DAD, ALWAYS ONE TO CROSS an item off of a to-do list as soon as possible, gave me thirty days to disperse his ashes. I was a bit irked by the limited timeline. I’d quite enjoyed taking my time with my mom’s ashes, spreading a bit here and a bit there, as the whims of life took me to different places. In fact, I still had a small baby food jar full of them left on a shelf that I’d turned into a minishrine to her. I guess I’d been waiting to determine her final resting place.
I did not have the luxury of whims with Dad. I had less than thirty days to figure this out. After the memorial my mind was such a blender of feelings, thoughts, and demands I couldn’t imagine that I had enough time to do this right. Dad had once joked that he wanted his final resting place to be determined by throwing his body out of a helicopter and leaving it wherever it landed. I knew that wasn’t an option. We’d cremated him. Once I sat quietly with myself, I knew exactly what to do with dad’s ashes. They were going to New York City.
But first I had a guru to meet.
* * *
A week before I was going to New York, my friend Jon, the one who’d helped Dad move along to the “other side” the day he died, called me to say that one of his teachers, Swamiji, was in town and asked me if I wanted to meet him. I’d never met an Indian swami. My practice of Zen Buddhism had steered me away from the whole yoga/yogi scene. It all seemed a bit creepy to me—bowing to the guru, treating him or her like a living god. Not my cup of tea. But over the decades I’d always admired one proponent of that path—Ram Dass. He was a nice Jewish boy, Richard Alpert, from Boston who during the early sixties while studying at Harvard, dropped acid, went to India, and came back as Ram Dass. Between his book Be Here Now and the many lectures I’d heard him give about Eastern philosophy, he’d always held the perfect balance between the guru and the clown. I admired him greatly. So I thought, What the hell. Let’s go see this guru Swamiji. Maybe he’ll have some words of wisdom for me.
I arrived at a house in the hills overlooking the San Fernando Valley. I was glad that this encounter would be an intimate gathering in a private home. My nervous system felt as if its sensitivity dial was stuck at eleven, and I was not up for a horde of worshipping types. I walked in, saw everyone’s shoes by the door, and immediately took mine off. The kitchen was filled with people cooking what smelled like delicious Indian food. Many were dressed all in white, and some in more colorful orange saris. The atmosphere felt cushioned by love and acceptance. Although I felt awkward as the outsider, I trusted that if I just relaxed, this evening would at least soothe.
I found Jon, and he introduced me to his friend Jessica, who was a close follower of Swamiji. She was perfectly normal—intelligent, funny, and irreverent. No signs of weird cult worship going on. I relaxed another notch. People were sitting around listening to some live kirtan music when a small man in peach-and-orange robes came out, and everyone stood up. He was radiant. He bowed to everyone, and then smiled. His smile sent a wave of love over me. I’d never seen that much joy in a face before. He sat on a platform in front of the audience, and Jon explained that during the evening people would approach Swamiji and talk about whatever they wanted to with him. There was no protocol. I could just go up when the urge came upon me.
I wasn’t sure if I had the courage to speak with him, but I really wanted to. To see what it was all about, I watched as others sat with him. Sometimes he sat quietly with the person, and other times he asked them questions. Always he would smile, and sometimes he would laugh. When the conversation was over he handed the person a piece of fruit. Jon explained that he had blessed the fruit, and that by eating it you were ingesting his blessing.
I roamed around to the back of the yard, where the tea was. I looked over at a row of chairs and saw Drew Carey sitting there. It was a sign. I was definitely in the right place. I went up to him and introduced myself, and we had a lovely conversation. My dad was one of his heroes, and he gushed, and also shared his own grief about his death. One of the “comedy beings” was here. Feeling at home, I was ready to sit with Swamiji.
He smiled at me as I sat down. He stared intensely into my eyes as we sat in silence for about a minute. I felt like he was reading my soul. He then broke the moment with a smile. I leaned forward and explained that I was friends with Jon and Jessica, and that I was here because my father had just died, and my heart was very heavy. I explained that my father was a comedian and a great teacher here in America, who, through his truth telling, had done some enlightening of the people himself. Swamiji did not know of him, so I explained that he was known and loved by millions of people, and that he was very missed by me and many. He acknowledged that he understood, and closed his eyes. I closed mine, too, and let myself be present with him and the moment. After a minute or so I opened my eyes, and he opened his. He leaned forward. I leaned in to meet him.
“Well, there is only one thing we can do in such a circumstance,” he began.
