 seats--with 4,000,000 more of the
same new species watching at home. For the first time, the generation
that was raised by television has its own network talk show, "Late Night
with David Letterman.'
According to the Nielsen people, an astonishing 60 percent of
Letterman's viewers were born after World War Two, a demographic profile
not even remotely approached by any previous talk show. And here they
are now, dungareed and T-shirted, clapping hard and grinning with
gleeful anticipation as Paul Shaffer's band explodes in an old R&B song
and announcer Bill Wendell intones, "And now, a man who is frightened by
the slightest change in air temperature, David Letterman.' A door opens
at the back of the stage and Letterman enters--followed by a cameraman
holding a minicam directly over his shoulder.
The three big floor cameras peel away toward the wings and Letterman,
the minicam hugging his shoulder, strides forth. The audience is
momentarily startled and everyone scrambles for a peek at one of the
overhead monitors; but in a twinkling, this audience is in on the
joke--Letterman is letting us see the show from his point of view.
Laughter and cheers wash over the stage.
This is the video generation; they get this kind of stuff. If Carson
pulled a stunt like this, most of his viewers would probably think
something was wrong. Letterman is playing to an audience that loves to
see the world stood on its head--the way Mad magazine used to do when
they were children. But now they're grown and crowding a TV studio to
watch a man The Washington Post described as "lankish, prankish, boyish
and goyish' stand where Allen and Paar and Carson and Snyder used to
stand--except this guy is showing them what it's like to be
there. He's taking the magic out of television, and they love it.
Since it went on the air in February 1982, "Late Night with David
Letterman' has welcomed such guests as Sidney Miller, Doorman of the
Year; a gentleman who flew to an altitude of 15,000 feet in a lawn chair
and was almost killed by a Delta Air Lines jet; a worm farmer; a man who
died and came back to life; and a woman who claimed to have gone
shopping on Venus. The show's regular features include elevator races,
viewer mail and stupid pet tricks. There have been such special features
as an investigative report titled, "Alan Alda: A
Man and His Chinese Food.' When the show does have traditional celebrity
guests, Letterman usually attempts to do something different with them.
During an interview, Henry Winkler happened to mention that his
83-year-old father was in the lumber business. Letterman immediately
produced a telephone and called Winkler's father to ask what he should
do about the faded redwood siding on his Malibu home (Winkler's father
recommended clear varnish). Comedian Robert Klein showed and hilariously
narrated his bar mitzvah movies.
Jet-set veteran Monique Van Vooren brought her 200 pairs of shoes, which
went by on a conveyor belt while she provided anecdotes from her
life--all related to the shoes she was wearing at the time.
Viewer reaction to this televised weirdness has not been a flash cult
quickly followed by apathy but a firmly based and steadily rising
Nielsen ground swell. Surveys have proved to network executives and
sponsors alike that the baby-boom generation has at last found a
talk-show host with a genuinely congenial sensibility. It is now also
apparent that that man is not a performer who relies on shtick. He views
the world--through the eyes of his generation--afresh every day. Three
TV critics, while reflecting separately in print on Letterman, used the
same phrase to describe him: "He wears well.' And in television,
durability can be an even more important asset than talent.
David Michael Letterman was born in Indianapolis on April 12, 1947. His
father owned a small flower shop. His mother was a church secretary. He
had two sisters. There were chronic but never quite overwhelming
financial problems. Letterman was shy, extremely self-conscious about
his appearance ("I looked like a duck'), played a lot of baseball, did
poorly in school and hung out with a tight group of friends whose
primary interests were sports, beer and making one another laugh. In a
high school speech class, he settled upon what was to remain his
lifelong dream-- to host a TV talk show.
In 1965, Letterman entered Ball State University in Muncie, Indiana, as
a radio-TV major. He joined a fraternity, drank more beer, married his
sweetheart and worked two summers as a replacement announcer on channel
13,the ABC affiliate in Indianapolis. After graduation, he landed a
fulltime job at channel 13. His duties included weatherman,
Saturday-morning kiddie-show star, news anchor and late-night movie
host. Experience and boredom accumulated, occasionally resulting in
on-air pranks that gave Letterman an underground cult following-- and
eventually got him fired. Once, while doing
the weather, he reported that the city was being pelted by "hailstones
the size of canned hams.' On another weather report, he announced that a
tropical storm had just been upgraded to hurricane status, then
congratulated the storm on its promotion.
