Anatomy of a show

A half-hour before a recent taping, men in togas wander through the hallways. Stagehands wheel ceiling-high plastic columns into place behind O'Brien's desk. It's time-travel week on Late Night. Tonight's episode: ancient Greece. (Later in the week, Late Night will travel to the Civil War, the '80s, and the future.)

The audience is upstairs by five. Mike Sweeney, a writer who also plays Todd, a recurring character who can't believe that O'Brien isn't gay, does a fast warm-up that includes a lesson in applause. ("Give yourselves a big hand. . . . Now give yourselves a bigger hand than that.") Then the band. Then "Burning Love."

The show opens with a pre-taped sketch in which O'Brien and Richter, wearing pajamas for a supposed sleepover, stumble upon a time machine in the prop room. The Late Night theme sounds, and it's showtime.

Two Greek goddesses, wearing prop snakes on their heads, pull a chariot carrying a toga-clad O'Brien. During his monologue, O'Brien has the camera pan the famous ancient Greeks who -- thanks to cheesy, superimposed graphics -- have taken seats in the audience. (Hey, there's Plato, Aristotle, Sophocles, and, yes, Telly Savalas!) Afterward, O'Brien cuts to a "live" shot of his writing staff rolling through the streets of New York City in the show's own Trojan Horse. (They intend to sneak into the Ed Sullivan Theater and sabotage Letterman's show from within.)

The first guest is Martin Scorsese. He turns out to be the perfect interview, talking eloquently about his films, telling humorous personal anecdotes, and remaining calm while being questioned by a talk-show host in a toga. Most important, Scorsese appears thrilled with a taped spoof of a famous scene from Taxi Driver: Tony Randall, army coat and all, asks the camera, "Were you addressing me? Ruffian. Hoodlum."

Conan unplugged

"There are shows where you have that feeling, and it's great. It's like a ride," O'Brien says. "The show's over, and I was happier there than I was after the show or before the show."

Late Night is his obsession, O'Brien admits. Yes, he loves to read, play guitar, listen to old rockabilly, go to movies with his girlfriend of two years, Lynn Kaplan, 27. (Perhaps a measure of how serious they are is that she got him to see Dunston Checks In.) But everything revolves around the show.

There's no relief during nightly taping because there's no way to know which jokes, bits, and guests will click. Sometimes, everything works out. More often, only a few pieces of the show come together just right.

"This is like a gambler's addiction," O'Brien says. "Can I get all the plates spinning nicely at the same time? If you don't, you get two out of three spinning, or nine out of 15, or whatever. You're obsessed with getting eight out of 15 again and then nine out of 15. And when you go out there the next night and, no, you get seven out of 15, you're like `ah' -- and then you're obsessed to go out again and get 15 out of 15."

In the unpredictable world of semi-live TV, the most memorable moments often occur off the grid, by chance, because something has gone wrong -- a broken prop, a flubbed line, a strange guest. Like the famous hickey episode, three years ago, in which Breeders bassist Josephine Wiggs shocked O'Brien with a true neck suck.

"He put out his hand to me," says Wiggs, recounting O'Brien's visit to their dressing room after the show, "and he said, `You understand the concept of live television.' "

But no matter what happens during the show, there's work to be done later. The writers usually assemble in the conference room next to Groff's office. About 300 index cards hang on the wall, each naming a bit done in the past, from "Conan Babies" to "Who Stole the Fudge?"

By 9 p.m., after the ancient Greece show, the writers sit at a table eating $355 worth of sushi. (O'Brien ordered raginna yaki.) They're ready to work. Most nights, he gets back to his apartment on the Upper West Side before midnight, in bed by 1 or 2. And he's comedied out.

"When I get home," O'Brien says, "the drier and more boring the documentary, the better. If I see a documentary on how Benjamin Disraeli redefined the role of the Exchequer in England in the late 19th century, I'll be like, `Cool.' "

As calm as he might seem on the air, there's a tightly coiled side of O'Brien. It's why he can't relax even now, at age 32 and in one of the most coveted spots on television.

But Conan O'Brien isn't so fidgety that he's looking for movie parts or his own sitcom, and he promises to turn down record deals, no matter how hard the industry knocks.

"I've actually asked the people around me to put a bullet through the back of my head if I ever start to take myself seriously as a singer or a musician," he says.

O'Brien is surprisingly noncommittal when asked whether he would ever do an 11:30 show. He shrugs off the idea, explaining why midnight is best for Late Night. There's less pressure, and the comedy doesn't have to be adapted for wide audiences.

But Tom Shales doesn't mind tossing out his choice, if, say, he ran a network. "Letterman and O'Brien are very compatible, funny in different ways," he says. "To me, the ideal setup would be Letterman followed by O'Brien. Of course, that's the way it plays in my house already."

As far as O'Brien's concerned, the Late Night staff has enough to worry about. There's a monologue to write, bits to film, and a guest list to keep updating. The grid goes on.

"I try to stop every now and then and say, `It's amazing that I got to do this much,' " he says. "I know I should be happy for that, but if I was that kind of person, I don't think I would have lasted as long as I have."

"You always want to change everything. You always want it to be better," he says. "I'm very moody. My girlfriend and people who work on the show and anyone who's known me in my life has known that my highs are high and my lows are low, and I probably should be on some chemical."

And then he laughs.