Two years ago—backstage—we had just minutes before walking out to present and were tossing around ideas for a funny entrance.
She said, “What if when they introduce us, you go out really fast without waiting for me, and I’ll say—‘Hey, wait!’”
“Yeah, I like that. Let’s do it,” I replied.
Ladies and gentlemen, here to present…
We went in. Did the bit. Mostly silence.
To this day, I still replay that moment in my head, feeling like I let her down. Did I not sell it well enough? Was I too subtle? Too genuine? I literally practice the walk again in my mind, trying to make it work.
With almost anyone else, I’d have forgotten it in seconds. But with her? It wasn’t about the joke landing. It was because I liked her so much. Getting to work comedically with Catherine—not just at that awards show but on projects like The Paper and Game 6 over nearly 40 years—was like breathing rare air. Between takes, hanging out on set was the best. Even better was the off-set hang—in what I call real life.
When she talked to you, she truly engaged with you. If you told her a story, she’d look right at you, fully present. A twinkle, a light, a glow—I don’t know what it was.
Making her laugh was such a joy.
We had tentative plans to get together in January. She and her husband Bo were going to come over to my house for dinner. I’m still sort of waiting.
Since her passing, I mostly avoided clips of her on my phone or TV—but one popped up unexpectedly, and I couldn’t escape it. I watched. I felt sad. I turned off the light and closed my eyes to sleep.
About four minutes later, I woke up to the sound of laughter. It was me.
I smiled and fell asleep.
Having a woman as a friend is great. Having a brilliantly funny woman as a friend is special. Having Catherine O’Hara as a friend is a blessing.
Among so many great comedians—past and present—Catherine stood out. Comedically? Gold. As a person? Platinum.
I’ll have dinner with Bo. You have laughs with John Candy.
