I remember when Steve Clark, guitarist for Def Leppard, died of alcohol poisoning in 1991. His bandmates were saddened, of course, but not particularly surprised. One of them said it was like when your grandmother died: “You knew she was sick, you knew she was old, you knew she was going to die– but you never think it’s going to be today.”
That was the way it felt when Chris Farley died. It was horrible, but not shocking.
I heard the news on the radio driving to work. When I got there there was one girl with tears streaming down her face. Another coworker, a hard man who had served time in prison, was putting up a brave front but was obviously affected.
It was an amazing thing. Farley had a sweetness and charm that people loved him for, without ever having met him.
And they mourned him.