Brain Droppings Part 1

Brain Droppings.

by George Carlin.

I would like to acknowledge the invaluable a.s.sistance and direction I received from my (very first) editor in a.s.sembling this book. Laurie Abkemeier took the many disparate items I turned in and somehow fashioned a coherent book. Her calm, professional style also helped keep my inner maniac somewhat in check. Somewhat. Thank you, Laurie.

This would also be a good time to acknowledge and express grat.i.tude for the wise and careful guidance my career has received over the past 15 years from Jerry Hamza. His judgment, generosity, and belief in my career's long-term potential have helped me reach a level I never expected. It isn't often a performer can say his manager is also his best friend. I can. By the way, it helps a little that Jerry's inner maniac is even weirder than mine.

And finally, a sincere thank you to my first boss in radio, Joe Monroe, who, when I was 18, told me always to write down my ideas and save them. He also gave me my start. Thanks, buddy.

"There is a vitality, a life force, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is, nor how valuable it is, nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep yourself open and aware directly to the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open.. .. "No artist is pleased. . . . [There is no] satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only a queer, divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others." -Martha Graham to Agnes de Mille, Martha: The Life and Work of Martha Graham "We shall never understand one another until we reduce the language to seven words." -Kahlil Gib ran, Sand and Foam

PREFACE.

For a long time, my stand-up material has drawn from three sources. The first is the English language: words, phrases, sayings, and the ways we speak. The second source, as with most comedians, has been what I think of as the "little world," those things we all experience every day: driving, food, pets, relationships, and idle thoughts. The third area is what I call the "big world": war, politics, race, death, and social issues. Without having actually measured, I would say this book reflects that balance very closely.

The first two areas will speak for themselves, but concerning the "big world," let me say a few things.

I'm happy to tell you there is very little in this world that I believe in. Listening to the comedians who comment on political, social, and cultural issues, I notice most of their material reflects an underlying belief that somehow things were better once and that with just a little effort we could set them right again. They're looking for solutions, and rooting for particular results, and I think that necessarily limits the tone and substance of what they say. They're talented and funny people, but they're nothing more than cheerleaders attached to a specific, wished-for outcome.

I don't feel so confined. I frankly don't give a f.u.c.k how it all turns out in this country-or anywhere else, for that matter. I think the human game was up a long time ago (when the high priests and traders took over), and now we're just playing out the string. And that is, of course, precisely what I find so amusing: the slow circling of the drain by a once promising species, and the sappy, ever-more-desperate belief in this country that there is actually some sort of "American Dream," which has merely been misplaced.

; E 0 R C E CARLIN.

The decay and disintegration of this culture is astonishingly amus-ng if you are emotionally detached from it. I have always viewed it rom a safe distance, knowing I don't belong; it doesn't include me, ind it never has. No matter how you care to define it, I do not iden-ify with the local group. Planet, species, race, nation, state, religion, )arty, union, club, a.s.sociation, neighborhood improvement committee; have no interest in any of it. I love and treasure individuals as I meet hem, I loathe and despise the groups they identify with and belong to.

So, if you read something in this book that sounds like advocacy )f a particular political point of view, please reject the notion. My nterest in "issues" is merely to point out how badly we're doing, not :o suggest a way we might do better. Don't confuse me with those who :ling to hope. I enjoy describing how things are, I have no interest in low they "ought to be." And I certainly have no interest in fixing hem. I sincerely believe that if you think there's a solution, you're )art of the problem. My motto: f.u.c.k Hope!

P.S. Lest you wonder, personally, I am a joyful individual with a ong, happy marriage and a close and loving family. My career has :urned out better than I ever dreamed, and it continues to expand. I im a personal optimist but a skeptic about all else. What may sound :o some like anger is really nothing more than sympathetic contempt. view my species with a combination of wonder and pity, and I root "or its destruction. And please don't confuse my point of view with :ynicism; the real cynics are the ones who tell you everything's gonna )e all right.

