When I was young, comedy was like a forbidden and guilt-tinged pleasure.  It started with the Smothers Brothers but it rolled from there in our house.  My teenage sisters had somehow smuggled in comedy albums into their collections…and I never missed a chance to lurk with my ear pressed against their bedroom door when they played those albums.  The language was raw sometimes–shocking and wonderful.  And I associated all of it with “being an adult”.  And when Robin came on the scene, from Ork or a hysterical universe beyond–and we had the same first name…

I was hooked.

So memorizing Robin Williams’ comedy routines, imitating that rapid fire delivery and trying to do all the insane voices…that was my gateway to walking the walk.  My parents thought I was funny but there was a secret source for a lot of my amateur routines.  I idealized him.  I watched him on television, illicitly recorded his specials off cable when Mom and Dad weren’t paying attention, wore out the albums and just tried to keep up with the genius that was Robin.

The movies came later and like most of the world, I was happy to go on whatever journey he was captaining.  Comedy, drama, it didn’t matter.  It was Robin.

He’s gone.  So now the pettiest and small minded have a chance to dissect and criticize, belittle the challenges of depression or speculate on his failings… But I see only Robin, the way he could never sit still or the way he could look into the camera and tear you apart.  I can still hear those characters, the riffs on Shakespeare, and that laugh.  So many are talking about the laughter he evoked but I remember him laughing.  It was so pure, that laugh.

It’s been several days.  I never met him in person but apparently, that makes no difference.  The heart wants what the heart wants.

And mine wants to hear that man laugh again.