My name is Rick Reynolds...
I was born in Portland, Oregon, on December 13, 1951. I stand six feet two and one-half inches tall. I weigh 195 pounds. I have big hands, a big nose; I believe my penis to be of average size.
I'm losing my hair. I wouldn't even have this pathetic wisp of hair on my head if I hadn't paid thousands of dollars years ago for hair transplants. I guess you could say I'm vain. I know that I care way too much what people think about me.
I'm insecure and often jealous of my peers. In fact, I sometimes hope for horrible things to happen to my friends.
I don't believe in God. I'm pretty sure that God does not exist; I hope he doesn't hold that against me.
I'm obsessive. It's a good thing I don't have any really bad habits. I don't smoke. I've never been drunk. I don't do drugs. Sugar, I do. I have almost no self-control with sweets. I can't understand people who do.
I guess I have a lot of problems, so many that I don't have time to go into them all in detail. Suffice it to say I'm anal, obsessive, vain, quick to temper, overly introspective, lazy, judgmental, insecure, and self-righteous. Probably the most annoying thing about me is that I'm hugely opinionated. But I kind of make up for that by always being right.
(Excerpted from "Only the Truth Is Funny")
Ups and Downs of 'Happiness'
by Gerald Nachman, San Francisco Chronicle
If anybody embodies the perilous journey of a contemporary comedian, it would have to be Rick Reynolds, who recycles his trauma-strewn life into liberating laughs.
Reynolds was the tall, slender performance comedian with the wretched boyhood whose first show here in 1990, "Only the Truth Is Funny," brought him temporary fame, mini-fortune and, of course, lots of new trouble. Much of that is mined for comic and soulful treasure in his new show, "Happiness," now being workshopped at the Marsh through April. For a man whose career took off 15 years ago in a blaze of hoopla only to fizzle after a failed sitcom, late-night talk show appearances, a long run in Los Angeles and a bungled run in New York -- and for a guy who suffered a five-year depression, two suicide attempts and two agonizing divorces -- Reynolds is alarmingly upbeat.
He looks ready and robust and speaks in a big, hearty radio-DJ voice. At 54, Reynolds is anything but a defeated guy. He's 40 pounds heavier than when his first show closed and has thinner hair, but he also has two doted-upon teenage sons.
He's hardly been idle since his sequel show, "All Grown Up" (about his crumbling marriage to Lisa), closed in 1996. Between funks and hunched over a computer in sweats at his Petaluma home, he wrote three movies and 10 sitcoms. None got made, but the work provided a good livelihood.
Sitting in the Marsh theater on a rainy morning, Reynolds eagerly discusses the darker corners of his life as candidly as he does in his 90-minute show, which painfully but cheerfully chronicles his depressive state. He claims in the show that he's "a weeper by nature" and "suicidal but not sad," hasn't asked a woman out for 25 years (but the one who asked him out, he married), has not had sex for three years and fears that people will consider him "just a whiny bastard."
Reynolds was among the earliest comedians to blaze a trail from rat-a-tat-tat stand-up to more introspective first-person storytelling -- along with monologists Spalding Gray, Josh Kornbluth, Marga Gomez and Charlie Varon -- digging into his psyche for tragicomedy that cloaks jokes in self-analysis.
Rick Reynolds' Only the Truth Is Funny
Hollywood Story in Which Truth Plays
Rick Reynolds: Ready for Re-Entry
Reynolds Escapes New York