After leaving channel 13 in 1974, Letterman remained in Indianapolis for
another year as a radio talk-show host. By May 1975, he felt he was
ready to grab for the brass ring. He and his wife packed their
belongings into their battered red pickup truck and headed for L.A.
Letterman had overcome his stage fright sufficiently to audition at The
Comedy Store on Sunset Boulevard. On that fateful night, his career
edged into Hollywood's fast lane. Although he
was an unpolished stage performer (and obviously a nervous wreck), the
unusual bent of Letterman's humor was immediately apparent to the club's
owners, and they installed him in The Comedy Store's regular rotation.
Within days, Jimmie "J.J.' Walker began paying Letterman $150 per week
to write jokes for his stand-up act. During his stint at The Comedy
Store, other comedians, including Bob Hope and Paul Lynde, also hired
him to write material for them. TV appearances and top club dates
materialized quickly. So did a sad but civilized divorce.
In 1978, Letterman landed a job on Mary Tyler Moore's ill-fated variety
hour "Mary.' Although the show failed and his experience on it was not
entirely pleasant ("They kept dressing me up in weird costumes and,
worse, they made me dance'), two crucial, long-term benefits did accrue
to him: He made a fan of the show's producer, Grant Tinker, and he
deepened his recent relationship with one of the writers, Merrill
Markoe.
Then came a very strong first appearance on "The Tonight Show.' Carson
spontaneously decided to invite him up for a desk spot, and that's when
Letterman, whom many critics consider the best reactive comedian, or
"comeback artist,' in the business today, really had a chance to shine.
By early 1979, when Carson was thinking of leaving "The Tonight Show,'
Hollywood insiders placed Letterman, still a virtual unknown, among the
handful of leading contenders for the throne. And then came something
called "The David Letterman Show': 90 minutes of live talk and
entertainment at ten o'clock every weekday morning. Although both
Letterman and head writer Markoe won Emmys, the ratings
were disastrous and the show was canceled as soon as alternate
programing could be developed.
A period of deep depression followed (as distinct from the shallow
depression that Letterman's friends claim is his normal emotional
state). He justifiably felt that he'd had his shot at fulfilling his
childhood fantasy and blown it.
Then a "holding contract' arrived in the mail: Fred Silverman was
offering him what has been variously reported as between $625,000 and
$1,000,000 a year just to sit at home and wait for the network to come
up with another show for him. The cloud was lifted. Late in 1981, Tom
Snyder's "Tomorrow' show was canceled, and although Silverman had by
then departed, the new boss at NBC was another Letterman fan, Grant
Tinker. So "Late Night' was launched. The show
was a critical, ratings and demographic success from the outset.
Today, as "Late Night' goes through its third year and Letterman's
baby-boom following has demonstrated what appears to be a long-term
commitment to him, NBC executives are no longer panic-stricken about the
day Carson eventually calls it a career. Even Carson has been feeling
the loss of leverage. One evening, after a lackluster monolog and a
boring first guest, he sighed, peered resignedly into the camera and
said, "Why don't I just go on home and we can bring in Letterman now?'
The audience cheered wildly and the show went
well from there. But the point was not lost amid the laughter. An heir
apparent to America's talk-show throne has finally emerged; and in this
land of show-business royalty, that it the U.S. equivalent of the birth
of a prince. So we felt the time had come to send veteran PLAYBOY
interviewer Sam Merrill out for an extended chat with Letterman about
his life and times in the talkshow wars. Merrill reports:
"David Letterman quickly agreed to do the "Interview,' then proceeded to
delay the first session for six months. During that time, the message
would periodically be possed to me that "David really wants to do the
"Playboy Interview'; he's just a little nervous.' Letterman's nervous
condition probably would have persisted to this day had deadlines not
required me to notify him that if we didn't begin on a certain day a
couple of months away, the "Interview' was off. I was his last
appointment on the afternoon of that day.
"Letterman's office at the RCA building in New York's Rockefeller Center
looks, as one reporter put it, "like he got the key yesterday.' Not that
the place lacks human touches. There was a pair of pants on the sofa;
various items of baseball equipment and memorabilia were strewn about;
there were several pieces of New York kitsch; and there was Bob, one of
Letterman's beloved dogs.
