When I was thirteen I’d lock myself in my room with the family record player and listen to my parent’s old Carlin albums until I’d destroy the needle and have to save up my lunch money to replace it. I was fascinated with his ability to connect with me despite my young age and my not knowing anything about what the hell he was talking about. Even though I was often clueless about the context, I knew his words were important and I revered the material for its authenticity. I listened to his insights because I knew they would come in handy someday, and I’d store his social research and wisdom in my brain for when I’d need clarification or guidance. His stories formed several chapters of the how-to guide I used to help navigate adolescence, and I’m still teasing new insight from them two decades later.
I had the chance to see him perform a handful of times and I squandered each one of them. That’ll weigh on me for a while.