Letterman's Final Morning Show

Merrill Markoe & David Letterman
"The David Letterman Show"
October 24, 1980
(NBC TV)

Had some folks over last night to celebrate my birthday. I thought it would be good to have several people over so they could talk to each other and I would just listen. As it happened, I feel like I did most of the talking. I felt more normal than I have in a week.

Sleeping is still very uncomfortable. In the middle of the night, I watched a YouTube video of the last episode of David Letterman‘s morning program. His first shot at stardom was a daytime television program which was part David Letterman humor, and part… morning program. Who greenlit this, I cannot fathom.

It lasted six months, even that long is crazy when you think of it, over the summer and early fall of 1980. I actually saw this show, because you know, it was summer, I was 12, and it was on television.

For this last episode of what he at that time probably considered the end of his career, he introduced and had a brief interview with the entire company. Announcers, musicians, video editors, crew, etc. He tried to give everybody a little time and also keep it entertaining.

Each staff writer had the opportunity to come out and do one bit. One by one, a white man in a corduroy blazer would step out and make a joke.

At last, he introduced Merrill Markoe. The only female writer on his staff. She was the only one who looked cool. Like, she didn’t care what she looked like, which was on point in 1980. She was wearing a show T-shirt and jeans. She looked like a rock star. She looked like Patti Smith.

Her bit involved explaining to Dave, in the audience, how the show was probably getting canceled because it didn’t have enough sex and violence. To rectify this omission, she brought out a copy of Playboy, and also Playguy (?), set them on a table in the middle of the stage, and offered a tiny peek of each to Dave. That was the sex.

Got my birthday cake.

For the violence, she ushered Dave to the side, put on dagger goggles, undid a rope that was tied to the wall, blew a whistle, and a very heavy weight dropped straight down from the ceiling onto the (pre-scored) table, destroying that — and the pornography she had left sitting on it.

Three or four dudes came out and told their little joke, then Markoe pulled a stunt that worked on many levels.

Did I mention she was the only female writer on the staff? She was also the head writer. Merrill Markoe is such a boss.

Had my follow-up with the eye doctor later in the morning, and things are progressing well. The tear has been repaired, it is healing, I no longer have to keep my head down, and I can sleep normally so long as it is on my right side. This is such excellent news.

I may not resume running for a month, but you know. I can deal with that.

The Maine Videos

Last night I slept for about five hours, set up and watch TV for an hour or so, then slept for another hour and a half.

I have terrible pain in my neck and shoulders, holding my head in the correct position. Also, into a position where I can sleep in my head tilt of the way it supposed to be.

Lots of offers to come by and keep me company, but I’m not really into that. With my head in this position, I feel underwater.

But I’m eating well, dear friend from high school brought me ice cream the other day. Did I blog about that already? I can’t remember.

My dreams, what dreams I have are very strange. In one, the cat got out. Okay, that’s not strange at all. In another, I had to put this blue goo on my shoulders and chest to get home safely.

Other people’s dreams are boring.



Ten years ago I had a new laptop and was playing with various video features. I chose to document our trip to Maine, making one video a day.

It’s hard to describe a place that is so familiar, and yet not really your own. It’s about the setting, of course. It’s perfect. The cabin we stay in, it’s set back from the others, affording more privacy, but it has this excellent view of the water. And it’s best when every room is occupied because it’s full of family and friends.



I’m still not used to my grandparents no longer being there. I’ll never be used to my own parents never being there again. But it’s the vivid memory of them that makes it a joyful place to return to.

Under the Banner of Heaven (miniseries)

Gil Birmingham & Andrew Garfield
"Under the Banner of Heaven"
(FX, 2022)

It’s that second day after a major procedure, when you can feel the worst. That’s where I am right now. Tried to sleep sitting up, tried to sleep lying on my chest. Around four in the morning I curled up on my side with my head twisted to the right and I was finally able to get a couple hours rest.

Meantime, I have been burning through the FX miniseries, Under the Banner of Heaven, Based on the true crime novel by Jon Krakauer.

My father first shared Krakauer with me. The summer my wife and I got married, I read Into Thin Air, his account of the 1996 Chomolungma (Everest) Disaster, while sitting on my porch in 90° weather, and it literally made me chilly. On our honeymoon, she was reading Into the Wild on the patio of a hotel room at Denali, not even 20 miles from where Christopher McCandless died.