"We spoke for an hour that day, and he was as easy, gracious and
forthcoming an "Interview' subject as one could hope for. In fact, I was
getting over a cold at the time and Letterman went out of his way to
carry the conversation. It was difficult to imagine his fearing the
interview process. But, as one friend put it, "David fears everything.'
"During the next three weeks, we met constantly at Letterman's Malibu
home. He had nothing else to do. I'd spoiled his vacation by giving him
my cold.'
PLAYBOY: Why has it taken the better part of six months for us to sit
down together?
LETTERMAN: I've been afraid to get started. But I didn't want to say no,
either. So I just sort of. . . .
PLAYBOY: Jacked us around?
LETTERMAN: Well. . . .
PLAYBOY: What were you afraid of?
LETTERMAN: Appearing foolish. When I started doing The Tonight Show, I
went from being somebody who had never had his name in print except in
the phonebook to somebody who was being interviewed all the time. And it
was great fun. I mean, to a recently anonymous nobody, that's a fantasy
come true. But after a few months of it, I got tired of talking about
myself. And then, one day, I was watching Entertainment Tonight, which
often shows celebrities in their kitchens or woodshops, talking about
what number file they use, then putting the finishing touches on an end
table, and I thought, Jeez, these people are being silly. And if I think
they're being silly, other people must think I'm being silly. And
there's just no point in a grown man's going out of
his way to be silly. So I pretty much stopped doing interviews. Also, it
was mentioned to me that this PLAYBOY thing was going to run a little
longer than your average interview-- like 15 hours! And I thought, Good
Lord, I can't do that. I have to finish my table.
PLAYBOY: Whether or not you give interviews, there's no getting away
from the fact that having a network television show makes you a national
celebrity. Has that changed the texture of your daily life?
LETTERMAN: No, but privately I think that I'm not really somebody who
has a network television show. Celebrities are other people--Johnny
Carson and Sylvester Stallone. I'm just a kid trying to make a living is
the way I feel. Here I am, waiting for the fat kid to put unleaded gas
in my car, and I'm asking him if I can do it, because he's having
trouble resetting the pump, and I think, I'm not really that person on
television. It always surprises me that what I do in New York between
5:30 and 6:30 P.M. will show up later that night in Albuquerque and
Seattle. It's like tossing a rock into a pond and watching
the ripples cross the water. I don't like to think about it--it's a
little more responsibility than a guy would want.
PLAYBOY: Is that responsibility something you think about while doing
the show?
LETTERMAN: At first, I feel nervous and forget the responsiblity.
There's so much excitement at the start of the show that if things go
well, the excitement builds exponentially. I actually become happy--an
all-too-rare occurrence in my life. But if something goes wrong early in
the show, the nervousness returns. It's tough for me to put aside an
early problem. I get depressed and lose energy. I feel, This is the only
thing we have to do all day and already I've stepped on my own . . .
whatever.
PLAYBOY: You get anxious fairly easily, don't you?
LETTERMAN: I'd describe myself as probably having more apprehensions
than the average person--or the average mediumsized American community.
PLAYBOY: It's amazing that you decided to become a performer.
LETTERMAN: What I always wanted to do was be on the radio or on TV. I
never wanted to appear in front of actual people.
PLAYBOY: So you always saw yourself as an "electronic performer"?
LETTERMAN: As a kid, I loved the image of Arthur Godfrey doing his
radio-TV simulcasts, sitting behind a microphone wearing
headphones--just talking. That was my fantasy: being able to communicate
with folks without the unspeakable trauma of having them right there in
the same room, scrutinizing me. Even later, when I did local radio and
TV in Indianapolis, the thought of appearing live anywhere was just out
of the question. People would say, "Hey, Dave, the
Kiwanis Club wants you to come over and kiss their children,' and I'd
say, "No, I can't do that.'
PLAYBOY: You do it now, though you've already mentioned how nervous you
get on your own show. How is that nervousness manifested?
LETTERMAN: I used to drink an unbelievable quantity of coffee, thinking
it would calm me down, but that just made me more nervous, so I had to
quit.
PLAYBOY: Do your knees knock? Do you grind your teeth?
LETTERMAN: No, nothing that obvious. And now I don't even chew my nails
off. So all the damage is internal.
PLAYBOY: When Johnny Carson gets nervous at the start of his show, he
says, his tongue turns white.
LETTERMAN: No, that's network policy. They have a guy back there who
chalks your tongue just before you go out so you don't mispronounce
words.