P.P.S. By the way, if, by some chance, you folks do manage to straighten things out and make everything better, I still don't wish to )e included.

brain (typings brain droppings PEOrLC AHEAD OF HE On LIHE Here's something I can do without: People ahead of me on the supermarket line who are paying for an inexpensive item by credit card or personal check. People! Take my word for this: Tic Tacs is not a major purchase. And, I get just as discouraged when a guy who's buying a simple jar of spaghetti sauce tries to pay with a letter of credit from the Bank of Liechtenstein. Folks, carry some f.u.c.kin' money around, will ya? It comes in handy! No one should be borrowing money from a bank at 18 percent interest to buy a loaf of bread.

And what about these cretins at the airport gift shop who think somehow they're in the Mall of America? It's an airport! I'm standin' there with one newspaper and a pack of gum; I gotta get to my plane. Why does the genetic defective ahead of me choose this moment to purchase a complete set of dishes and a new fall wardrobe? What is this, f.u.c.kin' Macy's? And of course, the clerk lady has to carefully wrap each dish separately, but she's working real fast-because she's eighty-nine!! Plus she's from Sri Lanka. The rural part. And now dish-man wants to know if it's okay to use Turkish traveler's checks. You know what I do? I steal things. f.u.c.k 'em! I grab a handful of candy bars and six magazines and head for the gate. My att.i.tude? It wasn't their stuff to begin with.

GEORGE CARLIN ME W rtUSEDO X Guys who always harmonize the last few notes of "Happy Birthday." > X People over 40 who can't put on reading gla.s.ses without rnakin'g self-conscious remarks about their advancing age. - '?'.' X Guys who wink when they're kidding. X Men who propose marriage on the giant TV screen at a sports stadium.

Guys in their fifties who flash me the peace sign and really mean it. People with a small patch of natural white hair who think it makes them look interesting.

Guys with creases in their jeans.

People who know a lot of prayers by heart.

People who move their lips-when I'm talking!

Guys who want to shake my hand even though we just saw each other an hour ago.

A celebrity couple who adopt a Third-World baby and call it Rain Forest.

Guys who wear suits all day and think an earring makes them cool at night.

Old people who tell me what the weather used to be where they used to live.

brain d r o p p ings Men who have one long, uninterrupted eyebrow. !

Guys who wink and give me the peace sign simultaneously.

People who say, "Knock knock," when entering a room and, "Beep beep," when someone is in their path.

Fat guys who laugh at everything.

People who have memorized a lot of TV-show theme songs and are really proud of it.

Women who think it's cute to have first names consisting solely of initials.

People who give their house or car a name. People who give their genitals a name. Guys who can juggle, but only a little bit. Actors who drive race cars.

Men who wear loafers without socks. Especially if they have creases in their jeans.

Athletes and coaches who give more than a hundred percent. Guys who still smell like their soap in the late afternoon. Blind people who don't want any help. Guys who wear their watches on the inside of their wrists. Any man who wears a suit and tie to a ballgame.

Guys who flash me the thumbs-up sign. Especially if they're winking and making the peace sign with the other hand.

GEORGE CARLIN.

