George Carlin

I've got George Carlin playing in my ears right now. I've got the iPod turned way up, far beyond the volume that would allow me to hear my work phone ringing or my boss calling my name. His words are soothing to me now. Words I've heard over and over again. Words that I listened to so much as a child, pre-teen and teenager. Words that sat in my brain and refused to fall out. Words that turned into ideas and thoughts and beliefs that meant something to me. That made me feel good, like I had found somebody who was speaking directly to me. And when the crowd cheers and laughs at George's jokes, I feel even more included, because those people who are applauding him are actualizing what I wish I could have done.

I'm repeating his words, like singing along with one of your favorite songs. I'm fascinated that I'm able to repeat his words in time with him, because there's no drum beat or audible rhythm for me to keep time with so that I'll be able to hear when he's about to deliver the punchline. There are no visual or audio clues which help me synchronize with George. I can do it because I've heard it so much. I've studied it. I KNOW it. And it makes me feel good.

I'm crying now. And that's hard to do at work. People could see you and ask questions, and then I'll have to tell conservatives that I'm feeling gotten by a dead comedian who verbally bashed and hated most of what you do and think. Awkward. I've already decided that, if asked about my crying, I'll respond that I have allergies. Everybody has allergies. My wife is convinced that I have allergies. I've stopped trying to tell her that I don't. It's more fun to giggle at her insistence and say "yes," and love her for being just as bull-headed and stubborn as me.

Have you ever felt like the only free person in prison? I have.

Here are some of my favorite Georgeisms:

• If you haven't gotten where you're going, you're not there yet.

• Pre-suck my genital situation!

• Have you noticed that you never seem to get laid much on Thanksgiving? I think it's because all the coats are on the bed.

• Go into the dry cleaners and ask the man if he can remove the stains from one pair of pants and put them in another pair of pants. They ought to be able to do that for the same amount of money.

• Got into an argument this morning with my Rice Crispies. I distinctly heard, "Snap! Crackle! Fuck him!" I don't know which one of them said it. I was reaching for the artificial sweetener at the time and was not looking directly into the bowl.

• And now a message from the National Apple Institute: Fuck pears.

• Backwards words say to used I. Again go I there. Shit oh.

Titles of some of the many of George's fictitious books that he never got around to writing:
The Meaning of Corn
Cooking for the Hard of Hearing
Cooking With Heat

He has a story about seeing Bill Cosby playing pinball at the Playboy Mansion with Hugh Hefner. A weird combo of images for me, but he saw it. I got John Lennon's phone number and kept it as a prized possession. He had balls. He had conviction. He had something to say. Something meaningful. And he fought to keep saying it. Even when the only thing standing in his way was himself. He kept fighting for what he wanted. And he was entertaining for so many people. Such a positive force in my life. I have a fond remembrance of sitting in the backseat of my mother's car with my dual cassette deck boom box and putting the earphones on my head and letting George make me laugh. My mother enjoyed listening to me laugh. I felt loved by her and loved by George. And the laughter was wonderful. I still miss George.