My Very Complicated, Sometimes Fraught Friendship with Norm Macdonald
Most people know Fred Stoller as Raymond’s annoying cousin Gerard on Everybody Loves Raymond or as the obnoxious, whiny guy outside the telephone booth in Dumb and Dumber. But you’ve probably also seen the actor, writer and comedian in at least one of his many guest spots on TV shows like Seinfeld, Friends, Mad About You and Dr. Katz
Stoller started as a stand-up in the 1980s — around the same time as his friend Norm Macdonald. Recently, Stoller released an audiobook about his friendship with Macdonald, who died in 2021, called My Friend Norm, in which he delves into his relationship with the late comedian and “Weekend Update” host.
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Below you’ll find two excerpts from the book. In the first, Stoller gives a broad overview of his on-again-off-again, sometimes fraught friendship with Macdonald. The second kicks off the story’s main narrative when, in 2015, after getting a call from Macdonald while at the pharmacy, Stoller sets off on tour with Macdonald. Stoller had been struggling with his mental health — and that call couldn’t have come at a better time.
Meeting Norm
I met Norm back in 1989, when he staggered off the plane from Canada. He was so intimidated his first time stepping into the legendary Hollywood Improv Comedy Club that he couldn’t even speak. I was preparing my set for what was a big break for many: HBO’s Young Comedians Special. His coyness and intimidation waned considerably when we started hanging out once he returned to Hollywood after being let go from Saturday Night Live. Now he was in a loftier position, and wasn’t as short with words. He’d soon start appearing on late-night talk shows frequently, and got his own sitcom, The Norm Show, where our roles reflected our personalities. I made three appearances as William, the shy guy who could barely talk, and he was Norm, the charming, wisecracking freeloader.
Some of my favorite memories were of sneaking off the set with Norm and his co-star Artie Lange to play tennis, where we’d argue and throw racquets while freaking out the stuffy members of the fancy tennis club. Our friendship consisted of a lot of Norm taunting me, which, I confess — though annoying — was sometimes so ridiculous it was fun.
The last time I saw Norm — or did stand-up — was on tour in 2015. Like everyone, I didn’t know for nine years that he had leukemia. Perhaps, in hindsight, now knowing that he was fighting it explains a lot of his behavior.
Emma, an ex-girlfriend, was one of the many who sent her condolences. “It’s so sad about Norm. I know your friendship was fraught, and there were problems when you toured, but God, I’m so sorry.”
Although, as Emma stated, our friendship was fraught and touring with him was quite contentious at times, I’m so thankful it happened. It’s not hyperbole saying that it saved me. I’m not sure if I ever thanked him for that.
Can You Do an Hour?
I roamed up and down the aisles at Target, not really looking at anything in particular. I was told the pharmacy would need 20 minutes to fill my prescription. My phone rang. It was from someone I hadn’t heard from in ages, who I’d only hear from every few years: comedian Norm Macdonald.
Norm had this way of — after not talking to me for years — calling, leading off like we were best friends or making it seem like I was the one who cut off contact with him and was this impossible-to-track-down flake. There was never any conversation about what we had been up to since the last time we spoke.
“Hey, where the fuck were you?! You’re this guy who’s too busy doing all these TV spots!”
“I’m not doing any guest spots these days. Been a long time,” I said.
“Oh, come on, you fucker. You’re one of these aggressive pushy guys. You’re like Eric Black. You’re like Tom Berry!” (Not their real names.)
He was referring to two slick, go-getting schmoozers. I knew he didn’t think I was actually like them, but if it ever seemed I had any determination, or was trying for something, then he’d blast me like I was no different than these soulless sorts.
“Yeah, I’m just like them. That’s why, a few years shy of 60, I live in this apartment.”
“I’m kidding! So, you wanna open for me in Vegas tomorrow?”
“Huh, tomorrow? So last minute…”
“Come on! It’ll be so much fun! It’s just off the strip. No pressure. You’ll crush! I’ve been trying to get a hold of you! You said you wanted to open for me. Come on!”
I never said that. He did that, too. He’d say things he knew I never said, maybe to stir the pot, and then he’d fake outrage.
“Yeah, you told me to fire my opener. Poor kid, he cried, got evicted. How could you!?”
In the past his ridiculousness was almost charming. Maybe I liked that this well-known and beloved comedian was busting my chops, taking the time to have fun and engage with me.
But that was years ago when I was younger and I liked that I didn’t feel invisible. Whatever he said was annoying, but so ridiculous it also made me shake my head and smile. And though I knew he knew it was all made up, I’d still dispute it, but not this time. He had that persuasive, relentless way about him. But I said nothing.
“Come on! I’m kidding! It’ll be great to have someone like you open for me. How has that never happened? And why’d you take such a long break from stand-up? You’re too good.”
“Um, okay. Sure,” I said.
“Great! I finally get to work with a real pro. Let’s set this baby up, and we will rock ‘n’ roll!”
He ended the call, and I waited for my prescription along with the travel information for the next day.
