Where good taste, clear and distinct ideas, and graceful modulations tend to be viewed with lowering suspicion.
Aw c'mon, George's humor was never ill. - Sheila Lennon.
Labels: carlin, language abuse, New York Times, sheila lennon
posted by Tom Matrullo at Monday, June 23, 2008
One of my earliest, still accessible childhood memories - if are such things as memories, rather than the memory of memories, is of listening, from an exile down the hall, to my father and uncle snickering during a spin of Carlin's "Class Clown" on one those huge wooden console stereos they used to mass-produce in the sixties. Next day, home from school, pawing through the record stack, plotting an opportunity for me and my brother to listen.I don't know why they call him counterculture - he was working class, late-bloomed into hippiedom like the rest, the funny fucker you knew from the warehouse, the taxi-stand or the nursing home, only times ten.
He was that, but I guess he crossed the line - the magic media line from taxi-stand to stage and said 'fuck' and that rendered him counterkultur because how else could officialdom shut him down/up? There is the rub with memory - do we remember or remember remembering? The memory of George's mummery, the mummification of mind's mammary.
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one of the mistakes was my language...
attention of media, media of attention
no shit, shyballs
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