Label: Not On Label (John Bartles Self-released) - none Format: Cassette Mini-Album C30 Country: US Genre: Rock, Funk / Soul Style: Power Pop, Experimental, Funk
Health care is evolving rapidly. Finally, Phoenix relented, and the two made their way, back up a broad flight of stairs, clinging onto a hand rail, and lay on a couch. What a sexy girl, thought Jack. He sat down to watch the television, with a bowl of the cheap pasta in his lap. Here and Nowwhich he directed himself. He felt well rested.
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Rock Bottom Girl: A Small Town Romantic Comedy. What the Wind Knows. Make Me Bad. Mostly Sunny: How I Learned to Keep Smiling Lucky Daddy. Mr Spencer. The Silent Patient. The Victory Garden: Pryor was active in animal rights and was deeply concerned about the plight of elephants in circuses and zoos. Artist Preston Jackson created a life-sized bronze statue in dedication to the beloved comedian and named it Richard Pryor: More than Just a Comedian. It was placed at the corner of State and Washington Streets in downtown Peoria, on May 1, , close to the neighborhood in which he grew up with his mother.
The unveiling was held Sunday, May 3, Live in Concert , and Stir Crazy A television documentary, Richard Pryor: It included commentary from fellow comedians, and insight into his upbringing. On May 31, , Showtime debuted the documentary Richard Pryor: From June 7 to 9, , SiriusXM hosted "Richard Pryor Radio", a three-day tribute which featured his stand-up comedy and full live concerts.
A planned biopic, entitled Richard Pryor: The film would have been directed by Bill Condon and was still in development with no release date, as of February The biopic remained in limbo, and went through several producers until it was announced in January that it was being backed by The Weinstein Company with Lee Daniels as director.
Pryor was married seven times to five women: Pryor also had relationships with actresses Pam Grier and Margot Kidder. From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. This article is about the stand-up comedian. For the broadcaster and humorist, see Cactus Pryor.
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Records Supernigger Laff Here and Now Warner Bros. Richard Pryor Live! The Busy Body as Whittaker Wild in the Streets as Stanley X Jonathan Crunk The Phynx as Himself Dynamite Chicken as Himself He paused, and looked down at his workman boots. But sometimes I have visitors. Before that, I was living with some bitch, down a couple of blocks on Robert Street. She threw me out for no apparent reason, so I had to move.
Fortunately, I found this place. The girls pay the rent on time, and sometimes make for good conversation. As he had said, the floors were undulating, and the walls were unstable. There were cracks in the ceilings and walls. They were painted an off-purple colour. There was a computer on an Ikea white desk, a chair, a mini stereo, a bed with a white comforter, and some posters of paintings on the wall: Shanti thought, in a quick blue flash — wicked!
What about the other room? Do you want to check the other room out? They walked further down the hall. Katherine was lying on a couch that came from Good Will. It was a hideous brown colour, but was soft and comfortable. The couch was lying against the far wall and faced the television. Elanor was sitting on a love-seat that had also come from Good Will. The television was in the far corner of the room. The two girls were watching Friends on the tube.
Elanor glanced over at Jack and Shanti. Uh-oh, here we go, thought Shanti. How did you do? I should have gotten you to help me out. Lord knows I certainly needed it. Nobody, would care to even think of breaking in. It looks so cheap. But watch out for Jack. Those girls had always given her dirty looks in school. She had always thought that they were a bit racist. Racism at the university was candid, at best. But beneath the veneer of the WASP coy friendliness, was an undying xenophobia.
Shanti knew the girls posed no threat, but she wanted to get out of the room as quickly as possible. Laundry all over the place, and some clean laundry in a plastic basket; also, the bed was unmade. There was a bookshelf with all sorts of university texts on it, mostly undergrad texts on Anthropology, Psychology, and Sociology, and a wooden rocking chair. There was an open window, facing the small backyard, open, at the back corner of the room. They can be both fixed up nice. Anyway, you want to check out the kitchen?
The two students left the room facing the living room, and immediately to their left, saw the kitchen. The floor was cold, covered with linoleum. There was a large sink, a fridge, and some counter space. There was a wooden trap door on the floor, about three feet by three feet that led to a secret room, which nobody dared to enter. Besides, it was locked. And whatever was hidden in it, there was no need to find.
Past the kitchen to the right was the bathroom. This was the only room that the girls demanded to be clean on a regular basis. No left over hairs from shavings, lining the sink; no dirt in the bath tub; no mess in the toilet. At any rate, they all had their chores on a regular basis. Once a week, on rotating basis, the roommates would each clean the bathroom, the kitchen and the living room.
Of course, the bedrooms would be left for each of them to deal with on their own. The girls were secretly happy to be leaving the house, their college year having ended. He was the artsy type, and they much preferred jocks. Besides, he smoked too much weed, and that made them ill. They were only in their third year of undergraduate, however, they felt superior to the young Jack.
