“The problem with me, as far as getting married and having a family, is that my comedy is so important to me. So I don’t know if I’ll ever be as good a dad as my dad.”

When I take my kid to school, all the parents stop and stare.

Alright, remember, alcohol equals puke equals smelly mess equals nobody likes you.

I don’t know what drives me to succeed. I know I want to always do the best I can. I never was like that as a kid.

Never seen my friends do more push-ups, trying to challenge Cruises’ manhood. It was like, I can be strong, too!

I did rocks, all this dumb stuff. But now it’s just trying to stay afloat and just get through the days.

The only reason I got into stand-up was because my brother told me to. I had no idea what I was going to do with my life. I was 17 and my brother went to a comedy club and he said – you can do that.

Sir one more comment like that and I will strangle you with my microphone wire!

I don’t want to run around with new people. I feel safer with my friends.

I read to my kid, but I can’t stand reading.

Feels good to try, but playing a father, I’m getting a little older. I see now that I’m taking it more serious and I do want that lifestyle.

Sometimes you can’t prioritise family and you feel guilty.

I’ve always just had troubles with my family because I’m psychotic. It had nothing to do with that.

I still like doing stand-up now, but it’s not the same. It used to be that I was out there with five other comedians. Now I usually just do it alone.

Chemistry can be a good and bad thing. Chemistry is good when you make love with it. Chemistry is bad when you make crack with it.

I kinda feel like an idiot sometimes. Although I am an idiot, so it kinda works out.

When I was younger and did a stand-up gig, it would take me two weeks to recover. Sometimes I’d get so panicked that I would stutter.

Like my father, I believe that nonviolence is the antidote to what he called ‘the triple evils of racism, poverty and militarism.’ These three evils were consuming our hopes for community in 1964, and, fifty years later, we remain divided because of their festering effects.

Often, I am asked, ‘What was your father like?’ or, ‘What would he think?’ These are very difficult questions to answer, as I was so very young when I lost my father.

My dad is Irish. I spent my childhood going back and forth between Ireland and America.

My sensei was a British karate champion named Brian Fitkin. He was my mentor and because I had a hard relationship with my dad, he became a father figure to me.

In the end, I still have the same hope as my father – that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the last word.

I think people couldn’t really put me in [one race]. I wasn’t Mexican, I wasn’t white, I wasn’t black, I wasn’t Asian… I wasn’t anything, and I didn’t really fit into anybody’s group. My dad is Mexican, and my mom is French and Danish.

There was a certain moment. I was about 61 – two, three or four, and I got a script. And I sent it back to the producer saying – “I don’t wanna do it. The part’s too small.” And he sent it back to me, he said, “You shouldn’t read the lover. You should read the father.

My dad’s death reminds me of earthquakes – things that shake your foundation.