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Of course this could go on and on, and context is everything. You had to see it. You had to watch Carlin shimmy and tremble when he talks about the planet, himself becoming the planet, shaking humans off like a bad case of the fleas. I saw most of his work on HBO and people often miss the physicality of it; they laugh or winch or flinch over his words. But whether they even know it or not, they react as much to this skinny, tiny, hippy-ish man bending his body or torquing his face into the shape and sound of what he's saying as they do to his language. His body is the truth, too. Remember Carlin, who becomes that burnt-frozen citizen of Pompeii who represents our ability to save the planet?
Pryor, too: he becomes the cheetah who's so fast he can wait and wait on his prey until…until Pryor assumes the sprinter's position and you know the quarry is done for.
But, back to George, the least sentimental comic I ever heard:
-Are you fucking kidding me? Save the planet. The planet doesn't give a shit about us.
And when he spoke, he spoke New York, exhaled it like a runner. And that gave him grit, an edge; he was from the jungle. Here's two words that go together, Carlin and language: he loved words, dirty or not, knew them, used them like a mason in constructing his comedy.
Remember this from one of his books? "The difference between L.A. and New York is that L.A. is a beautiful woman whispering in your ear, 'Fuck Me.' New York is a big brutish hairy man shouting out, 'Fuck You.'"
(Not that it matters, but pull up Carlin on YouTube, close your eyes and ask your self: what famous actor does he sound like? Come on. He's Al Pacino, right? Or Al Pacino's George Carlin.)
-When I see a car with a sign saying "baby on board" I want to speed up and smash the fucking car. Like we're supposed to give a shit that you're driving your baby around and we gotta be careful.
-And what's this shit with kids these days? We gotta schedule play time. Can you imagine that—scheduling play time for your kids. Do the kid a favor and schedule some "leave me the fuck alone time."
-Jogger asshole's running down the street with headphones like he wants to shut the world out. Here I am by myself running my little ass off. Not in my world, motherfucker. I swerve just to hit he cocksucker, thinking he's special, running with his little headphones and short shorts.
-Ever notice how weathermen say 'precipitation event.' Like what the fuck is that? It's gonna rain, asshole. Here, I got something for you: a suck my dick event.
This could go on and on and in a perfect world it would. We'd hear a loop tape of Carlin 24 hours a day to remind us how pretentious and pompous and silly and just plain fucking crazy we all are. Because, trust me, we need to be reminded.
Before I say a final goodbye to Carlin I want to comment on Chris Rock, since I mentioned him earlier. His physicality is not as precise as Pryor's and Carlin's but his energy is mad house: he strides back and forth and back on the stage, as if leashed, and at just the right moments will stop and look at the audience like a kid caught jerking off in his bedroom one night.
-A man's only as ethical as the options he's presented in life.
Yes. That's right, Chris, and who else is gonna say these things, now that Carlin and Pryor are gone? The torch is passed.
And yes to Carlin, too: for all he ever said, in any routine, anywhere. He was, to me, always right. What he said always made sense and it made me think and it made me laugh out loud. Carlin's beliefs are my beliefs; everything he said is the truth, and the truth never gets any funnier. And if his cynicism sometimes overtook his humor in his later bits, that's fine too. Isn't that what happens? We grow old, see way too much shit, and become cynical over the whole shooting match?
Carlin's not getting the last laugh, and he never imagined he would. He's only getting what he believed in, which is to say, nothing. The planet, right this minute, is doing to Carlin what he always said it would: it's busy not giving a shit about him. It's busy cycling him into shit and simply absorbing him, assuming him into itself, where, if human life is still hanging around even 200 years from now, some comic somewhere will believe in only one god, Carlin, and he or she will worship at his alter.
How goddamned funny will that be? |
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