The year was 1969. sitting in poetry class. I have no effing idea what I’m doing there. The professor, in a loud voice, booms out:
“In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure dome decree.”
The professor then turns to me and asks for my interpretation of this Coleridge poem.
Twitch. Grunt. Gotta pee. Silence. Seems like effing hours. The prof stews, raging over the unfairness of getting stuck with state school morons.
A realization hits with great force at that very moment – I’m just an effing idiot. In a time where being considered ‘deep’ impacts everything from one’s success in scoring with women to who you get to hang with, I am definitely wallowing in the ‘shallow’ end of the brain pool.
Everywhere I turn is more of the same. I return to my dorm room, and my roommate is listening to Bob Dylan on the stereo. Awestruck, he’s rubbing his eyes and saying, “I can’t believe he’s saying this!”
He replies, “Forget it, man..just forget it.”
Yet Mr. Dim Bulb continues to punish himself. I voluntarily attend a poetry reading by legendary beat poet Allen Ginsburg. My enlightenment meter pushes hard left to zero. However, I do remember that he had the worst body odor imaginable.
If you were in college classes with me in 1969, you would remember me. The few times I didn’t oversleep and miss class, I said nothing, ever. Always deathly afraid of exposing the real me.
Recently, I had some good news. My son, an elite university grad, told me,”Dad, I hate poetry, it’s so useless.”
That’s my boy!
Moving to the future, I want to hear a woman say, “Wow, you are really stupid. Can I spend the night with you?”
Why do I have the feeling I will be waiting a long time.