Today marks the 10th anniversary of the death of Chris Farley.
I didn’t want to let it pass without sending out a Tommy Callahan-sized mash note to Marquette’s greatest alum (sorry, Dwyane, a couple of more rings and we can talk.)
There are a couple of excellent retrospectives out there: this one from the New York Post that mentions a bit of a rift between he and Spade, and another from The Capital Times, which mentions an intriguing memoir from his brother Tom. That Mamet project would have been AWESOME.
I also wanted to give props for the finest commencement speech a young grad could ever hoped for.
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I can’t recall who gave the official commencement address, it may have been the ambassador to Lebanon if memory serves, but pre-game shots had been passed around and I more or less passed out. Nobody, however, who was picking up their degree from the College of Communications, class of 1993, will ever forget Farley’s appearance.
I was hanging out in the hallway, waiting until the last minute to sit down, and saw Farley practicing his speech. He was nervous, pacing back-and-forth, reciting his lines, but he gave me a congratulatory nod, which was a lot cooler than the sheepskin itself. Dean Price introduced Farley and the room of half-sober Communications grads went bananas. He bumbled onto stage and proceeded to tell stories of begging his way to a diploma and having to ask Price’s help in a snafu with the Chicago police department. He then went on to mention how important his relationship with God was, and when that drew laughs, he tried to say he was being serious. The room quieted down, so he knocked over the podium.
From everything I’ve read, that seems to be the essence of Chris Farley.
I happened to be walking in downtown Chicago on December 18, 1997 and found out about his death in a flower store. The radio was on and the dude behind the counter told me what happened, pointing out that his apartment in the John Hancock building was only a few blocks away. He shook his head and said, “Man, Farley…that just sucks.”
And it still sucks today.
About a year later, I was at a “come film in Wisconsin” barbecue in Los Angeles and met two of the Farley brothers, Kevin and John. I mentioned to them that I had written a script about Green Bay Packers fans that I had always dreamed would one day star Chris. A few days later, I dropped off a copy at John’s apartment and noticed a couple of things. Above the television was a golden tub of popcorn that Farley and Spade had won for Tommy Boy, and framed on the bathroom wall was a handwritten note from Chris to John.
It’s called the “Clown’s Prayer,” and supposedly, Chris carried it with him at all times.
As I stumble through this life,
Help me to create more laughter than tears,
Dispense more cheer than gloom,
Spread more cheer than despair.
Never let me become so indifferent,
That I will fail to see the wonders in the eyes of a child,
Or the twinkle in the eyes of the aged.
Never let me forget that my total effort is to cheer people,
Make them happy, and forget momentarily,
All the unpleasantness in their lives.
And in my final moment,
May I hear You whisper:
"When you made my people smile,
You made Me smile."
-Anonymous-
I’d never gotten choked up in a john before.
I've met a number of people through the years who knew or worked with Farley and not one person had anything bad to say about him, other than his obvious personal demons.
I imagine Chris Farley wouldn’t want to be remembered for his troubles, though, so let’s all swig a mug 
to the good times. Like say the time that Santa himself was "living at the North Pole, in a van, down by the river."
R.I.P. big guy. We miss you.
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