by Mike Thomas
The sea was choppy and the sky overcast as Mantis’ mostly cheery throng of travelers sped toward their destination, about twenty-six miles slightly northwest of the mainland. “You couldn’t be somber about Phil,” Clif Potts says. “Because when you talk to each other about Phil, you’re always laughing about something he did. The predominant point was not that he got shot. It was what his life was and how cool it was when he was around.”
Besides six of Phil’s seven siblings (Sarah Jane was not present) and his deeply aggrieved mother Doris, several Groundlings made the trip. Among them were Laraine Newman, Phyllis Katz, Jon Paragon, and Lynne Stewart. Cassandra Peterson was unable to attend, but her husband Mark Pierson was there. Close friends Potts, Sparkie Holloway, Britt Marin, Floyd Dozier, and Wink Roberts took part in the celebration, too. And it was a celebration, one that John Hartmann likens to “a floating Irish wake.”
Everyone wore purple-and-white leis fashioned from what Paul recalls were fragrant plumeria flowers, and a lovely set of coconut ta-tas was passed around (with its complementary grass skirt) for clowning purposes. As Catalina came into view off the port bow, Paul’s wife Christie pressed the coconuts to her chest and belted a bit of “Bali Ha’i” from Rodgers & Hammerstein’s musical South Pacific. Inside and out, laughter and smiles abounded. Classic rock tunes from Pink Floyd and the Grateful Dead played over the motor’s loud whirring. A large American flag fluttered and snapped in the wind. On the ledge below a salt water–dappled cabin window, encircled by flowers and another lei, rested a framed photo of Phil as the seafaring not-so-ruffian Captain Carl from Pee-wee days. Stewart, as Miss Yvonne, posed lovingly by his side. Another glossy, of Phil handsomely be-suited and hosting Saturday Night Live, adorned an interior wall.
Perched at the stern, his thatch of unruly graying hair and matching beard swirling in the breeze, Paul Hartmann animatedly held forth about matters cardiologic. “If you’re depressed, angry, or sad,” he explained to several listeners, “you’re sending a stress signal to the heart.” The responding signal, he went on, hits the brain center that controls production of DHEA—the so-called and controversial youth hormone. Aside from counteracting the process of aging, Paul explained, it also helps maintain the heart’s elasticity. “People who are chronically angry or carry animosity toward [others],” therefore, “turn their hearts into leather.” But he claimed behavioral health types had devised a simple preventative measure called freeze framing. “Every time you get into a negative thought cycle, like depression or anger or animosity toward a fellow worker, you stop yourself consciously for one minute and you think about a loving experience or a time and place in your life where you were very happy and joyous.”
For Phil, Catalina was that place—“a happy place.” At Catalina, he was fully himself. At Catalina, professional pressures dissipated. At Catalina, discord gave way to harmony.
Upon its initial docking at Catalina’s isthmus, Mantis picked up several other passengers—including Jon Lovitz, John Hartmann, and John’s wife Valerie, who had helicoptered over and then driven from Avalon. After they climbed aboard, champagne corks popped and bubbly flowed. If one was so inclined—as Phil almost certainly would have been—God’s herb was available for recreational toking. And the cuisine was top-notch: a catered feast of salmon (full name: Salmon Rushdie) and herbs-and-olive-oil-marinated chicken breasts and fresh fruit.
Shoving off from the isthmus, Phil’s gang then motored through smooth waters to where he’d again be at one with the ocean, as he had been while surfing and scuba diving and snorkeling and sailing. He was arguably even more content in the water than he was onstage, and so it made perfect sense that he should rest in peace where he’d been most at peace. But there was one small hitch: Although Phil had asked Marin to scatter his ashes in the shallows around Indian Rock, doing so required the use of a dinghy, which was disallowed for liability reasons. Adjacent waters had to suffice.
“Before we send Phil on his final journey, we’ll pass this basket around,” Phil’s sister Mary announced over the soothing strains of a pan flute. She cradled a small, square wicker-like container nestled in a light-blue cloth. In it, beneath a layer of flower petals, was Phil’s white-ish pulverized remains. Those who wished to do so, Mary said, could hold the basket and memorialize him aloud or silently. Paul went first.
