Six times I tried to learn his secret. Six different times I made a good hard run at it. The second time was at a restaurant in West Hollywood, a dark place, cave dark, his choice, A painful eye condition made him sensitive to light, so he kept himself cloistered much of the time in semidarkness—which only added to the aura I conferred on him and his secret, (Where better to meet a guru than in a cave?) As I entered the restaurant, a waiter stepped forward and asked if I was dining alone or meeting someone, I'm meeting David Spade, Oh? He seemed impressed, He led me to Spade's regular booth, Moments later Spade appeared, I gazed into the darkness, able to discern only a few blond wisps jutting from a dirty brown ball cap and, under the drawbridge of his visor, his smiling blue eyes,
You haven't changed a bit, I said.
You neither, he said.
We were both lying.
This was last year, when I was hoping to write a profile of Spade, the durable and popular comic actor, and more important, m...