George Carlin died the other day, as any English-speaking person on the Western shores of the Atlantic knows by now. He died rather suddenly. Of course, all deaths are sudden; one moment you’re a member of our pulsating, overextended clan, and the next moment you’re a mere slab of meat. So let’s say his death was both sudden and unexpected.
His death surprised me. It surprised me, first of all, that he had died without giving us any warning of his impending demise. It surprised me that he was already 71. And it surprised me that he lived to be 71, given his history of heart trouble, his chronic cynicism, and his intimate acquaintance with drugs, recreational and otherwise.
I liked George Carlin. I wasn’t an ardent Carlin groupie, like so many of his fans. But I always enjoyed his merry riffs on the human condition. I enjoyed his honesty and his contemplative hippie persona. In fact, I think he represented all that was best about the counterculture that sprouted like some magic psychedelic beanstalk from the fertile ground of the 1960s.
Carlin was countercultural without being fanatical about it. His style was laid-back, eccentric, almost innocently childlike despite the famously X-rated vocabulary. He loved words, and he loved to play with them the way a child plays with blocks. He loved to observe absurdities, like any child with an inspired and half-demented mind. He didn’t rant; he reflected. He mulled. He got high on ideas.
Meanwhile, the fanatical faction of the ’60s counterculture prevailed in the world at large. My generation grew obsessed with careers, status, parenting, education, self-help, food, you name it. Political correctness fanatics now run our schools and universities. Aging fitness fanatics plod joylessly throughout our city parks. Dietary fanatics castigate us for loving cheeseburgers. Environmental fanatics order us to measure our carbon “footprints” (I’ll take a size 12, please).
I wish the counterculture had produced fewer fanatics and more George Carlins.
BAYANology 