Finding the Idiot Within

"So, how was your week, Hobobob?" Dr. D. asks.

It was alright. I didn't leave my room but twice. Maybe three times. If memory serves. I didn't leave it much. I like being in my room. Fucking ready to grow old and die there actually. I grin...I wish I had a tooth missing in front of my mouth so that I look goofy when I smile. "That sounds serious Hobobob, we already know that you have Social Anxiety. Staying in your room will only make it worse." I know that. I nod. I know all about that. I need to get out more. I don't have to heart to tell him that tomorrow I'll be standing before a classroom filled with students. I push the thought from my mind. I don't want to think about it, it would only freak me the fuck out.

"Are you listening to the relaxation tapes, Mr. Hobobob." Naaah, I think I can do all of this stuff without 'em. "You're trapped in your room though. It doesn't sound like you are coping well without them." He sits forward. Everyone in the room sits forward with him. I have a room filled with counselors. "Remember, the tapes are for your benefit. It can get you out of the house." I nod. I know he's right, but appointments do the same thing. They get me out and about. I don't say anything further to him though. He stares at me for a minute more before moving onto the next bozo.

Afterward, I head over to a liquor store, where I pick up a portable. It's been awhile since I've had a snootfull, so I avail myself. Then I walk to the Madison Starbucks. It's a nice day out, and I'm enjoying the plumage. Plumage...that's what my friends in Boston used to call women dressed provocatively in the streets. The day can be measured by the amount of plumage out. I walk and enjoy myself. Soon I'm at Starbucks and upon stepping in, the motherfucker is hot inside. I look around...what the Hell happened? Someone turn up the heat? I instantly know what I'm buying...Iced coffee.

I settle down and get online. My brother soon joins me. We work on our grant proposal. Hopefully this will give us enough money to continue on with the grand plan of getting poetry to the masses. I give my brother some cash so that he can go and get his own portable. No sooner does he return does Electra appear. "How much does a wine cooler go for?" She asks me. Around three dollars. " I have a few of them...would you be interested in buying them from me?" Lemmesee. I and my brother get up and indeed she does have a number of wine coolers and Kalhua Mudslides in her bag I grab a few and make a deal with her to give her some of the money tonight and some tomorrow. She agrees and off my brother and I scamper with the drinks.

Now we're cooking with gas.

I make it home later, and crawl into bed, going to sleep as fast as my head hits the pillow. I drool like a maniac all night long, the LAMICTAL doing its job in fucking me up. I wake up with slob all over my face, beard and pillow. Jeeezus Dayum! I get up and wash my face. What the fuck? I make microwaved shrimp for breakfast and get online. I went shopping last night so I have a cupboard and refrigerator full of food.

It is time to move. I have an appointment with some college kids today.

I meet my brother early in the morning at Starbucks and we get our marching orders online. We are to report to the twelfth floor classroom of Professor Lake and read poetry to his class. I am both excited and terrified. When my brother said that it was a go, my heart sank in my chest. Off we went, taking the Way down to the Borough of Manhattan Community College. It was a moderately sized classroom with the chairs all pushed to the walls, creating a large semi-circle. We took up positions before a wall covered with a chalkboard.

The classroom was filled with kids. It was amazing. We had their rapt attention and Professor Lake introduced us and OBSIDIAN gestured for me to take the first leg and read some of my pieces. I read two poems both about alcohol. Then OBSIDIAN read his. They sat there, riveted, listening without a sound. Then, it was time for questions and answers. I was never so nervous. I found myself repeating many of my answers over and over again. This only made me more frustrated, so that I did it more and more often, but overall it was in fact, both satisfying and enjoyable. One young man raised his hand: "This question is to Hobobob...I would assume that you drink alot. How do balance that with your writing. What I'm trying to say is that does it make your writing better?"

Who would have guessed the perspicacity of these young minds. Yes, I drink people. Some would say that I drink a lot. When it comes to writing poetry, it allows me to get out from under the problems that root me to the Earth, to escape my own mind. It allows me to break away and find that elusive spark inside. I caution them though: I'm not saying to go out and get a six pack of beer a pad and pen and start writing poetry. I'm just saying that I use it at times to write. You don't have to.

The class goes well. We give them writing exercises and they enjoy it. Soon, it is all over, and all of my nervousness was unfounded. I am relieved and will have to run to get to my Nephology appointment. I am running out of time. I say goodbye and thanks to Professor Lake and my brother and I run. He has his medical appointments at the VA hospital, and I have mine at Beth Israel.

We part company to meet later.

Hobobob