People are always trying to get me to talk about my stand-up comedy days. Most of the time I feel — with apologizes to the Vegas Tourist Bureau — the old roadie rule applies. — "What happens on the road stays on the road." Last March, Mitch Hedberg, a brilliant comic, was found dead in his motel room — today, someone showed me the news that I had feared — he died from an overdose of heroin and cocaine. Damn!

You know, applause and laughter is a drug, the most wonderful high I have ever experienced. Too bad it doesn't last all the back to the silence of the motel room. That's the killer and probably why I love and remember so fondly all the comics I've worked with. We all shared that silence. That's the real reason I won't talk about it.

2005 was a hard year for everyone, comedy included. We started off with the loss of Johnny Carson and we are wrapped it up with the passing of Richard Pryor — both men greatly influential on me wanting to stand, by myself, armed with nothing but a microphone, and hope someone would laugh. Carson taught me patience and timing. Pryor taught me not to be afraid. I miss them all.