Bye, Bye George

I’ve been trying to find a way to come to terms with George Carlin’s death for almost a week now -- not because I’m emotionally devastated, but well, just because I need a little closure. I need a way to describe where he “fits” in my pantheon of comedy and pop culture in order to say goodbye and move on. The problem is that no description and no analysis seem adequate. When you consider that during the past week, I have heard tributes to Carlin from all sorts of folks, ranging from the guys on ESPN’s “Mike and Mike in the Morning” to Tom and Ray, the Car Guys on NPR’s “Car Talk,” you start to understand the scope of the problem. Jerry Seinfeld wrote a nice piece in the New York Times, but again, it didn’t seem like enough.

During the week, Alice had been away at a summer theatre camp outside Chicago. On Friday, we drove to Downer’s Grove to see her in the 15-minute production that would be the culmination of her week. Naturally, she was great. But the best part was that in her play, set in medieval times, she had to play the role of a jester, among other things. Yep, George Carlin dies, and my daughter does her first stand-up gig, all in the same week. What are the odds?

Anyway, back at the hotel that night, I told her how much I enjoyed her performance, and that I thought her timing was pretty good. Then, I had to tell her about Carlin. Of course, she had no idea who he was, but she listened patiently as I did my best to recount one of my favorite Carlin bits about “Limbo” and where things go when they get lost. She chuckled, to humor me (something she has learned to do quite well), if nothing else.

The next day, we decided to hit the Museum of Science and Industry before heading home. After a few exhibits, we stopped at the Brain Food Court to eat lunch. By the time I had sorted through all of the choices, everyone else was seated, and Zoe had finished most of her lunch, except for her Jell-o dessert. We spent a few minutes comparing notes on our lunch choices. I had found a decent salad to eat. Rebecca seemed a tad jealous. Zoe piped up: “I’m just excited about my Jell-o, because it’s blue.” We all agreed that blue food was hard to find and worth being excited about. Indeed, Rebecca and I noted, when we were kids, blue food was pretty much non-existent. Alice added that blueberries looked blue, but they were really purple when you ate them.

After we drove home and everyone went to bed, I channel-surfed by Saturday Night Live and noticed that, as a tribute to Carlin, they were re-running the first episode, which Carlin had hosted in 1975. Though it was late, I had to watch. And there he was: long flowing hair and beard intact, without a hint of grey, at the height of his prowess. He launched into a bit: “Where is the blue food? And why can’t we have it?” I nearly dropped my glass of scotch as I sat up straighter. Carlin went on through a litany of non-blue foods, spitting out the words as his mock disgust grew, culminating with blueberries: “Blue on the vine; purple on the plate!” I was stunned and oddly proud -- somehow my kids were channeling George Carlin!

As I thought about the coincidence, I realized that Jerry Seinfeld had gotten it partly right when he wrote: “His performing voice . . . always sounded as if he were trying to amuse a child. It was like the naughtiest, most fun grown-up you ever met was reading you a bedtime story.” I think it was even more than that. I think that the reason why Carlin was great was that he never lost the child’s ability to see the world as something endlessly new that could be molded and shaped into anything you wanted. Why couldn’t food be blue, after all?

His genius was combining that ability with the very adult ability to ask why we accept things as they are; why we tell ourselves little lies to get through the day; and why, if we really are independent-thinking adults, do we need or accept someone else telling us what and how to think? In his refusal to accept and submit to any kind of authority, he retained the spirit of the two-year old who simply stamps his foot and says “no.” He sounded like a grown-up reading a bedtime story because, I think, he wanted to draw us back into childhood, to a time of questioning and possibility that really would lead us to re-make the world into a place far less rife with violence and stupidity. A pretty ambitious project; no wonder every description comes up a little short.

Goodbye, George, and, thanks. From now on, Zoe and I are ordering the blue Jell-o. . . and the jumbo shrimp.

Live From St. Paul – The Bastards of Young

God, what a mess, on the ladder of success
Where you take one step and miss the whole first rung
Dreams unfulfilled, graduate unskilled
It beats pickin' cotton and waitin' to be forgotten

We are the sons of no one, bastards of young
We are the sons of no one, bastards of young
The daughters and the sons

Clean your baby room, trash that baby boom
Elvis in the ground, no way no beer tonight
Income tax deduction, one hell of a function
It beats pickin' cotton and waitin' to be forgotten

We are the sons of no one, bastards of young
We are the sons of no one, bastards of young
The daughters and the sons

Unwillingness to claim us, ya got no war to name us

The ones who love us best are the ones we'll lay to rest
And visit their graves on holidays at best
The ones who love us least are the ones we'll die to please
If it's any consolation, I don't begin to understand them

We are the sons of no one, bastards of young
We are the sons of no one, bastards of young
The daughters and the sons

--The Replacements


Long before I learned that Barack Obama would be speaking from St. Paul tonight, I was thinking of the Twin Cities, and of this Replacements’ anthem for my generation. Tonight’s final clinching of the nomination by Obama heralds a new era in politics -- our era. I’m calling it the era of the Bastards of Young: we’re the first American generation with a chance to do worse for ourselves than our parents did for themselves.

We’ve been mostly ignored since we began – by our parents, by the self-obsessed baby boomers, by the government that charged us usurious interest rates on our student loans, by marketers who’ve moved on to generations y and z. We’re not monolithic. Mostly we just stand against stupidity and, recognizing how prevalent it is in the world, spend our time trying to avoid it.

This is our ethos. Treating people badly because of the color of their skin? Stupid. Paying someone less money for doing the same job just because she’s a woman? Stupid. “Protecting” the institution of marriage from gay couples when our parents got divorced in droves? Stupid. Destroying the planet our kids will inherit? Stupid. Nuclear power? Stupid. Squander our nation’s wealth on an ill-conceived adventure in Iraq? Stupid. 8-track tapes? Stoooopid!!

In 2004, John Kerry tried to wear the mantle and appeal to us but failed miserably. He was and is forever defined by what he did in Vietnam. You see, they got no wars to name us. Blasting U2 at Kerry rallies somehow never felt right. In contrast, Barack Obama taking the stage to “Beautiful Day” makes all the sense in the world. U2 are OUR Beatles. Hell, Obama might even own a U2 album.

We missed out on the summer of love but learned to never mind the bollocks. We missed out on cheap drugs and free love, getting higher drinking ages and lectures on safe sex instead. The Boomers gave us better coffee, better beer, and of course, fine balsamic vinegar, but the planet’s a mess; the economy’s a shambles; our cities are dying; and why aren’t there any good public schools left for our kids?

It’s our time alright. It’s time for my generation to elect one of us. Time for the Bastards of Young.
--June 3, 2008