A Carlin Home Companion (4 page)

Who wouldn't be, upon the realization that her father was stuck inside a box?

But now that I was four, I had gotten the hang of this TV thing. I no longer ran from the TV screaming when he was on, and I even got to stay up late to watch him when he was on at night. I still didn't understand exactly what the TV box was or exactly how my dad got in it, but I knew that was where he sometimes worked.

I loved to watch cartoons—Bugs Bunny, The Flintstones, The Jetsons—but my favorite show was
Hobo Kelly,
which wasn't a cartoon but a local children's show, and it was special. First of all the star was named Kelly. In all my four years on Planet Earth, I had never met another Kelly, and here was one living in the TV box, the very same TV box where my daddy worked.

But the real reason Hobo Kelly was the best was that every day she sent birthday presents to kids through the TV. She'd announce a name, “Billy Rogers in Encino, Happy Birthday!” And then the real magic began. Next she'd say, “Go look under your parents' bed!” Hobo Kelly sent a birthday present whooshing through the air. It would spin and fly on the screen.

When I got home from school one day, my mom handed me two Chips Ahoy cookies, and said, “Why don't you go and watch
Hobo Kelly
?” I sat through the whole show, thinking nothing of it, and then at the end she said, “Kelly Carlin in Beverly Hills, Happy Birthday! Go look under your parents' bed!” And
Whoosh
the present spun and flew through the air. Once I realized that Hobo Kelly was really talking to
me
, I leaped up, flew up the stairs to my parents' bedroom, and practically threw myself under the bed.

And there it was—a perfectly wrapped present. Magic. Pure magic.

Hobo Kelly had sent me a present through the air! And not just any present but the perfect present—it was a set of Colorforms just like we had at school, and now I had my very own. My mom played her part perfectly, looking as shocked as I was as I ripped open the wrapping, “Look at that! Colorforms! Hobo Kelly knew exactly what you wanted!” I beamed and basked in the perfection of it all.

All during this time things were moving ahead with my dad's career. After the
Kraft Summer Music Hall
gig wrapped in the summer of 1966, Dad moved right into step three of the big “Danny Kaye plan”—becoming an actor. He played Marlo Thomas's agent, “George Lester,” in an episode of
That Girl
. He quickly discovered what a pain in the ass acting was—he had to say other people's words while hitting marks for cameras, and then sit around for hours and hours until his brain atrophied from boredom, only to do it all again. He began to have serious doubts about this acting stuff.

Luckily he was also getting more TV spots. He was on the
Merv Griffin
and
Mike Douglas
shows, and in the summer of 1967, he landed another run on a summer-replacement show—
Away We Go,
with Buddy Greco and Buddy Rich. Most of the time he relied on his usual schtick, the bits that got him the jobs in the first place—the famous “Hippie-Dippie Weatherman” and “Indian Sergeant” routines. The TV hosts and producers loved those bits, and the gigs paid the bills, so he couldn't really complain. But he was getting bored with it all. He wasn't evolving as an artist, or getting to try out the new stuff he was writing. Even when he brought new stuff to the table, they'd say, “Just do that ‘Hippie-Dippie' thing.”

At least there was one saving grace—when he got to work with someone like Buddy Rich, the world-famous jazz drummer, there was plenty of good weed to go around.

With Mom and Dad doing their parts to create our American Dream, I did mine, too. My mom knew that spending too much time with only adults was not good for me. I needed friends and mental stimulation. So I was off to school—a Montessori school—at the age of four. Montessori was a school that allowed children to explore reading, writing, and 'rithmetic at their own pace. It let you find your own way into your own learning. Mom had prepared me well. Around the time I was two years old, she'd started teaching me my letters and numbers with beautiful flash cards she'd made by hand. I could dutifully recite the alphabet on request with only a slight misstep around the
w
. Regardless of what all the adults said, I
knew
that it must be pronounced “double-doo.”

