Call Me KP

On Friday, February 20th 2009, at approximately 3:00AM, I endured blistering cold temperatures and whipping winds to sit for six hours in line with other nerds on 49th street in New York City for the chance to bid a fan farewell to my favorite Late Night host.  With the ever- awesome and wildly brave C-Mac in tow, we waited.  Not always so patiently, but we were determined.  And I say C-Mac is brave because she actually stayed in the car with me as I navigated the streets of New York for my first Big Apple driving adventure and never once contemplated jumping out and making a beeline for Port Authority, hopping the first bus home.  At least, she never admitted to that out loud.  Brave too, because she just didn’t quit.  Even around 5:45AM when the pangs of hypothermia and a frozen, weakening immune system were starting to drain her resolve, she soldiered on, Dean & Deluca breaks included.  Why?  Because of One Man.  One pale, lanky, gingered man.  The Cone Bone.  The one and only Conan O’Brien.

Let’s start at the beginning because I hear that’s a good place.  Monday night or early Tuesday morning, while not sleeping, eyes glued to the television, watching Late Night, it struck me.  If I didn’t act quickly, I’d probably never get another chance to see Conan live and in person any time soon.  I had figured that regular advance tickets were completely gone, but I’d try and call in the morning anyway.  Maybe I could charm someone?

Of course, I couldn’t go it alone.  I couldn’t very well drive into New York City for the very first time by myself.  I needed another set of eyes keeping an extra close lookout for pedestrians wandering aimlessly out into the intersection, wholly distracted by the giant Cup O’ Noodles high above Times Square.

“Lookie there!  Look at that!  They got real steam commin’ out of that thing!  Here.  Take my camera!  Make sure you get me pointing at the cup.”

“Dong hee how ha da!  How dong dung ho dak ahh… Cup A Nood! Dak ho!  Ha, ha!  Cheeeeeeeese!”

I wouldn’t want to spoil anyone’s vacation by killing them with my car.  Especially before all of those great pictures get developed.

And so I asked the one other human being on this planet who would not only accept me for and take part in my insanity, but someone who would absolutely relish in every moment of the journey, someone who was equally as appreciative of the history we could be witnessing, someone who may also ponder (daily) what song she’d want Max to play when she walked out from behind that curtain should she ever get the chance to appear as a guest.  Someone like C-Mac.  Via Facebook, I asked the biggest question of 2009 to which she promptly responded: “OH MY GOODNESS, HANDS DOWN ABSOLUTELYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY”

That following morning, we ironed out the details as much as we could.  As I had thought, there were no tickets left whatsoever for the final taping of Late Night.  Also, NBC Pages are not always nice people.  Especially over the phone.  Kenneth Parcell is most certainly the exception.  But since I had such an unhappy young man on the phone, I thought I should grill him about the in’s and out’s of the Late Night standby line.  He warned me that the line reached as many as 60 people that morning (!) and that I had better get there before 9:00AM when the tickets would be passed out.  I had previously danced this step before for Saturday Night Live tickets and I was rather successful as I got in to see Jason Bateman and Kelly Clarkson.  But I also remember there being about 145 people total waiting in that line by 5:00AM.  I was number thirty- one.  They stopped letting people in at number thirty-three.  C-Mac and I both agreed that it was at least worth a shot.  We’d never get to do this again.  So why not just go for it?  So we began to plot.

We felt a little less crazy by having something resembling a plan in place.  She’d drive to my house on Thursday morning and we’d fuel up at Dunkin’ Donuts before hitting the open road, hoping to arrive in the city by 1:00 at the latest.  This would afford us enough time to settle in, freshen up, and stalk famous people at Mercedes Benz Fashion Week in Bryant Park.  And since my lovely government job required me to live alone in a hotel for half of ‘08, I had racked up a decent number of bonus points, earning the title of Gold Points Plus Elite member at any and all Radisson hotel chains and its derivatives.  That meant that our hotel stay was completely and totally free.  The plan seemed foolproof.  We both had an erie feeling of victory even before we hung up the phone.

“I feel like we’re going to get in.  I really do.  I have such a good feeling.”

“Me too.  I really do feel like we’ll get in.”

“I think it’s the date too.  When I saw SNL, it was on February 12th, 2005.  When I saw Letterman, it was on December 20th, 2005.  So if we’re going to try and see a live show on February 20th, 2009 it’s only fate that we’ll get in.  Right?”

“Absolutely.”

Sound logic.