PLAYBOY: When does the nervousness--or let's call it excitement--really
take hold?
LETTERMAN: About half an hour before air time--five P.M. That's when I
become hyper. I put everything else out of my mind and just let that
nervous energy surge through my body. I start talking faster and louder.
My confidence comes up. It's actually a great feeling. Then I go out and
do a little warm-up for the audience--just in case they're all from
Portugal and don't speak a word of English, I want to be the first to
know.
PLAYBOY: Are you aware that you're the only talk-show host who does his
own warm-up?
LETTERMAN: To be precise, our announcer, Bill Wendell, does a longer
warm-up before me; but, yes, I know the other guys don't show their face
to the studio audience until the tape is rolling. But I like to know
where the audience is.
Are they up? Down? Are they mostly tourists? People from out of town are
generally a bit more sedate than New Yorkers. That warm-up is really
more for me than for the audience. It's like batting practice. And then,
as I'm walking away from the audience, I have a clear, preconceived
notion of how the show will go. I think, This is going to be a long
fucking night. And then, suddenly, the band is playing and I'm walking
back out and we just go.
PLAYBOY: We're currently sitting in your New York office, and on your
desk you have not one but two brass Empire State Buildings--one is a
bank, the other is a thermometer. There's a dog bone but, of course,
Bob, the dog, is here nibbling my shoelace as we speak. There is Big
Apple salt-and-pepper set next to your telephone. Are you a collector of
kitsch?
LETTERMAN: No. Beloved members of my staff have given me those things
knowing that I would be irritated by them.
PLAYBOY: Are you actually a gentleman of impeccable taste?
LETTERMAN: I wouldn't go that far.
PLAYBOY: When you furnish a home, do people mistake if for Cary Grant's
house?
LETTERMAN: I have a house in California that Merrill and I have been
living in for five years, and if it were fixed up just a little bit
nicer, when people walked in they would say, "Oh, I get it: You rented
all this stuff.' Actually, Merrill and I did take a decorator there
once, and we told her, "We don't know what we're doing, but we want the
place to be comfortable and unpretentious and not too expensive.' And
she looked around and said, "Sure, this will be
great. I'll do all the shopping and bring you samples and pull the whole
thing together for $30,000.' So I strangled her and buried her next to
the hot tub.
PLAYBOY: Assuming your show continues to be a hit for many years, will
you eventually attempt to take it back to California?
LETTERMAN: Yes, California is my home now. And when the show is finally
canceled--as all shows finally are, except The Jeffersons--I'll sell the
Connecticut house. Connecticut is beautiful, but I've lived in the
California house long enough to have a real fondness for it.
PLAYBOY: But you're not fond enough to furnish it.
LETTERMAN: No, not quite that fond.
PLAYBOY: Is your childhood in Indiana a happy memory?
LETTERMAN: Yeah. I think it was probably right on the money for
lower-middle-class, mid-American family life, which is really a very
pleasant and balanced way to grow up. Both of my grandfathers were
miners turned farmers. My mother's father was a very funny man--a real
smartass but irresistible. He'd have me sneak up on the watermelons
because that was the only way you could pick them. So there would be
this man in his 60s and me, a little kid, tiptoeing together through the
watermelon patch, and we'd finally grab one and run like hell. My father
was always joking around; and if she had a couple of beers, even my mom
would get a little loopy. And my younger sister is very witty, too.
PLAYBOY: Was it a showbiz kind of funny family?
LETTERMAN: Oh, my Lord, no. [Laughs] If you hypnotized my mother and
extracted from her every fantasy she has ever even mildly entertained in
her entire life, not one of them would be to go backstage at Caesars
Palace and greet Sammy Davis Jr. We weren't a
paint-the-barn-and-put-on-musicals family. We just had fun.
PLAYBOY: Your father was a florist.
LETTERMAN: My dad, who passed away ten years ago, had a flower shop.
When I was about ten or 11, business became a problem, and from then on,
there was a lot of financial tension around the house. My mother had to
work in the shop every day, then go home and take care of the kids. But
we still got to do stuff and had clothes and took trips. There was just
a sense of tightness.
PLAYBOY: You mentioned earlier that despite your anxieties and
insecurities, you always wanted to be some kind of "electronic
communicator.'
LETTERMAN: What I'm doing right now represents the fulfillment of the
only serious dream I've ever had. I knew I would be doing this from
early on.