Though I was armed with a lunch box full of my favorite foods—a sandwich of Oscar Mayer bologna with Miracle Whip on Wonder Bread, Oreo cookies, and carrot sticks—my first day of school did not go as planned. As my mom backed out the door with all the other young mothers waving and smiling, thrilled to have a few hours of freedom in their day, I panicked. I realized I was not going with her.

I was positive that if my mom left, she might never return. My thoughts began to race along with my heart—
What if she set her hair on fire again? Then I would be left here forever with these strangers because Daddy was somewhere on an airplane. And I don't know where he is!

I immediately leaped at my mom and clutched her leg. I held on for my very life. And then the tears came and came and came. I was inconsolable.

Finally the teacher, Miss Morgan, said to my mom, “I know it may be hard, but in the long run it's best if you just make a clean break and leave. She'll settle in eventually.”

I heard this and thought,
Oh, yeah? We'll see about that!

I did not “settle in.”

Every morning as my mom tried to leave I cried and clung. Once she left, I transferred my clinging to Miss Morgan and followed her around the classroom. When she walked, I walked. When she sat, I sat—on her lap. I was cling wrap. She was a saint.

Eventually I realized that (
a
) my mom was going to keep dropping me off at this godforsaken place no matter what; (
b
) she was somehow managing to survive without me; and (
c
) she came back every afternoon to pick me up.

After two weeks I grudgingly settled in.

And
boy,
did I settle in. I quickly figured out what this place called school was all about. Sure there was playing “Red Light, Green Light” at recess, or finger painting in the afternoon, or even learning to peel a carrot (which I must admit was a bit of a revelation). But really, it was all about knowing the right answers. Seeing the happy look on Miss Morgan's face when I got a question right was pure bliss. Being first with my hand up and having the right answer, and making no mistakes in my reading and writing book, became imperatives for me. I felt the charge of having power over something.

Although I felt confident now about the things happening
inside
the classroom, I felt lost on the playground. It was like I was living slightly outside it all. “Wanna play jacks?” Lisa, a girl in plaid pants, asked me the first week at school.

“Sure. You go first,” I said, not knowing what jacks were, but also not wanting to let that fact be known.
Did I miss the day where they explain all of this to you? Is there some manual I'm missing?
I never let on about my ignorance. I knew I'd be seen as stupid if I didn't pretend that I knew what was going on. So I faked it.

*   *   *

Because of Mom's hostess days at the Racquet Club, she loved to entertain, and now that she had a big house to do it in, she decided to throw a party—a surprise party for my dad's birthday. Parties and holidays gave her a purpose—eggs to devil, celery sticks to stuff with cream cheese, and decorations to hang. When coordinating an event or a project, my mother was in her full stride and glory.

I was especially excited about this party because not only had I never been involved in such a production, we were going to surprise my daddy. My mom gathered a few old friends (Elaine from the Racquet Club, along with her new husband, Bill Brennan, who had just moved to Los Angeles), a bunch of new friends from Dad's TV work, and our family (my dad's brother, Patrick, and his family, my aunt Marlene, and my cousins Dennis and Packy, who had lived in Los Angeles since the late fifties). Mom decorated the house with streamers and a huge sign that said, “Happy Birthday George!” and then we baked a cake.

Once the guests arrived, Mom gave me the most important job: to be the lookout who hid in the backyard to wait for my dad's car to come up the alley.

I did my duty, quietly hiding in my playhouse. When Dad pulled in to the garage, I rushed into the house to tell everyone to hide. Everyone immediately settled down and became quiet (it was quite the rush to see a room full of grown-ups settle down on my command). While Dad made his way through the kitchen, I thought I just might burst. Finally he bounded into the dining room, and we all shouted, “Surprise!”

Everyone began to sing “Happy Birthday,” and Mom brought the cake out from the kitchen. Instead of saying “Happy Birthday,” it said “Fuck You!” The whole room laughed, and Dad blew out the candles.

