Last night,
George Carlin passed away, and I can't get his voice out of my head. Sure, he was vulgar and crude and cursed like, well, me. And yes, he abused drugs and alcohol and life in general, but he had kind eyes. He reminded me of an eccentric great uncle that I may or may not have ever had, as my great uncles only spoke French and pinched my cheeks. But the laughs were about the same. The Seven Dirty Words vs. humorous attempts in broken English to try and get a sentence out... tough call really.
My stepfather had every recording he ever made on vinyl and we'd huddle around and listen to him as a family. You know, instead of wholesome TV shows with lessons and family charades. And friends have the nerve to ask me why I am so crazy!
It's all thanks to George and general dysfunction.
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