CringeHumor

It was just around three months ago that Patrick, Cris and I got on the phone with Mike DeStefano and he asked us to produce his one man show, Drugs, Disease & Death: A Comedy. Lois, Mike’s long time friend, hounded Mike and insisted that he work with us. Mike would later tell us that Lois wouldn’t stop “breakin his balls” about it. So he did. I will always be so grateful for Lois making this connection. It was truly a gift. At the time, I didn’t realize just how great a gift it was. The show didn’t have a name and I wasn’t really sure what the show was going to be. I had seen MIke perform often and knew he had battled with heroin addiction, was living with HIV and he wanted to tell his story so of course I knew there was potential to do something very real, very deep, and I was just excited to work with Mike. I knew Mike was one of the greatest comedians alive. It was a no brainer. But it wasn’t until February 7th, the first night of our run that I realized that this wasn’t just a great show, this was THE great show, and MIke wasn’t just a great comedian, he was the greatest.

A lot of people think it is a comedians job to make us laugh. Sure, when were in the moment watching a comic on stage it seems like a reasonable bench mark. But laughter can be cheap. A few beers, or cocktails, or maybe a hit of a joint before you enter the club and a lot of shit seems funny. And I get that. Its good to laugh. Its healthy. And there’s a lot of good comedians doing just that. Making audiences laugh, making decent money for themselves and for the establishments that provide a stage for them to entertain. Without them there wouldn’t be a stage for a comedian like Mike to show them that they could be better. And we, the audience could be better. The great ones, comedians like Mike, they expected more out of comedy. It wasn’t just about laughter, it was about the quality of the laughter. The greats, as he described in his own words, “make comedy out of shit thats not funny already. Farts are already funny, you can sit at home and fart, and laugh by yourself, you don’t need a professional stand up comic to do that.” Mike proved that every time he graced a stage. He dug deep and attacked everything taboo, racism, religion, sex, drugs, disease and it was fucking funny. And if you didn’t laugh, Mike would boo you for not being a better audience.

Mike put it all out there in his one-man show we did together. He showed us the ingredients by exposing his deepest and most painful personal memories and emotions, which are numerous. MIke lived a tough life. He was raised in the Bronx in the shadows of wise guys and abusive religious figures, and a tumultuous home life. He was a young teen addicted to one of the most lethal drugs, which killed his best and closest friend Anthony. It would also lead to his diagnosis of HIV positive. A disease that took the love of his life Franny years later. I watched Mike dig at these wounds each night in February in front of small audiences, who were fortunate enough to be let in and share in these wounds, and they were allowed to laugh at them. There was plenty of tears. I saw Mike each night, take a moment alone to collect himself, usually under heavy breath and glossy-tear stained eyes. And he eventually came out and joined his fans and was happy they were all a part of it.

After the first performance, I felt lucky, almost chosen to be part of Mike D’s show. I was producing what I believed was the show that would change comedy for our generation and launch Mike into the pantheon of Comedy Legends. The Lenny Bruce of our generation. Fuck, Mike was a buddhist. Lenny Bruce died in October of 1966 and Mike was born in November 29th, 1966… Lenny Bruce reincarnated. He might as well be. He was about to change it all just like Lenny did. Our hope is that his legacy will continue to impact the world just like it will continue to impact our lives.

It was a fulfilling week and everyone involved, every audience member, knew that we were all a part of something special. Mike knew it. He wasn’t arrogant about it, and didn’t take for granted how great this was. There was a real understanding that we were in this together, an unstated brotherhood based on being a part of each of us pouring our hearts and souls into this. All I could think about how excited and how important it was to bring this show to the public. Our goal was to go city to city if we had to and share Mike’s beautiful story. A story everyone should hear. Not just because it will make you laugh, but its going to make you a better person. Thats why he was the greatest comedian. But he died. Just like that. That shocking. That devastating. It’s unfinished, but not for long.

Monday night, the night after Mike passed away, Cris, my partner and co-producer and I spent time with friends that had seen the show, and later met up with comedians he was close with at the Comedy Cellar. It was cathartic but it also felt like there was an unfillable void being left in comedy. I can’t name one person who comes close to being as authentic, as dark and funny as Mike is. That comic does not exist right now.

Cris and I left the comedy cellar late , and continued to talk about Mike. We felt comfort in knowing that Mike was happy and didn’t suffer. He told us straight forward after his final performance, the night of the 12th, “I’ve said everything I’ve ever wanted to say.” Mike died happy and with no pain, and was never, NEVER afraid of dying.

All I keep thinking is I wish Mike was alive. I wish he was still here sitting with us, cracking jokes and talking about how much he hated cab drivers. I wish we were still performing the planned one-night performance at the Barrow Street theatre. Mike’s legacy never got to achieve its rightful place. I wish more people had a chance to see him perform this last great week of performances that was so real, and funny, and so personal. I keep thinking of what Mike would tell me right now. Probably something like, “homo, quit crying and stop being stupid. Its not 1932 where someone can get away with having Polio and running for President. We have video cameras now. We taped the whole fucking thing dummy. You’re lucky you didn’t let me wait longer than February to perform my show. So don’t blow it.” Oh yeah, we did. Maybe you will get a chance to see the greatest comedian perform THE great show of our generation. Buddhist don’t believe in the value of material goods, instead Mike leaves behind his personal story, his manuscript on how we should be living our lives (you’ll have to see the performance to know I’m not suggesting to start using heroin and robbing people). Maybe its not too late for Mike to achieve his rightful place amongst the comedy legends to be properly recognized. Not that he needed it. I wish he was here to do it himself.

Comedians, I hope you are able to remember MIke every time you get on stage and perform in front of captive audience and remember, you are better than fart jokes. Be honest. Treat your craft and this art form with respect and if you’re not bearing your soul to the audience, exposing everything you’ve got, you probably shouldn’t be doing stand-up. Challenge yourself. Comedy clubs, agents and managers, start treating comedians better. Maybe they won’t doubt themselves so much and wont turn to drugs and alcohol to deal with their pain. Challenge yourself. Audiences, time for us to be better. Go see more comedy. Don’t let comedy clubs waste your hard earned money giving you watered-down, hacky comedy, but shut the fuck up and stop wooing in the front row as the comedian is performing. We can all be better. Thats what Mike would have wanted.

Mike was a brother and will be missed. I wish he were here to bring his story to more audiences. I wish he could be here to remind others what it takes to live life to the fullest, with honesty and integrity, without fear and without regret and the what it takes to be the greatest. We promise to do everything we can to make sure your message doesn’t end with your passing. You were better than that. We’re better than that.