“Today,” he began, “we are here to spread the ashes of Philip Edward Hartman.” His tone was steady and his manner relaxed as he recalled surfing with Phil, their hours spent laughing in the same bedroom on La Tijera, Phil’s workaholic ways, and his “sensitivity” to friends.
“I loved Phil and I will always love him,” Paul concluded. “And I’ll miss him really a lot.”
It was Lovitz’s turn next, but he could not speak. Staring down at the dust that had once been his cherished friend and idol, he quietly said, “I don’t know. These are his ashes, but it’s not him.” Others spoke, some through tears, of God and the universe and how “Phil is a spiritual being now.” John—descended from his solitary perch on the boat’s upper deck—thanked Phil for giving him two especially useful books: Zen Macrobiotics and Yoga, Youth and Reincarnation. Both, he said, had changed his life and “made me a better man.” Wink Roberts fondly recalled sailing with Phil, and Sparkie Holloway garnered grins and giggles with his story about Phil’s Lyndon B. Johnson impressions in high school.
At last it was time to perform the act for which they’d all gathered. Again, Paul took the lead. Standing on a platform at the stern, his bare feet submerged in seawater, Phil’s baby brother—the one he’d squired to Disneyland and jealously watched ride his first-ever wave all the way to the beach—was again calm and collected. “Well, Phil,” he said, regarding his brother’s ashes, “we’re going to release you into the elements.” Paul then added, with a pirate-y growl, “And like Captain Carl, who longed to go back to the briny blue, so is Phil.” And with that, it was man overboard. Seconds later rays of sunshine pierced the overhead gloom.
Back on deck and clasping a wooden cube containing Brynn’s ashes, Paul spoke in a tone that was devoid of animosity, anger, or sadness. “I forgive Brynn and I send her love and I wish her well on her journey. And I pray for her.” He then passed the cube to Brynn’s visibly pained friend Judy, who offered a brief tribute of her own before reuniting husband and wife. Some grumbled about the comingling.
A short while later, its mission accomplished, Mantis headed home. As her passengers talked—about Phil, about life—the Grateful Dead’s 1970 album American Beauty blasted start to finish a couple of times over. “Well, another successful crossing!” Paul declared in a goofy voice before letting loose a maniacal high-pitched laugh.
The journey back, like the voyage there, was not a solemn one.
Epilogue
Phil at Catalina/Indian Rock. (Photo by Mark Pierson)
September 24, 2013—Phil’s 65th birthday
Descending from Banning House Lodge, a venerable bed-and-breakfast perched high on a hill in the less touristy section of Catalina Island called Two Harbors, Phil’s confidant and fellow outdoorsman Britt Marin and his guest rented a bright yellow Malibu II double kayak at a harbor-side shack, stashed scant supplies, dragged their rig into the blessedly calm ocean, and pushed off to scatter Phil’s mortal remains in fifteen to twenty feet of water around Indian Rock in Emerald Bay—just as Phil had requested. Not surprisingly for Southern California at that time of year, it was a brilliantly sunny day with temperatures in the mid-to-upper seventies. Perfect.
Along with several other friends and family members, Marin had been given a small portion of Phil’s ashes—contained in a light-colored wooden cube—by Paul Hartmann during the first scattering ceremony in late September 1998. But they had been in his possession long enough, Marin decided; the fulfillment of Phil’s wish was years overdue. And so, with a purposeful dearth of fanfare and the desire only to do right by his pal, here he was.
After gliding over schools of bright-orange
Garibaldi fish and by harbor seals, whose rear flippers protruded from the water as if the creatures were standing on their heads, and after a series of semi-comical efforts to pry open the sealed-tight box in which Phil’s dust resided (a screwdriver was finally procured from a grim-faced fellow at Camp Emerald Bay, where Phil had first encountered Catalina as a Boy Scout, and many whacks against a hard buoy finished the job), Marin’s kayak approached Indian Rock. The incessant squawking of pelicans and seagulls perched on the natural monument’s numerous craggy outcroppings provided a sound track of sorts as Marin carefully and reverently sprinkled bits of Phil over kelp forests and in three other spots until his ash supply ran dry.
