On the wall of Fallon’s dressing room hangs a calendar with an ominous date (unknown to us) which marks the end of unoriginal material from other talk-shows, favors, SNL cast and friends. It’s a horrifying date, fraught with televised violence and likely a long silent career doing routine standup in very bad neighborhoods.

But in all honesty, I shouldn’t be too rough on Jimmy. After all, recalling Conan’s ascension to Letterman’s throne, new royalty always has a tough time in an old kingdom.

Personally, I wouldn’t want to stand in front of those hot NBC lights trying to cash in DeNiro’s friendship with some on-air humor.  I wouldn’t want to sweat realizing that my conversation with old buddy Tina Fey, though often funny because of her panache, doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to the studio audience (and the sense it does make is totally pretentious). I wouldn’t want to sit in that chair with former Mickey Clubhouse Justin Timberlake knowing, for a fact, that none of the guests are as charmingly charismatic, unabashedly funny, and naturally comfortable with cameras and an audience: in short, not everyone is JT.

I don’t plan to check up on Fallon’s progress during these early weeks. He needs time to grow into his own mold and his various skits (like the hilarious Slow Jam News) are in flex-mode — checking their strength and permanence.

Here’s hoping that Jimmy, like Conan before him, will come into his own. I’ll tune in again a month from now with that hope still burning but with a sinking feeling. The audiences today might not have given the genius of Conan his due time; who knows what they’ll do with Jimmy Fallon.