So, just let me say in foresight that this is a stream of thoughts written in my dairy. It starts out like… well, you’ll see.
He was at the brink of what he would call “lasting elation”, basking at the pinnacle of his career. He finally made it. Randy Osborne was his name. He was a man of a thousand colours. Unknown to the world at large, intimately known by a few, publicly magnanimous. He was the sort of individual that entered the stage with a presence as full as his personality. It seemed that the extroversion that exuded from himself yielded a beauty that came from an open book. He was a comedian who, produced the magical wit as foreign as an Atkinson, as nostalgic as Jerry Lewis, with as much depth as a Carlin, the genius of a Chaplin, and the enthusiasm of Robin Williams. Yet even the liturgical recitation of a list of those old geniuses would not give justice to the flavour that he brought. He was one that would validate the actions of any a staunch comedy club junkie who would fall over the grave of a legend.
“No kids and a wife who lives by herself”, Randy said to himself. “Mother wouldn’t approve. But what does she know.” The stony acres of Randy’s apartment only spanned his mini-balcony that looked over the vast backdrops of New York. Randy was born an Australian. Well, technically, he is a halfie. Mother – Japanese. Father – obviously Australian. This narrative is getting too casual. He remembered browsing the internet during the dot com boom in the 90s. There were far too many Robin William’s gigs he refused to not watch. On first viewing, he was enraptured. In other words, religiously captivated. But not in the way most people would understand. He knew the joys of the days of Williams, when his childhood was immersed in Peter Pan, Patch Adams and more. But of course no real adult ever was captivated by the character in the movies, but by the intelligence of the man, the real man behind the scenes, who did go through great ordeals not fit for good men to suffer. It was a shame, thought Randy, that his movies were the ironic depictions of a loving comfort that was not available to the person behind those inventions. Where what really lay beneath him, thought Randy, was the real troubles of the world that made chaos with his sanity, and produced in him a lasting conviction, to rid the world of its troubles in ruthless comic appeal, so that his ecstasy did indeed, replace his waning body and his beating mind.
It was 95 when Randy decided that he would become a comedian. By then he was already 42 years of age. Too late, you might say. Well, let our audience have their little late night drama shall we. What’s a story without an old man’s triumph at the last? He went forth with a missionary’s zeal with hands like spades and a heart full of love. However, his self was not yet fully become. He was a follower, but he wasn’t yet a leader. He wasn’t so sure of himself, weighed down by the worries of the world. Tried New Age. Tried meditation. Too long, didn’t read.
His apartment laid the treasures of mysteries untold. Cat Butt fridge magnets, Star Wars Darth Vader toaster, cannabis energy drinks and all the gadgets and toys devils would find. What a weird sellout! Betting on the pen and pad! But only time and tide would fast him forward into the ripe old age of 52, where he once posted on Facebook, “Young generations ask me about how do I know what is my passion? And the thing is, I am shocked people ask this! Has the greatest tragedy befallen us all? That a man does not know what he is on this earth to do? What the machine has done was to make you another bore in the cogwheel of fate! Your financially led system has made people slaves to the devils of labour. What a pity that they should ask me for advice! No, throw away your chains of uncertainty and the fear the world has laid on you, bright children. I am the creator of worlds. When my hand yields the lead, and hastens to the parchment, the hand of a great force guides my words. I feel like the hand of God himself yielding a necessary work as triumphant as the strongest hero. My spirit is enraptured in cosmic ecstasy as the lead and parchment scream out to me ‘thank God for Randy!’ Wealth, riches and all the beautiful women in the world fade from my view in light of my joyful art. That’s passion! It can’t be bought and stolen.”