Filling the box with seawater to rinse out any remnants, he slowly poured its contents back into the briny blue and held it suspended upside down until every last drop had drained. Pausing for a moment, he gazed at the empty vessel that had contained Phil and was therefore part of him by association, and said, “Wish fulfilled.” A few minutes later, with his kayak unsteadily parked along the rock’s jagged perimeter, Marin disembarked with Phil’s makeshift urn, positioned it on a small ledge near a wispy shrub, climbed back down, and paddled away.
Now, for as long as wind and waves and curious wildlife will allow, Phil can gaze out over crystalline waters that preserve his spirit in death as they renewed it in life. And no doubt he likes it there in Emerald Bay.
It is, after all, a happy place.
Acknowledgments
Like many of my best ideas, the notion to write a biography of Phil Hartman came from someone else—namely, scribe and former stand-up comedian Vince Vieceli. A former comic and co-author of the recently published “Stand-Up Comedy in Chicago,” Vince e-mailed me one day in late 2010 and said he’d like to read a book about Phil. “That’s a great idea,” I replied, “and a subject I love. Phil was tops.” So a massive thank-you goes to Vince for getting my creative juices flowing again after a frustrating dry spell.
Soon thereafter, I made contact with Phil’s older brother John Hartmann—a sharp guy and spry yoga master who can perform the full-on splits, as he did for my benefit at the bar of Monty’s steakhouse in Woodland Hills, California. When I first told John of my desire to chronicle Phil’s life, his response was highly encouraging: in essence, “go for it.” The ball rolled on from there. Several of Phil’s other siblings generously joined the fold as well: his younger brother Paul and sisters Nancy, Jane, and Martha. John’s daughter Ohara was a phenomenal ally, too. Thanks to all of them for recalling countless and sometimes-painful memories, and for abiding my deluge of e-mails confirming facts and fleshing out details. Their participation made a big difference.
Phil’s first wife, Gretchen Gettis Blake, and his second wife, Lisa Strain-Jarvis, were kind and invaluable sources, offering up numerous recollections, handwritten notes, photos, and moral support along the way. I am in their debt. Phil’s loyal friends Floyd Dozier, Britt Marin, John Paragon, Mark Pierson, Clif Potts, Wink Roberts, and Sparkie Holloway provided crucial assistance as well.
Since this project’s very early stages, Senior Philologist Emeritus Angel Rosenthal, Ph.D. (that’s a doctorate in Philology, fyi)—who has kept close tabs on Phil for many years and knows more about him than anyone else I’ve ever met—was always selfless with her time, knowledge, and archives. I can’t thank her enough. The efforts of my former agent at Writers House, Ken Wright, helped make this book a reality. I’m indebted to Ken for his years of work on my behalf and wish him all the best in his gig as vice president and publisher at Viking Children’s Books. Alec Shane picked up where Ken left off and hasn’t missed a beat. Besides being a responsive and knowledgeable agent, he’s trained in martial arts, and I like knowing that someone who represents me can literally kick ass if circumstances warrant. At St. Martin’s Press, my excellent and always supportive editor Marc Resnick (who literarily kicks ass) was pumped about this project from the get-go and nimbly shepherded it from start to finish. Thanks also to editorial assistants Kate Canfield and Jaime Coyne, jacket designer Rob Grom, copyeditor Steve Roman, production editor Eric C. Meyer, publicists Angie Giammarino, Katie Bassel, and Kelsey Lawrence, and attorney Mark Lerner. During research trips to L.A., my superlative sister-in-law Teresa Holzbach and the rocking Celina Denkins saved this writer-on-a-budget many greenbacks by putting me up in their secluded abode, where I slept well, ate well, and was made to feel extremely welcome. Big love to both.
Over at The Simpsons, Antonia Coffman was immediately enthusiastic about the book and nothing but accommodating in every way despite her incredibly busy schedule.
