A Carlin Home Companion (33 page)

Once my third year at Pacifica began, classroom time was over. It was time to focus on my thesis. Starting in the fall of 2003, I began to work on
Music for the Mourning: A Film of Song and Rebirth.
Just as Maureen Murdock had predicted, I became enchanted with the Demeter/Persephone myth. I needed to continue my exploration of my relationship with my mother and her death, and my thesis gave me a chance to do just that. And just as I'd hoped from the beginning, I did an art project for my thesis—I wrote a screenplay. I wrote a musical using the lyrics of modern songs (à la Baz Luhrmann) while weaving together the stories of Demeter/Persephone with the story of my losing my mother to cancer. I bet no one has ever pitched
that
to Warner Bros.!

Although the academic aspect of the thesis could be a bit dry, I loved doing the research into the myth and its psychological underpinnings, and studying what others had written about the mother/daughter relationship and the process of mourning. In my thesis I was able to examine the process of grief, and reveal that, although it is filled with feelings of loss and pain, endings do eventually lead to new beginnings, if you are conscious enough to allow it. If you can weather the storm, rebirth can come from death.

But the best part of the process was writing the musical. I let the music of Johnny Cash, Blue Oyster Cult, U2, Paul Simon, and a host of others weave a tapestry of image and story. The academic piece took me five months to research and write. The screenplay took me ten days. It shot out of me like an arrow of love. It was a great feeling of accomplishment. And a huge relief.

I was fulfilled creatively, spiritually, and intellectually. And the bonus—I was no longer obsessed about my career in showbiz. I no longer lived under the shadow of my dad's fame and accomplishments. I had my own now. I was finally busy with my own life.

*   *   *

Dad, as usual, was busy, too. In 2001, the year I'd started school, he'd published his second book,
Napalm and Silly Putty,
and taped his twelfth HBO special,
Complaints and Grievances.
None of which I paid much attention to due to the fact that I was now in school. That year Dad also shot another film with Kevin Smith,
Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back
, in which he played a hitchhiker willing to give a blow job for a ride. Dad loved that Kevin had written that for him.

Then, in 2002, Dad started to have some new symptoms with his heart. Twice he was hospitalized while on the road because he was getting rapid heartbeats and some arrhythmia. Nothing was worse than getting a call from him that started, “Hey, Kiddo. I'm at the emergency room.” My stomach would tighten, and then I would breathe half a sigh of relief knowing that at least he was at a hospital, and no one was rushing him into an operating room yet. Still, there was always the reality in the back of my mind, knowing that his heart, after three heart attacks and multiple angioplasties, wasn't shipshape.

The arrhythmia eventually got so bad that Dad's cardiologist, Dr. Buchbinder, decided that he'd be a good candidate for an ablation—a procedure that is used to fix heart rhythm issues, so he sent him to a specialist—Dr. Swerdlow.

In May 2003, Bob, Sally, and I sat in the waiting room at Cedars-Sinai waiting for the doctor to come out to tell us that Dad was done and all was good. This scene felt both familiar and yet new. Too many times I'd sat in this hospital's or St. John's waiting rooms anxious to see a doctor walk out with a smile on his face after some procedure, and tell us how great Dad was doing. But what was different this time was that Mom wasn't here. It had always been Mom and me waiting for the doctor. Even though it'd be nerve racking, I'd feel okay because in those situations, my mom was a rock. No matter what might have happened during the procedure, she'd be strong and ready to ask the doctors all the right questions. She held the space so firmly and calmly.

But now I had to be the rock not only for me but for Sally, too. Sally was a nervous wreck. She hadn't yet had to deal with Dad's heart stuff. Because Dad always underplayed it so well, I'm not sure how deeply she understood the extent of his heart disease. But today the reality was in her face. And in mine. We were all on pins and needles because the ablation was only supposed to take about an hour and a half, and we were now in hour number three.

Finally, after four hours, the doctor came out. His face was sheet-white. My heart dropped.
Oh shit. Oh fuck
.

“Is everything okay?” I asked anxiously.