b r a droppings I'm gettin' tired of guys who smoke pipes. When are they & gonna outlaw this s.h.i.t? Guy with a f.u.c.kin' pipe! It's an arrogant thing to place a burning barrier between you and the rest of the world. It's supposed to imply thoughtfulness or intelligence. It's not intelligent to stand around with a controlled 0 fire sticking out of your mouth. I say, "Hey, professor! You want somethin' hot to suck on? Call me! I'll give ya somethin' to put in your mouth!" I think these pipe-smokers oughta just move to the next level and go ahead and suck a d.i.c.k. There's nothing wrong with suckin' d.i.c.ks. Men do it, women do it; can't be all bad if everybody's doin' it. I say, Drop the pipe, and go to the d.i.c.k! That's my advice. I'm here to help. 0 I'm also sick of car alarms. Not the screeching and beep- ing; that doesn't bother me. It's just the idea of a car alarm that I find offensive. Especially the ones that talk to you: "Move away! Move away!" "Ohhhh? Really!" That's when I reach for my sharpest key. And I put a deep gouge in that . paint job, all the way 'round the car. Three hundred and sixty degrees. I might even make two trips around, if I don't have a luncheon appointment that day. And then I walk away slowly, unconcerned about the screeching and beeping, because I know that no one takes car alarms seriously. Car fy alarms are a Yuppie-boomer conceit, and they're responsible for most of the carjacking that's going on. Car alarms and The Club have have made it harder for thieves to steal parked cars, and so instead they're stealing cars with people in them, and people are dying. And it's all because these selfish, k boomer degenerates can't stand to part with their personal property. f.u.c.k boomers, and f.u.c.k their p.u.s.s.ified car alarms! 6 I'm also sick of having to look at bearded guys who . don't know how to trim the lower edges of their beards, where they extend back toward the neck. They trim too far up toward the chin, leaving a glaring, fleshy strip where u there ought to be hair. Guys, you need to let the beard extend far enough back under your chin, so it reaches the point where your neck begins. Then, from the fold or angle that forms between your jaw and neck, you shave downward. If you don't have that fold; if you have a fat, fleshy pouch under your jaw with no definition, you shouldn't be tr.i.m.m.i.n.g your beard at all. You should let it grow long and bushy, so it covers that goofy-looking pouch.

And I've just about had it with all these geeky f.u.c.ks who walk around listening to Walkmans. What are these jack-offs telling us? They're too good to partic.i.p.ate in daily life? They're sealing themselves off? Big f.u.c.kin' loss. And what is it they're listening to that's so compelling? I think a person has to be fairly uncomfortable with his thoughts to have the need to block them out while simply walking around. I'd 5 love to know how many of these obviously disturbed people become suicides.

I've also grown weary of reading about clouds in a book. Doesn't this p.i.s.s you off? You're reading a nice story, and suddenly the writer has to stop and describe the clouds. Who G E 0 R G E C A R L I N cares? I'll bet you anything I can write a decent novel, with b a good, entertaining story, and never once mention the clouds. Really! Every book you read, if there's an outdoor scene, an open window, or even a door slightly ajar, the writer has to say, "As Bo and Velma walked along the sh.o.r.e, ^ the clouds hung ponderously on the horizon like steel-gray, loosely formed gorilla t.u.r.ds." I'm not interested. Skip the . clouds and get to the f.u.c.king. The only story I know of where clouds were important was Noah's Ark.

And I don't appreciate being put on hold and being forced to listen to someone else's radio. I don't even listen to my own radio, why should I have to pay money to call some . A company and listen to theirs? And it's always that same s.h.i.t, soft rock! That sucky, non-threatening, easy-listening p.u.s.s.y music. Soft rock is an oxymoron. Furthermore, it's not rock, and it's not even music. It's just soft.

I'm tired of being unable to buy clothing that doesn't have A writing and printing all over it. Insipid sayings, pseudo-wisdom, cute slogans, team logos, designer names, brand trademarks, small-business ego trips; the marketing pigs and advertising swine have turned us all into walking billboards. You see some a.s.shole walkin' by, and he's got on a fruity Dodger 0 hat and a Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt. Of course you can't see the shirt if he's wearing his hot-s.h.i.t Chicago Bulls jacket. The one that only 50 million other loser jock-sniffers own. And since this cretinous sports fan/consumer zombie is completely for sale to anyone, he rounds out his ensemble with FedEx sneakers, ValuJet socks, Wall Street Journal sweatpants, a Starbucks jock brain droppings strap, and a Microsoft condom with Bill Gates's head on the end of it. No one in this country owns his personal appearance anymore. America has become a nation of obedient consumers, actively partic.i.p.ating in their own degradation. A FEW mnes i IKE A guy who doesn't know what he's doing and won't admit it.

A permanently disfigured gun collector.

A whole lotta people tap dancing at once.

When a big hole opens up in the ground.

The third week in February.

Guys who say "c.o.c.k-a-roach."