And before we knew it, Thursday morning was upon us.  We both overpacked as usual.  But, you know, Fashion Week or whatever.  And I made some really sweet themed mix CDs.  We were off.  And what was supposed to be a two hour trip turned in to one a little bit longer.  Enter Penelope, my crapsack excuse for a global positioning system.  Rather than staying on 80 until we saw signs for the Lincoln Tunnel, Penny rerouted us through New Jersey and beyond.  Well, we missed a crucial turn and somehow ended up heading toward the Holland Tunnel instead.  No bueno.  We eventually righted ourselves and learned a valuable lesson in the process.  An out-of-state license plate on the back of a vehicle driven by two young girls, slowly through a big city will in fact cause people to lay on their horns.  But sometimes a smile and a polite request to be let into a neighboring lane can make all the difference in the world.

We made it to our hotel around 3:00, unscathed and without any lives lost anywhere along the way.  A personal victory for me.  When I made the reservations for the Radisson Martinique, I was told that I’d have no problem checking in early (before 4:00).  That was, in fact, an understatement.  I walked up to the front desk, gave my name and asked if there were any rooms ready.  Two, petite little receptionists both began frantically working phones to figure out which housekeeper had what room ready when and could they move this reservation here and would that be ready for them then because this young lady here needs her room now because of her points status and could you please hurry because we’re sending this young lady and her guest up now, thank you.

“See what happens when you travel with an Elite member,” the tiniest woman asked C-Mac.

“I really am traveling with Tina Fey, huh,” she asked me, because she’s awesome and indulging.

“Yes.  Clearly you are.”

After that little ego boost, we opted to eat at Alfredo at Rockefeller Center before venturing up to the Top of the Rock for a New Facebook Picture photo shoot.  The food was delicious and too expensive and the view from up top was glorious.  We shopped for a little before deciding that we should probably get as much rest as we could as we had a very big night of waiting ahead of us.  Ultimately, I think we managed to accumulate two hours of actual sleep between us from 8:00 until 3:00 that morning.  We were too excited to sleep.  Though allow me to make clear, our Sleep Number beds were rather fantastic and incredibly comfortable.  I’m a 40, by the way.

I still cannot understand how we managed to get bundled up enough and willingly out the door of our safe, warm hotel into the bitter New York night, but we did, catching a cab as soon as some bum called us “sugars.”  And we were off.

We took our 39th and 40th places in line and sat down on the newspapers we took from the hotel.  Right on the street.  Let’s play homeless.

We were in interesting company for a while.  We met Arthur.  Arthur is a guy who makes a living waiting in line.  He did a head count every twenty minutes and made sure to let us know whether or not he thought we’d make it in to the taping.  For a solid fifteen minutes, he regaled us with delicious tales of Late Night and Late Show tapings of yore, nearly fainting when I told him I had actually seen SNL live from within Studio 8H.  Bonus points in the eyes of the Line King.  Bow down.

Luckily, John came along soon after.  John had a folding chair, a book of crossword puzzles, and a really warm, surplus blanket that he tossed our way as soon as we said hello.  Yes, he was tall with pretty eyes and a charming smile.  Yes, we both fell in love with him instantly.  Then came a pair of Parson’s students complete with the bubbliest of energy and the most bitchin’ Flaming Lips-ish playlist, like, ever.  And they were followed by Gibran and Sheika, two NYU students from Pakistan and Saudi Arabia, respectively.  I’m mentioning this for purposes to be realized later in this entry.  These two kids were just awesome.  The whole group of us got along rather well right off the bat, buddying up for warm- up trips to Dean & Deluca in search of coffee and Kathy Lee.  I really, really hoped we could all get in.  But as the morning rolled on, my hope waned.  I blame the exhaustion and the frigid temperatures.  Oh, and the sight of the girl four up from us who collapsed in a big, flannel heap of freezing.  Don’t worry.  No one bothered the ambulances.  They had their priorities.  I bought her a cup of probably awful coffee in hopes of raking in the karma points.  Selfless!

The sun rose above the skyline.  Suits hustled down the sidewalks.  Cabs and town cars zipped down 49th.  Horns blared.  It was morning.  The rest of the city woke up with us and we all looked a bit more normal, a part of the crowd, rather than a lone mass of people loitering outside of NBC studios like hobos.  We got our tickets, said our ‘See You Later’s’ and hailed the first cab that would take us back to the hotel.

And I didn’t sleep a wink.

After sitting in a scalding hot shower for twenty minutes, I still couldn’t warm up.  It didn’t help that the heat in our room was clearly not working.  The bagels we ordered from room service upon our return were just sitting in my stomach like a rock.  I couldn’t relax.  I was certain I was in shock.  If we didn’t get in, after all we went through, I was going to flip out.  Probably cry.  Maybe vom a little.  Not a lot, but enough to make a point.  One single, solitary, desperate point.  That we were certifiable and completely crazy and neededneededneeded to get in to that show.  If we didn’t… wow.  I’d be crushed.  Crushed and exhausted.  And I’d probably book the room for an additional night and just sleep.  And cry.  And curse.  And cry some more.  My alarm clock interrupted my worrying and I got up and dressed thinking that if I pretended that I was well rested that I’d feel well rested.  And it worked for a little while.  We gathered our crap, most of which we never got around to wearing (Fashion Week or whatever), and checked out of our fabulous hotel.

