http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/12/28/AR2009122802061.html
By Jeff Nussbaum
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
LAST WORDS
By George Carlin with Tony Hendra
Free Press. 297 pp. $26.99
George Carlin didn't want to write an autobiography in the classic
sense. In his mind, only "pinheaded criminal business [leaders] and
politicians" wrote autobiographies. The word he settled on to
describe "Last Words" was "sortabiography." A comedian's sortabiography.
But this description has it exactly backward. "Last Words" is indeed
an autobiography -- and quite a good one -- by a man who, as he takes
us through his life, reveals himself to be a sortacomedian. Yes, his
albums were sold in record stores under the comedy heading, but what
"Last Words" ultimately reveals is how Carlin became a political
protester, slam poet, cynic, polemicist and performance artist whose
messages were delivered under the veneer of humor.
Although Carlin made more than 20 albums, 14 HBO specials and more
than a hundred appearances on "The Tonight Show," wrote three
best-selling books and provided the catalyzing case for a major
Supreme Court decision, he tells us that his true dream was to
perform a one-man show on Broadway. That this dream was never
fulfilled suffuses a powerful, personal, introspective story with
real poignancy.
But, of course, that's not why you pick up a book by George Carlin.
You want to hear about the seven words you can't (or couldn't) say on
television. If you're of a certain age, you want to understand how Al
Sleet, the Hippy-Dippy weatherman, was born. (If you were to guess
that it was during a marijuana-induced haze, you'd pretty much nail
it.) You want to hear -- one last time -- the "brain droppings" of a
man who found the line between what was sacred and what could be
profaned by repeatedly stepping over it.
And in this, from the very beginning, he doesn't disappoint. The book
begins with a funny and graphic description of his own conception,
near-termination and ultimate birth. But then something slightly
unexpected happens. He spends the first third of the book telling a
beautiful, powerful story of growing up Irish in Harlem, the product
of a "lace curtain Irish" mother, who wanted nothing more than for
her son to be successful and refined, and an abusive "shanty" Irish father.
We see his mother indoctrinate him with a love of words and the
streets indoctrinate him with the voices and personalities that came
to populate his later work. We see him become the class clown. But we
also see something else, and it's best described by a trip he takes
to Times Square where the Army recruiting office had a display of
military hardware -- including a 500-pound bomb called "The
Blockbuster." Seeing that others had scratched their names into the
bomb's casing, Carlin does the same, saying, "Everyone should try to
scratch their names on the bomb of life."
The story of Carlin's service and ultimate discharge from the Air
Force rivals Joseph Heller's "Catch-22." After Carlin managed to rack
up two court-martials and five other disciplinary offenses,
"basically they said: 'You don't mention you were here and we won't either.' "
What's interesting is how Carlin's comedy branched in two directions,
into what he called his "micro world material" and his "macro world
material." It's easy to forget that his micro world material, which
always seemed a little derivative to me and which Carlin admits
became even more so as he sank deeper into addiction, actually
launched into the mainstream the observational humor we now know and
love and pay Jerry Seinfeld millions of dollars to perform. As for
the macro world material, one of the joys of the book is watching it
develop over time, harden after the election of Ronald Reagan and
then ultimately find its outlet in the outraged persona most of us
identify with Carlin.
The book loses steam when Carlin begins to talk about his second
marriage and his PBS show, "Shining Time Station." It hits a final
note of either genius or madness, depending on how you read it, when
he launches into rants such as, "I no longer identify with my
species." Still, you find yourself forgiving Carlin his excesses --
as he knew you would. You even find yourself enjoying them.
In 1970, Carlin's mother wrote him a letter. At the time, he was a
comedian of some renown, but for repeated attempts at career suicide
as much as anything else. She wrote, "You will someday be a Beckett
or a Joyce or maybe a Bernard Shaw. You seem to have their kind of
disturbance . . . Some day you will release what you have down inside
of you and it will be listened to and heard." Carlin blithely
dismissed her letter, suggesting that his mother (like himself at the
time) was "dropping a little acid." But though perhaps not a Beckett,
Carlin was indeed heard. In "Last Words," it's nice to hear him one
final time.
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