I saw Carlin in ‘95
My birthday gift at 17 was a ticket to George Carlin’s show at the Civic Arts Auditorium in Thousand Oaks. From the first joke, the man made me laugh harder and angrier and more tear-jerking laughter than I have to this day. To a kid still figuring out what brand of non-conformist to be, Carlin was a superhero.
During the show, as I was able, I transcribed his jokes to the empty spaces in my program, sometimes illegibly as I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Had I been able to find that program when I looked for it this morning, I’d have scanned it and treated you to my approximation of his joke about officious assholes telling you to describe something in your own words. If you used your own words, it’d come out something like “ix quat bwondo flury kooo.” Otherwise, it’s all someone else’s words, man.
So thanks, George Carlin, even though you’re dead and can’t read this, for entertaining me that night and saving me from awfulness.
And I quote the prophet Rufus, as voiced by you: Be excellent to each other.
