Yet this apparently ordinary man left an extraordinarily prolific legacy. Born in New York City to vaudeville parents, he broke into radio and went on to write scores of books, compose thousands of songs (best known was his theme, ''This Could Be the Start of Something Big''), dabble in serious acting (he blew the licorice stick in the title role of ''The Benny Goodman Story'' in 1955), and create one of TV's wonkiest PBS shows: 1977's ''Meeting of the Minds,'' in which moderator Allen asked ponderous questions of actors playing such figures as Charles Darwin and Attila the Hun.
And oh, yes: He invented the late night TV talk show as we now know it, with the introduction of ''The Tonight Show'' in 1953. The whole megillah was Allen's creation -- the desk, the band, the opening monologue, the wacky skits, the going up into the audience to answer questions, the guest chatter. You think Johnny Carson created Art Fern, the sleazy huckster? Allen did it first, with his Late Night Pitchman character. Think David Letterman invented nutty stunts like the Velcro suit? Allen was jumping into giant vats of Jell-O before Dave was in long pants.
Today, most people know Allen as that cranky guy who took out ads in newspapers, decrying the ''filth, vulgarity, sex, and violence TV is sending into our homes.'' In fact, the day before his death, he submitted the book length pop culture jeremiad ''Vulgarians at the Gate'' to his publisher. ''Steve came from a time when television was a friend of the family,'' explains comedian Tim Conway. ''It never offended you.''
But 40 years ago, this cultural autodidact might have been giving Joe Lieberman the heebie jeebies. Allen offered iconoclastic ''sick'' comic Lenny Bruce generous airtime and treated Jack Kerouac to serious interviews at a time when most people thought Beat novelists were crazy mixed up kids.
Allen was a generous straight man who, particularly on ''The Tonight Show'' (1953–57) and the syndicated ''Steve Allen Show'' (1962–64, 1968–72), worked in peak comic form, assembling a stock company of gifted comedians including Louis Nye, Tom Poston, and Don Knotts. ''He gave you your head,'' says Knotts. ''He let you experiment and let you do what you thought was funny.''
By all accounts Allen's 46 year marriage to actress singer Jayne Meadows, 80, was blissful. But his private life was strained in the early '70s when his son Brian joined what some considered a cult commune and changed his name to Logic Israel. In 1982, Allen said that while he was ''hurt and stunned'' initially, he'd come to terms with Brian's beliefs and even wrote ''Beloved Son,'' a 1982 book chronicling the family's experience.
In fact, Brian's son was among the grandchildren who spent the final evening with Allen. After helping the kids with their jack 'o lanterns, Allen said he felt tired and lay down to rest. ''He passed peacefully away,'' says his son Bill, at whose Encino, Calif., house Allen died.
People of a certain generation will always hear Allen's infectious, high pitched cackle of a laugh in their heads. Younger comedy fans will find it difficult to see much of prime Allen -- many of his talk show tapes were accidentally burned and discarded years ago -- but Allen's influence continues today. Late night upstart Conan O'Brien -- who acknowledged on his Halloween night show that he keeps a photo of Allen on the set -- is an inheritor in the way he delights in wordplay.
Similarly, Allen's ear was always attuned to conversational clichés to which he could apply a novel twist. When a guest greeted him by saying ''Good to see you,'' he'd often reply, ''It's good to be seen.''
Spoken like a man born to be in a box in your living room.
(Additional reporting by Tricia Johnson, William Keck, and Brian M. Raftery)