A woman with no feet, because she's not always nagging you to take her dancing. KEEP IT C1EAH I never wash my hands after using a public restroom. Unless something gets on me. Otherwise, I figure I'm as clean as when I walked in. Besides, the sink is usually filthier than I am. I'm convinced that many of the men I see frantically washing up do not do the same thing at home. Americans are obsessed with appearances and have an unhealthy fixation on cleanliness. Relax, boys. It's only your d.i.c.k. If it's so dirty that after handling it GEORGE CARLIN you need to wash your hands, you may as well just go ahead and scrub your d.i.c.k while you're at it. Tell the truth. Wouldn't you like to see some guy trying to dry his genitals with one of those forced-air blowing machines that are mounted four feet off the ground?

G.C.'S GUIDE JO DINING OUT RESTAURANTS There are certain clues that tell you how much a restaurant 6 will cost. If the word cuisine appears in the advertising, it will be expensive. If they use the word food, it will be moderately priced. However, if the sign says eats, even though you'll save some money on food, your medical bills may be quite high. b I don't like trendy food. When I hear, "sauteed boneless panda groin," I know I'm in the wrong place. There's such a thing as pretentious food. Puree of woodchuck, marinated bat nipples, weasel chops, porcupine cacciatore. Or fried eagle. A guy said to me recently, "C'mon, we'll go to Baxter's, they have really great fried eagle." I'm thinkin' to myself, "Do I really wanna know this guy?" However, if you are going to dine with pretentious people, 4 here are some items you can order that are sure to impress: deep-dish moose b.a.l.l.s, diced yak, badger gumbo, gorilla fondue, filet of hyena, jackal tartare, rack of prairie dog, free-range mole en brochette, wolf noodle soup, loin of chipmunk, curried woodp.e.c.k.e.r, stir-fried weasel, penguin scallopini, sweet-and-sour loon heads, whale chowder, toasted snail p.e.n.i.ses, koala flambe, wombat souvlaki, grenadine of mule, and candied goat a.n.u.s.

brain drop pings Then, at the other end of the spectrum, there is the decid edly nontrendy restaurant, where the special sometimes is sim ply "meat." Big sign in the window: "Today's special: Meat." 5 "I'll have the meat." "Would you like sauce with that?" "What kind of sauce would that be?" "That would be meat sauce." ^ It's similar to a fish sandwich. Have you ever seen these places that feature "fish sandwiches"? I always think, "Well, . that's kind of general." I mean, I wouldn't order something called a "meat sandwich," would you?" At least not without ' ;- a couple of follow-up questions: "Does anyone know where this meat came from?" "Are any of the waitresses missing?" DEALING WITH THE WAITER i I think when you eat out you should have a little fun; it's good for digestion. Simple things. After the waiter recites a long list of specials, ask him if they serve cow feet.

But act really interested in the specials. When he says, "Today we have goat-cheese terrine with arugula juice, sauteed cod with capers and baby vegetables, coastal shrimp ^ cooked in spiced carrot juice, roast free-range chicken with ginger and chickpea fries, and duck breast in truffle juice," act like you're completely involved. Say, "The cod. What is the cod sauteed in?" "A blend of canola and tomato oils." (No hurry here.) "Ahhh, yes! [pointing thoughtfully at the waiter] I'll have the grilled cheese sandwich."

Even some low-end places are pretentious. The menu can't merely say "cheeseburger." They have to get wordy. So, GEORGE C A R L I N go along with them. When you order your food use their 5 language. But you must look right at the waiter; no fair ' reading from the menu. Look him in the eye and say, "I'll have the succulent, fresh-ground, government-inspected, choice, all-beef, six-ounce patty on your own award- & winning sesame-seed bun, topped with a generous slice of Wisconsin's finest Grade-A cheddar cheese made from only ju premium milk and poured from large, galvanized steel cans, * having originally been extracted from a big, fat, smelly, champion blue-ribbon cow with a brain disease."

