After I returned to full-time work, and the atrocities of the world became overwhelming, after social media continued to be a toxic void and everything I had to say felt like it had been said by someone else or synthesized into a glib AI post that made em dashes no longer safe, I stopped writing blog posts for myself. I continued to have deep thoughts and connections with real, live people, of course. I felt better knowing where they lived.
But as Late Night with Stephen Colbert ceases to make new episodes (I imagine I will watch reruns for some time to come) I wanted to write down a few thoughts and fling them to the ether. A tribute, I guess. A thank you note.
I don’t idolize film stars. But that connection I feel when I talk to friends is a connection I felt when I watched Stephen Colbert night after night after night. I am feeling real loss. So, lucky you, that’s what I decided to share this week.
Stephen Colbert did not come into my living room, because there’s no TV in my living room; only records. The TV is in the basement, and we kept it there to cut down on our TV watching. (We only got an upstairs TV recently because our cat had to be quarantined and yes, I am the type of person who will buy a cheap TV for a cat.)
Our basement looks like it was built in the 70s with the wood-paneled walls, when in fact it was built in the 1950s. For Colbert, my husband took the floor. The kids and I switched off between the futon and a papasan chair that was nearly comfortable.
When they were younger, we watched taped versions of The Colbert Report, where they learned about satire, and then we segued into the late show at about the time my kids were allowed to stay up that late. As the political landscape became more absurd, the importance of the show grew because it made us laugh in the face of so much bullshit. Laughter is optimism. As I’ve aged, I’ve felt a lot of my own optimism fade. But at 11:35 p.m., it came back.
Say what you will about screens and TV, but the Colbert show for me was about human connection. The host exuded empathy. He loved his family and his wife and his dog. He stuck with us through COVID when we were so unsure of what was to come. He was the rice pudding of television. He was my Walter Cronkite.
For each show I got to watch with my family, we hit pause constantly so we could talk more about the topics of the day, tell a story, share something, or tell a joke of our own. Colbert time was family time.
And I’m grateful to him for his time. For introducing my kids to Allen Ginsberg’s Howl. For giving me the tools to continue to feel relevant. For his emotions when things got overwhelming. For his humor and imperfections.
Though my kids are both grown-ass adults, in a way, the ending of a show felt like the real ending of their childhood, somehow. Too much? Probably. But that’s what’s in my brain and it’s adding to my sadness. Along with the fact that this really does feel like losing a friend.
Did I cry when he signed off?
Well, yeah. Didn’t you?
