Dear Reader:

I swear to you, I meant to send the letters. I did. I wrote my first note to Dave in the fall of 1985, during a particularly lengthy period of unemployment. Since that time, I've penned literally dozens of missives, all intended for the red, white and blue drop box down the street.

I've traced Dave's address, purchased envelopes of every allowable size and flavor, and even readied special party hats and Hello My Name Is tags for my "first publicly-aired letter" celebration. I stamped the envelopes (and with every rates raising, I restamped them). I was ready.

But I never did mail them. I don't know if it was my fault or the TV's for always being on, or whether it was just never meant to be. But somehow, the lettters never left my house. So I decided to write a book instead. The following is a chronicle of my almost-relationship with the man David Letterman calls "me".

John Cady
Ann Arbor, MI

David Letterman

Three Faces of Dave
A few of the many renderings I did of Dave.
The rest didn't look much like him.


The Chronology of My Non-Sending

September 25
I am born.


August 16
I leave the cozy confines of the basement of Woolworth's dimestore in search of a better life.

September 20
Over 75 job applications have yielded nothing. I am told that "Woolworth's is always hiring."

October 16
I celebrate my 2-month anniversary of freedom by not returning a call from the Visa people.

October 22
I begin watching soap operas.

October 28
During an evening of watching Dave Letterman's nightly talk/variety show, a flash of insight changes my life: I could write to Dave.

November 18
I secure a job entering "yes" responses into a computer as "1" and "No"s as "2". Such a job prospect does not depress me, though. I am on a mission to communicate with The Dave.


These years are spent in creative angst, as I strive to find the essence of my relationship with David Letterman. Out of this period comes a lot of apartment cleaning, some dabbling in local anti-politics, and a fairly useless college degree. The letters get written, albeit slowly. The task is now to send them.


"These are the most painful years of my life" I write in my diary/checkbook. I mean to send the letters. Everyday, I think about them. I chastise myself, try enticing myself with rewards, even threaten to cut off my subscription to People if I fail to reach my goal. But nothing motivates me. Every day, something happens and I just can't seem to get the letters mailed. Depression and self-loathing sets in.


March 2
A last-ditch concerted effort to mail the letters has left me weary. I resign myself to my fate. I know I will never send the letters. I stop attending support group meetings at this time.

September 25
My birthday. I am watching David, and I get yet one more inspiration. I can write a book. I am on a mission.

On to The First Few Letters!

or back to the table of contents

© 1993-1995 John Cady and the Lounge Life Press