CringeHumor

There’s this t-shirt Mike DeStefano used sell on his website, sometimes he brought it along with him to shows. Sometimes he just gave them away. The shirt read, “A friend of Mike D.” To some people no one looked beyond that. It was just a few words on a shirt, maybe it meant you went to one of his shows, maybe it meant you saw his special on TV and bought it online. But for people that listened to Mike talk—those that really listened really knew what the t-shirt was all about. 

Mike was a recovering addict. He made no secret about it. Even though in recovery you must remain anonymous and really shouldn’t talk about 12 step programs the way Mike did. Mike believed in program. He believed in getting clean and having a second chance on life. In program you normally go by your first name and last initial. Those of you that are reading this and knew Mike, he’d always refer to himself to fellow members in program as Mike D. and when he referred to others he’d use their first name and last initial. He was extremely protective of his friends and fans in Narcotics and Alcoholics Anonymous. After shows there would be lines of people in program waiting to talk to him. Mike would take them aside and give them as much time as they needed. They’d follow up with emails and phone calls. Mike made sure to get back to everyone.

Mike spent a lot of time going to recovery groups. He would visit Samaritan Village locations throughout the country, talk at NA and AA conventions. Sometimes he’d just do his standup. Everyone came away with the same feeling. If you sat through it and really let his words sink in it meant you were part of this club. Mike’s message was clear. “We are all the same. We’re all addicts. I’m no better than you and you are no better than me, but we’re in this together.” The t-shirt was given to those that embraced this message. They understood they were not alone and no matter how hard the disease was, there was always hope and someone to listen.

I grew up with an addict. My Dad hit rock bottom several times before getting it right. Still all these years later I could never forget the past. I met Mike a few years ago while working with Cringe Humor.  Mike’s comedy instantly sucked me in. There was honesty in all of his jokes, but I knew there was so much more. Every time I saw Mike I’d ask him a ton of questions and eventually worked my way into asking about recovery. I felt like Mike was the one person that could make me understand my Dad. Make me ok with what happened. There were times I think I got on Mike’s nerves. I know this because he’d give his best go fuck yourself face. Mike would later tell me I should have just come right out and said it. He thought all my questions were weird and that I might have just been fucking with him. Instead I took his reaction as a hint and stopped harassing him.

It wasn’t until earlier this year while we were planning his one man show that it finally came out. I never get nervous around comedians, the steady hand so to speak. But around Mike I couldn’t help it. There was so much I really wanted to talk to him about. Things I wanted him to know. While we were planning his show I wanted him to know how important I thought it was and that I had watched first-hand what addiction can do. Something inside of me wanted to let him know that this wasn’t about money or attaching my name to something that was going to be amazing. It was much greater than that. There was a message. One I wished I had access to years ago.

The first night of Mike’s one man show “Drugs, Disease and Death: A Comedy” was on a Monday night. I sat in the lighting and sound booth and watched Mike pour his heart out with the rest of the sold out crowd at the Producer’s Club. We were floored. We had talked about Mike’s show beforehand in pieces. These were workshops, but we needed to see how it would flow as a complete show. It was all there. Everything we felt we needed to see in terms of content. You laughed, you cried, you couldn’t believe he was still standing in front of you after all that. That night I was reinvigorated. I knew that I was meant to meet with Mike and collaborate on this.

I started to get concerned after the show because there were a line of people that wanted to see him and he wasn’t coming out of his dressing room. I waited for as long as I could and I walked in to find Mike sobbing. He was sitting with his face buried in his hands trying to cover his tears. The only thing I could do was freeze up. I didn’t know what to tell him. Mike was always the guy in control. After an hour and a half on stage bearing his soul, Mike was vulnerable and now in his dressing room all of his emotions were on the surface.

He felt me standing there and eventually Mike picked his head up, tears still streaming down his face and asked “was that good?” Here was this guy who survived addiction, a diagnosis of HIV, losing his wife to AIDS, growing up in one of the roughest areas of New York City, going on to accomplish so many great things and now he was asking me, if what he just did was good. I felt so unworthy of answering that question.  I stuttered on a few words before I felt my own tears. I eventually whispered, “It was great Mikey. I’m in awe.” Mike stood up and pulled me in for a hug. He whipped away the remaining tears, and said, “Alright get away from me you faggot… Naw I’m kidding come back.”

Mike went out to greet his fans and just as always talked to each of them one on one for over an hour until there was no one left.

I emailed him that night late. It was close to 1:30 a.m. Up until that point we had spoken about how this was personal to me and that I really believed in what he was saying, his message and his story. We had broached the subject of my father, but hadn’t gotten into the details. In that email I let it all out there. I let him know what I was holding on to and the things I wanted to know more about. I told him when he was talking about his Dad on stage that I was right there with him. So after a long emotional email, Mike replied immediately with one simple word: “HOMO.”