Under the Banner of Heaven begins with a double murder which just happened to take place thirty-eight years ago today, July 24, 1984. A pious young woman and her child were killed by men who felt their actions were justified by God. Victim and assailants thought of themselves as Mormon, but had different ideas of what that meant. But women dying at the hands of men in a quest for dominance is universal, and not unique to any one belief system.

I haven’t read the book this series is based on. Father did, an amateur historian and devout Christian. I can only imagine how he may have judged each of the individuals represented in the book, those who are members of the Mormon faith.

I feel however, that this miniseries adaptation, like the musical The Book of Mormon, is not a critique or condemnation of this one Christian religion, but of all religion. In this case, it is also a metaphor for the United States as a whole. Watching this show, which follows the murder investigation and also depicts the historical origins of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I believe that the Mormon church is possibly the most American thing ever created.

I believe that Americans are essentially good, and that the American experiment has allowed us the freedom to live independently from strictures of the past. But it has also allowed for a minority of white men to pursue paths of complete selfishness which they defend through a mutating set of beliefs which they call righteous but are always a means to whatever end they desire.

So it is with the LDS, and also the Supreme Court.

Heavenly Father wants us to do this is a common phrase throughout the series, and it is as mutable as the assertion Founding Fathers want us to do this. Interpreting and perverting their unknowable wills has become its own religion.

On Sight (Recovery)

Had my morning after, follow up exam. Things look pretty good, except they reevaluated the way I have to hold my head.

See, there’s a gas bubble in my eye. They put it there, I even have a green wristband to let any potential EMT know there’s a gas bubble in my eye. It’s there to keep fluid away from my now repaired retinal tear to allow healing.

The tear is in the back of my eye, gas rises, therefore I need to keep my head down to keep the bubble up. Yesterday, they thought I just needed to tilt my head to the right side, today it is a bit more extreme.

I will literally need to sleep like Joseph Merrick, propped up with pillows, my head hanging down.

It’s funny, people kept texting me yesterday, checking in, asking how I am, if I need anything. But texting was a real pain, because I had to keep my head up and to the side.

Now that I’ve been told to look down and slightly to the right, I have been texting all day. More than I’ve ever texted before. Long, hour long text conversations with people in Idaho, colleagues working the BorderLight Festival, offers to bring meals turn into recollections of thirty year old productions, I’m getting updates on how well last night‘s premiere performance of The Learned Ladies (Cleveland Shakespeare Festival) went. Just texting people I feel more social than I have in weeks.

Liz Mikel (center) as John Hancock in "1776"
(American Repertory Theatre, 2022)

Last night my family gave me their assessment of the A.R.T production of 1776. All three of them thought it was absolutely amazing. Just beautifully and powerfully performed, and heartbreakingly timely. And I’m heartbroken to have missed it. This was my idea! When tickets went on sale I expressed my deep desire to see this production, of a musical which I have loved since I was a child, reinterpreted in just this way.

So, when my wife assumed they would stay home, at least until my surgery was through, I insisted that they not. I wanted all of us to see it. All of us not seeing it would’ve been so much worse.

And it’s going to Broadway! So, you know what? I’m going to Broadway. Because God knows, I want to travel.

On Sight (Post-Operative)

Whose is that face in the mask?

When my son suffered a head injury shortly after his first birthday, the one silver lining I could hang onto was that I was glad we live in Cleveland. Say whatever else you want about the Forest City, it is the home to two medical institutions, both of which people come to from around the world for treatment.

That, and that we have insurance.

The procedure itself was remarkable in that it was utterly unremarkable. In the day or so before hand I started to develop fears of what might actually occur. I had agreed to “twilight“ anesthesia, meaning I would be alert, or at least conscious.

Did that also mean that I would be aware of what was happening, even if there was no pain? They would put a gas bubble into my eye. With a needle? They would put a band around the back of my eye to hold the retina in place, did that mean they would be removing my eye from its socket?

With or without a sense of feeling, these things are discomfiting, even traumatizing to think about.

And yet, I can’t tell you what happened. I was awake the whole time, but I have no idea what they were doing. My right eye was covered for protection, so I could see light. As for my left eye, the one being worked on, I couldn’t see anything at all.

A good friend drove me to and from the hospital, other friends brought me pizza for dinner. I need to move as little as possible lying on my right side, so I’m catching up on a lot of television.

Yesterday I watched all of The Bear. last night I watched Good Luck to You, Leo Grande. That one could’ve been a play. Two people in a hotel room. Folks have suggested all kinds of comedies, I’m not really up for that.

So I’m gonna watch Under the Banner of Heaven. Dad liked the book and my son has really gotten me into Andrew Garfield.

