I’ve been resisting blogging about the death of George Carlin, because I can practically feel the Internet creaking from the weight of all the boomer bloggers’ tributes to him. What is there to say that hasn’t been said already?

But then last night Ben and I were watching HBO2, which this week is wallpapering George Carlin stand-up specials. This is a trend that always vaguely disturbs me. Remember after Heath Ledger died in January, they were showing 10 Things I Hate About You and The Patriot like every 10 minutes? Okay, it’s a tribute, but it also feels like cashing in.

Anyway. Watching Carlin’s stand-up act, I realized that I grew up equating comedian with George Carlin. The guy was — is — a fucking icon. And thus another one bites the dust. It’s a disquieting aspect of aging. Here’s a partial scorecard:

• The President = John F. Kennedy = Dead.
• The Novelist = Kurt Vonnegut = Dead.
• The Humorist = Douglas Adams = Dead.
• The Musicians = The Beatles = 50% Dead.
• The Pope = John Paul II = Dead.
• The Journalist = Hunter S. Thompson = Dead.
• The Comedian = George Carlin = Now Also Dead.

And I don’t especially see any new icons taking up the vacant spots. Damn. I hate to think that the next generation is going to have lame icons.

So then there was the thing in Huntington Beach where a little girl got diarrhea right outside Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory. Long story short, they wouldn’t let her use their bathroom, which is intended solely for employees. The poor kid apparently soiled herself, and wound up cleaning up at the very same movie theatre where our family saw Kung Fu Panda last weekend! Small world.

I’m a mom, and I feel bad for everyone involved. Bad for the store manager, who actually received threats of (1) death and (2) having her home pelted with feces. Bad for the kid, who was only five years old and who must have had an awful time of it. Bad for her mom, who must have been at her wits’ end. (Footnote: I received a lot more bathroom sympathy when visibly pregnant and claiming I had to pee. Retailers would practically build me a bathroom if I came in and said I had to go.)

But the bit of the story that really sticks with me? They said diarrhea and Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory in the same sentence. Hee.

God, I’m puerile.

When I was in college, Quaaludes were in vogue. Does anyone remember those? They produced a high of very questionable value, in that generally you either completely fell asleep or were so out of it as to (1) tend to walk into walls and (2) not remember a fucking thing afterward. Well, shit, isn’t that why God made Kamikazes? I mean, it could require several rounds, but it will get you to the same place. I never saw much use for ‘Ludes.

Yesterday, though, Matt had dental surgery for which he required general anesthesia, and his reaction to the sedation immediately put me in mind of someone on Quaaludes. Within three minutes after they administered the shot his eyes were all sleepy and crazy, his head lolling, his body limp as a potato sack. They carried him into the back room to work on him, and three hours later they called me back in to sit with him while he came to.

His speech, when he came out of it, was so slurred that it took a good half-hour before I could understand him. It was about two hours after that until he could walk unassisted without holding onto furniture. His teeth look awesome, although you could have bought a brand-new Toyota Tercel in 1981 for what I paid to have them fixed. And I wish I’d had a camera for Matt’s sedation. Because you want to know how many people I saw walking around like that in the late ’70s and early ’80s? Tons. You notice ‘Ludes aren’t in vogue anymore; Matt, yesterday, reminded me why that is so.

Another unseasonable So Cal heat wave, and let me tell you it is hot. Stupidly hot. Too hot to go to school. Not too hot to work, because there is air conditioning here, but the coffee sucks and there is nothing good to eat.

Too hot to be at home, because we only have air conditioning in the master bedroom and I am too fucking cheap to run the thing. The sea breeze doesn’t come up till after 7 p.m., and all afternoon the black roofing tiles bake in the heat and radiate up into our upstairs windows.

The dogs lie in the dusty bits of the garden to keep cool. The kids run around in their underwear. When I get home, I can’t get my bra off fast enough. It’s too hot to run the stove or the oven, and definitely too hot to fold clothes warm from the dryer. My kids are wrinkled, but I’m too hot to care.

Is this global warming? June in So Cal tends to be overcast and a bit chilly. If I’m counting correctly, this is our fourth heat wave since April. But I’m too hot to keep track. And dreading September and October, when the real heat sets in.

So the Lakers got their asses trounced and were eliminated from the NBA playoffs last night. I’ve got a fairly good record this spring; so far, I’ve correctly thrown my support behind Barack Obama, the Detroit Red Wings and the Boston Celtics. I do love being right. Now let’s hope I continue being right (not in the political sense, obviously) come Election Day in November.

Returning to the Lakers thing, though, and how their fans are savages: The Staples Center, where the Lakers play, intended to show the away games of the Finals live on a big screen so the fans could have the experience, you know. That’s fairly common in championship series on the road. But they couldn’t do it, and do you know why? Because the fans were so anarchic, and vandalism was happening and fights were breaking out. So they closed down the Staples Center and told the fans to watch at home. You can just imagine what would have happened if they’d won the championship.

Honestly, what is it about basketball fans? Yes, I know they’ve got Jack Nicholson and shit, but they’ve also got hordes of low-class savages. For some reason, the Lakers bring out the worst in L.A. Can’t y’all get civilized already? Have a nice summer, shitheads. Glad you lost.

We had the most interesting visit to the local reptile zoo yesterday.

There is a giant O-shaped pond in the center of the store, which is populated by red-eared sliders [water turtles], large koi and catfish, and a giant monitor lizard. They sell cups of mealworms for the kids to feed to the turtles with long tweezers, and the boys were standing by the side of the pond feeding turtles when the monitor lizard, basking on the central island, decided to move. This fucker is 4-5 feet long. It looks like it could eat you; at the very least, it looked like it could eat Boolie.