Something about their white-bread upbringing in Montreal, made them feel more well groomed. Anyway, they were leaving in a week, and so, they had no more need to depend on Jack for rent. My folks will help me out. Jack opened the door, and Shanti hopped out like a rabbit. It was those mysterious eyes, so deep that they could mesmerize a living soul, her long curvaceous neck, those perky breasts that were held taut by her tight blouse, and more than that, her coy, cold, removed, detached attitude, that made him sweat.
Right away, he longed to possess her, he longed to make her his own. There will be time, there will be time… he mused, to himself. His thoughts were racing. He went into his bedroom, and lay down triumphantly on his bed, supine.
He knew that he had to do some work on his thesis, but at this moment, he could care little about anything but Shanti. Suddenly, he rolled over, and jumped into a sitting position on his bed. He had a book on Hinduism that he suddenly wanted to look over. If he was to win over this goddess, he would have to do it by more than just muscle and brawn. He had to show his intellectual power and spiritual make-up.
He was standing at the view. That he was preaching to. She beckoned to the sentry. Of his high religious mood. The song then trailed off into the recesses of his mind. He returned to standing in a regular stance, that is, onto both legs, rather than the right foot cleaving to the inner thigh of the left leg.
He brought his arms to his side. All this to soothe his beating heart which had been inflamed by the longing for Shanti. Then he shut the door to his room, dropped to the ground and did eleven push-ups to get the xi flow prana moving throughout his body. Next, he got up and started looking through the books that lined his wall in a horseshoe position. He looked at all the spines of the books that were facing him. They were lined up in no particular order.
He was looking for a book that he had on Hinduism. It had a picture of Goneisha on the front cover, the elephant god. He passed the little red book on Mao, all in Chinese ideograms, that his brother had brought him back from China.
Jack Dixon, flummoxed because he could not find the collection that he was looking for, sat down at the edge of his bed, head in his hands. Then, suddenly, he remembered: How interesting, the serendipities of life: Regardless, there it was, the glossy paperback book on Hinduism, sitting beside his computer. Jack focussed his attention on the book that lay in his hands.
He briefly scanned its contents, leafing through the book. Pantheism played a big role in Hinduism. He looked at images of the swastika, the symbol that was used against his people in the Second World War.
It was a symbol of empowerment, a symbol of wilful containment, a symbol most of all, of individuation. Secretly, Jack had always worshiped that symbol, and held it close to his manner of being and thought. He needed it.
But the Hindus also had reverence for the six-pointed star, the symbol of the yoking of Heaven and Earth.
They used one symbol to enter the temple and the other to exit. Jack had always believed that he needed both symbols to become a true player in the world of academia, of politics, of spirituality, philosophy and art. The golden star, also referred to as the Golden Mother Goddess, was the way into the collective psyche, and the swastika, was the way out, the path for autonomy and individuation.
Thinking dialectically, Jack figured that you needed them both. Perhaps Shanti, the Hindu word for spiritual peace and enlightenment, would bring him further down the road towards this dialectical awakening. He had already had moments of enlightenment, epiphanies, where the harmony of the spheres could be heard, and light and rhythm fused to maintain a sense of wonderment in the world.
He sometimes heard voices--usually while on weed--which some kids, he would later find out, called Buddha. But, he would not achieve great enlightenment until much later on in life. The astral planes, alchemy, levitation, all things that were discussed by the great Masters, would not come so clearly to him until he later left academia.
He had a good head on his shoulders, but it was one of an academic, not one of a spiritual guru. There were those who had placed him on a spiritual pedestal earlier in his life, as a director in the theatre; however, he had never achieved full enlightenment as a spiritual leader, except by his leadership in the arts and academia.
He thought a little about Krisna, the war for peace, the war for purity, and he realised, that was not what his life was like at all. He could never maintain purity of thought and mind; he could never achieve stillness of the heart.
Perhaps he still had a mission. He set the book back down on the table beside the computer. No, he thought, I am not pure, I am not clean, I am not whole. But maybe, this Shanti will bring me to my completion, and lead me to some sense of fruition. He thought that this was nirvana, but really, he would come to find out, it led to Hell.
He looked at the Salamander that was on the batik covering the window. It had been given to him by an ex-girlfriend who was now into making movies. She had found her path in art, and was now making documentaries. He was only yet to become a Master of theatre and film. He grabbed his red towel that was hanging from a hook on the door. He took off his purple shirt, removed his boots, while sitting on the edge of the bed, and took off his pants. There was next to no hair on his chest, and little stubble on his cheeks.
