I had been pre-interviewed by the segment producer, and so no longer had anything to say about any of my agreed upon possible areas: life in the midwest, the un-wacky world of public radio the joint-custody-of-frozen-embryos case, and middle-aged fatherhood. What Dave would call "Boffo stuff," particularly compared to Ann Archer's meager offering of riveting beauty and struggles with Gene Hackman on top of a moving train. (She was good, but she completely lacked what I like to call "pedestrian quality.")

"Hit the chair running," the segment producer told me, as I waited behind the set for Kamar, who was having difficulty removing a sword from the throat of the talent coordinator.

"That's right," said the segment producer, "hit the chair running and let Dave lead you. Whatever you do, don't let Dave lose interest, or he'll start to bail out and you don't want that."

I entered after a gentle prod from the floor director, and everything went swimmingly until I made the turn around the guest chairs on the set (to shake Dave's hand) and very nearly hit the chair sprawling when my pivot foot went out from under me. (Leather soles.) In all the concern about socks, I didn't think about shoes.) Fortunately, Dave was there for me. I was so happy to not have fallen that when I sat down I just smiled. Dave looked concerned, flipped my card, and asked the difference between American and National Public Radio. Something clicked: It was the collective sound of 10 million TV sets.

Just for the record, since you say you didn't have the chance to see it, here is the synopsis of my Letterman appearance. On the midwest: "Decent values and a Jew can still make a good living"; on any confusion in the public mind between myself and Garrison Keillor: "I get it all the time, the height, the Norwegian thing...." On frozen embryos: "Dear, did you remember to fill the embryo tray?" which segued to our impending birth: "We're doing it the old fashioned way--in the oven." Dave was making an involuntary bailing motion with his coffee cup as we went to break, but did actually lean over me (which I'm told does not very often happen) and say, "I was in Madison once--in January." "Nice timing," I said.

Afterward, while they combed the RCA building for my driver (who forgot to pick me up in the first place), I watched Dave leave his Ball State cap and sweatshirt, football tucked under his arm, and Paul Schaeffer commiserate with the blond page in the hall where Kamar sprayed his blade with Pam.