The silly political convention season in just seven words
Sitting out at the Limerick outlet mall during the big Labor Day sale last weekend, I had plenty of time to daydream. I know my role on these shopping tripsW Sitting, snoozing, schlepping. And, of course, with all of that comes the daydreaming.
And here is what I con- cludedW I miss George Carlin.
As we find ourselves in the middle of silly political convention season, I wondered what Carlin would have thought about the process of choosing our leaders these days. I don’t believe it’s a stretch to say that he wouldn’t think much of it at all.
But I don’t write about politics in this space. We have enough of that hoo-ha at our disposal if we choose to read it. Suffice to say that I don’t think George Carlin would be amused by today’s politics.
I started listening to Carlin in the early 1970s, around the age of 13 or 14. In those days, he recorded comedy albums, and I was fascinated by his use of the language and his take on human nature. He was less political then, but so was my teenage world. Carlin thought flatulence was funny and so did I. I still think that today and I’m sure he would, too.
The first Carlin album I can recall listening to was called “Class Clown,” released in 1972, and it had on it what would become one of Carlin’s signature bitsW “Seven Words vou Can Never Say on Television.”
In case you are not familiar with it, the seven words you couldn’t say on television back then were bleep, bleep, bleep, bleep, bleepbleeper, bleeperbleeper and bleeps. Three of those words can now be said on network television, and all can be said on pay television. None, however, can be written in a family newspaper and that still holds true today because, well, it’s unnecessary. We’ve all heard the words; many of us have used them. vou don’t need to see them in your local newspaper.
I continued to listen to Carlin’s commentary through college, even seeing him perform live once at Iowa State University in Ames, Iowa, in the late 1970s. Frankly, I don’t remember much about that performance because I was preoccupied in those early years of college with women, beer and a new movie called “Animal House.” But I’m pretty sure I laughed because I always thought Carlin was hilarious.
The next time I got a chance to see him live was nearly 20 years later in Las Vegas in the mid1990s. My wife and I were with my college roommate, Billy McBride, and his wife, Cher, on a little three-day weekend getaway to Sin City.
It was the last evening of our trip, and we were leaving on an early flight the next morning. Carlin was performing a late show at one of the casinos — I think it was Bally’s — and everyone else in my party was tuckered out and didn’t want to go to the show. But how could I not walk right across the street to see the great George Carlin?
So I went by myself, bought a single ticket, and got a seat right in the front row for the show. Carlin was brilliant that evening.
Afterwards, I decided to fill up the rental car’s gas tank so I didn’t have to worry about that the next morning on the way to the airport. There was a gas station right near Bally’s, so I got the car out of the parking garage and headed over.
Because it was late, one couldn’t fill up at that station without pre-paying first. So I walked into the store, where there were two cashiers. One had a long line of seven or eight people standing in it, the other had only one guy. Naturally, I picked the shorter line.
The guy in the line, dressed in a black T-shirt and black jeans, was blabbering on about how he used to be a cab driver in Las Vegas and blah, blah, blah. I wasn’t a foot away from him but was only half listening, more concerned about weather I wanted a bag of peanuts or potato chips.
The dude in front of me eventually quit yakking. I prepaid for my gas and went back outside and filled the tank. When I went back inside to collect my change, I got back in the same line.
When I got up to the counter, the female cashier said, “Did you see who you were standing behind when you were in here the first time?” “No, who?’ I responded. “That was George Carlin,” she said.
“No it wasn’t,” I said. “I just came from his show not a half hour ago. And I’m a huge fan. I’ve got the ticket stub right here in my pocket.”
She then produced a receipt from behind the counter. On the back it was signed, “George Carlin.”
Argh. Carlin had been wearing a black T-shirt and black jeans for the performance. He had once been a cab driver in Las Vegas. He had a ponytail.
Some formally trained observer I was at that point in my journalistic career. What a missed opportunity. I would have loved the talk with him one-on-one then and I would love to talk with him now and get his take on today’s political landscape.
My guess would be he’d say something along the lines of bleep, bleep, bleep, bleep, bleepbleeper, bleeperbleeper and bleeps.
Mike Morsch is executive editor of Montgomery Media and author of the book, “Dancing in My Underwear: The Soundtrack of My Life.” He can be reached by calling 215-542-0200, ext. 415 or by email at msquared35@ yahoo.com. This column can also be found at www.montgomerynews.com.