Monday, June 30, 2008

The King Is Dead: A Bit About George Carlin

About twenty-five minutes into George Carlin's 1986 HBO special, Playin' With Your Head, the comic proclaims, "And why is it always the dead? What's this favoritism toward the dead? Fuck the dead." In the wake of Carlin's death, this quip seems an appropriate place to start. To tread the sentimental on this occasion would be oxymoronic, especially in light of Carlin's lifelong marriage to the irreverent.

But damn.

A Young Boy Learns His Dirty Words

I don't remember vividly. I only remember a fragment. I don't remember what I said, what prompted it, or any of a variety of solid, moment grounding details. All I remember is that when I was little—at some undetermined age—I said something inappropriate while visiting my grandparents in South Amboy, New Jersey. I was promptly hauled off to the bathroom in search of a bar of soap.

Yes, I've tasted the soap. And yes, it was due to dirty words.

This memory fragment is always accompanied by another, equally fuzzy, remembrance. I have an older brother and one day—it might be safe to assume it was in general vicinity to the other incident—he and his friend, Scotty, "taught" me a string of words and then sent me in search of my mother. Ever the dutiful younger sibling, I did as I was instructed. I found my mother in the kitchen and launched into a string of colorful language that prompted a very different response.

My mother laughed.

I consider these two incomplete remembrances to be touchstones in my life. I can't claim that these two events led me to a path of linguistic inquiry. It is never that simple. But I do think that my little sponge of a brain began to file these incongruities away for later use.

It is safe to say that my mother's reaction was typical for our house. My father was, like Ralphie's dad in A Christmas Story, an artist with profanity. I grew up with a(n) (un)healthy respect of these words, their use, and how context modified their meaning. Don't get me wrong, there were times when I heard things that made my ears burn, things no one, much less a young boy, should hear. But…

Laughter was no stranger in our house. My father loved Animal House and The Blues Brothers. I will never forget the sound of his laughter—in no small part because both my brother and I have inherited his penchant for deep, honest, loud laughter. My father's honest laughter, married with my mother's uncanny openness, made the development of my sense of humor as natural to my growth as learning to walk, speak, eat and shit.

Carlin Enters The Picture

Another incomplete memory bears repeating: I don't remember what year it was, only that I was an early teen. The family was trekking up to the lake. We got a copy of George Carlin's Carlin on Campus LP, and I painstakingly transferred it to cassette tape so we could listen to it in the car on the way up to the lake.

So, there we were: my father at the tiller, mom in the passenger seat, me and my brother in the back seat. All of us merrily listening to the "Incomplete List of Impolite Words," laughing ourselves to tears and snot.

Teenage boys, mom and pop, listening to tit and fart jokes.

That trip brought George Carlin into my life. I spent the next few years memorizing most of Carlin's albums—from What Am I Doing In New Jersey? to Playin' With Your Head. The family even got to see him live at the War Memorial Auditorium in Greensboro. My good friend Jeff Williams and I would trade cassettes on road trips with the Boy Scouts, later reciting the bits to each other to gales of knowing laughter.

Carlin was my gateway drug into real comedy.

He was also one of the biggest influences on my life—both personally and professionally.

From Road Trips and Cassettes to A Life of Language

As for the personal, Carlin is single-handedly responsible for more laughs than any one, any thing in my life. I would like to think that he not only instructed me in what is funny, but that all that laughter has added years onto my life!

As I mentioned in my Steve Martin post (Comedia Del Farte), I was fortunate to see Carlin live four times. I couldn't have been more than thirteen or fourteen the first time I saw him.

I really do wish I had taken better care of my memories…

As for the professional, I think my chosen path in life is due in no small part to Carlin. As a writer, and as a teacher of writing, the English language is my trade. I count Carlin top amongst those most influential in the foundation of my personal aesthetic. My writing, while not comedic in nature, is deeply influenced by Carlin's lifelong pursuit of semantic inconsistencies. Derrida may have founded the school of deconstruction, but Carlin was the first to put it to good—funny—use. And while that claim may be a bit preposterous, it is without a doubt true that Carlin's comedy opened the door to my own understanding of the fluid, often contradictory nature of human communication. I'm also convinced that Carlin provided me with a precursor to deconstruction as a tool of critical inquiry.

It's funny (to me at least), that I had been contemplating the nature of profanity, and the designation of "dirty words" long before I heard Carlin's most famous bit. In fact, it wasn't until I bought The Little David Years Box Set that I finally heard the bit. But it wasn't surprising. Carlin's other material had already introduced the ideas that led to the conclusion: "There are no bad words. Bad thoughts. Bad intentions. And words."

A few years ago, I mentioned to one of my colleagues that I've always wanted to play "Seven Words You Can Never Say On Television" in the classroom—to use it as a jumping off point for a conversation about language, audience and context. Lo and behold, this same colleague arranged to show Richard Pryor: Live In Concert to his film class, and invited me along for the discussion—where in, he played the bit so we could discuss it.

There is more to be said, discussed. But that's for future classes.

Maybe even a dissertation…

Eulogy Is Not A Dirty Word

Anyway, I point all of this out because I think Carlin's greatest contribution was not necessarily the laughs he evoked but the thoughts he provoked in regards to language. And while I will always be able to recite countless bits from his oeuvre, I will always be most thankful for how he brought me into the circle of the know—and showed me how to make my own observations and inquiries.

As a living human being, he will be missed.

His legacy of thought, however, will never be forgotten.