WARNING: the following was written three years ago on Dave’s last night hosting THE LATE SHOW.

Second Warning: the following narrative contains sentiment. Proceed at your own caution.

They say when a boy reaches his tween years, he seeks strong male role models — other than his father — to show him the ropes, to influence how he sees the world and how he deals with it. When I was hitting that golden period, my family and I were living in a small northern town called Prince George with no real family friends or relatives whatsoever, so I inadvertently (and unknowingly) sought my influences in the only place available to me: the media. (And I’m aware that when taking factors like Prince George and impressionable youth, the obvious consideration would actually be drugs, but what can I say? Missed opportunities?)

I put three men up on my personal pedestal; men whose work ethic, creativity and ambition to be the top of their fields was only matched by their love for it. One was George Lucas, the other Bruce Springsteen and the last was David Letterman.

I discovered Letterman when I needed him the most. I was an awkward kid entering puberty, terrified of bullies, wanting to escape my surroundings, wanting to shrink into myself. I loved staying up late (without my parents’ knowledge) to watch films on Super Channel or the Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson (let’s not be ashamed of the full title). One night, on a whim, I decided not to change the channel from Carson and stumbled on Late Night with David Letterman. The arena Dave occupied was instantly new, mesmerizing, askew. He wasn’t gracious like Johnny — he was acerbic, confrontational, sarcastic. He wasn’t a handsome man (he looked like a dork), but he was confident while still holding a great deal of self-deprecation. And by-Jesus, it was the quick wit that really hooked me in: that ability to respond to a guest fast, smart and calculated (and funny). No one could lay a finger on this guy. It blew me away and I was instantly addicted.

I stayed up way, way too late during school nights (1:30 am average, later if a David Lynch film was playing afterward on cable). I taped the Letterman show on both audio recorder (to listen to at school) and VHS (to watch when I got home, often during dinner time). I read biographies and tracked down every newspaper/magazine article I could on the man (no easy task in a pre-internet, Northern British Columbian town era).

I wanted so bad to master Letterman’s temperament: to shock, to be smart, to be savvy, to shield myself with humor, abrasiveness, and self-deprecation. There’s nothing more empowering for a guy who can’t fight with his fists to use words as a weapon: you can’t hurt someone who constantly uses himself as a target.

I watched every Letterman show for years. I, of course, miss the earlier years on NBC the most, when cameras would be placed on monkeys and televisions would be flung from five-story rooftops (what a waste my parents would squarely say). When entire shows would be held at an airport or Letterman’s house while he waited for the cable guy to come, or when the studio cameras would rotate 360 degrees the entire hour the show aired. I was there when Crispin Glover tried high-kicking him, when Oliver Reed was ready to kill him and when Cher called him an asshole. I smiled with every NBC Bookmobile sketch, each Supermarket Find gag and every Hal Gurnee Network Time Killer spot. A whole mess of oddballs became regulars in my life: Chris Elliot, Larry “Bud” Melman, Richard Simmons, Flunky the Late Night Clown, Jack Hannah, Brother Theodore and Harvey Pekar. I lived for each night’s Top Ten List (from whatever home office they came from at the time) and for Thursday night’s Viewer Mail, where each blue card was launched and smashed through glassless panes behind him.

Of course, everything runs its course (except Springsteen — never a bad album, in my humble opinion), and somewhere along the line, I stopped watching Dave religiously. Until his retirement announcement, I may not have tuned in at all for five or six years. But like a prodigal son, once I heard the end was nigh, I started watching again, and man, it’s bittersweet. He may have gotten older and more cordial (at least this last month), but he’s still there and he still has it. There are times I’m watching and am hit with nostalgia in the worst way. I’m sure my wife, who sits in the background, just nods politely as I drone on about why a stalled joke is funnier than a great punchline, or the significance of one of his gestures or some guest’s history. This is a master’s last victory lap, and my last chance to see someone who meant everything to my youth.

Have a great retirement, Dave — you’ll be sorely missed.