Brain Droppings (3 page)

Of course, living in the South was never an option—the main problem being they have too much respect for authority; they’re soldier-sniffers and cop lovers. I don’t respect that, and I could never live with it. There’s also way too much religion in the South to be consistent with good mental health.

Still, I love traveling down there, especially when I’m in the mood for a quick trip to the thirteenth century. I’m not someone who buys all that “New South” shit you hear; I judge a place by the number of lynchings they’ve had, overall. Atlanta even found it necessary to come up with an

apologetic civic slogan: Atlanta: The City Too Busy to Hate. I think they’re trying to tell us something.

There’s also the communications problem. I have trouble understanding Southerners. Some of them sound like they’re chewing on a dick. And I really have nothing against them individually; one by one they can be quite charming. But when you take them as a whole, there’s some really dangerous genetic material floating around down there.

So, I live in Los Angeles, and it’s kind of a goofy place. They have an airport named after John Wayne. That ought to explain it. It has a charming kind of superstitious innocence.

But if you really want to understand life in California, forget the grief clinics and yogaholics. Forget biofeedback, Feldenkrais, neurolinguistic programming, and the Alexander technique.

Disregard spirit guides, centering groups, dream workshops, bioenergetics, pyramid energy, and primal therapy.

Ignore centering, fasting, Rolfing, grounding, channeling, rebirthing, nurturing, self-parenting, and colon cleansing.

And don’t even think about polarity work, inversion swings, flower essences, guided synchronicity, harmonic brain wave synergy, and psychocalisthenics.

You also need pay no attention to nude volleyball, spinach therapy, white wine hot tubs, jogging on hot coals, and the people who sing Christmas carols to zoo animals.

Forget all that. The only thing you have to know about California is this: They have traffic school for chocaholics.
Okay?
California is the only place where you might hear someone

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say, “Jason can’t come to the phone, he’s taking his wind lesson.”

The problem most New Yorkers have with Los Angeles is that it is fragmented and lacks a vital center. The people have no common experience. Instead, they exude a kind of bemused detachment that renders them intensely uninteresting. The West Coast experience is soft and peripheral, New York is hard and concentrated. California is a small woman saying, “Fuck me.” New York is a large man saying, “Fuck you!”

Still, I live in California. But I’m not “laid-back,” and I’m certainly not “mellow.” I associate those qualities with the comatose. The solar system wasn’t formed because matter was laid-back; life didn’t arise from the oceans and humans descend from the trees because DNA was mellow. It happened because of something called energy.

New York has energy, and all I can say is this: If you can’t handle it, stay the fuck out. Living in New York is a character-builder; you must know who you are, what you’re doing, where you’re going, and how to get there. No bullshit tolerated! New York people are tough and resilient. All the rest of you are varying degrees of soft.

Most outsiders can’t handle New York, so they wind up back in Big Loins, Arkansas, badmouthing The City for the rest of their lives. Actually, most of the people who run New York down have never been there. And if they ever went, we would destroy them in nine minutes. People hate New York, because that’s where the action is, and they know it’s passing them by. Most of the decisions that control people’s lives are made in New York City. Not in Washington, not on Pennsylvania

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Avenue. In New York City! Madison Avenue and Wall Street. People can’t handle that. Pisses ‘em off. Fuck ‘em!

And I’m really glad the Yankees humiliated the Braves in the World Series. I’m glad the gritty, tough, Third-World, streetwise New York culture triumphed over the soft, suburban, wholesome, white-Christian, tacky mall culture of Atlanta. Overgrown small towns like Atlanta have no business in the major leagues in the first place.

Concerning L.A. versus New York: I have now lived half my life in each of America’s two most hated, feared, and envied cities, and you want to know something? There’s no comparison. New York even has a better class of assholes. Even the lames in New York have a certain appealing, dangerous quality.

As an example of how hopeless California is, when I first got there, a policeman gave me a ticket for jaywalking. You have to understand the kind of people who live in California. They are willing to stand, passive and inert, on a curb, when absolutely no traffic is coming, or maybe just a little traffic that could easily be dodged. They simply stand there obediently and wait for an electric light to give them permission to proceed. I couldn’t believe this cop. I laughed at him. The ticket cost me about twenty dollars in 1966. Since that time, I figure I have jaywalked an additional thousand times or so without being caught. Fuck that lame-ass cop! I’ve managed to prorate that ticket down to about two cents a jaywalk.

