Did you not realize what you meant to people?
Everyone worshipped you, yet you still felt so alone. In the Pete Holmes podcast, Pete literally said to you: “Please feel loved in this reality.” It sounds like a bullet point in a self-help book, but you didn’t feel loved in this reality, and you certainly didn’t love yourself. I think this was the root of the problem. You literally told me when you were home last December detoxing that you’d burned every bridge to the ground. It was such a ludicrous statement and so clear that it was coming from the darkest, most self-loathing, of places, one that was triggered by a severe dopamine drought in the brain. It also just wasn’t true. You had body dysmorphia of the soul. I mean, maybe you’d pissed off an ex-girlfriend or two, but who doesn’t have that on their resume?
Maybe it would’ve turned out differently had you heard all the beautiful things people said about you after you died. Maybe you would have finally understood how loved you actually were.
I’m going to tell you now.
The series finale of Parks and Recreation aired one week after you died and included a title card at the end of the show that read: We love you, Harris.
See? Loved.
Upright Citizens Brigade hosted a mind-blowing tribute show in your honor the week we were in LA packing up your house. It was such an emotional purge. Laughing and crying, crying and laughing. So many people and feelings and stories. My father-in-law babysat Iris at your house (she slept in your music room) so that Mom, Mike, and I could attend. When we arrived, everyone welcomed us with lovings. That was a word you liked to use. I think it works nicely here. Kulap Vilaysack, Scott Aukerman’s wife, led us to some couches in the front of the house that she’d reserved for us. Can I just take a moment to say that I love her? I love her. She is truly the greatest person. She still regularly texts and calls to check in. She helped us pack up your entire house the week after your funeral. She is the real deal: a superior and stellar human being who loved you very much. She and Jeff Ullrich, who founded the Earwolf podcast network with Scott, created these badass T-shirts in your honor that said Motherfuckers just wanna laugh, one of your most beloved quotes, sold them online, raised $25,000 in profits, and donated all of it to your scholarship fund.
I didn’t know Jeff, but he reached out six months after you died to share some thoughts about you. In the email, he said, “I think I’m telling you this because I wish I could have told him.” Oh, I feel you, Jeff. In this one section, he described a characteristic that so many people bring up when they talk about you: “In the same way people describe transcendent politicians, Harris made you feel like you were the only person in the room, and that what you thought mattered. He didn’t care that you were a nobody podcasting entrepreneur (in 2010: what the fuck is a podcast?), and there were very famous people sitting eight feet away. He’d ask you questions, listen to your answers, agree, argue, take another drag of his smoke, and make a joke. I can’t tell you how important that was to me.”
Jeff also told me about this one very Harris interaction you had together at the SF Sketchfest in 2011. Now he’s sober, but at the time, Jeff was drinking too much. He was there trying to launch Earwolf, and lots of important comedy people who could help make his dream a reality were hanging out at this one hotel bar. Knowing how important it was that he make a good impression, you pulled him outside for a cigarette and said, “Dude, I can’t let you go back in there. There are tons of comedians and celebrities in there who you need to start podcasts with, but you are getting sloppy. Come with me to Jack in the Box, I’ll buy you a burger.” And you did! Then you put him in a cab and made him call it a night. He credits you with saving him from himself that night. As a posthumous thank-you, he recently took a trip out to Houston from LA of his own volition to talk to my students about how to be a podcast-network-creating bad ass. You couldn’t talk to them anymore, so he did it for you.
See? Loved.
Anyway, the tribute show was packed. You should’ve seen it. There were literally five hundred people in the theater, and a line wrapped around the block. They had to stop selling tickets because the venue was at capacity. The show started at seven o’clock and didn’t wind down until well after two in the morning with live music later in the night.
Your Sarah Silverman family got on stage first, which was apropos since this is where you got your start. They showed a heartbreaking slideshow created by your dear friend, Rob Schrab, of your days in their writers’ room, on set, and beyond. A cover of Bright Eyes’ “First Day of My Life,” sung by Sarah and accompanied by your band, Don’t Stop or We’ll Die, underscored the video.
