*Comedian and writer Norm Macdonald died on Sept. 14, 2021. Conan O’Brien, on whose late night talk show Macdonald made some of his most memorable appearances, delivered this tribute at a private memorial for Macdonald earlier this year that took place during the Netflix Is a Joke festival in Los Angeles, attended by a few dozen of Macdonald’s friends and fellow comics. O’Brien shared his speech with The Washington Post on the first anniversary of Macdonald’s death.*
Good morning. I’d like to begin by telling you the last words Norm Macdonald spoke on this earth. He said “When I go, make sure they have a memorial for me. See to it that it is part of a much larger festival promoting a streaming service. Arrange it hastily and make sure you have it early in the morning. Make sure that many of the tributes are on videotape and that Rob Schneider is featured prominently. And finally, hold it in a theater in some part of Hollywood frequented by male prostitutes.” Norm, this is for you.
Of course I do want to thank Norm’s family and [longtime manager] Lori Jo [Hoekstra] for being here today and giving us all a chance to celebrate the funniest man any of us have ever met. I want to be clear, I am not here this morning to eulogize or memorialize Norm. My motives are selfish. I’m here because I want, finally, to understand Norm. Norm was the most completely original person I have ever met. He didn’t look like anyone else, talk like anyone else, or follow many of the basic principles of comedy. He lived in his own, strange world populated by hobos, French Canadians, cardsharps, trappers, a pig with a wooden leg, farmers, hooligans, and, for reasons no one will ever understand, Frank Stallone. His patter was an insane mix of folksy, rural phrases — a wandering, genteel yarn-spinner from the backwoods, and all of this masked the fact that he was completely fearless and shockingly blunt. He was Mark Twain, if Mark Twain was obsessed with prison rape and crack whores.
When Norm died there was an explosion of grief and appreciation, but everything I read was deeply unsatisfying. “One of the greats, a true original, one of a kind … .” That can and will be said about every comedian at this festival. I know, because I’ll be the one saying it after everyone speaking today is dead. That’s right, I plan to outlive every comic in this room and I will bury you all with hollow praise. I will dance on your grave, Nealon.
What distinguished Norm Macdonald was one quality: He was superhumanly brave. The media loves to talk about “brave comedy” and they’re usually wrong. Bravery isn’t a Trump joke that gets applause and pat on the back from the New York Times, bravery means tremendous risk and, often, loss. Norm was highly principled and he paid dearly for his refusal to compromise. He lost jobs — many jobs — because he followed his own insane, outlandish North Star. Jim Downey, Norm’s cohort on Weekend Update and a speaker today, told me that Norm would bomb with a joke at dress rehearsal and then tell it again on air, when he knew, with certainty, that it would get nothing. On my show, Norm would tell long, seemingly pointless stories, all lies, and hang it all on one punchline that might or might not land. Early in my “Late Night” run, after Norm left the stage, Andy Richter leaned over to me and said, “That guy doesn’t care in a way that terrifies me.”
We all know that Norm would lose his job if he kept telling O.J. jokes, and that he persisted and was fired. But Norm took big, frightening swings constantly. Once, Norm came on my show during Oscar Pistorius’s trial for murder. Norm went out of his way to say that he had no problem with the murder — that didn’t trouble him. He said his issue with Pistorius was that he had blades for legs. “Conan, I think one of the basic requirements for being a sprinter is … having legs. You can’t be on the team, you’re not a biped.”
Norm was so outrageous that I would always start laughing the minute he came out from behind the curtain. Those apple cheeks, dimples and his gleaming pumpkin eyes — the eyes of a true sociopath — would have me giggling like a schoolgirl before he had even said a word.
I can think of no better example of Norm’s fearlessness and gall than to relate the behind the scenes tale of the Moth story. Norm had paneled brilliantly when I called for a commercial and said, “We’ll be right back with more Norm Macdonald.” Norm was shocked and during the quick break, with the band playing, he told [show producer] Frank Smiley and I that he didn’t have any more material — he thought he was only doing one segment. “How much time do I have to do?” Norm asked and we told him “seven minutes.”
I didn’t know it then, but Norm had heard a joke one week prior from Colin Quinn. It’s a 15-second joke: “Moth goes into a podiatrist’s office and says I have a problem, doc — I think I’m going mad. The doctor says ‘I’m a podiatrist, not a psychiatrist — why come to see me?’ Moth says, ‘Because the light was on.’ ”
So Norm, with no preparation, launches into an epic Chekhovian tragedy. Suddenly, the Moth is trapped in an existential despair. We hear all about his loveless marriage, the death of his daughter Alexandria, and his estrangement from son, Gregarro Ivinalititavitch. The story goes on and on, straying as far from the punchline as anyone could. And then, at last, after an entire segment, Norm sticks the landing perfectly. The punchline worked, but it was all about the journey with Norm. Like any common criminal, or Picasso, Norm broke rules with gusto, and it was his impish joy in the destruction that touched us all so profoundly.
Most of us did not know how that Norm was sick, and many of us couldn’t understand why it was so hard to connect with him in his final years. When I wrapped up my show last spring, I wanted to have Norm on as a guest and I was told he couldn’t be there. He was the best panelist in the history of talk shows and easily the most beloved guest in the 28 years of my career. On my last night, June 24, many of my friends an colleagues were sending out nice messages and Norm sent out a tweet that is quintessentially Norm in all his delightful shaggy dog glory:
“It was a historic night and my only regret was not being there live. But, I was glued to my tv and thrilled to be watching my heroes move on. Hard to believe it’s been 28 years. The best is yet to come. Congratulations to the greatest ever, the mighty Montreal Canadiens!” Yes, the Canadiens had won the Western Conference Finals on the night of my last show and he needed, rightly, for me to know exactly where I stood.
There would be no sentimentality from Norm, and he wouldn’t want it today. Selfishly, I don’t feel badly for Norm, I feel badly for all of us. They have discontinued my favorite brand of soda and I am eternally pissed. In a world where there is more comedy than at any other time in our civilization, the good is rare and the exceptional is divine. Norm Macdonald, at his best, was a divinely hilarious, brave and absurd anomaly — a backwoods Canadian hick with the phrasing of a poet, a mad bomber and destroyer of worlds who was, simultaneously, a principled and loyal friend. So let’s remember him today, retell his jokes as best we can, and then do it again tomorrow and the next day. We will spend the rest of our lives trying to figure out that demented lump of coal, and I cannot think of a better use of our time.
www.livecomedy.be
www.stadsschouwburg-antwerpen.be