On Sight (Pre-Operative)

Image of my Future Foretold
Self as Kent in "King Lear"
(Beck Center, 2019)

The good news is I will now be in town for the Borderlight Festival!

That’s a joke. I was going out of town for the week, now I am staying home to have surgery to repair a detached retina, so I’m not going anywhere. Jokes really do suffer when you explain them.

The Borderlight Festival, for those of you who are unaware, is an international theater and performing arts festival that takes place in downtown Cleveland and the only reason you haven’t read anything about it here is because it has always taken place when I am out of town.

I can’t tell you how much it pains me that there is now an international theater and performing arts festival in Cleveland, Ohio and that I am not part of it. But my family comes first, and I have no regrets about that. I have tried this year to flog a few of their offerings on social media, and hope someday to attend or even submit a production.

And up until yesterday afternoon, I was planning to leave town. A week long vacay with the entire family. They were ready to suspend travel, at least until I had undergone surgery, but I insisted they go. My son has a college trip schedule for tomorrow morning in upstate New York, and we have tickets to see the A.R.T. revival of 1776. That was my idea, I so wanted to see this production. But it would be a shame for everyone to miss it, I need them to report back to me how it plays.

Then onto Maine. My family vacation spot. My brother’s family is coming, my eldest will be joined by their partner – whose parents are also joining us (I mean them) ostensibly for my birthday, which is Tuesday. And the cousins, the cove, the view from the deck of the Barnstable.

One week out of the year, every year. Not this year, not for me. Having them miss it too would have made me even more miserable than I currently am.

Yesterday a doctor examined my eyes, prodding them with a medal stick. It was very painful. She remarked at how well I managed, so calm. My blood pressure, my pulse were normal, better than normal. My wife said she watched me breathe during this examination, that my hands and arms were relaxed. I was practicing my breathing. But it hurt. It hurt a lot. I did my crying later.

Today I am lying on my left side, so the damage doesn’t increase. After the procedure, I am to lie on my right side for the week. This is not a vacation. I cannot do anything.

So, I am depressed about not being with my family. I am extremely apprehensive about the procedure itself. I am anxious about not being able to run for the foreseeable future. 

And I am very, very worried about being alone with my thoughts for an entire week. Because I do not like being alone. I do not like being alone at all.

The BorderLight Festival continues through July 24, 2022 from Playhouse to Public Square in Downtown Cleveland.

Process LXV

and you and you and you ... and you were there! 

Monday was the second first reading (first second reading?) of my new script. This time the entire class read the piece via Zoom, and the response was again very positive. More significantly, through their feedback I am now able to articulate what the piece is really about.

It is a mystery, but it is not confusing. There are a couple fakes in there, and some chills. It’s all about the second act; the first is a deep dive into the subconscious, the second carries the weight of having actual significance in the real world.

There was again the comparison to Caryl Churchill’s Top Girls, but I was again reminded of the influence of Cloud 9, in regards to the significance of double casting. The Wizard of Oz was also mentioned, and how the farmhands Hickory, Hunk and Zeke come to represent Dorothy’s friends.

The white, male protagonist has a secret, which is common to us, that we harbor fears of dominance and abuse and that we have the potential to become, or that we have already become, that thing we fear the most. How we deal with that struggle is the central conflict in the play.

The question is one of resolution, and there were many helpful suggestions as to how I might alter the action but there wasn’t one of them I hadn’t already considered and found wanting. Churchill includes callbacks in Cloud 9, where characters from the first act intrude late into the second, as if to remind us of things we haven’t actually forgotten yet.

The dream is the dream, and readers believe it is a realistic dream. Reality is reality, and must remain reality. I don’t want anyone to leave asking about the bunny.

Also this week, I have been editing the Falling monologue for the class on illness narratives, and recording myself reading them in various locations, to suggest the passage of time. I may need to revise the text further before submitting the written piece, but just reading them aloud has provided guidance to judicious cutting.

Process LVIII

Art: Winsor McCay

Folks like to get a lot of responses on social media by throwing out questions. What was the last movie that made you cry? Who was the most important teacher you ever had? Sometimes I respond to them if I have something worth reporting.

What I never answer is “What is your greatest fear?” That’s straight up 1984 shit. You can just imagine some government apparatchik taking notes and using your own fears against you in a torture room somewhere after the revolution comes.

My fears, my pre-adolescent fears, are the subject of a new script I am working on. It’s inspired by Little Nemo in Slumberland, only he never leaves his room. And there’s nothing particularly fantastical, no giant nymphs nor goblins playing only sexual anxiety, and the idea that someone will abduct you and you will never been seen again.

