What Conan O'Brien Means to Me
Comedy writers love to talk comedy. We dissect fart jokes like conspiracy theorists pick apart the Zapruder film. Recently, I was in one of these glorious comedy deep dives with my hilarious pal and filmmaking partner Petey. We were talking about influences, so I showed him one of my favorite skits from the old Conan O’Brien late night show from the 90s:
Knowing my comedy voice very well, Petey watched it, paused, and turned to me. “Did you write this?” No. No I didn’t. But I essentially modeled my brain after it. Or at least my comedy brain. Which - let’s face it - is indistinguishable from the rest of my brain. Upon hearing Petey’s reaction, I had a realization:
Conan O’Brien has profoundly shaped my life.
Of course, Conan hasn’t been alone in being a comedy influence. A brief walk-through of the building blocks of my comedy foundation:
Monty Python’s Flying Circus
A distinct childhood memory: at the age of 8 or 9, I was upstairs at my grandparents’ house in Bangor, Maine where we were visiting for the summer. As I was in bed, I heard my father roaring with laughter downstairs. Like, the yelling kind of laughter. The kind of laughter where you check if the person is still able to breathe. I sneaked down to see what was so funny. I found my dad watching Monty Python’s Flying Circus on a small black and white TV.
It’s hard to explain to younger people what was so funny about Monty Python. If you watch the show now, most of it doesn’t work anymore. It just seems like absurdity for the sake of absurdity. (The movies still hold up, though.) But John Cleese et al were responding to the overwhelming seriousness of British television (and society at large) with unapologetic abject silliness. It was both sophisticated and stupid at the same time. The message was “Isn’t this all ridiculous?” Plus, there were boobs in it. I was hooked. I sat on the floor next to my dad, waiting for him to kick me up to bed any moment. But, with a twinkle in his eye (my dad was famous for his twinkle), he just patted me on the head and let me keep watching. I didn’t get all the jokes, but I knew this was something special, just for me.
This is Spinal Tap
In high school in the boring-ass burbs, you were lucky if you had a friend who turned you on to cool shit. For me, that was my friend Joe. Joe introduced me to most of the music and movies and shows that ended up being my favorites. In hindsight, it wasn’t exactly the most obscure of stuff (“Who’s this Elvis Costello guy? I’ve never heard of him!”), but you’ve got to remember - this was pre-internet in the sheltered suburbs. Even though the city was 20 miles away, it might as well have been another planet. We were nowhere near a “scene” of any kind. So when Joe showed me This is Spinal Tap for the first time, it was a revelation.
I quickly bought the VHS tape and we watched it over and over again, soaking in every subtle little comedy detail. If you haven’t seen it (What? You haven’t seen fucking Spinal Tap????), the movie is full of tiny hilarious moments that you pick up upon multiple viewings. I am pretty sure Joe and I watched the movie every single day during the summer of our 15th year. At that point, I don’t know if I was conscious of wanting to make comedy, but something was moving inside me.
The Simpsons
Most comedy writers in my age bracket cite The Simpsons as a major influence. These days, it’s tough to imagine a world without the institution of Homer and Bart and to a lesser extent Disco Stu, but there was a time when the show was a revolution in comedy. Simpsons quotes were the memes of our youth. It was how we communicated. It embiggened our spirits. (Don’t worry - that is a perfectly cromulent word.)
When I was in college, I used to annoy my roommates by insisting that if they were to watch the show with me, they must do so in total silence. They were allowed to laugh, but there was no talking. I would not miss a joke. That’s how seriously I took it. (I was not well liked in the dorms.) Still, when I heard that David Letterman was going to be replaced on Late Night by a Simpsons writer who had never been on television, I was skeptical.
As a moderately disaffected Gen Xer, I looooved David Letterman. In addition to the absurdity, he had a certain “fuck all this” quality to his comedy that I found very appealing. He created a TV universe in which Chris Elliott could emerge from under the stairs and Larry “Bud” Melman conducted the most hilariously terrible man-on-the-street interviews of all time. Those original Letterman shows were magical. I was skeptical that anyone could follow in his shoes, so I didn’t even bother with Conan.
Enter Joe, once again. About two weeks into the late night show, Joe called me and said “You should really check out this Conan guy.” And so I did. Oh. My. God. Robot on the toilet. The masturbating bear. The man who is awfully proud of his bulletproof legs. The Slipnutz. I could go on. A smart, pasty Irish guy from Boston who was into absurdism? This show was made specifically for me. Conan even did the same Colonel Klink impression I had been doing for years. (That’s right - as a 90’s high schooler, I was doing a timely impression of Werner Klemperer in the 60’s show Hogan’s Heroes. Why yes, I was a virgin! How did you know?)
For three decades now, Conan has been my comedy north star. From his left-of-center writing sensibility to his on-air persona (a mix of exaggerated fake ego counterbalanced by self-effacing barbs), Conan has been my guy. I am not sure if he was already built like me or I became like him. Either way, Conan’s comedy consistently made me feel seen.
These days, Conan has transitioned to podcasting. While he still makes me laugh like no one else, his new show mixes the comedy with deep and nuanced talks about identity, kindness, and mental health. Conan isn’t afraid to shed the persona and get deep. Again - right in the wheelhouse of my other life as a therapist. It is almost like Conan’s work has grown up with me.
As I have been writing this piece, I have had this voice in my head saying “Brendan - it’s kind of weird how into Conan you are, dude.” I mean - it’s just comedy, right? Isn’t it strange that one freckled comedy writer from Brookline who I have never met could be such a seminal figure in my life?
But I believe comedy matters. It is the healthiest and most human way to cope with the unending harshness of the human experience. And in a larger sense, art matters. The movies you watch, the music you listen to, the things that make you laugh or cry or sing: these aren’t just “content.” They don’t just pass the time. They shape who we are as people. They generate empathy and perspective. They turn us into better people. It matters. It’s why writers and actors hit the picket lines and - to a large extent - why I get up in the morning. By making movies or music or using this little space on the internet to make you laugh or think or cry, I see myself as carrying on the mission presented to me from Monty Python to Spinal Tap to The Simpsons to Conan. Whether I ever reach the audience sizes they did is irrelevant. That’s just capitalism. The important thing is that I made you laugh today. If I did that, it was a worthy day for me.
Plus, if you don’t find the Slipnutz funny… I don’t know what to tell you.
Boogie Writes is a completely independent endeavor by one hard-working funnyman trying to make his way in the world today (which takes everything you’ve got.) If you like what you read, please subscribe, support, and tell a friend! Also - do you need advice? Of course you do! Send your queries to brendan@brendanboogie.com with “Dear Boogie” in the subject and get some solid or at least passable advice!