I like George Carlin for the most part. I have always found him provocative, but not always honest. My biggest beef with the deceased? Whenever anyone complained about his jokes being offensive, he'd sideslip by explaining, "They're just words." To say they're just words is to deny the potency of their effect. If they were just words, and had no meaning save what the listener ascribed, anyone could be a writer or a comic or a playwright and make money because no one would be able to discern a good writer/creative genius from a bad one --because good and bad would be purely relative terms with no underpinning criteria.
Words do mean something. If they didn't, humor wouldn't have the effect it does. He understood the power of words, that's why his piece on the seven words you can't say is so very powerful. Someone who wrot lik thes wod b as gooder as someone who could express themselves without errors. Someone who messed up the punch line would be as successful as Jerry Seinfeild, as order of words would not matter, only that sounds issued forth. Indeed, chimps would be as successful at writing or stand up, as actual words would no longer be necessary.
Words matter. George knew it. But the common defense against criticism by anyone is "I didnt mean it or it didn't mean anything." As though intent or ascribed intent determines offense. While it is a convenient arguement, that's not the way truth or humor for that matter, works. Intent does not determine laughter. I meant for you to laugh --does not mean you must. Intent not to offend does not determine whether or not something is offensive. And George knew this. The seven words speech was designed to be both offensive and funny. It wouldn't be funny if it weren't also discussing the offensive.
What I have seen a lot of in recent internet discourse, is idea of the meeting between George Carlin and the Almighty. Those who liked his humor view God and George having a sit down and a few laughs maybe over a beer. Those who found him offensive, view George as having a bit of a warm seat.
Do I think George has been excluded from the realm of the Divine because he swore? No. Do I think he probably has some explaining to do...absoultely, but then, don't we all?
And do I think George is going to try pulling...they were only words up there? Probably not. Not with the Author of the Word. At least, not if he's as smart as I always thought he was...God has a sense of humor too. It explains apendixes, mosquitos and first dates. It explains George Carlin too. George will get his moment to feel as those who sometimes felt uncomfortable at his humor under the great mercy and justice and love of God.
God will probably explain how "just words" have an effect to George or at least require him to own up to actual reality. George will agree. Then they will have a few laughs, maybe over a beer.
George probably won't use those seven words though.
Showing posts with label beer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label beer. Show all posts
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Forty-one and Awaiting Maturation
At my age, I’m supposed to be educated, sophisticated and worldly wise.
There is a stack of books that educated people are supposed to have read, important things like the complete works of Dickens and Shakespeare, The Ancient Art of War, Das Kapital, the Federalist papers and Moby Dick. I am waiting for retirement to get to this list, when not reading them will be chucked up to old age and poor eyesight.
Adults are also supposed to like things like coffee and wine, sushi and blue cheese not accompanied by super hot Buffalo wings and beer. They can watch documentaries on war and read the serious sections of the paper with total recall. They wear jeans and sneakers for gardening and football games only, and they don’t voluntarily choose to dine at places that wrap the food in paper. As I understand it, some of them even listen to and love opera.
I am waiting for those chemical enzymes to kick in and transform me from a fairy tale loving, French fry noshing comic book reading plebian into a character out of a Henry James novel; who coifs her hair and wears dark form fitting frocks and speaks in mysteriously compelling short phrases that bewilder and bewitch those around her as she passes through the heathers without stepping into a gopher hole.
It’s not that I haven’t tried to mature. I dutifully checked out Bleak House from the library and read a play each summer from Shakespeare. I keep ordering wine at restaurants but I never finish a glass. I know how to talk about tannins and the deepening flavors and all that, but what I really think when I drink wine is, why didn’t I order a diet coke? I have eaten sushi with friends who love it and survived, but can’t figure out why no one doesn’t just say, “Hey this is a great piece of fish, just give it five minutes in a pan with garlic and olive oil.” I think they’re just trying to avoid doing the pots and pans in the kitchen.
My sister has bought me CD’s of opera, explaining which pieces were her favorites. She has also taken me to drink my first Starbucks, I got a violent headache after three sips. I had a similar reaction to the opera. My husband buys tickets to the symphony. We go. He shuts his eyes to listen. If I shut my eyes, I snore. My music tastes haven’t ever left the early 80’s and high school.
I have taught myself to read the editorial section before I hit up the funnies and the sports, but it’s rather like sitting through math class in High School before lunch. I do it, but only because I ought, and much of the front section just rolls past my brain which is fixated on what happened today in “For Better or Worse.”