I was on pins and needles. Thank God, some wisdom to help me through the heartache and chaos I felt in my body and mind. He then said, with a great burst of energy, “We must laugh!” And he proceeded to break out in the biggest and most joyous belly laugh I had ever heard. Caught up in the surprise of his answer and his joy, I laughed and laughed and laughed with him. We laughed together until tears came to my eyes. I felt the gift of what he was giving me, the gift that my father had given to me and the world: laughter and joy. There was nothing else I or any of us could do. Dad was gone. He had moved on to whatever and wherever one goes after death. All I could do was revel in the life he had lived. Death is real. Grief is real. But so is joy. And life after death. My life.
Silently Swamiji and I acknowledeged all of that through our eye contact, and he smiled. He then closed his eyes, and put his hand on my forehead. I had not seen him do this with anyone else. I did not know why he was doing it, but I closed my eyes and sat quietly. After about thirty seconds, he lifted his hand. I opened my eyes, and he handed me a piece of fruit, but then he also took a flower from the altar and handed it to me. I thanked him as I choked back tears, and bowed deeply and stood up. I found a chair in the very back corner of the yard, and wept for about twenty minutes straight while I ate the apple he had given me. When I was done with the apple, I felt like I weighed ten thousand pounds. I could barely lift my arms. I had never felt so attached to the earth in my life.
After about forty minutes, Jon came and sat with me. “Well?”
“Wow,” I said. He smiled. I asked, “He touched my head. What was that about?”
“Oh, he removed your karma,” Jon answered.
“Cool.”
As Swamiji was walking out, he turned and looked right at me. “Kelly,” he said, as he gestured for me to come over to him. He’d remembered my name. I was touched. “If you wish to have your dad’s ashes spread into the Ganges River, you can send them to my ashram, and we will do a puja ceremony. He will be honored and taken care of.”
“I would like that very much. Thank you,” I said.
I guess Dad was going to India and New York.
Or so I thought. Here’s a tip when shipping something internationally: When asked what’s in the box, don’t answer, “Human ashes.” That makes customs agents nervous. I recommend lying. Otherwise they will be rejected. Two days later the box was on my doorstep, having been returned by U.S. Customs people. I knew there was no way I could resend them and make it under the thirty-day deadline Dad had set.
New York, here we come.
* * *
Bob and I arrived at JFK late in the day on July 18. After we checked in to the hotel, we immediately headed downtown to the club Comix to see Richard Belzer. Belzer was making a rare appearance that night, and had arranged for us to see the show. As I sat there watching him onstage, I was hit hard with the realization that I would never see my dad on a stage again. While everyone else in the club was laughing, I was crying.
After the show we headed toward the dressing room. Before I could open the backstage door, Taylor Negron came walking out. Taylor and I had met at a spoken-word gig in Los Angeles the year before. I was very fond of him. He was a great human and a fantastic writer/performer. We hugged. I knew I was home, safe and sound, with family. And that feeling grew as I made my way into the dressing room. Belzer was so lovely, and kind.
Then Gilbert Gottfried came out of the bathroom. I was a huge fan, but he also made me nervous. I can’t explain it, really. It feels like he’s from another planet, and so I’m never sure what he’s going to do or say. Richard introduced us, and Gilbert asked, “What are you doing in New York?”
“I’m here to spread my dad’s ashes.”
“Do you have any on you now?”
I had put a small Ziploc bag of ashes in my purse before leaving the hotel room, knowing we’d be near Greenwich Village that night, and maybe there’d be a chance to spread them at The Bitter End. But I lied to Gilbert and said no. I lied because I really didn’t know what he would do if I’d said yes. I feared he might eat them.
Gilbert then asked me, “Whose career is more dead—mine or George’s?” Without a beat, my friend Amy said, “Yours, Gilbert.” Everyone laughed. These were my people.
Before we left, Taylor invited us to go to a performance of his one-man show in the Village the next day. I told him that we had plans in the late morning, but we’d see if we could make it.
The next day, phase one of “Farewell to Dad: Ashes Spreading Tour” began. After Bob and I ate breakfast at the overpriced-but-oh-so-scrumptious Brooklyn Diner on Fifty-seventh Street, we headed up to Connor’s, an Irish bar on Broadway. The Moylen, Dad’s neighborhood hangout, was closed, otherwise we would’ve met there. Eddie Harnby and Uncle Pat had told the old “Irish Harlem” neighborhood gang, the people whom my dad had known since he was a kid and stayed in touch with for six decades, that I was coming to town with my dad’s ashes, and that we were gathering at the bar to raise a glass and tell some tales.
