In the days following his passing at 76, stories poured in from comedians and fans who had quietly modeled their own honesty on his. They remembered the man in black whose spiraling rants somehow made them feel less alone, whose confessions of anxiety and doubt gave shape to their own unnamed fears. His legacy was never just about laughs; it was about survival through humor, about turning the chaos of the mind into something bearable, even beautiful, under the stage lights.

As tributes replayed his talk-show appearances and stand-up sets, a fuller portrait emerged: a craftsman obsessed with getting the truth right, even when it hurt. He transformed neurosis into art, self-doubt into connection, and late-night TV into a confessional booth where shame lost its sting. Though the stage lights have dimmed, his influence lingers in every comic who dares to be vulnerable, and in every fan who learned that brokenness, when shared out loud, can sound a lot like courage.