So here I am at 41 and I still want big parties on my birthday with wrapped presents and a frosted cake with all the candles. I know the Saturday morning line up my kids watch, and I sneak my TV viewing under the responsible adult headline of “Parental Supervision.” I change the channel if I don’t like the cartoon or its animation. I read comic books inside of real books like “Seven Habits of Highly Successful People” and wear jeans or shorts 350 days out of the year. I don’t own a form fitting frock and I talk in breathless longwinded excited loud sentences. It’s not that I don’t like wine, opera and all things sophisticated; they just aren’t my first preference.
Given the fact that much of my life is lived like a stone that just perpetually skips on the water (never slowing or stopping to sink below the surface), introspection is not one of my strong suits. It requires a quieter mind and spirit than my temperament allows. Yesterday, my son was invited to take a course on manners and etiquette, designed to teach freshmen of high school how to act like the adults they will some day become. As I looked at the requirements that the boys wear jackets and ties, and the girls, dresses and gloves I wondered if one day my kids would grow out of their childhood tastes. I’d be left to go to McDonald’s, watch Disney movies and listen to Duran Duran on my own.
But then I remember, my husband prefers burgers to fois gras, and chocolate shakes to champagne. The other day, he came home with tickets for a baseball game and proposed a camping trip for the 4th of July weekend. After dinner, he asked for ice cream. So I stopped by the bookstore today, and even though, the complete works of Evelyn Waugh were on sale near the front of the store, I picked up the latest Fantastic Four comic for him, and tonight, we’re going to see Kung Fu Panda. Maturity can wait, at least until it feels fun and not like an assignment to eat my broccoli.
I will say though, some of that opera isn’t so bad. Thanks sis.
There is a stack of books that educated people are supposed to have read, important things like the complete works of Dickens and Shakespeare, The Ancient Art of War, Das Kapital, the Federalist papers and Moby Dick. I am waiting for retirement to get to this list, when not reading them will be chucked up to old age and poor eyesight.
Adults are also supposed to like things like coffee and wine, sushi and blue cheese not accompanied by super hot Buffalo wings and beer. They can watch documentaries on war and read the serious sections of the paper with total recall. They wear jeans and sneakers for gardening and football games only, and they don’t voluntarily choose to dine at places that wrap the food in paper. As I understand it, some of them even listen to and love opera.
I am waiting for those chemical enzymes to kick in and transform me from a fairy tale loving, French fry noshing comic book reading plebian into a character out of a Henry James novel; who coifs her hair and wears dark form fitting frocks and speaks in mysteriously compelling short phrases that bewilder and bewitch those around her as she passes through the heathers without stepping into a gopher hole.
It’s not that I haven’t tried to mature. I dutifully checked out Bleak House from the library and read a play each summer from Shakespeare. I keep ordering wine at restaurants but I never finish a glass. I know how to talk about tannins and the deepening flavors and all that, but what I really think when I drink wine is, why didn’t I order a diet coke? I have eaten sushi with friends who love it and survived, but can’t figure out why no one doesn’t just say, “Hey this is a great piece of fish, just give it five minutes in a pan with garlic and olive oil.” I think they’re just trying to avoid doing the pots and pans in the kitchen.
My sister has bought me CD’s of opera, explaining which pieces were her favorites. She has also taken me to drink my first Starbucks, I got a violent headache after three sips. I had a similar reaction to the opera. My husband buys tickets to the symphony. We go. He shuts his eyes to listen. If I shut my eyes, I snore. My music tastes haven’t ever left the early 80’s and high school.
I have taught myself to read the editorial section before I hit up the funnies and the sports, but it’s rather like sitting through math class in High School before lunch. I do it, but only because I ought, and much of the front section just rolls past my brain which is fixated on what happened today in “For Better or Worse.”
So here I am at 41 and I still want big parties on my birthday with wrapped presents and a frosted cake with all the candles. I know the Saturday morning line up my kids watch, and I sneak my TV viewing under the responsible adult headline of “Parental Supervision.” I change the channel if I don’t like the cartoon or its animation. I read comic books inside of real books like “Seven Habits of Highly Successful People” and wear jeans or shorts 350 days out of the year. I don’t own a form fitting frock and I talk in breathless longwinded excited loud sentences. It’s not that I don’t like wine, opera and all things sophisticated; they just aren’t my first preference.