The party guests fawned over my dad and the funny cake. When their attention came toward me I hid my face in my dad's leg and clutched tightly. I felt as if I was supposed to know what all the fuss was about over the “Fuck You” cake. I, of course, did not know what all the fuss was about. But I could feel the crackle in the air that it had created. What I gathered from watching the adults was that it was daring, funny, and outrageous.

Years later I eventually realized what that “Fuck You!” was saying to all in that room—Let's celebrate that we are iconoclastic artist types living outside the norm. Look how daring we are! I know that's what my mom intended. But now, when I think back on that time, I wonder if some part of that “Fuck You!” wasn't an actual “Fuck you” from my mom to my dad.

My mom was still struggling. She hadn't really settled in to her new lifestyle. She felt useless, like an afterthought. She told my father once that she'd felt like a piece of furniture that everyone was walking around. Although most of our days on Beverwil Drive in Beverly Hills had been sunny and happy so far, as the year 1968 ripened, so did my mother's resentment and confusion about her place in the world.

Because Dad still didn't want her to have a full-time job, Mom attempted to find a place for her talents and passions once I was in school. She thought about getting her pilot's license, and it turned out that she was really good at flying. So good that the flying instructor told her she should become an instructor herself. Dad got nervous about the fact that one of Mom's other passions that she'd been pursuing lately was drinking. Dad told her she couldn't get her license.

She then volunteered at a local hospital as a Candy Striper cheering up patients and bringing them books from the library. She was good at that, too. Her warmth, natural curiosity about people, and sense of humor made her a favorite. But she started having panic attacks at work and then in the car, and she just couldn't manage anymore. She quit. Her doctor, Dr. Little (whom I nicknamed Dr. Doolittle) told her that she was probably having what they used to call an “identity crisis.” It got so bad that at one point she couldn't even sign her name on her checks anymore. He prescribed her some Valium—“mother's little helper.”

These Mother's Little Helpers—they did not help. They only made things worse.

One weekend, my mom and her friend Gail decided to have a girls' weekend getaway in Palm Springs. Mom was pissed at Dad (they were arguing more and more about her being a piece of furniture and him getting to be a kid with me all the time) and wanted to blow off some steam. Mom and Gail went to the Riviera Resort—
the
hot spot in the desert, and a playground of the stars. The Riviera was known for the big bands that played there, and the celebrities who hung out—Tommy Dorsey, the Rat Pack, Desi Arnaz. Mom and Gail ate dinner and watched the show. By the time the show was over and the band had left the stage, Mom was riled up and drunk. She wobbled up to the bandstand and grabbed the microphone. A few hundred people looked up at her expectantly.

“Hey! Do you know who I am?” she asked them.

Hundreds of eyes stared back at her. Blinking.

“Don't you know who I am?” she asked again.

I'm pretty sure she really wanted them to answer the question. But she didn't wait for them to do so.

“Well, for your information, I am George Carlin's wife. The great comedian George Carlin's wife … and I want you to—”

The maître d' quickly grabbed the mike out of her hand and escorted her off the stage, where Gail, also drunk, led her away. The next morning, demoralized and mortified, Mom found the maître d' and apologized.

My mom felt alone in her pain, but she wasn't. Right by her side, Dad was also in the midst of an identity crisis. He no longer wondered if mainstream success was worth stifling the radical truth teller inside him. He now knew that it wasn't. And what a conundrum it was for him: Here was the dream he'd had since he was ten years old, unfolding before his eyes, and it wasn't what he'd thought it would be.

More and more he hated the variety and talk shows he was doing, because he knew that who he truly was wasn't present in his act. He felt like a performing monkey. The world was changing—MLK and RFK had been assassinated, Lenny Bruce was dead, men were walking on the moon, all his musician friends were speaking truth to power—and he was
still
doing the “Hippie-Dippie Weatherman” and “Indian Sergeant” routines. Even when he had an opportunity to do something different, like when he was booked on the
Smothers Brothers
show, he didn't know how to break out of the box, and he played it safe. He was trapped.

Middle America had fallen in love with George Carlin, just in time for him to have fallen out of love with them.

 

CHAPTER
FOUR