Uncle Pat and my cousin Dennis came down to the city from Woodstock to meet us for the day’s events. I didn’t know many of the faces that showed up, but I knew their names from all the stories Dad had told me. They filled my heart with great stories about my dad as a kid, my parents when they lived in New York, and meeting me as a child. They all were so proud of my dad and what he’d done, and they loved that he had stayed close with all of them over the years. Whenever Dad was in the area, he always got tickets for them to come to his shows, and hung out with them afterward.
At noon I told the group that we were leaving the bar to go up to the “Question Mark.” They all knew exactly what I was talking about. The Question Mark was where the wall along Riverside Park ends at 120th Street. The wall, if you were to look at it from above, is shaped like a backward question mark. I knew that this spot would be the first place to receive my dad’s ashes because it held the fondest memories for him. It was monumental in the Carlin saga—it’s where he and his friends would get loaded when they were teens. It was a legendary site from his life. I knew it must be honored.
Pat, Dennis, my friend Amy, Bob, and I all walked the twelve or so blocks up to the Question Mark from the bar. While we walked in the sunshine along the path of Riverside Park, Uncle Pat lit up a joint, and he, Dennis, and I each took a hit off it in honor of the occasion. Once all had gathered, I stood up on the wall and spoke for a few minutes.
“As you are all from this neighborhood, you all know about this spot. I knew that this was where I wanted to honor my dad in the neighborhood with you today. All of you and this neighborhood meant everything to my dad. It shaped him as a child and a teen, and it defined who he was his entire life. He carried this neighborhood in his heart no matter where he was in the world,” I said. I then took a very large bag, the bag his ashes came in from the mortuary, and opened it. I continued, “Dad wished for me to determine how to dispose of his ashes. I knew that this place, and you, his dear friends, had to be a big part of this process. I invite you to come and grab a handful of ashes and throw them over the wall so that Dad may come home one last time.”
I grabbed a handful of ashes to lead the way, and flung them over the wall. Some sailed down along the wall, while the rest took to the air like a ghost. Uncle Patrick, Dennis, and Bob all dug in and tossed Dad over the wall. I laughed when I saw some of Dad’s old friends, still good Catholics, take part in this impromptu paganesque ceremony. People laughed and cried as we launched the ashy remains of a man we loved onto the landscape that had shaped his soul.
I have no idea what the passersby must have thought, but we were all immersed in that web of light and love that was beginning to be the norm for my life, and that’s all that mattered.
Dad’s first girlfriend asked if she could take some home, and I explained to her that I couldn’t let her do that because Dad had insisted that all his ashes be dispersed. Another friend of Dad’s asked if he could take a bit to the park down the street where he and Dad would often sit on a particular bench, “shoot the shit and smoke a jay.” He made a small pouch from a piece of paper he had, and I gave him some ashes. He hugged me and scurried off to the park to say a private prayer to Dad.
Pat, Dennis, Bob, and I said our good-byes to everyone and made our way up to 519 West 121st Street—our old apartment building. A few tenants came out. One knew Pat, and they chatted about my dad and the good old days.
We each took some ashes and spread them around the small tree and flowers out in front of the building. I felt my dad close by, and could almost hear him saying, “Hey, Kiddo, you’re doing great.” I knew I was. I knew these were the spots where he needed to reintegrate into the land.
In the late afternoon, we three Carlins and Bob went down to the Village to meet up with Belzer and his family (his daughter, her boyfriend, and his bandmates) to see Taylor Negron’s show, Satellites.
After the show we all went to a restaurant and sat outside on a back patio in the Village. It was a perfect late-July evening. As the light faded, I looked down this long table that seated about eighteen people filled with amazing artists—comedians, writers, musicians, painters—and my heart swelled. This was the life I’d always wanted. I’d always wanted to be part of a community of artists, a peer of people seeking, expressing, and living life through a prism of curiosity and wonder. As my heart filled with gratitude, my eyes filled with tears. I knew that this moment would not have happened if Dad were still here. I sat in awe of the complexity of life.
After dinner I gathered Belzer and his gang, Taylor and Logan (his musical partner), and their friend Carey, and my family in front of the restaurant. I said to the group, “Follow me. We are going to spread Dad’s ashes in front of The Bitter End.” While we walked east on Bleecker Street toward the club, I realized that this particular group of people couldn’t have been more perfect for the task ahead. I knew exactly what I’d say when we got to the club.
The Bleecker Street of 2008 was very different from the Bleecker Street of 1963. What we found was a neighborhood full of clubs and restaurants trying to lure folks into their establishments with barkers and lots of neon signs. Long gone was the quiet neighborhood dotted with cafés and folk music clubs. Outside The Bitter End was a “roach coach,” with its generator going. Not the most conducive environment for a ritual, but it didn’t slow me down a beat, because there was also a sweet little tree surrounded by a small patch of dirt ready to receive Dad. This is where we would spread his ashes.
