The World Can Go to Hell

I don't want to get a reputation as an obituary blogger, but I feel compelled to mention the passing of acerbic funnyman George Carlin.

One of the joys of working at newspapers, even small newspapers, is the opportunity to interview big names when they happen to pass through town. My 2003 interview with Carlin ahead of his gig at Wausau's Grand Theater was one of my most memorable. I seemed to ask all the right questions, and Carlin couldn't help giving the best answers, with his famous pessimism toward humanity. His shows often are frantic, but on the phone he sounded subdued.

"I don't take any of this stuff here in this world seriously," he said. "I don't care about anything. Nothing. Family and friends, yes, and it ends right there." Somehow he was able to make such bleak commentary horribly funny in performance art he called "kind of a heightened theatrical version of contempt and distaste and disappointment."

I remember him from some of his routines that made it onto radio's Dr. Demento show when I was in middle school high school, from his long list of funny book titles in The Book Club to the bit about the many versions of your stuff you take with you when you're on vacation. I don't think I ever heard the infamous "Seven Words" bit, except in censored form, but I'm sure I've used a few of the words from time to time.

Long Live Diddley

If you don't know Diddley, you should.

A legend of early rock 'n' roll, Bo Diddley's contributions to the musical form's creation were on a par with -- and perhaps greater than -- those of Elvis Presley, Chuck Berry and Little Richard. So why wasn't his celebrity as great? Listening to his early songs, I get the sense that his guitar style and tone was so new, so raw that popular radio in 1955 didn't have a place for it. It took others to bring rock 'n' roll to a broader audience, but rock guitarists for the past 50 years have owed a debt to Diddley, from Buddy Holly to Bruce Springsteen.

I'll admit that I came late to the music, becoming a fan only after paying my dues into the jukebox at Wiggly Field in Weston, Wis. Amid the crappy 80s hair metal and crappier 90s country music, there were a few songs I knew I could rely on to keep me going on long nights of pitcher after pitcher of Leinie's Honey Weiss. Among those songs were three choice Diddley tunes: "Ooh Baby," "You Can't Judge a Book by the Cover," and, of course, "Roadrunner."

My equally drunken coworkers, and future bride, seemed to find me amusing enough as I goofed off by strutting my stuff and singing along to "Roadrunner" with its beep-beeps and rollicking guitar pattern.

Later, when my future bride became my bride, we played "Roadrunner" as our newlywed entrance song at the reception. A fine Grand March song, if ever there was one.

Sadly, the news came yesterday that Mr. Bo Diddley was dead at 79. But it's hardly possible to stay sad for long with such a legacy Diddley has left in his music. Play through any part of the terrific Chess Box collection's four dozen Diddley gems and feel that smile burn into your face, your foot start to tap, your head start to sway, your groove blooming, doo-wah-Diddleyfied.