Last week I had a dream. A nightmare of sorts, if you will– won’t you? Yes.
America was in the throes of the Late Night debacle, Team Coco was all over the great FB and the Twittersphere, no one seemed to care much for Jay Leno, and Dave, oh Dave, was just having himself a time. Seth Meyers feared a domino effect resulting in Jimmy Fallon returning to SNL and usurping his place. It was a time of panic and confusion, tears and fears.
In my dream Late Night was a world unto itself. It existed in a New-Jersey-like strip mall universe on very uneven terrain. At times, when running betwixt the strip malls that housed the various television studios of late night, the thin suburban strips of sidewalk became so steep that one had to crawl and claw one’s way along. I did so bravely in this cauchemardesque landscape. Bravely.
To sum up a very complicated narrative that I no longer recall all that well, let’s get down to the basics.
In this weird world of television production, of which I know nothing, absolutely nothing (you want to give me a job, don’t you?), I worked as an underling for the Colbert Report (I try not to dream too big). Now in this alternate universe, all the various late night shows were broadcast live, and for some reason I was tasked with watching Conan to keep dibs on the situation backstage. And that is when it happened: He just dropped dead, mid-sentence, on-air, his waxy complexion became even waxier and as I recall he just sort of fell over silently at his desk. Time froze.
Not to be duped, Stephen Colbert personally sent me on a mission to obtain absolute confirmation on the demise of dear Coco. So there I went dashing my way through this strip mall, handicap ramped, New Jersey-ish TV world to the NBC studios which were an absolute labyrinth of office carpeting and florescent lighting. It was unnerving. I ran into Danny Pudi and Donald Glover (Abed and Troy, respectively from NBC’s Community), who apparently not who they are but were writers sitting in a lunch room sulking. I asked them if “it” was true and we failed to communicate. So my mad conversational skills are pretty bad in my dreams as well as in real life.
As I continued to roam the halls it became apparent that the general malaise was not due to the deplorable state of NBC’s life, but to the fact that Conan was still crumpled, devoid of life on his stage, no one having the necessary heart left to deal with the situation.
Then true to bizarre dream form, I ran into a guy I haven’t seen since college and his fiancé. After a hug turned into an awkward handshake, I helped said female pick out an appropriately bizarre antique ring, which kept multiplying on the table. Then I snagged some tea sandwiches and ran the hell out of there, back to the Comedy Central strip mall. I got lost on the way and had to wake up.
It was weird. It was prophetic. It was topical.