PLAYBOY: Being a talk-show host is a curiously specific childhood dream.
How did you arrive at it?
LETTERMAN: At first, it was just a vague vision of me on television with
a few friends, drinking a warm eight-pack of beer and chatting about the
week's events. The vision didn't assume any greater clarity for several
years. There were too many distractions. I fought with my parents and my
grades stank and it was all just a miasma. Then I happened to sign up
for a speech class in high school, because I had heard it was an easy C.
And that's where the dream really took shape.
PLAYBOY: Were you a clown in high school?
LETTERMAN: No, most of the class clowns in my high school are doing time
now.
PLAYBOY: Did you perform in high school?
LETTERMAN: Never; that would have been too nerve-racking. And I felt I
looked so awful. I was much too shy to perform. I was looking through my
high school yearbook recently. We all looked like guys who'd be hanging
around with John Hinckley. I mean, basically, everybody in high school
looks like a duck.
PLAYBOY: So with your dream of electronic stardom glistening before you,
off you went to major in radio and television at . . . Ball State
University. Why not Indiana University at Bloomington, or Northwestern?
Those schools have top-notch communications departments.
LETTERMAN: I wanted to go to IU, and all my friends were going there,
but they'd take me only on academic probation. I'd have had to maintain
a C average my freshman year, and I figured, There's no way in hell I
can do that. So I applied to Ball State, where, as the joke goes, I was
admitted with honors.
PLAYBOY: Your college years were 1965 through 1969, the anti-Vietnam war
protest era. Were you involved in the radical politics of that time?
LETTERMAN: Ball State was pretty much isolated from all of that. I'm not
sure why, since Kent State was not far off or too different. And I was
not what you would call politicized. While other campuses were staging
major demonstrations, our biggest worry was "How are we gonna get beer
for the big dance?' I was hardly aware of the Vietnam war until a friend
of mine flunked out and was drafted and [snaps fingers] was dead like
that. One day, here's a guy setting fire to the housemother's panty
hose, and the next day, he's gone. That got my attention.
PLAYBOY: Did you dodge the draft?
LETTERMAN: No. After graduation, I assumed I would go to Vietnam. My
close friends were going, and I felt I was no different from them. But
in the lottery, my birth date was drawn 346th, so I was free. Even then,
I almost enlisted. The feeling of "Well, this is my country and war is
war, after all,' was surprisingly strong in many parts of middle
America. And there was also that personal thing tugging at me: "Doug
went; why shouldn't I?'
PLAYBOY: How do you feel about it now?
LETTERMAN: What I feel very bad about is that when those guys came back,
I didn't have an inkling of the kind of ordeal they had gone through. As
a friend and neighbor, I wasn't functioning in a sensitive way. I
treated them as if they'd been in Milwaukee for two years: "Great to see
you. How you doing? Let's get a beer.' And that was the extent of the
debriefing. I didn't have a clue about what that war had done to them
emotionally, psychologically. I. . . . Well, many Americans, though
that's no excuse, were so insensitive to those returning Vietnam
veterans. It was a crime.
PLAYBOY: You've mentioned beer at least half a dozen times already. We
assume there's a reason for that.
LETTERMAN: In college, my friends and I pretty much structured our week
around obtaining beer for the weekend. We loved almost every aspect of
drinking beer, particularly the fact that we could, physically, get away
with it. One of the remarkable things about being 19 is that you can
break open a case of warm beer at midnight and still be wide-eyed and
alert for your eight-A.M. class.
And that gave me the false impression that my life would always be like
that. I drank a lot of beer over an almost 20-year period--and I loved
it. But now I've quit. No alcohol, no drugs, no coffee.
PLAYBOY: Were you heavily into drugs?
LETTERMAN: Only grass. I went through one period when I smoked a
surprising, a really breath-taking, amount of grass almost every night.
PLAYBOY: When was that?
LETTERMAN: During the failed morning show, and it was only about a
two-month period. I just got to the point where I'd be stoned and I'd
wish I wasn't. So I quit. Since then, I've used marijuana very
sporadically, hardly at all.
PLAYBOY: So pot was self-limiting for you, but beer wasn't.
LETTERMAN: That's right. I remember being surprised when I got out of
college that the real world was unlike the fraternity house in one very
important way: The people I was working with weren't drinking as much
beer as I was. So I'd find the two or three guys who still were and they
would be my friends. And we had plenty of fun being young adults loose
on the town. We'd just go out every night after work and drink.