One thing I find appealing in California is the emphasis on driving. I like to drive, I’m skillful at it, and I do it aggressively. And I don’t mean I scream at people or flash them the finger. I simply go about my passage swiftly and silently,

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with a certain deliberate, dark efficiency. In the land of the h unassertive, the aggressive man is king.
Of course, in Los Angeles, everything is based on driving, even the killings. In New York, most people don’t have cars, so if you want to kill a person, you have to take the subway A to their house. And sometimes on the way, the train is delayed and you get impatient, so you have to kill someone k on the subway. That’s why there are so many subway murders; no one has a car. Basically, if more people in New York had cars, the subways would be a lot safer.

I hope you can tell, the Apple is still number one in my heart. I’m so chauvinistic, I even root for New York to raise more money than Los Angeles on the Arthritis Telethon. And 4 we usually do.

California: bordering always on the Pacific and sometimes on the ridiculous. So, why do I live here?
Because the sun goes down a block from my house.

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StiAll T0WH5
Tou know you’re in a small town lite
yt The restaurant closes at lunch so the waitress can go home and eat.
H The mayor’s nickname is “Greasy Dick” and besides appearing on the ballot, it also appears on his driver’s license.

The fashion boutique/post office is located in one corner of the hardware store between the used milking machines and the pay toilet.

The police station is closed evenings and weekends, but they leave lit the sign that gives the time and temperature.

The newspaper prints the crossword puzzle on the front page above the fold, and prints the answers just below.

The zip code has three digits and features a decimal point.

The Narcotics Anonymous chapter has only one member, and he’s strung out on ranch dressing.

I’ve begun worshipping the sun for a number of reasons. First of all, unlike some other gods I could mention, I can see the sun. It’s there for me every day. And the things it brings me are quite apparent all the time: heat, light, food, a lovely day. There’s no mystery, no one asks for money, I don’t have to dress up, and there’s no boring pageantry. And interestingly enough, I have found that the prayers I offer to the sun and the prayers I formerly offered to “God” are all answered at about the same 50-percent rate.

A Whatever happened to Eddie? Where did he go? Seems
like he was just here. And where’s Billy? And Bobby and Jackie and John? Jimmy, Paul, Vinny, Tom, and Charlie? And Richie? Where did they go?

And where the fuck did Cameron come from? And Jordan and Justin and Shane and Parker? Tucker, Tyler,
A Taylor, Carter, Flynn, Blake, and Cody? Who let these people

GEORGE CARLIN
in? Brett? Brent? Blair? Cassidy? Where are all these goofy h names coming from? Say what you will about the national candidates in 1996, at least they had the decency to be named Bill, Bob, Al, and Jack.
The popularity of first names is perishable; they pass in
b and out of favor. Occasionally, newspapers will print the most
popular names given to babies that year, and they’re never
K the same as years before. You don’t run into many little girls
named Bertha or Edith. Nor are there a lot of Netties, Effies,
Opals, Hopes, or Pearls floatin’ around the day care. Ditto
Ethel, Nellie, Myrtle, Agatha, and Mabel. And how many
expectant parents are praying for a girl so they can name her
Blanche, Clara, Agnes, or Lottie? None. You know why?
4 Because most of those women are in nursing homes.

But thanks to the “trendies”—and the sheer passage of time—someday our substandard nursing homes will be filled with Ambers, Kaylas, Tiffanys, Caitlins, Morgans, Courtneys, Whitneys, Cheyennes, Ashleys, Megans, Brittanys, and Heathers. And that’s not to overlook Judi, ” Lori, Suzi, Debi, Keli, and Wendi, and any other name that can conceiveably be spelled with a final “i.”

