Mike DeStefano's Funeral

I wasn’t able to attend the wake for Mike DeStefano so I got up extra early and made my way to St. Benedict’s Church in the Bronx, to pay my respects at his funeral.

There’s always something a little surreal about being at the funeral of someone you knew, especially when that person was relatively young, and left suddenly, in an untimely manner.  It’s hard to picture them laying there lifeless in a box, and that you’ll never see them again.

And Clergymen of all religions speak of the day when we will all be reunited in Heaven, as his Priest did when he said that Mike was now reunited with his Dad and his wife, but although those thoughts give us a  modicum of comfort, there’s still the reality to be dealt with that that person is gone from this plane, and we won’t be seeing them again.  It’s very strange.

It reminded me of the passing of my good friend Phil Hartman, who was killed in his sleep.  I was out in LA at the time and had just spoken to Phil a couple of days before his murder.  He invited me to come and visit with him and his wife Brynne that very weekend in Malibu.  I recall asking him the best way to drive to his house, and trying my best to write down the directions.  There was no GPS in those days, at least not on the rental car that I had.

For whatever reason I wasn’t able to go, but I had already told my Mom that I was going to visit Phil over the weekend.  Then when the terrible news came out, I found out from my mother, who woke me up early in the morning with the question, “Oh my G-d, are you alright?”

I was used to her being over-protective, but when I asked her why she sounded so upset, she told me what had happened to Phil, and said the initial reports were that two men were killed at Phil Hartman’s house during what looked like a robbery, and she was afraid I was one of those men.

Phil Hartman and Jeffrey Gurian at Jeffrey's piano circa 1992

After assuring her I was still alive, I did my best to process this tragedy. As the day unfurled and the facts came out, it hit me really hard that I could no longer call my buddy Phil, and I actually called his phone several times to hear his voice.  It took a few days until they turned it off.  I couldn’t comprehend what had happened to him and that I’d never speak to him again.

Then the crazy thought hit me that he didn’t know he was dead.  And I don’t mean this in any way as a joke.  I would never do that.  I’m very serious.  He went to bed fully expecting to wake up the next day as always, but he never woke up.  I was haunted by the thought of what his mind might be thinking.  That somewhere in his consciousness, he was still expecting to wake up, because he had no idea he was dead.