Robin Williams RIP

One of the first comedy albums I was ever given was "Reality... What A Concept." I loved it. I loved "Mork & Mindy." I even loved Robert Altman’s "Popeye." Robin Williams meant a lot to me when I was a kid. I knew nothing of drug use or depression. It never occurred to me that comedians, these magical creatures that I worshiped, ever felt anything other than the serene satisfaction derived from making people laugh.

Eventually, I started doing standup myself, and I very quickly learned that comedians were all too human. There is no less sadness in the comedy community than there is in any other workforce; that is to say, jobs are jobs and people are people and no occupation makes anyone depression-proof. This both comforts and frustrates me.

Robin Williams made me laugh so many times. So many times. When I was a kid, having problems of my own, feeling unpleasantly different from the people who populated my world, I found sanctuary watching this guy on TV who was celebrated for being a weirdo, for being an oddball, for being silly. He was praised for having a mind that produced delightful absurdities with great speed. No one told him to be quiet. No one tried to make him act like everyone else.

He was a hero to me.

I had occasion to meet him once, not too long ago, and he could not have been nicer or friendlier or calmer. He was just there to watch the show that was happening that night. He wasn't trying to get on stage; he just -- still -- loved comedy.

I didn't tell him any of the things I just wrote here. No doubt, he heard similar things from countless people over his decades-long career. And it's a colossal shame that being a meaningful presence in the lives of many people, family, friends and strangers alike, isn't an impenetrable bulwark against despair. It's profoundly unfair that, if he couldn't live forever, he couldn't at least feel able to keep going for his allotted time. I know something of depression, and how bottomless and relentless and insurmountable it feels, but I have never known the unfathomable despair that Robin Williams must have felt. I can't even begin to imagine it.

Robin Williams will live on in shadows and light and sound, at least. He will continue to comfort weird little kids (and odd adults, for that matter) with his performances, those who know his work today and those who have yet to be born, who may experience him ten, fifty, a hundred years from now. But this is cold comfort indeed.

There will be much celebration, in the coming weeks and months, of Robin Williams’ life and career. But perhaps the best tribute to him would be if we all reached out to the troubled people in our lives and let them know that we are here for them. Because Robin Williams was there for us.

http://fusion.net/culture/story/hero-paul-tompkins-robin-williams-meant-938627

How are you, folks? I just made myself a cup of coffee. And as most of you know, Robin Williams is dead…from an apparent suicide. And I wanted to repost this episode because this episode it…it changed my life. And it changed many people’s perception of Robin Williams. I want to tell you right out of the gate that it’s delicate in that he does discuss his battle with drugs and alcohol. He does talk about his depression. He talks about his heart attack. He talks about his career. And he talks about a lot of things. He talks about it in a way that most people have never heard him talk about anything—I certainly haven’t.

Depression is real. I don’t have any details. I don’t know what happened. I can’t make a comment. I was never in his inner circle. But I do feel the loss and I do know what depression is and I do know from talking to him personally that this was something he struggled with and having talked to many comedians and many artists is something a lot of people struggle with. Having a father that struggles with it, it’s a horrible thing.

But we have to remember that Robin Williams is really one of the greatest comedians, ever, ever, ever in the history of the world as far as I know it. Because he had all the things that were necessary to be a great comedic artist. He was sensitive, he was perceptive, he was empathetic. His mental agility was astounding. He was full of love. And he, by nature of putting all those out into the world, required that of us. And we felt it. And there was a humanity to Robin Williams. Robin Williams changed everything. There’s nobody that wasn’t touched by Robin Williams. He was the king. The spirit of pure comedy ran through this guy. He was unto himself. There was nobody else like this guy. Nobody else like him ever. And as a comic, despite what any other comics say and whatever your judgment of him as a comedian, he did it all. He did everything that all of us wanted to do and he did it brilliantly. There’s never been a comedic artist like this guy. And there’s no more painful realization than the other side of whatever comic genius is, is sometimes this. That with that sensitivity, with that perception, with that empathy, with that love, with that mental agility comes a heart too heavy to live, a heart that becomes so heavy that it chooses not to go on, for whatever reason. I don’t know his reasons. It’s horribly sad, and it’s a horrible illness—depression.

But on a personal level, when Robin Williams invited me to his home in 2010, that conversation is what defined the show from that point on, and what defined my life in a lot of ways. I had known him a little bit in passing and he was always—it was amazing about Robin Williams. He was this sort of electric, shining piece of humanity whose entire life on stage was to entertain thoroughly and with a type of presence that nobody has ever seen before. There’s nobody who wasn’t touched by it. And when you met him personally, he was almost shy. And he was very warm and very…you just felt like he really cared about how you were doing, what was going on with you. He was very sweet. But he was ready to talk. It seemed to be he was ready to talk for almost the first time in his life in a way that he never talked publicly before and I was happy to be there for it. I learned something. I learned something about him. I learned something about being there for other people. To sit there with this guy, this guy who was—his own momentum—to sit there with a guy who was known to not sit still, who was known to sort of depart on riffs that almost essentially enabled him to avoid himself in a lot of ways and to have him be as present as he was, it wasn’t daunting at all. It was an honor. It was my pleasure. And it was completely surprising and just full of humility and just…he was a person. With his own problems. That he carried with him. And I think part of his genius came from the struggle with those problems, obviously. And he was too young. It’s so sad.

The world is gonna miss Robin Williams. The world is going to feel his absence, certainly right now, but moving forward as well. You’ll see. Just like how he stuck with you whenever he hit your brain and built a home in it you could always go back to, this loss will do the same thing. It’s a very sad day, but I’m happy I have the conversation to share with you. This is my talk with Robin Williams from April 2010.

"Please, don't worry so much. Because in the end, none of us have very long on this Earth. Life is fleeting. And if you're ever distressed, cast your eyes to the summer sky when the stars are strung across the velvety night. And when a shooting star streaks through the blackness, turning night into day... make a wish and think of me. Make your life spectacular. I know I did"