This was it.  The moment of truth.  We ate a quick meal and followed The Great Page’s instructions, checked in and took our place in line.  The first fifty tickets were called up to another hallway.  We stood and waited.  And waited.  And waited some more.  From 4:00 until forever o’clock.  Also known as 5:02.  We went from freezing outside for six hours to waiting inside, sweating, for one.  And I just wanted to know.  I wanted to know if we’d get in.  The not knowing was driving me crazy.  More crazy than I already was.  Crazy.  So crazy.

Suddenly, The Great Page, clad in a sharp, gray sport coat, approached us and called out numbers.

Numbers 1 through… 38.

What?

WHAT!?

… fucking what!?

“Those of you still in line.  Please just be patient.  We’ll get to you in a minute.”

Okay.  Page.  Pagey.  My little buddy.  You little thing.  Little man.  Hi.  Yeah.  You need to know right now that that statement is so, so not good enough for me.  Patience?  You mean after all of the abuse that C-Mac and I put our little bodies through, you want us to be patient?  Did I mention that I drove through New Jersey?  That I got lost in New Jersey?  Were you aware of the wind chill last night?  That I didn’t sleep?  No sleep.  One hour, tops.  That I drove through Times Square and that I hate driving.  That we’re exhausted.  And angry now.  And still really, really cold.  And you want us to be patient?  What?  WHAT!?  Fucking what!?  I will absolutely eat that snazzy coat, pass it, set it ablaze and leave it on your doorstep.  Then, I’ll pierce your forehead with that ridiculous NBC Peacock pin.  Then I’ll take a picture.  And I’ll send it to your mom.  And your boyfriend.  And my mom, maybe.  And I won’t caption it.  Because I’m too angry.  And too incoherent to think of anything funny.  The only thing I can think of is the all-consuming desire to wipe that power tripping little smarmy elf smile from your pimpled face.

He began passing out bracelets and tickets and was counting out loud.

“Okay, thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty- seven, and thirty eight…” his voice trailed.  He still had bracelets.  He still had passes!  Bracelets!  Passes!  He had them!  I see them!  I see them in his hand!

“Oh, okay.  Then thirty- nine, forty and forty-one,” he sighed, flashing a wormy smile.

We.  Are.  IN!

Me!  C-Mac!  Cute, tall John!  Conan!  La Bamba!  Max!  Andy!  Masturbating Bear!  We’re in!  We are so in!

I couldn’t believe it.  All at once I was thrilled and relieved and awake and sad for the people behind us.  But I still had that good feeling.  I still felt like the had a chance.  So on our way to the metal detectors, I asked The Great Page if he could take our picture, thrilled our passes and bracelets on our way to see the final ever taping of Late Night With Conan O’Brien.

He obliged and added, “You know I was just messing with you guys, right?  I mean, come on.  What fun would it be if I told you right away that you were in?  Huh?  That’s no fun!”

Rot, elf.  Rot.

We crammed about sixteen people in an elevator and pushed the button for the sixth floor.  Greeted by giddy interns, we were then ushered down a long hallway, lined with stills from some of Late Night’s most memorable moments.  One right turn through two big red doors and we were inside.  That’s it.  We made it.  We actually made it into the theater.  Studio 6A.  Hello.

Brian McCann, Late Night staff writer and funny man extraordinaire came out to do the warm-up.  He emphasized that we were very lucky to be able to be at the final ever, history making taping.  He asked some of the audience members to call out where the were from.  Gibran and Sheika replied with smiles.

“Are you serious?”

They nodded, laughing.

“Coming together in peace and love for this last show.  That’s beautiful.  Wow.”

A few more bits and cracks about Canadians and then Max and the band took to the stage.  In the small space behind the cameras and in front of those blue double doors, friends and family gathered to watch.  Robert Smiegel was there as well, toting around his own video camera recording as much as he could of his old friend’s last night.

It boggles my mind to think that some odd years ago, there was this little network of Chicago- bred comedians that wrote and worked and played together that now are regarded as legendary.  To think that Conan, together with Smiegel and Bob Odenkirk,  had a small sketch show run for a few months in the Windy City before anyone knew who they were is just awesome.  And to realize how many more came through there and how they’re all connected now and successful now and The Standard now is just so humbling.  And really, really cool.