I began, “I’m so happy that you are all here. Here we are, a group of comics, writers, performers, and musicians all doing our best to live the creative life. Expressing our hearts and souls through all sorts of avenues. This spot, The Bitter End, is the very spot where my dad began his creative life. This club is where he would come to hone his craft, speak his truth, and experiment with his art form at the beginning of his career. This spot is about birthing, creating, and nurturing that which lives in all of us here and now, and wants, needs, must be expressed. So I ask, as you take some ashes and spread them around this tree, that you hold in your heart all that wants to be birthed in you. Ask for it to be blessed by this moment, this place, and the memory of my dad.”
I then took a handful of ashes and slowly released them in a circle around the tree, and asked that life honor me with the privilege to be a part of a community of artists where I could express all that wants to be expressed to the world. Let me be of service to others through my work.
Then slowly each person—Pat, Taylor, Dennis, Logan, Belzer, Jessica, Carey, Timbo, Bob—all took ashes and communed with the moment. After Belzer spread his, he became emotional and disappeared around the corner. Pat joined him. I stayed present at the tree until everyone had their turn. When I came around the corner, Pat and some of the others were smoking a jay and laughing with tears in their eyes—the perfect ending to a perfect day.
And yet what I had in store for Dad the next day was even better.
The next day Bob and I rented a car and headed up to Lake Spofford, New Hampshire. We were joining Pat and Dennis there to find the site of Camp Notre Dame, the place where my dad had gone to camp as a kid. Camp Notre Dame held a special place in my dad’s heart. It was the first place in his life where he was recognized by his peers as an entertainer—every summer he was there he’d won their drama award. One year the award had come in the form of a necklace bearing the comedy-tragedy masks. My dad cherished that necklace and wore it often, including the day he died. I knew, that if Dad was watching from “above,” he was knocked out to see that I had figured out that this spot at Lake Spofford should be included in the “Farewell to Dad: Ashes Spreading Tour.”
The skies threatened to storm as we circled around the lake looking for some sign of the camp. We stopped some locals, and they told us that the camp was long gone. We found a public beach that had access to the shore, and made our way to the edge of the water. It was quiet. All you could hear was the meditative rhythm of the water lapping up against the shore. After the din and dance of the city the last few days, I felt myself land back in my body. There was no one to host or wrangle, and no audience of loved ones to hold. It was now just family. I took a large handful of ashes and leaned down, letting the water take them from my hand. The pulsing of the water slowly expanded the ashes into a large ghost-shaped swirl.
I finally let myself really cry.
Once we were done Bob and I followed Pat and Dennis back to the house in Woodstock. Dad had bought his brother this house on eleven acres of land right after my mom had died. It would be mine someday. I loved that land. We spent the evening in the easy space that our family always had. I was so lucky to have a family where I could fully relax and be myself, knowing we all love each other unconditionally and could make each other laugh all day long.
In the morning I knew that this land was the last place in New York I needed to put my dad’s ashes. I knew that this was his final resting place. And I also knew it was time to let my mom go, too. Before Bob and I had left for this trip, I had spontaneously grabbed the last jar of Mom’s ashes and put them in my suitcase. I stood in the dry creek bed that wound itself through the property, with both my mom and dad in my hands. Marlene, my aunt, came bounding out of the house calling, “I have Moe, too!” Moe was my mom and dad’s last dog, a Maltese (the one who loved to hump Vern the cat). When he got elderly, Dad sent him to be loved and cared for by Marlene and Pat. I smiled as I looked up at her running toward me with the bag of ashes. It was so perfect—Mom, Dad, and Moe together in the end. All of us took handfuls of ashes and began to spread them around the meadow and small thicket of trees surrounding the house. Patrick spread a bunch around his favorite oak. In the months to come, Pat would tell me that he’d go out to the oak every morning and have a conversation with my dad.
I then went back into the dry creek bed. There was a storm coming later in the day, and I knew that this creek would fill with water and then head toward the Hudson River. I also knew that the water that leaves the Hudson River is picked up by the Gulf Stream and makes its way across the Atlantic Ocean to Ireland. I knew that the ashes of my father that I was leaving in this creek would take him to our ancestral home—the west coast of Ireland.
As we were finishing up, Dennis said, “I know you want to be done here, but can I have this last little bit to take back into the city? Being a musician, and knowing how much your dad was influenced by the jazz players of his youth, can I take them to the original Birdland tonight and leave some there?”
“Yes, of course. I think that is wonderful.”