There are even some girls whose names don’t end in “y” who can’t resist that trend: “Hi, my name is Margaret, but \ somehow, I spell it with an ‘i.”
There are women named Faith, Hope, Joy, and Prudence.
Why not Despair, Guilt, Rage, and Grief? It seems only right.
; “Tom, I’d like you to meet the girl of my dreams, Tragedy.”
‘ These days, Trajedi.
I had an uncle who was embarassed because he had a

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woman’s name. We told him not to worry, lots of men have 6 women’s names: Leslie, Marion, Chris, Dale, Lonnie. We tried
to reassure him. But old Uncle Margaret Mary … I guess he
just couldn’t handle it. I don’t know why, it never bothered

his wife, Turk.
^ Do you know why hurricanes have names instead of

numbers? To keep the killing personal. No one cares about a k bunch of people killed by a number. “200 Dead as Number
Three Slams Ashore” is not nearly as interesting a headline
as “Charlie Kills 200.” Death is much more satisfying and
entertaining if you personalize it.
Me, I’m still waitin’ for Hurricane Ed. Old Ed wouldn’t

hurt ya, would he? Sounds kinda friendly. “Hell no, we ain’t 4§ evacuatin’. Ed’s comin’!”
Guess the white guy: Odell, Tyrone, Tremaine, and Sparky. Guess the black girl: Cathy, Joan, Peggy, and Vondella. First names can even suggest how tough you are. Who would you want on your side in a bar fight? Arnold, Seymour,
0 Jasper, and Percy? Or Nitro, Hacksaw, Rhino, and Skull?

And, guys, which women would you rather run into when you’re out drinking: Lillian, Priscilla, and Judith? Or Trixie, Bubbles, and Candy?
1 The Kennedy family changed William Kennedy Smith’s
first name in order to influence the outcome of his rape trial.
They changed it from Willie to Will because guys named
Will hardly ever go to jail, while America’s prisons are chock
full of Willies. Will is all-American, Willie is … well, just
ask Michael Dukakis.

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GEORGE CARLIN
Through all these years, I have kept alive my one rema}n_
6 ing childhood Catholic fantasy: I’m hoping that someday a
new pope will choose the name Corky. Just once in my \tf^ j
want to look up at that balcony and see His Holinessj Pope
Corky IX. I think you’d have to skip straight to nine 10 give
$ him a little credibility, don’t you? Somehow, Pope Coi-ky the

First doesn’t command a great deal of authority.
K That’s because some names are inappropriate in the wrong
settings. You won’t find many Schuyler Vanderpools t)iowin’
into a harmonica on death row; no one in need of brain
surgery is breakin’ down the door to see Dr. Lucky l4pSnitz;
and I’m sure only the most devoted aficionado wovjd pay
money to see a ballet dancer named Bruno McNulty.
0 On the other hand, you’ll know that America has relaxed
its hopelessly tight asshole if we someday elect a pi-esident
named Booger. If we ever get a president named Booger,
Skeeter, T-Bone, or Downtown President Brown, you’ll know
that finally this country is a relaxed, comfortable place to live.
. The point is, there are emotional values that attach to
names; they carry psychological baggage. Just thinly of the Old West. I’m sure if Billy the Kid’s name had been ty[\\y the Schmuck, people wouldn’t have been afraid.

“Who’s that ridin’ into town?”
^ “Billy the Schmuck.”
“Oh. Well, fuck ‘im!”

Would anyone have paid to see a Wild West shoiw if the star attraction was Buffalo Shecky?

Using this approach, western movies would have been completely unbelievable:

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“Hey, Shemp! Go get Sheriff Quackenbush, there’s gonna be trouble. Two-Gun Noodleman and Wild Bill Swackhammer are drunk, and they’re lookin’ for Deadeye Stoopnagle.”

This also applies to the legendary criminals of the thirties. Do you think the police would’ve spent a lot of time looking ^ for Pretty Boy Heffleflekker?

And what about Jack the Ripper? If his name had been K Wally, I don’t think people would have been afraid to walk the streets of London. Not if they thought Wally the Ripper was on the loose.

“Who’s that? Wally who? Wally the Ripper? Ha-ha-ha-ha! Really? Wally the Ripper, indeed! Ha-ha-ha-ha!”
Religion presents an interesting situation. Jerry Falwell; it’s
0 simply an absurd name for a clergyman. The last person in the
world I’m going to believe has an inside track with God is some
guy named Jerry. Can you imagine the supreme being, in the
middle of the night, “Jerry! Wake up. I got some revelations.”
On the other hand, the founders of the major religions had
. names that seem quite suitable. There’s still a certain mystery
surrounding the names Buddha, Moses, and Mohammed. But
the poor Mormons. All they could come up with was Joseph
Smith. Not too impressive.