Mr. Pryor

My obsession with Richard Pryor’s comedy started about five or six years ago, when I broke up with my girlfriend, and I was all fucked up. She was my first true love, and I didn’t stand a chance – immediately after the break-up, my doorbell rang. When I opened the door, depression was just standing there, smiling at me, flanked by two huge suitcases. The two of us spent the next two or three months in my house, in the middle of winter, listening to music, staring, and talking shop.

There are only two things that got me through, and slowly but surely kicked that motherfucker out of my house. The first was my cat. The other was Richard Pryor.

One night, I was downloading scores of depressing music from Napster, and, by chance, I happened to see a Pryor album in my search results. I hadn’t laughed in months, but I guess I was feeling open-minded (i.e., I was drunk), and I checked out the album (I think it was ‘Live on the Sunset Strip’). It was unreal. I spent an hour absolutely cracking up out loud (which I almost never do even when I’m in a good mood). Over the next few days, I either purchased or downloaded every one of Pryor’s albums.

I’m not going to try and explain the unqualified admiration, appreciation, and gratitude I have for Richard Pryor’s comedy. It would take too long, and having read a few of today’s articles reviewing his career and characteristics of his humor, it would probably be pretty boring.

Therefore, although I’m just one fan among millions, for whatever its worth, I am paying my respects to Richard Pryor.