PLAYBOY: How much did you drink?
LETTERMAN: I never drank during the day, but six beers before dinner was
common. Merrill and I went through a two-year period where we attempted
to sample every beer in the entire world. She was bringing home beer
from Korea, South America, Germany, Japan, Scotland, Italy, New Zealand.
And I loved it. There is hardly any aspect of beer drinking that I don't
love.
PLAYBOY: You look back over your beer-drinking years with such
fondness--what made you stop? Are you an alcoholic?
LETTERMAN: I though alcoholism was certainly a potential problem. But
the thing that made me stop was the show. I had to feel I was doing
everything in my power to make it a success. Otherwise, I'd have to
answer to myself for the rest of my life for being a failure. I knew
that if I woke up hung over, I couldn't do the best possible job on the
show, so I had to quit. Also, I'd consumed a lot of beer for a lot of
years, and I thought, That's enough. I've had my fun and I'm glad I
quit. But I do look back on it with a great deal of relish.
PLAYBOY: You describe yourself during those years of local television
and recreational beer drinking as a "young adult loose on the town,'
but, in fact, you were married throughout that period.
LETTERMAN: I got married in my senior year of college and remained
married for seven years. And my wife and I suffered every emotional
ailment a young couple could.
PLAYBOY: Then you moved to L.A., became a hit and got a divorce.
LETTERMAN: Our marriage would have come apart regardless of geography or
career pursuits. And you've got your chronology backward. Ours was not a
case of a wife's struggling to put her husband through medical school,
after which he gets a position at a fine hospital and dumps her. Nor was
it a case of my getting a taste of the fast life in show business and
saying, "To hell with this old broad.' When we divorced, my career was
practically nonexistent. Our basic problem was that we'd just gotten
married too young.
PLAYBOY: Anyway, after six years as a local broadcaster in Indiana, you
made the big move to Hollywood in 1975 in the further pursuit of your
childhood dream.
LETTERMAN: I told everyone, including myself, that I was going out there
to become a TV scriptwriter. I thought that would be my best entry point
into the business. But the thing you discover is that you can write all
the scripts you want when you're living in Indianapolis People aren't
going to meet you at the L.A. city line saying, "Can we see those
scripts? We're dying to get scripts from people who live in
Indianapolis.' It just doesn't work that way. I'd take
my scripts around and they'd toss them into a warehouse, and every
Thursday the guy with the fork lift would go by, pick up all the scripts
and bury them near the river. I knew that if scriptwriting didn't get me
moving in the direction I wanted to go, the next step was stand-up
comedy. So, eventually, I got up the courage and went over to The Comedy
Store for an audition.
PLAYBOY: Was that the first time you'd done stand-up comedy?
LETTERMAN: The first time. I found it very painful to get up in front of
those people. And I wasn't exactly a big hit, either. But I achieved a
real sense of self-confidence from that first attempt. I remember
thinking, Jeez, I've come 2500 miles and gotten onstage in this dimly
lit bar in front of these mutants
and I'm telling jokes. This is a real step for me. And it was.
End of part 1
Sent via Deja.com http://www.deja.com/
Before you buy.
Mikemack
slmh
Bill Lehecka
>>Sorry for the size of the post,
>
>slmh
>
Yeah, in your dreams, Wahoo boy... :-)
On a tangent, I've been using this phrase a lot lately, and every time I use
it, the ladies lose that much more respect for me...
It also doesn't help that I don't have an actual honeymoon to compare it to,
but to each his/her own...
--------
Bill Lehecka
http://homepages.udayton.edu/~leheckwr/letterman/
"Well, you can sit in the lobby for an hour, you know what I mean, you know
what I mean? You're making us all sick!!" -David Letterman, to me, 5/14/97
Remove the "edy" to mail me
the general's daughter
kpan...@yahoo.com wrote:
> Sorry for the size of the post, but I figure you will enjoy reading
> this. Take note of Dave's leisure activity of choice during the
morning
> show sturm and drang.
No need to apologize, at least not to me. I'd like to see more
articles like this on this newsgroup. By leisure activity, do you mean
the marijuana smoking? I do like that. Going out in a little blaze of
glory complete with smoke and real fires on the set.
XO
Gabrielle
--
my personal goal is to win a bet by posting 2000 posts before
December 25. i will earn approximately 25 cents per post