Continue that style with other items: Instead of asking for a gla.s.s of water, say you'd like a "cylindrical, machine-blown, clear drinking vessel filled with nature's own color-0 less, odorless, extra-wet, liquid water." Have fun. Be difficult. Order unusual things: a chopped corn sandwich. Rye potato chips. Filet of bone with diced peas. Peanut b.u.t.ter and jellyfish. Ask for a gla.s.s of skim water. Insist on fried milk. Chocolate orange juice. Order a . grilled gorgonzola cheese sandwich on whole-wheat ' ladyfmgers. Then top the whole thing off with a bowl of food coloring and a large gla.s.s of saturated fat.

Issue special instructions. Ask for the French toast, medium rare. Get a pizza with no toppings, hold the crust. K- Tell 'em you want eggs: "Fry the whites and poach the yolks." Order a basket of poppy seed rolls and tell them to sc.r.a.pe off the seeds and put them in a separate bowl and heat them to 200 degrees. Keep them busy.

Tell your waiter you want to make a subst.i.tution: "Instead of my napkin, I'll have the lobster tails." See what b r a droppings b he says. Ask him if the garnish is free. If it is, tell him all you're having is a large plate of garnish. 6 If they have a salad bar, ask how many times you can go back. If they say as many times as you like, ask for a lawn bag. Come back the next day With a small truck. Tell them ^ you weren't quite finished eating the night before. You're actually within your legal rights, because, technically, no one is ever finished eating.

Ask him if the chef would mind preparing a dish that's not on the menu. Then describe something simple but unusual. Like half a coconut filled with egg whites. When the waiter comes back and says, "Yes, the chef said he will be delighted to make that for you," tell him, "Well, never mind, I don't like that anymore." 4 Giving the waiter your drink order can be fun. If you're alone, show the guy you're a real man. "Gimme a gla.s.s of napalm and paint thinner straight up." Be an individualist; order a gin and hot chocolate. If you're with a date, be sophisticated. Say, "I'll have a rum and goat juice with a twist of cuc.u.mber on dry ice." Always order your date's drink; that's very romantic. Especially if you're trying to get laid. "The lady will have a martini, a gla.s.s of wine, two zombies, and a beer. And do you have any quaaludes?"

By the way, if your date is complaining of constipation, order her a prune margarita with a twist of Feenamint.

When the food arrives, change your mind. Say, "I've changed my mind, waiter. Instead of the roast suckling pig, I believe I'll have a half order of Kellogg's Product 19."

10.GEORGE CARLIN :- And always, when the food arrives, send something h back. It's considered very sophisticated. But make sure you use colorful language. Tell him, "Waiter, this veal tastes like the inside front panel of Ferdinand Magellan's shorts. And I'm referring to the first voyage." ^ Show him you're a man of new ideas. When he comes with the pepper mill, refuse the pepper, but tell him to sprin-i kle some dandruff on your food.

Actually, the pepper mill can be a source of great fun. Keep the waiter going on the pepper mill for a long time. Disturbingly long. Like, for about fifteen minutes. Until everyone in the restaurant is really uncomfortable. Then, when your food and silverware are completely covered with < p="">

Or I'll tell them more than they really want to know. "No, everything is not all right. I'm going through a period of upheaval. I have a rogue polyp in my bowel, my wife ran off brain droppings with a periodontist, and my son has been arrested for defecating in a mall."

And always fill out the "How did we do?" card. It's very helpful to the owner. "Everything was wonderful, except the waiter had some vomit on his shoes and a tiny snot on the end of his nose. It was small, but it was definitely a snot."

I hope these pointers and suggestions will enhance your next experience dining out. Tell 'em George sent you. BREADSTICKS: If drumsticks are for playing drums, you'd think breadsticks would be for playing bread, wouldn't you? "Would you like some breadsticks?" "No thank you. I don't play bread; I play drums. Perhaps I'll have a drum roll." Sh.e.l.lED PEANUTS: Why don't sh.e.l.led peanuts have sh.e.l.ls? If you're clothed, you have clothes, so if you're sh.e.l.led, you should have sh.e.l.ls. You'd think they'd call peanuts without sh.e.l.ls, "unsh.e.l.led" peanuts, wouldn't you? Same goes for pitted prunes.

