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International Customers If you are located outside the U. About Product Details The loving yet brutally honest memoir of the daughter of comedy legend Richard Pryor Rain Pryor was born in the idealistic, free-love s. Dey Street Books On Sale: Play by Play by Verne Lundquist.
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This book told the story of Richard Pryor the person with all his characteristics by his daughter Rain who knew him as well as anyone. It is an unprecedented look at the life of a legend of comedy, told by a daughter who both understood the genius and knew the tortured man within. Life at Mom's was unstable in the extreme, while at Richard's place Rain was exposed to sex and drugs before she had even learned to read. Think of Richard Pryor's raunchy wild stand-up routines and that is exactly the life that Rain and her half siblings were raised in. So the five stars is for the story itself, and not the lack of some photos.
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The baby blue sky sparkles, calm and cloudless, and you can see the sharp outlines of the houses clinging to the Hollywood Hills. The year was I was four years old-and my mother and I were in her battered Volvo, winding our way toward those hillside houses.
I had no idea where we were going, and my mother wasn't talking. My mother took a deep breath, gave me a dirty look, and exploded: We're going to meet your motherfucking father. That was a lot to process for a four-year-old. The language didn't bother me-I was used to it-but I was having trouble getting my mind around the fact that my father lived only a few miles from our own apartment.
Frankly, that was a possibility. I had heard many stories about my father-most of them pretty unflattering-and I never imagined that some day I would become part of his life.
He was a famous comedian, after all, and I'd been given to understand that comedy took precedence over fatherhood. What's more, he happened to be a self-destructive, self-absorbed schmuck, and he wasn't even remotely interested in me. That's what my mother told me, anyway-that and worse.
Whenever she talked about him, and she talked about him often, she would work herself into such a frenzy that she would turn red in the face. Her parents, my Jewish grandparents, also talked about him. They didn't curse with quite as much vigor, and they didn't turn red in the face, but they made no secret of their feelings for the crazy Black Prince who had ruined their daughter's life and, in many ways, their own.
The son of a bitch lives in a fucking palace, and we live in a dump in the wrong part of Beverly Hills. I didn't understand what she was so upset about. Earlier that afternoon, when we were in the house, preparing to leave, my mother had seemed excited, if a little nervous. She said we were going "somewhere special," and told me to wash up and put on a nice dress and to try to look pretty.
When I returned, fully dressed and looking awfully pretty if I may say so myself , she was still in her jeans, topless, tearing through her closet for just the right thing to wear. I guess she wanted to look pretty, too, but nothing made her happy. I watched her try on one blouse after another, growing increasingly frustrated, until there was a veritable kaleidoscope of blouses piled on the bed.