He was the sole member of a band in which everyone quit except him, and who had an apartment infested with koala bears. I’m talking about Mitch Hedberg, my short-lived hero.
On March 14, fate entered my life. I was disappointed because I couldn’t get tickets to Mitch’s show on the campus, which sold out in less than five hours. As I complained about this, a classmate offered me two tickets because some of his friends bailed on him. That began my fated encounter with one of comedian Mitch’s last shows on earth.
The show was incredible. I laughed my a– off and experienced two hours of pure, live, Mitch entertainment. The show was even better than his comedy CDs. He wasn’t like many comics who just spit out the same jokes like in a routine. He did more.
The man created two jokes during the performance and interacted with the audience. And while talking to the audience he was just as funny as when he was doing his routine. It showed that the real-life Mitch was the same man as the onstage Mitch.
In part of the show, he joked with a girl in the audience and then brought her onstage. While he used her lighter for his pipe, Mitch whispered a joke into her ear to tell the audience. Random, yes, but that was the beauty of Mitch and his shows. He did things differently, and he didn’t care if anyone liked it.
Think it over. How many comedians can you think of who are just as funny offstage as on? How many comedians can you think of who create jokes on the spot? How many comedians do you know who can make ant farms funny with a joke such as, “I got an ant farm the other day … and those bastards don’t grow s—”?
That was Mitch’s style. He looked at the world in a different way; he knew the value of subtlety, irony and the quiet absurdity of modern life. He made things that were seemingly boring funny and created humor-filled life where there was none.
But his jokes weren’t hilarious only because of their words. It took more, and that was one of his many talents. His delivery and personality made the jokes funny. He did all this with his most supreme gift — his originality. Everything was original about Mitch — his personality, his stand-up style and his jokes.
In an industry in which the same cookie-cutter crap is fed to us every moment of the day, a comedian such as Mitch is a breath of fresh air. Creativity and originally are things people don’t respect and embrace enough. People are often unable to define what genius is. I define genius as being creative and original, and Mitch was all of these — creative, original and a genius.
He inspired and changed me in major — and minor — ways; major ways with my career as a humor writer and as a person who enjoys making others laugh, minor in a way in that every time I am in a restaurant waiting for a table, I always think to myself, “Where are the Dufrenes?” And in the future, I may never be as funny as Mitch or be able to do it as well as he did, but I sure as hell can try.
I hope the world breeds more people like Mitch. We need more Mitches around because the boring world we live in yearns for it. His talents can’t be found in others, and when he died, the world lost a bit of humor. I am thankful fate helped me see Mitch my first and last time. So, goodbye, Mitch, I’ll remember you. And don’t worry — I’ll take care of your koala bears.
Andrew Voxakis is a senior English major. He can be reached at voxphotography@yahoo.com.
