The garage itself has become as much of a character on the podcast as any of the guests. Mr. Maron has mythologized it as a magical and unlikely space, a dive alcove on a hill where guarded celebrities feel free to open up. Images of the garage show up in press photos, but it is perhaps most vivid in the imaginations of his regular listeners. On a recent morning, Mr. Maron gave me a tour of this vanishing landmark, a nostalgic trip that took an aptly dramatic detour when his mother showed up.

Even after he made enough money to upgrade his relatively modest home, he stayed in part because of anxiety about his ability to recreate the garage that changed his life. But as he got older, the mess accumulating around his desk bothered him. “It started to look like a sad roadside attraction,” he said. “Dust and cobwebs. People were going to be like: This is weird and gross.”

Mr. Maron, standing near stacks of “Please Kill Me,” the classic oral history of punk rock he often gives to guests, sounded slightly embarrassed to admit that he wanted a little comfort. Or at least a bathroom, so guests wouldn’t have to use the one inside his home, a sticking point with girlfriends in the past. He says he’s excited to start from scratch, and I couldn’t help but notice the room he’s leaving doubled as a shrine to his past.

Along with myriad fan-made portraits, he’s surrounded by photos of relatives and former loves and mementos from botched relationships (the Air Canada receipt accidentally sent to his first wife for a flight to see the woman who’d become his second). There are also awards (a medal from The Harvard Lampoon) and posters from comedy specials like his HBO half-hour (“I was sweaty and weird, and in retrospect it wasn’t great.”)