He tightened his muscles. His biceps were strong, as were his forearms, but his lower body lacked development. He put on his white terry-cloth robe with the Toronto Maple Leafs insignia on it, and taking the towel with his left hand, he opened the door a crack. Pretty soon, he could only open the door for a woman. He looked down the hallway, towards the living room. The girls were still watching television. He could hear the theme song to Friends , coming from the room.
They turned back to the television. The show was ending and the credits were rolling on the screen. He walked through the kitchen and turned right into the bathroom. He glanced at his face in the mirror, and smiled. These were the days of glory.
He removed his robe and hung the towel on the doorknob, as he shut the door. He pulled out a little metal rod and the water started flowing from the showerhead. He stepped into the shower stall, and put shampoo in his hair. He took the dove soap from the dish and started to wipe down his body.
He shut his eyes, and could only see images of Shanti, running through his head. This was the way that he prayed, and hoped for a woman. This was the way that he had always won them in the past, a fact of which he was unaware, and this is the way he would win Shanti. His hands scrubbed over his whole body, and began to tug at his large cock. He was subsumed by the image of Shanti, and without a moan or a cry, he came gently to a stand still.
He opened his eyes, washed the soap from his body and hair, and grabbed the towel from the hook on the wall. They secretly despised him for it. They were a might bit pristine, and they only dated jocks. Jack Dixon was a man that they would never think of sexually; not only because he was an artsy, but because he was also a Jew.
They never showed their indignation towards the young Master, but they were glad that they would be leaving him in Toronto. They were happy that their term was ending at the university, and they longed to go back to Montreal. Soon, they would be saying goodbye to their respective jock boyfriends, some real Kerouac types, and Jack Dixon, always staying clear of their affairs had little to say to them.
He took his towel, dried himself off, and put on his robe. He ashed it in the tray beside the bed. Without another word, or thought, he drifted off to sleep. Images of Shanti danced through his mind, and once again, he was filled with a sense of tranquility. When Jack awoke, dusk had already fallen on the streets of the Annex, the Toronto neighbourhood in which he lived. It was nine p. He felt well rested. He stretched his arms and legs, along the bed, and the stack of books that was sitting nearest to the head of the bed, fell over as his right hand hit it accidentally.
What a mess, he thought. He crouched at the side of his futon, drawing the comforter of the bed across his mostly naked body. He picked the books up, one by one, examining the front and back cover of each. Pirsig, and finally, a small red covered edition of the Kama Sutra of Vatsyayana.
He smiled. He flipped the book open, randomly. The text was dogmatic, rather than explicit pornography, and could be seen as an instructional manual. The page that Jack opened to, read as follows: When love becomes intense, pressing with the nails or scratching the body with them is practised, and it is done on the following occasions: On the first visit; at the time of setting out on a journey; on the return from a journey; at the time when an angry lover is reconciled; and lastly when a woman is intoxicated….
But pressing with the nails is not a usual thing except with those who are intensely passionate, i. It is employed together with biting, by those to whom the practice is agreeable….
Pressing with the nails is of the eight following kinds, according to the forms of the marks which are produced, viz.: Half moon. A circle. A line. The jump of a hare. The leaf of a blue lotus…. The places that are to be pressed with the nails are as follows: Jack shut the book. He was not a violent man, but these acts of minor violations of the body, to awaken the senses, thrilled his imagination.
What if Shanti were mine, he wondered. Then her beauty would always be around, and I could curb my sexual appetite in other ways. It was just a ten minute walk for Jack to get there. Years ago, he had worked with an Arts Alliance that met at the Green Room, and he still had many friends who were regulars there. Deutsche Marc was one of the last members of the Arts Alliance who still was a habitual barfly at the Green Room. Jack figured that at least Marc would be there tonight.
Jack jumped up and pulled his jeans over his boxers. He grabbed his wallet from the table with the computer on it, and placed it in his back pocket. He threw his black based multi-coloured paisley button-down shirt on, and found his boots by the door.
He wanted a beer, or maybe a joint. See you later! He stepped out into the hall, closing the door behind him. Jack opened the screen door, pulled the wooden door behind him, and walked out to Borden Street, prepared for his night off of studies and ready for an adventure on the town.
Walking up Borden, he saw the squirrels racing along the telephone wires. Someday, he mused, with all this movement to cellular phones, there will be no need for telephone wires. Computers are taking over the world, and digital technology is replacing all analogue equipment. Print media will be wiped away by the internet; theatre is being sold out by film.
There is little we can do to stop the world from moving forward at a rapid pace. And what of human rights? People are being transformed into machines, and suffer in their banal, mediocre, bureaucracies… his thoughts trailed off into a song that kept running through his head, the Beastie Boys, Ill Communication.
He passed a park and saw two kids smoking. He could smell the wafts of marijuana coming through the breeze, and he just nodded his head knowingly as he walked by. They were from Vietnam. We understand working under challenging conditions in harsh and remote geographies.
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