So, I was nervous about this. Or, if not nervous, then at least curious as to whether or not it would hold interest. Having it read aloud by the entire class, I was reminded of how upsetting it is. I have been amusing myself, writing about these terrible thoughts from my past. Because it is absurd. But it doesn’t play as absurd. It’s sinister. That’s a word that was used, it was called sinister.

I mean, duh. Of course it is. How could I trick myself out of knowing that?

Anyway, that’s one piece I’m writing for class. Before spring break I will turn in a proposal for Illness Narratives, for that I am investigating the writing notebooks I kept every single day throughout my mother’s decline. No idea what I’ll find there but I plan to start by writing a short piece about Thanksgiving 2019.

Yes. These are notebooks I have not yet burned. See you in two weeks!

Process LV

Tuesdays are my Achilles' Heel. If I can survive a Tuesday, I can survive anything.

My wife and son went out of town last weekend, leaving me ample time to read. On Sunday that is absolutely all I did. I also baked cookies. But mostly I sat and read. No housework, no exercise, just sitting and reading. And drinking. And other things. No Super Bowl for me, thanks, I have homework.

There is this feeling I have, maybe I got it from my mom, that if I narrowly make assignment deadlines that I have failed. Note, I said if I narrowly make thm, not miss them. I have succeeded in my task. But there’s a voice in my head which tells me that if I had better managed my time, I could have turned in my assignment earlier.

Who cares? I wrote them, I reviewed them, I edited them, I turned them in. Not rushed, not half-assed, just you know, a half-hour before they are due. Fuck that voice in my head.

It is remarkable to me how classes overlap, as we read a book of poems about the Holoaust for the class I am assisting, and also discuss survivor stories in my illness narrative class. My mind races from subject to subject, they do not interrupt, they flow together.

And suddenly, I need my notebooks, the ones I have been burning. I have not yet disposed of those from October 2019 through February 2020. Five notebooks from that time. I wrote a lot. I wonder what is in them. A lot of unreadable scribbling, to be sure, and short play drafts. But perhaps insight into what happened and when it happened. Potential source material for a chaos narrative.

I know I have my notes somewhere, too. Pulling over on a two lane highway in Wayne County to speak to a dispassionate doctor. The confusion. The helplessness. Maybe.

Wednesday would have been my mother’s 87th birthday. That would have been a fine age to be.

Process L

And if I should start to cry,
And I can't begin to tell you why,
And I stumble when I begin,
It's cause I don't understand anything. 

- Everything But the Girl

"I Don't Understand Anything"

Silence and invisibility go hand-in-hand with powerlessness. - Audre Lorde

Welcome to week fifty. It’s going to be a heady semester, as I conclude the second year of my MFA. Playwriting workshop, yes, I will write another play. A new play. That’s what we do with those. I have no idea what it will be. Isn’t that exciting? Let’s call it exciting.

Also, I am taking a course in illness narratives. My God, really Dave? Yes, really. I love non-fiction, I love memoir. And I have experience with illness narrative. Kind of? Is my solo performance an illness narrative? I guess it is.

Ben Watt, half of the duo Everything But the Girl, wrote the book Patient: The True Story of a Rare Illness, describing his experience surviving Churg-Strauss syndrome which left him with virtually no intestines.

Following this ordeal, but before writing the book, EBTG created Amplified Heart, an album my wife and I listened to a lot while we were falling in love. She says Amplified Heart is itself an illness narrative, and I believe she is right.

Ready for Tig Notaro!

Last week, my son and I saw Tig Notaro at the Agora. I first became aware of her when she was featured on This American Life, nearly ten years ago. It included audio from the night she went on stage, four days after receiving a diagnosis stage two breast cancer, and began the set by announcing, “Hello! I have cancer.” It is a legendary set of stand-up comedy, and a brilliant illness narrative.

This weekend I read The Cancer Journals by Gamba Adisa (Audre Lorde), self-described “black, lesbian, mother, warrior, poet” and former Poet Laureate of the state of New York. In this brief memoir she lays out her thoughts following a radical mastectomy, with a particular emphasis on societal pressure for women who had undergone such traumatic surgery to wear a prosthetic breast(s).

As she points out, wearing a prosthetic does nothing to delude the wearer of what they have lost, it only exists to comfort the viewer of the person who wears it. People do not wish to see the effects of illness, and by the same degree many would prefer not to read about it, or see it performed on stage. But that’s what we’re doing.