There’s a story about George Carlin that sticks with me—not one of his cutting monologues or blistering observations about society, but something quieter.
Sometime after the death of his wife,
Brenda, Carlin was cast in a film to play a priest. The role called for him to
appear as a man of the cloth—celibate, ringless. But Carlin, reeling from the
recent loss of his wife, couldn’t bring himself to remove his wedding ring.
Brenda had been his partner for over thirty years, through the ups and downs of
fame, addiction, reinvention, and radical honesty. Taking off that ring, even
for a part, felt wrong to him.
Eventually, Carlin struck on a
compromise: he would cover the ring with a Band-Aid.
This was a practical solution for a
movie camera, but also a private form of resistance. He wasn’t hiding the ring
from the audience so much as he was sheltering it—shielding the part of himself
that still held on, still mourned, still honored the love of his life.
George Carlin was the guy who tore
down sacred cows, challenged institutions, and never missed a chance to call
out nonsense. But that Band-Aid tells another story—a private and deeply human
one.
No comments:
Post a Comment