“Oh yes. He's fine. He's fine,” he quickly answered. “Can we sit a minute?”

Fuck
. “Yeah, sure,” I said as my heart pounded out of my chest.

“Everything went well, for the most part. Sorry it took so much time. It's just that we had to go really slow. You see, his heart is being held together with scaffolding—with all the stents and scar tissue.” He drew a little picture of the heart and what he'd done to Dad. Then he took a beat and said, “You do know that it's a miracle he's alive every day?” he added.

I knew his heart was not in great shape. I knew that he had a few stents in his heart that kept the arteries from closing or collapsing. And I knew he took a handful of heart pills a few times a day that kept his blood thin, blood pressure even, and heart rhythm consistent. For twenty-five years I had been dreading that phone call in the middle of the night from my mom or Jerry telling me that Dad had died onstage in bum-fuck Iowa. But I never let the idea that he might die any day take hold in my mind. For decades I had managed to put
that
reality in a box and hide it high on a shelf inside my psyche. Now, with this doctor's words rattling inside of me, I knew that I had to take that box down and open it.

Dad's days were numbered.

*   *   *

On May 29, 2004, I graduated from Pacifica. Dad had cleared his schedule months beforehand so he would be certain that he could come to the commencement, and I was beyond thrilled. He was giddy, too. As we drove up to the campus he said, “This is a great little car.”

“We just got it a few months ago,” I said. Bob and I had bought our first car together—a Mercedes wagon—a German tank for safety, with a roof rack for camping.

“I want to get it for you,” his mood expansive. “Let me pay it off for you. As a gift, for all your hard work.”

Bob stiffened. He was never comfortable with my dad paying for anything. I ignored this and said to my dad, “Are you sure?” It's not that I didn't respect Bob's stance. I did, and had weaned myself off of the daddy dole the last few years. It's just that I could hear in my dad's voice how much he wanted to do this for me.

“Yes, of course. I'd really like to do this for you,” Dad answered.

I reached forward from the backseat and touched Dad's arm on the armrest. “That would be very nice, Dad. Thank you,” I said. He patted my hand with a strong hand, like he did when he wanted to communicate that he loved me more than he could say.

The commencement ceremony was on Pacifica's main campus, an estate on the border between Carpinteria and Montecito near Santa Barbara. It was gorgeous. As I sat among my peers on a beautiful June day looking out from the stage, I could see my dad in the crowd, beaming with pride. He sat with Bob, our dear friend Theresa, and her sister Sue. Every few minutes I could see that he was also taking notes. Turns out he was scribbling down all the New Age vernacular people were using to describe their “journeys, through the labyrinth of the sacred and collective space that Pacifica” provided. He was taking notes for a future bit on language.

A few months later Dad was on
Leno.
While he sat on the panel, he mentioned to Jay that I'd just gotten my master's in psychology. I nearly fell out of bed. My dad never talked about our family or personal life onstage or on TV. Never. I welled up. I couldn't believe he was talking about his real life. That's when I knew for sure that he was so proud of me—because he said it on TV. Dad was proud because not only was I the first Carlin to graduate college, but now the first to get a master's degree. This really meant something to him. Because he'd dropped out of school in ninth grade, he'd even admitted that he'd spent his entire life trying to prove how clever he was to the very things he hated—institutions. He'd wanted their acceptance, and through me I think he finally got it. He felt empowered by my accomplishments, just like I had, well—since forever.

*   *   *

After graduation I continued at my second internship, which had started in the fall of 2003. I planned on staying until I figured out if this life as a therapist was for me. I was now at a nonprofit run by one of my favorite teachers at Pacifica, Pat Katsky. I wanted to be her when I grew up. She'd been one of the women at Pacifica who had remothered me. If I was going to be doing this therapist thing, I at least wanted to be surrounded by other Jungians, both interns and supervisors, who understood my schooling and orientation. Plus being at Pat's place kept me connected to my bliss and my new life that I'd created outside the business.