Given the fact that much of my life is lived like a stone that just perpetually skips on the water (never slowing or stopping to sink below the surface), introspection is not one of my strong suits. It requires a quieter mind and spirit than my temperament allows. Yesterday, my son was invited to take a course on manners and etiquette, designed to teach freshmen of high school how to act like the adults they will some day become. As I looked at the requirements that the boys wear jackets and ties, and the girls, dresses and gloves I wondered if one day my kids would grow out of their childhood tastes. I’d be left to go to McDonald’s, watch Disney movies and listen to Duran Duran on my own.
But then I remember, my husband prefers burgers to fois gras, and chocolate shakes to champagne. The other day, he came home with tickets for a baseball game and proposed a camping trip for the 4th of July weekend. After dinner, he asked for ice cream. So I stopped by the bookstore today, and even though, the complete works of Evelyn Waugh were on sale near the front of the store, I picked up the latest Fantastic Four comic for him, and tonight, we’re going to see Kung Fu Panda. Maturity can wait, at least until it feels fun and not like an assignment to eat my broccoli.
I will say though, some of that opera isn’t so bad. Thanks sis.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Cheers in Iowa
You know the Cheer’s test for the Presidency. “Would you sit down and have a beer with the guy?” It’s the “X” factor that determines who voters find attractive and who they don’t.
Back in 2004, no one could visualize John Kerry ever sitting down for a beer at a bar. Watching the poor guy try to eat a Philly cheese steak sandwich with the blue collar regulars was physically painful, whether or not you supported the man married to a Ketchup heiress. Everyone could see George Bush ordering a beer. Bubba –no problem, he’s bringing the keg. Dole, not likely, maybe in his early years.
Because this test is done with every candidate, I thought I’d propose a new test, ala the famous never asked If You were a Tree question of Barbara Walters’ fame, with my speculation about the answers.
For those of you that hate politics, I live just outside the beltway, it's our version of Reality TV and with the writer's strike...
Anyway, feel free to invent your own to suit your own political views, they will be as relevant and meaningful as the Cheers test; they just won’t make the evening news.
If the political candidates were beverages, what would they be?
Giuliani –I thought about a cheap gag like a Manhattan, but Rudi in his hour of glory was like a perfect James Bond Martini, shaken not stirred. He’s still a martini, it’s just I don’t olive him.
Huckabee –Rootbeer. I cannot outdo the master on this, Quark in Deep Space Nine describes the beverage and the Federation in this manner: “Bubbly, cloy. Happy. But here’s the thing... if you drink enough of it, you start to like it.” Insidious, like the Federation…
Romney Like a Pepsi, peevishly sulking at anyone who likes Coke.
Ron Paul: RC cola. People are always surprised that they like it as much as they do, but no one buys it instead.
McCain: You know how microwaving coffee doesn’t make it taste fresh? McCain is like that cup of coffee you put down to answer the phone and then forgot where you put it and found three hours later. You don’t want to nuke it, you want a fresh cup.
Thompson: Water. From the tap. Sitting in a tea cup with a bag of Darjeeling on the side, waiting for some heat. No one’s interested in drinking it. Not even him.
Hunter: Caffiene Free Generic Brand Diet Soda. You can drink it but in heaven's name why?
Tancredo: Tab. Didn't even know it was still served in some places.
Clinton: It would be so easy to do something with bitters or a vodka stinger, but the truth is, she’s like triple expresso straight. No sugar, no cream, no enhanced flavorings to soften the pure hit of hot dark stuff that causes uncontrolled tremors for hours. You will spend the night sleepless.
Obama: Barrack may be more likable than the Hilster but he has the same policy ideas with a younger hipper more palatable package. Ergo, he’s like a starbucks Venti cappachino with an extra shot of syrup and cream. You’ll look cool. It will cost a lot, and you’ll still shake afterwards, but it goes down better.
Edwards: A Wine cooler who thinks he’s champagne. Artificially enhanced air infused wine with a splashy marketing technique. So 80's it's wrong. Everyone thinks they like such things…until they drink them.
Kucinich: Ovaltine. He thinks he’s Hot Chocolate. He thinks he’s popular. I don’t know a soul who says, “More Ovaltine Please!” without receiving a large check as compensation.
Richardson: Remember Urban Cowboy? It was supposed to do for Country Western what Saturday Night Fever did for Discothèques. They even had a brand of mechanical bull and a brand name beer lined up for the surge in Gilly’s across the nation. It never happened. No one knows what an America run by Richardson would be like, but you can bet his two supporters probably have been drinking Richardson’s last stash of Gilly beer.
