... I am returning to my wife, Terry Gross.

Goodbye, Maron and Holmes. Au revoir, Moshe Kasher and Neal Brennan. You were wonderful, but you cannot hold my attention any longer. I've learned so much about standup comedy: the narcissism and neuroticism, the fierce ambition and self-loathing. It's really creepy to feel that close to people you've never met. But then again, you know that creepy is my hobbyhorse. We have that in common.

You helped me through repainting my apartment. Twice. And your words lulled me to sleep at night when insomnia attacked. My memories are sweet, though embittered by hours of mansplaining. (See Patrice O'Neal's jaw dropping reasoning of why women are debased animals.) Whatever. I loved you for being exactly who you are, drawn as I was to your bracing candor: who is finally out of the closet, who gave a 19 year-old girl VD, who is the coolest and most unflappable of interview subjects. And so on.

It's particularly impressive when you compare podcasts to the dead sea that is late night television. Most of those hosts aren't so much interviewers as they are PR fluffers. It's a fossilized tradition that has nothing to do with conversation.

You could not have found a more compulsive fan. I mean, really. It's embarrassing. I'm surprised there wasn't an intervention. Comedy podcasts are addictive as hell.


Now I'm going to go back to listening to the news. (I hear there's this place called "the Middle East" and things are happening there. ) But I wish you nothing but the best. When I am informed of how cool you guys are, when I overhear someone bragging about their in-depth knowledge of Tig Notaro at a dinner party or online, I'll smile knowingly and quietly toast her success. You have my undying respect, but not anymore space on my hard drive.

I'll be rooting for all of you, especially for Pete once his late night talk show airs.