The Max Weinberg Seven sounded better in person than I would have ever imagined.  Seriously, seriously gifted musicians.  And all around funny guys.  Nothing short of completely impressive.  They played a song or two before I caught the director cuing the theme song.  The audience certainly didn’t wait for the applause sign to begin roaring.  The two minute standing ovation you all heard on TV when Conan walked out was much, much longer.

Forgive my cheese here, but I could feel the chills crawl all over me when he came bopping out from those curtains.  We cheered ourselves hoarse, his appreciation obvious.  I looked over to the group of his friends and family and their pride was overwhelming, Smiegel’s camera locked on to that famous, red bouffant.

I didn’t watch a single highlight video that was played that night.  I told myself that I’d wait until I got home.  What I was most interested in is what was happening while everyone’s attention was elsewhere.  The way Conan and his head writer, Mike Sweeney, laughed watching John Mayer’s video message, the way Conan jumped up and down in place as high as he could to pump himself up before they came back from commercial, the way he read and reread the cue cards over and over to ensure a perfectly silly delivery, the way he hugged and thanked and high-fived his crew in between segments… it was all just so awesome.

I thought C-Mac would implode when Will Ferrel walked out.  He hadn’t even spoken a word when she whispered to me, “He’s got the leprechaun suit on underneath that!  He’s gonna rip it off!  Oh my GOD!”  And I’m so happy that she was right.  The place went completely crazy.  And they did so again when Conan brought out his old friend, Andy Richter.

But it wasn’t until The White Stripes came out to set up that the lurking bittersweetness came creeping in.  He introduced the duo and as they began to play, he first watched intently from his chair, then moved to lean against the proscenium to the left of his desk, and finally took a seat at the edge of his stage, knees up, elbows on his knees, and he rested his head in his left hand, his face away from the audience and focused on the band, and he just silently watched.  No movement.  Until he casually wiped his eye before he got up to cross over and thank them.

I couldn’t tell you what Jack and Meg looked like then because my focus was all on him.  That’s when I got teary, and that’s when the reality of “last show” kind of started to hit everyone in the theater, audience included.  The Funny Man sat quiet and alone at the edge of his set, listening to a song about making new friends and keeping the old as performed by a band that has long been his favorite and one that agreed to perform for an audience again after almost two years without a live appearance.  And I just got sad.  And I know that sounds a bit ridiculous.  But the emotions were palpable.  The weight of sixteen years of what their lives were like and how they that chapter was ending, it was just sad.  That’s all I can say.

And watching him say his final goodbyes from the Late Night desk, right there in front of me, was a bit wild to say the least.  Maybe that’s because he looked exactly the same face to face as he did on my television.  I think that was a bit off-putting, a bit startling, a bit, “KP, you’re really there.  So is he.  You’re holding a piece of the set in your hand.  This isn’t TV.”  And so to see him break down, to see the people around me tearing up, to feel just how quiet it was in there save for the occasional sniffle and then sudden outbursts of cheer when he promised he’d never grow up, was absolutely incredible.  It was just surreal and completely fantastic.  I feel really, really lucky to have been able to be a part of it in some small degree.  I mean, I can clearly be heard laughing after he calls Joel a dadaist character (I may have been one of the six people to understand what he was talking about), so when I say “a small part,” I’m serious.   And that I got to share that awesome night with some pretty wonderful people is just the icing on a very cool cake.

I’m always so very fascinated with the way these shows get put together.  And as we slowly left the theater, sad and happy and cold and extremely tired, I felt a familiar feeling again.  It’s like a concert hangover, when the show was just that good and over too fast and the next day you’re in a little fog, wishing yourself back there with all you’ve got.  Only this one is a bit different and I felt it after leaving SNL and Letterman.  Seeing it all happen from right inside those theater walls just makes me want to be a part of it.  It makes me want to be there.  It’s got to be one of the coolest jobs in the world to help get a television show up and running each and every day.  Exhausting and time consuming, sure.  But to get to come to work every day and absolutely love what you do and to entertain people all over the world, I can’t imagine anything better.  At all.

It sucks a bit that we can’t keep such a cool character on this coast, but I’m really looking forward to seeing the new Tonight Show and I’ll be hoping and praying that the Masturbating Bear or at least the Pimpbot make triumphant 11:30PM debuts.  And, in all honesty, I’m eager to see what Jimmy Fallon does with Late Night.  It should be pretty good.

And I’m writing this entry over a week later because while it’s clearly long enough to have taken a week to write, the delay is mainly because I am just now getting over the flu.  I can breathe through my nose again and I can lift my head off of my pillow without getting dizzy.

Would I do it all again?  In a heartbeat.