Richard Lewis Was Awesome

A Tale Told By An Idiot

Richard Lewis passed away from a heart attack on February 27, 2024. I want to share my little story about Richard because I love that man and when I die, I hope people who love me share stories about how awesome I was. And Richard Lewis was glorious.

I waited tables during the day shift at the Sunset Tower Hotel in Los Angeles between 2014 and 2016. A few times a month, Richard Lewis would leave his old school black Mercedes convertible with the valet and set up camp at a table away from the hubbub for the day. If I remember correctly, my first encounter with him was prefaced by a particularly broad grin from my coworker Kyla. “What are you so happy about?” I asked her. She said, “Richard Lewis just sat down.” 

I texted Kyla yesterday about Richard. While reminiscing she told me: “The first time I met him I thought he was nuts. I was at the hostess stand and I laughed at something Orlando did and Richard whips around and yells, ‘Are you fucking laughing at my bald spot?!’”

We all knew his ridiculous order, which I won’t chronicle here because thou shalt not speak ill of the dead. But it involved an absurd quantity of diet coke, Splenda, lemons, and beef all arranged with a Rafa Nadal-esque particularity. He sat there for hours, always in his trademark black garb, drinking his saccharine concoction and scrawling all over the yellow pages of a legal pad. He sat alone but not really, because all of us kept going over to bug him. If he wanted to, he’d tell you to “Buzz off, I’m on the edge of brilliance over here.”  

I moved to Los Angeles to try my hand stand-up. It wasn’t a lifelong dream but I’d had some experiences with audiences laughing at detailed accounts of moments where I was intensely uncomfortable, and I had an English degree and no clue what else to do. I was good enough at it to lose money performing semi-regularly at the Comedy Store across the street from where I served breakfast and lunch. 

The fact that I had the chutzpah to get up and give it a shot was enough to earn me a mote of brotherhood with Richard. I knew he was a “living legend” (his words) in the stand-up world, but there was nothing arrogant about him. He had the energy of a young comic who’s frantically preparing for an open mic hoping in vain to be discovered. He ordered me to read I’m Dying Up Here, the definitive historical account of the stand-up comedy golden era of the 70’s and 80’s during which Richard Lewis was minted as a rock star. 

At his prompting I sent him a video of my five minute set. His response was like a fist bump into a hug’n’pat followed by an intense handshake. He highlighted some parts he found particularly good, along with why, and ended with, “You got the gift but you must be passionate.” I’m not sharing that to burnish my own legacy; I’ve abandoned the stand-up dream, though I guess life is [hopefully] long. I think he revered stand-up comedy, treated it as devotedly as any artist has ever treated any art, felt lucky it had worked out for him, and honestly just wanted to light any fire he could to keep that art thriving. I’m sure there are infinite people in the comedy world who’ve received warm encouragement from Richard Lewis. 

Another exchange (these were over email and are still in my archives) involved my friend Chris who was auditioning to play a young Richard Lewis in the television series version of I’m Dying Up Here. Richard told me to tell Chris to watch his “I’m In Pain” special and also sent me a Letterman appearance clip. I thought it would be funny to critique his talk show appearance and offer some constructive pitches for bits he could elaborate on. He replied, “If you ever give me advice again I’ll blow your head off.” 

I know he was generous, but I think he was more desperate. It didn’t matter how many times in his life he’d already killed onstage. When there was a person in front of him, the entire fate of the Universe hung on his ability to make that person laugh. And he always did. And he wouldn’t let you get away with a polite chuckle. If you tried that, he’d grab your arm and fix you with his eyes and say increasingly insane things until you exploded. He had a brain stem level physical need to break you.

I’m trying to think of what exactly is so endearing about a rascal. He could deliver a devastating insult that, coming from anyone else, would be grounds for fisticuffs. But they came pouring out of this twinkling, grinning face that so obviously perched atop a deep well of goodness. I’ve been called a real piece of shit a few times in my life. The only time it felt good was when Richard said it.

If comedy is the setup and immediate shattering of expectation, there was something so essentially comedic about Richard Lewis. I need to say this carefully: There is an element, depending on many factors, that I can’t help but love about some of the funerals I’ve been to. That element is the feeling of being in exactly the right place with exactly the right people, nothing else in the world matters, everyone’s walls and artifices have completely vanished, and there is a tremendous wave of love and communion that rushes in to partially fill the space left by the departed. The people who I’ve felt that way while commemorating would, I promise you, be delighted to hear that I kinda had a great time.

Did I land that? Let me know in the comments. I can always edit later. Anyway, that’s how I always felt around Richard - like I was snorting into my sleeve at a funeral. And maybe I’m just pulling that out of my ass because I’m a simpleton and he always wore black. But everything about him felt hell bent on shattering the expectation that there’s anything remotely acceptable about falling into the banal humdrum of your little life. He was a persistent destroyer of those walls and artifices, like he was in perpetual mourning and weren’t we all and holy shit we gotta laugh because it’s the only thing we can do.

In 2014 Richard Lewis and Carl Nicholas Titolo published a book together. I mentioned the legal pads — there were many of them, all filled with premises and complaints and observations and horrible views of himself — more material than a million comics could work into a million hour long specials. Carl Titolo combed through those scribbles and pulled out whatever got his wheels turning and illustrated them. Each pair of pages is a Richardism reflected by a Titolo illustration (the source of the images I’ve sprinkled throughout this).

I bought a copy at Book Soup and Richard wrote in it:

Richard Lewis made his living talking about the agony of doing so. He conquered his addictions and lived many happy, sober years with his wife Joyce, who he couldn’t talk about without sounding like he was praising the Almighty. 

I’m not claiming we were best friends. We exchanged a couple of friendly emails (me initiating) after I left Los Angeles. But every time I was standing in front of him, I was the most important person in his world. He made everyone he fixed his wild eyed stare on feel that way and God did we love him for it. After he signed my book I didn’t feel right charging him for a diet coke but he demanded a bill so I gave him a slip of paper with a note on it in a check booklet.

I’m sad he’s gone. I’m glad he isn’t worrying any more. And I’m grateful I got to meet him.