“So, you’re a doctor? Can you do a vasectomy procedure right now?” Why not! After all, the first line we comedians get at a social setting is: “You’re a comedian? Tell a joke!”
The comedian is expected to be “on,” 24/7/365, to entertain on demand. At least the struggling ones. The big wigs? Well, be prepared to stitch up your nose from a fist punch from Andrew Dice Clay.
But not you, Robin. You were “on” every waking hour. If it came to a speed race between Usain Bolt and your mind, the former would go home with pouted lips.
I will never forget that half hour I spent with you, just the two of us, in the green room of the Throckmorton Theater in Marin County, California. This was your favorite joint, close to your home and close to your heart. You came here to watch plebes like us and to try out new material.
The stars (pun? So be it!), the sun, the moon and the earth had all lined up perfectly that evening. It so happened that I was in Northern California for my wife’s MBA graduation from Berkeley, that the booker of Throckmorton Theater invited me to do a spot, that I jumped on to the opportunity, that you decided to drop by, that I was alone in the green room.
You extended your hand, “Hi! I’m Robin Williams. And who are you my friend?”
I shook his hand while forgetting my own name.
“When do you go up?”
“I’d rather stay here with you.” Well, that’s what I wanted to say. But I also had a packed house to entertain.
Your mind then raced from the garb of a graduate to being an engineer to being from Bangladesh to the Gulf War....I needed another seven days to digest your wits that spewed out like a machine gun.
I managed to utter a few sentences, but you cut in and finished them all, far better and funnier than I could have imagined. I wished I had a voice recorder – that would have been instant comedy material for my future use.
You trailed off to Sunset Boulevard and The Comedy Store in Hollywood. My claim to fame, to have started from the same place as you did. You held the hands of the club’s legendary owner, Mitzi Shore and I, those of her daughter and successor, Sandi Shore, for showing us the ropes. The “Store” has the names of legends like Richard Pryor, David Letterman, Jay Leno, Arsenio Hall on its walls to remind us of the big names who started their journey here. But your name shone the brightest, at least to me, as I grew up with Mork and Mindy, the only English show of the day and on the only channel in Bangladesh.
You have scaled your heights. I have just started, throwing away a lifelong career in Corporate America and Bangladesh. Even if I’m half as crazy as you were, I’m glad to have taken the leap. Thank you for the inspiration.
But there is more. You inspired me to be Patch Adams as I did my stints with terminal cancer patients at one Southern California hospital. Here I experienced the power of healing through humor.
That beckoning to heal pain, not just physical ones, got me to leave the “land of opportunities” and to return to the “land of possibilities” (where anything is possible…), to open up Naveed’s Comedy Club only to heal through laughter and to get people high in a non-alcoholic fashion. Thank you.
But you had your battles. It showed as we sat a few feet apart. Some may call it contradiction, or controversy, or even outright double standards. I call it the inherent contrast of the trade. Comedy 101: “There is no such thing as victim-less comedy.”
Well, “Only the good die young,” as Billy Joel says. Perhaps you are finally, truly, happy.
So long.
“Nanu, Nanu.” Over and out…