And boned chicken. I ask you, Where are the bones? I can't find them. In my opinion, it ought to be called de-boned chicken.

And what about semi-boneless ham? What's going on? Does it have only half a bone? Or does "semi-boneless ham" mean that some complete object that is not entirely a bone has been removed from the ham?

GEORGE.

C A R L I N.

b r a droppings WAFFLE IRON:.

Why on earth would you want to iron a waffle? Wouldn't that just flatten out all the little squares? No, I believe waffles should be dry cleaned. Pancakes, of course, should always be ironed.

Everyone thinks they have a really good idea for a restaurant but I've heard some terrible schemes. I even had a few myself.

My first idea was: All You Can Eat for 60 Cents. That didn't work. So I went the other way: All You Can Eat for $1500. That didn't work either. Then I made my fatal mistake: All You Can Eat for Free. Closed after one meal.

My next idea was The Used Footwear Restaurant. Our slogan was, How Would You Like to Enjoy a Nice Hot Meal Eaten Out of Someone Else's Used Footwear? Somehow, it didn't work. Although, after I sold it, it became the very successful fast-food franchise, Beef in a Brogan.

Chili Alley was my favorite, and a lot of people got a kick out of it. It was a drive-through chili restaurant. And you didn't even have to slow down. You could drive through at speeds up to 40 miles an hour, and we would shoot the chili at you from a shotgun. Just two dollars. Both barrels, three-fifty. Dry cleaning extra.

Vinny's House of Toast. This was great. My partner Vinny and I triedto come up with 101 different ways to serve toast. Eventually, we could only settle on three. The first item was . . . toast. Basically, an order of toast. With something on it-b.u.t.ter, margarine, jelly, whatever. The second thing we came up with was ... a double order of toast. That would be, of course, twice as much toast, along with double the b.u.t.ter, margarine, jelly, whatever. The only other thing we could think of was something I liked a lot: a toast sandwich. Usually on toast. We also tried Toast on a Bun, but the public wasn't ready. Too high-concept.

Then there was Bombs Away. This was an idea that should have worked. Patrons were seated on the ground floor; the kitchen was on the balcony. When your order was ready, you stood under the balcony holding a plate, and the chef dropped your food while everyone yelled, "Bombs away!" It worked great with steak and chops. But the idea began to unravel when we tried things like soup and creamed spinach. Peas were a definite problem, too.

My last unsuccessful attempt was The Top of the Schmuck. It was a ten-story statue of a schmuck wearing a cowboy hat, with a revolving restaurant in the hatband. The problem was, it rotated way too fast. People got sick just waiting for a table. But I still think the idea was basically sound. Bon appet.i.t.

On Thanksgiving at our house we like variety, so we don't have turkey every year. Last year we had a swan. It was nice; everyone got some neck. Another year we had a seagull. Delicious! It's a little fishy, but at least there's no need to add salt. Two years ago we had a stork. Lots of meat, but, Jesus, the wishbone makes a h.e.l.luva noise. This year we're expecting a few people over, so we're having a flamingo. And I'm getting the leg that folds up. They say the meat is sweeter and more tender because the flamingo doesn't use it much.

GEORGE CARLIN.

brain droppings WELL, yA GOTTA LIVE SOMEPLACE I grew up in New York City and lived there until I was thirty.

At that time, I decided I'd had enough of life in a dynamic, sophisticated city, so I moved to Los Angeles. Actually, I moved there because of the time difference. I was behind in my work, and wanted to pick up the extra three hours. Technically, for the last thirty years I've been living in my own past.

I knew I didn't want to move to the Midwest. I could never live in a place where the outstanding geographic feature is the horizon. The Midwest seems like a nice place to catch up on your sleep.

Another reason I could never live in the Midwest is that it gets really cold there. You've heard of hypothermia and exposure? I could never be comfortable in a place where you can die simply by going out to the mailbox. Living in an area where an open window can cause death seems foolish to me.

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" s.h.i.t 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 d.i.c.k. 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 superst.i.tious 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 ?6.

E 0 R C E.

C A R L I N.