I laughed uncontrollably. Mike always made depression and sadness seem ok and then made you laugh about it. Within minutes after receiving his response, Mike called me and we spoke for a couple of hours. He wasn’t feeling well at all, suffering from a cold, but somehow he forged ahead and answered all my questions, even after I insisted he get some rest. We spent the next two weeks talking just about every night, comparing notes about our families, trying to one up each other. Sometimes we met after shows, some nights he was on the road and called me from a hotel.

The conversations always ended the same way. Mike would always tell me that I was doing great and he appreciated everything we were building together.

Friday, March 4th, 2011 … Mike called me I was on my way to a dinner meeting with one our partners David Kimowitz. He was in rare form, ranting about some show he was offered by a network that he didn’t want to do. “The one man show, that’s what feels right, right now. I can’t be distracted. It’s what we’re meant to be doing right now.” I couldn’t have agreed more. The network deal would have been lucrative, but Mike never cared about the money. It was about the message. He knew with his show he could get his message out to the masses. It was all beginning to happen. Mike was going to debut his one man show on March 9th at the prestigious off Broadway site, the Barrow Street Theatre. In the Fall if all went right, Mike would have spent a few months performing his show every night at the theatre and he was excited about it. We planned out the summer booking theaters in Baltimore, Philadelphia, Washington D.C., West Palm Beach, Ft. Lauderdale, Chicago, Boston and Los Angeles. Mike was going to bring his one man show to the masses just like we planned.

“When things get settled,” Mike said. “We’re going to build this into something huge. All those projects we have been talking about we can do them, just as long as we do this first. It’s going to be a big year and I want you guys to be there every step of the way.”

Mike rendered me speechless. Mike wasn’t the type of person to just trust anyone. He really made you work for his trust. “Thanks Mike. I really appreciate this opportunity, it means a lot to me.”

“You’re such a faggot. Always getting gay on me,” he replied. “I’m fuckin with ya. I love you buddy.”

“I love you too Mike.”

The conversation ended. My first thought was the way Mike said he loved me. Mike had this thing, where he’d say “love ya” to be respectful when someone said it to him. But he used to say it was a rarity for him to say “I love you.” I knew it wasn’t easy for him. Mike had shown me his vulnerability and insecurities in previous weeks. One night he paced his dressing room ranting about how fat he had gotten and he couldn’t stand himself. Another night he came in late after filming a segment for Comedy Central, for what turned out to be a tribute for Greg Giraldo. There was no bathroom in the dressing room and he forgot so now he was faced to either go out into the lobby and face his fans before a show or take my suggestion: “Pee in this bottle Mike.”

Mike grabbed the bottle and filled it up. Unfortunately he wasn’t done. Mike gave me the bottle and with a straight face asked me to dump it somewhere. I opened a door that led to a fire escape and without hesitation poured his pee out of the bottle onto the city streets. I turned back around so Mike could fill the bottle once again.

The things we do for the people we love.

On Sunday, March 6th, 2011 Mike and I spoke earlier in the evening. We found a perfect location for his show in West Palm Beach. It was important to him because that’s where he and his late wife had lived for many years. Mike had a lot of friends in the area and wanted to do a show there. At the end of the conversation, I felt like I had to clarify that I did love him and what he said to me on a Friday meant a lot to me. “It means a lot to me too. We’re in this together. I’m excited. It’s going to be a big year.”

It would be the last time I spoke to Mike DeStefano. He passed later that night.

Since that night I’ve played it over and over in my mind. All the things Mike did leading up to his death. There was always this urgency about everything with Mike dating back to August, 2010, but it intensified in December. Mike wanted his one man show booked. He wanted to record his final CD, he wanted to finish the Last Comic Standing tour. Mike also wanted to make sure we met all of the people in his trusted circle. He introduced us to his lawyer Josh Sandler and to Frank Mosca who had been filming him for 7 years. These were people on his team – people that he trusted and people that had earned the title “A friend of Mike D.”

Since his death everyone Mike had introduced us to we are currently working with. He knew how to bring people together and even in the aftermath of his death, he continues to do so. We all sit in a room and can’t ignore the obvious – why we are here? We are friends of Mike D. We all understand what that means. We all know what the responsibilities are.

I know I’ll never take it for granted. His message will continue to reach the masses, we’ll make sure of it. For as long as I’m alive and as long as Cringe Humor is in business, we will always spread his message. We will continue to earn the title “A Friend of Mike D.”

On November 9th, 2011 – eight months from the date that he would have debuted what would be called “A Cherry Tree in the Bronx,” his one man show, we’re doing something a little different. On this night Friends of Mike D. will come together to celebrate his life—Colin Quinn, Bobby Kelly, Rich Vos, Eugene Mirman, Bonnie McFarlane and Roy Wood Jr., will tribute a wonderful man. The night will also include special guests and never before seen footage of Mike. We’re going to take his message to the masses. We hope you can join us.

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