The monitor leaped into the water, scaring the crap out of a number of the large fish, who startled and splashed a ton of water onto the bystanders — mostly, on Sam and me. Then it swam through the pond and started hauling itself over the wall of the pond and onto the store floor. Boolie was terrified and went to hide behind a display island. The lizard was really agitated. And kind of scary.

It landed on the floor of the store, took a huge runny dump right in the middle of the central area, and strode off to the back of the store. Ewww, it took a dump! I said, causing a group of nearby boys to titter. The store personnel didn’t notice, and I didn’t want someone to slip and fall in the shit and sue them [that’s us, always seeing the liability angle], so I went up and told the guy Your giant lizard took a big poop in the middle of the floor. He had to clean it up with paper towels. I suppose that’s a liability of being in the reptile business.

The boys are still talking about it. We’ve gone to the reptile zoo a number of times, but this is the only time we’ve encountered monitor lizard shit. And I don’t think it’s something they’ll forget very soon. Sam can’t wait to get to school and tell his friends about it tomorrow.

Way to blow a lead, guys. I’m just saying.

Sam’s last day of school is next Friday, June 20, but already his brain is on vacation. He got in trouble at school both Tuesday and Wednesday for cutting up and talking and giggling in class. The teacher moved him to a different seat, away from his main cohort, but still he acted up. This is, I suppose, an occupational hazard of class clownism, and made all the worse by the knowledge that there are only a few short days left in the school year (and half of those will consist of field trips).

As of the beginning of June, homework stopped. The weekly Friday spelling test stopped. And so, apparently, has Sam’s concentration and self-control. The teacher is all Fractions and centimeters and adjectives while Sam is all Stink bugs and soccer and the pool. (He has recently learned to swim, and while I can drag him out of the physical pool, he’s forever swimming in the pool in his head.)

Poor kid. When I was in high school, we used to call it senioritis (although I have a college degree, I was never a high school senior. Did you know that?). I don’t know what they call it in first grade, but Sam has it and he has it bad. All he has to do is make it another week without getting his sassy ass suspended, and it’s all sunshine and swimming for the next three months.

Just when you thought you were safe from hockey talk, here comes the basketball talk. The goddamned Lakers have made it to the finals again, and I am hoping against hope that they will lose. The fact that they are trailing 2-0 in the finals makes me very happy.

As a rule, I don’t give a rat’s ass about basketball. Oh, I did for about five minutes in the early ’80s when I lived in Greater Philadelphia and the Sixers were good, but that was mostly just to be sociable. I can watch football, but basketball and baseball bore me to tears. And I especially dislike basketball, in part because basketball fans tend to be sort of a lower life form.

If the Ducks or Angels win the title, there are noisy beer-soaked celebrations, but there aren’t fucking riots, okay? Conversely, when the Lakers win, people start running through the streets vandalizing cars. What this has to do with celebration, I do not know, but I wince every time the Lakers look poised to win the NBA title.

A few years back (I want to say Sam was a baby), the Lakers won the title and a bunch of people in the condo complex a block away from where we live went completely apeshit. There was much drinking and yelling, in large part done outdoors, and as the piece de resistance they set fire to an abandoned mattress someone had dumped on the curbside. I know this because I was out walking the dog, hurrying past and hoping I wouldn’t be pelted by flying beer bottles. Of course, it all ended in tears, with police cars and police helicopters, for God’s sake. When the Lakers win, the assholes just come crawling out of the woodwork.

I don’t have any special affection for Boston, except insofar as it’s not located in California (in my book, a plus for any city). Anyway: go Celtics. Please, please spare us another Lakers celebration.

I have to use the qualifier because in the current gas price crisis, there are a few people who have ample justification for driving an SUV, such as (1) it’s paid for, and they don’t want to finance a new car; (2) they tow a boat or drive through rugged unpaved areas; or (3) they drive in snowy conditions. (Apparently category #3 has never heard of snow tires or chains.)

I have been reading some flap on the Internet about people refusing to give up their SUVs despite skyrocketing gas prices and the fact that those fuckers get about 10-20 miles per gallon. The funniest one of all was a woman who said “I can’t drive a minivan because I couldn’t handle the stigma! I don’t want to be labeled a soccer mom!”

Surprise, honey. You just did it yourself. All the soccer moms switched to SUVs 8-10 years ago. Every day I park my minivan in the school parking lot, flanked by giant SUVs piloted by women who don’t know how to maneuver or park such a large vehicle. And why? Because all their friends have them, is why, and they MUST CONFORM. Must follow the trend. Must be like all the other mommies. SHEEP.

For most moms, SUVs make absolutely no sense whatsoever. They are overpriced gas guzzlers. And do you really need a Yukon to lug around two kids and four bags of groceries? A minivan gives you a hell of a lot more bang for your buck; our compact Chrysler Town & Country seats six comfortably with ample storage in the back. And it’s considerably more compact, is easier to maneuver, and gets much better gas mileage than your trendy SUV. I’ll bet if all your friends jumped off a cliff, you would too.

So, you know, go ahead and do your thing, but don’t come crying to me about gas prices. Try thinking logically and practically. I know you’re not used to it, but give it a try. It’s not so hard.

Footnote: I have a few online mommy friends who drive SUVs, and forgive me if you are looking on. You well know of my SUV hatred; don’t take it personally.