And so that night Bob and Dennis and I headed out to our last stop on the “Farewell to Dad: Ashes Spreading Tour” from our friend’s apartment near Columbus Circle. The three of us figured out where the original Birdland had been and made our way down to Fifty-Second Street. We found the address, 1678 Broadway. It was a strip club. I laughed. Being exhausted, and having no desire to pay twenty bucks each to go in, Bob and I decided to let Dennis have his night with my dad and Birdland, and the strippers. As Dennis disappeared down into the bowels of the club, I leaned over to the bouncer, a big Irish-looking guy, and said, “If you would, keep an eye on my cousin who just went in. We’re on a bit of a mission, you see. My dad was George Carlin, and this was Birdland, a place that he haunted the backstage door of in the forties and fifties so he could get autographs of all the greats.”
The bouncer looked at me with shock in his eyes. “Your dad was George Carlin?”
“Yeah.”
“I used to drive a cab, and I had the great privilege to drive him twice. Once seemed enough for a lifetime, but I got to drive him twice. And he was always cheerful, and talkative, and curious what was going on around him. We had two great conversations. Wow. Wow! I’ll keep an eye on your cousin.”
“Thank you. He’s emotional, and I worry about him sometimes.”
Bob and I went to sleep around midnight. When Bob got up at 4:00 A.M. to pee, he saw that Dennis wasn’t sleeping on the couch. He woke me, “Kel, Dennis isn’t back yet.” I sprang out of bed. “Shit.”
I checked my phone. No calls. I had texted him the address, but I also knew that he’d been drinking that night, and now I was really worried. I texted him again, but there was no answer. Bob got dressed and made his way to the club, stopping at a few bars along the way just to make sure he wasn’t in those. When he reached “Birdland,” Dennis was coming up the stairs, buzzed but happy. He’d spread Dad’s ashes everywhere and managed to get the phone number of one of the dancers. Bob immediately texted me that all was well; they were on their way back.
Now we were done. Absolute. Final. Done.
* * *
When we got to JFK the next day, we were told that our plane had been struck by lightning when it landed, and that the good people at Virgin America were trying to get us on a Jet Blue flight—tomorrow. After frantically calling some friends to find a place to crash for the night, I was able to settle into my seat on the train back to the city and contemplate this turn of events. I was befuddled. I couldn’t believe we were going back to the city. Our time there had felt so complete. I felt like our mission was done. Why weren’t we finished? Why were we still in New York? What was missing? This is when Dennis pulled a Baggie out of his pocket and said, “Oh, by the way, I didn’t spread all of the ashes last night. Here’s the rest.”
The rest!?! There are ashes left?!? We weren’t done with this tour, after all.
The minute we walked into the hotel room in the Trump Tower on Columbus Circle (my friends had come through, big-time), the sky cracked open with the most violent and spectacular thunderstorm I had ever witnessed. Bob, Dennis, and I sat and watched Central Park light up, and listened to the echoes of the thunder god Thor reverberate off every building around us.
I laughed inside and thought, “Okay, Dad. I get it. I can hear you. We’ll get it done.” But even so, I was not sure where.
I woke up just after dawn. Bob and Dennis were still sleeping. I looked out the window and noticed the rain had lightened up. And then it hit me—Central Park! How could I have forgotten? It was the very place that marked most of my childhood memories of this city with my dad—the zoo, the elephant rides, the horse-drawn carriages, the Plaza Hotel, Carnegie Hall, Rumpelmayer’s, climbing the outcroppings of schist in the park.
I walked into the park and wandered around. I saw an outcropping of schist rock, took the ashes out, and had my private good-bye with my dad—just him and me, alone in a space of love and sadness. Dad was home.
He was done. I was done. We were done.
* * *
Well, almost.
I lied.
I saved a small amount of ashes so that Sally and I could take Dad down to the Pacific Ocean under the Venice Pier, and let him go forever.
It seemed more than fitting. Although Dad’s life began in New York, the majority of it unfolded here in Los Angeles. It was where Dad found fame, Mom lost herself, and the Three Musketeers were born. It was where Dad discovered his true north, Mom got a second and a third chance at life, and I got to be one of the luckiest kids in the world. It was where a family—my family—got a front-row seat to the freak show, and survived it by loving each other no matter what.
Like a trail of bread crumbs, there are only traces of my family left in this city. Wispy memories as I drive through Brentwood, Venice, the Palisades, and Beverly Hills, slowly being eaten up by progress and the present. I smile softly as they pass by, and I see in it all that our love endured through this City of Angels.
And there may be hundreds of images and thousands of words created by my dad floating for eternity in the ethers of cyberspace, but there was only one of him, my dad. And he is gone, except for the etchings he left on my heart.