Who’s next? So many. Biography making, as you might know, takes a village—at least. Here, then, are scores of other residents whose contributions aided me in ways great and small: Richard Abramson, Anthony Alba, Khandi Alexander, Gary Austin, Debbie Avellana, Hank Azaria, Andy Bandit, Sara Baum, Tobe Becker, Gerry Beckley, Ed Begley, Jr., Victoria Bell, Randy Bennett, Tom Brascia, Les Brown, Norman Bryn, Megan Callahan, Eric Carlson, Nancy Cartwright, Carmen Chandler, Tom Cherones, Michael Clark, Craig Clough, Kathy Constantine, Paul Cotton, Doug Cox, Alan Cranis, Joe Dante, John Davies, Henry Diltz, Jim Downey, Victor Drai, Jessica Driscoll, Richard Duardo, Jonanthan Eig, Tom Farley Jr., Gillian Flynn, Joe Furey, Joel Gallen, Susan Gamble, Tom and Henry Gammill, Rob Glushen, Art Golab, Harlan Goodman, Paula Grey, Sheree Guitar, Larry Hagman, Charna Halpern, Jack Handey, Rich Hein, Mac Holbert, Carol Holloway, Jan Hooks, Sarah Immelt, Victoria Jackson, Al Jean, James Kaplan, Jann Karam, Phyllis Katz, Dawna Kaufmann, Jay Kogen, Mark Konkol, Linda Krohn, Robert Kurson, Jay Leno, Vicki Lewis, Neal Marshad, Jamie Masada, Tom Maxwell, John Mayer, Betty McCann, Edie McClurg, Scott Michaels, James Andrew Miller, Jay Mohr, Chad Moore, Jaye P. Morgan, Brian and Kevin Mulhern, Angela Munoz, Marianne Murciano, Joel Murray, Graham Nash, Laraine Newman, Tracy Newman, Claire Nicholson, Kevin Noonan, Bob Odenkirk, Nicole Panter, Cassandra Peterson, Tim Cahill Pickart, Bonnie Pietila, Helga Pollock, Phil Proctor, Mike Reiss, David Rensin, Michael Rofe, Stephen Root, Lauren Roseman, Tom Schiller, Josh Schollmeyer, Michael Scott, Mike Scully, Rosie Shuster, Jim Signorelli, Sarah Silverman, Paul Simms, Bob Sirott, Steve Small, Robert Smigel, Brian Stack, Tim Stack, Hanala Stadner Sagal, Bill Steinkellner, Lynne Stewart, Craig Strong, Chad Stuart, Julia Sweeney, John Thomas, Judy Thompson, Joanne Toll, Michael Varhol, Steve Warmbir, Anna Weinstein, Rusty Young, Christine Zander, Bill Zehme, Ari Zudkewich, Bill Zwecker and Alan Zweibel. If there’s anyone else I should have thanked and didn’t, please forgive the omission.
As ever, I’m grateful to family members who’ve long championed this book and my work in general—including my sisters Lisa and Sarah, brothers-in-law, cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents.
To my wife, Sandy—the remarkable multi-tasking mother of our two daughters and the most awesome spouse I’ve ever had (OK, the only spouse I’ve ever had): Despite the fact that I’m sometimes slightly frustrating to live with, you have made me a better man. I love you. Grace and Audrey, I love you too—equally and unconditionally and more than you could ever imagine. Thanks for putting up with all of my time away from home: the late nights, the traveling, the innumerable lost weekends. I do what I do for you. And a little bit for me, because I like it, but mostly for you.
This book is dedicated to my parents, Sam and Paula Thomas, whose perpetual generosity, rock-solid values, and boundless dedication to their kids (and grandkids) are qualities I admire greatly and try to emulate. They are role models nonpareil.
In closing, a huge tip of Chick Hazard’s rakishly cocked fedora to Phil Hartman for keeping me entertained, intrigued, and inspired along the way. Hope I did him proud. Also: bread good, fire bad.
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Please note that some of the links referenced in this work are no longer active.
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