“When you’re on fire, people will get out of your way.”
That was Richard Pryor’s reflection, grim, sardonic, unforgettable, about the night he ignited himself while freebasing cocaine. He ran down the street, lit like a torch, chased by his own demons. Somehow, he turned it into comedy. Pryor didn’t joke to escape pain; he weaponized it. His wounds were part of his act, and that act became America’s mirror.
Today, we don’t need a mirror. We need a fire alarm. Because the blaze Pryor ran from? It never really went out. It’s just changed compounds, from cocaine to fentanyl, and now it’s everywhere. But this time, the country doesn’t even notice the smell of smoke.
The Pryor Prophecy
In “Live on the Sunset Strip,” Pryor lays it all out. (Explicit Content: Contains strong language, adult themes, and racial slurs. Viewer discretion advised.) His drug use, his psychotic break, the night he nearly died. And somehow, he made it funny without making it less tragic.
He mocked his addiction as a separate being: “It ain’t you talkin’, it’s the pipe.” That wasn’t shtick. It was theology. Pryor knew that addiction hijacked the soul, shoved…
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