The center did sliding-scale counseling, and I got a wide array of clients to begin with—thankfully a general group of mostly neurotic, anxious people just like me. But soon I got clients who were even
more
like me. As they say in the therapy business, you eventually get the clients you really need—the ones who will stretch you and make you face your own unconscious issues. My schedule became filled with stand-up comedians, comedy writers, and actors.

It started with one stand-up, then another, and then pretty soon, my whole practice was filled with a bunch of people in the biz. I even had the child of a famous comedian as a client. Talk about getting the clients you need.
Wow!
It was like I was looking in a mirror every day.

For the first year it was fun and very fulfilling. I knew I was making a difference in my clients' lives. I was helping them get over stage fright, tackling the roller coaster ride of going on auditions and living the life of a freelancer in Hollywood. Together we were shifting their perspectives to handle the vicissitudes of being a creative soul in a soulless business. I was deeply honored to be a handrail along their circuitous path of life. To witness them as they went from feeling powerless and lost to taking bold steps toward their dreams filled me with feelings of purpose and love.

But soon, while driving home on the 405 from the office, I'd find myself fantasizing about being on a stage again. The longings I'd put aside when I walked off the stage after my solo show were bubbling up. I had more to say to the world. I had more stories to tell. I wanted to be seen and heard again.

Was this just my ego? Was I just afraid to live a life out of the limelight? I was irritated by these longings. I had felt so free while in grad school, not having to deal with my showbiz ambitions, and now here they were again, trying to ruin everything.

Why can't I just be happy as a therapist?

Plus I was
good
at being a therapist. My clients were thriving, and my practice was expanding. I liked the work. Well, more specifically, I liked the work while I was doing it, actually sitting in the room with my clients. And I liked the idea of the work. I loved having a solid answer to the question, What do you do? I'm a therapist. It sounded so damn official, grown-up, and normal.

But when I thought about spending the next four years in the small, poorly lit, horribly decorated office in Van Nuys accumulating hours for my licensing while I supported other writers, comedians, and actors in reaching their creative dreams, I became depressed and filled with despair. I knew there was only one thing I could do.

I had to write and perform again.

 

CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR

Long and Winding Road

J
UST AFTER
T
HANKSGIVING
2005, I got a shocking phone call from my dad:

“Hey, Kiddo. I wanted to let you know. I'm going up to Promises in Malibu tomorrow for a thirty-day rehab stay.”

“Uh, okay.” Perplexed, I asked, “You okay?” He'd quit cocaine decades ago. I was confused.

“Yeah, I've just been binge-drinking red wine while on the road, and taking a few more Vicodin than I know is good for me. I just want to take care of this once and for all.”

At age sixty-eight, I guess my dad was finally ready to go from sober-ish to sober.

I didn't think to ask him, Why this week? But looking back, I wonder if a little incident during his show the month before at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas played a role.

While onstage doing a new bit about suicide bombings and beheadings, Dad had started complaining, to himself mostly, that he couldn't wait to get out of “this fucking hotel” and Las Vegas. He stated that he wanted to go back east, “where the real people are.”

This wasn't a new theme for him. Dad hated Vegas. More specifically he hated Vegas audiences. They just weren't “his” audiences. Maybe about a quarter of the people in the audience each night were hard-core Carlin fans, but the rest either couldn't get into that night's Cirque du Soleil show or thought it might be fun to see that guy who used to do the “Hippie-Dippie Weatherman.”

He continued his rant. “People who go to Las Vegas, you've got to question their fucking intellect to start with. Traveling hundreds and thousands of miles to essentially give your money to a large corporation is kind of fucking moronic. That's what I'm always getting here is these kind of fucking people with very limited intellects.”

An audience member shouted, “Stop degrading us!”

Dad, unable to hear what they'd said, responded with, “Thank you very much, whatever that was. I hope it was positive; if not, well, blow me.”

Whenever I saw him perform in Vegas, I always had mixed emotions. When about a third of the audience would clear out during his more shocking material, I'd cringe. No one wants to see that. But at the same time another part of me was emboldened. I agreed with Dad—fuck 'em if they can't deal with it. Comics who came by to see his set would stand in the back, trying to guess how many people would leave on any given night. They got a real kick out of it. He was their hero.