Dodd: Pepsi One, taste like Pepsi, less of a caffiene hit than warm milk, can't order it anywhere and nobody asks for it by name.
Gravel: Who? Guessing here. Store brand diet soda. Invisible, undesirable, unpalatable.
Biden: Red Bull. It has energy, it has caffeine. It has a lousy slogan and no one willingly chugs this stuff unless they have to pull an all-nighter in college to finish a big term paper.
Waitress at the diner in Iowa: "Now, what will you have?"
“Diet Coke please.”
Back in 2004, no one could visualize John Kerry ever sitting down for a beer at a bar. Watching the poor guy try to eat a Philly cheese steak sandwich with the blue collar regulars was physically painful, whether or not you supported the man married to a Ketchup heiress. Everyone could see George Bush ordering a beer. Bubba –no problem, he’s bringing the keg. Dole, not likely, maybe in his early years.
Because this test is done with every candidate, I thought I’d propose a new test, ala the famous never asked If You were a Tree question of Barbara Walters’ fame, with my speculation about the answers.
For those of you that hate politics, I live just outside the beltway, it's our version of Reality TV and with the writer's strike...
Anyway, feel free to invent your own to suit your own political views, they will be as relevant and meaningful as the Cheers test; they just won’t make the evening news.
If the political candidates were beverages, what would they be?
Giuliani –I thought about a cheap gag like a Manhattan, but Rudi in his hour of glory was like a perfect James Bond Martini, shaken not stirred. He’s still a martini, it’s just I don’t olive him.
Huckabee –Rootbeer. I cannot outdo the master on this, Quark in Deep Space Nine describes the beverage and the Federation in this manner: “Bubbly, cloy. Happy. But here’s the thing... if you drink enough of it, you start to like it.” Insidious, like the Federation…
Romney Like a Pepsi, peevishly sulking at anyone who likes Coke.
Ron Paul: RC cola. People are always surprised that they like it as much as they do, but no one buys it instead.
McCain: You know how microwaving coffee doesn’t make it taste fresh? McCain is like that cup of coffee you put down to answer the phone and then forgot where you put it and found three hours later. You don’t want to nuke it, you want a fresh cup.
Thompson: Water. From the tap. Sitting in a tea cup with a bag of Darjeeling on the side, waiting for some heat. No one’s interested in drinking it. Not even him.
Hunter: Caffiene Free Generic Brand Diet Soda. You can drink it but in heaven's name why?
Tancredo: Tab. Didn't even know it was still served in some places.
Clinton: It would be so easy to do something with bitters or a vodka stinger, but the truth is, she’s like triple expresso straight. No sugar, no cream, no enhanced flavorings to soften the pure hit of hot dark stuff that causes uncontrolled tremors for hours. You will spend the night sleepless.
Obama: Barrack may be more likable than the Hilster but he has the same policy ideas with a younger hipper more palatable package. Ergo, he’s like a starbucks Venti cappachino with an extra shot of syrup and cream. You’ll look cool. It will cost a lot, and you’ll still shake afterwards, but it goes down better.
Edwards: A Wine cooler who thinks he’s champagne. Artificially enhanced air infused wine with a splashy marketing technique. So 80's it's wrong. Everyone thinks they like such things…until they drink them.
Kucinich: Ovaltine. He thinks he’s Hot Chocolate. He thinks he’s popular. I don’t know a soul who says, “More Ovaltine Please!” without receiving a large check as compensation.
Richardson: Remember Urban Cowboy? It was supposed to do for Country Western what Saturday Night Fever did for Discothèques. They even had a brand of mechanical bull and a brand name beer lined up for the surge in Gilly’s across the nation. It never happened. No one knows what an America run by Richardson would be like, but you can bet his two supporters probably have been drinking Richardson’s last stash of Gilly beer.
Dodd: Pepsi One, taste like Pepsi, less of a caffiene hit than warm milk, can't order it anywhere and nobody asks for it by name.
Gravel: Who? Guessing here. Store brand diet soda. Invisible, undesirable, unpalatable.
Biden: Red Bull. It has energy, it has caffeine. It has a lousy slogan and no one willingly chugs this stuff unless they have to pull an all-nighter in college to finish a big term paper.
Waitress at the diner in Iowa: "Now, what will you have?"
“Diet Coke please.”
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