The Robin without a Hood

Creative genius is lonely. It comes with the territory, and it often goes unnoticed unless the person who is gifted has the drive and will power to withstand the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune that always come with it. In today’s blogosphere, which should be better characterized as a “mugosphere,” the geniuses are mixed into the digital pot with the lunatics until the audience becomes confused about the nature of real genius.

Robin Williams was a certified genius of comedy, and improvisational comedy was what he loved the most. Let’s face it, acting is like writing advertisements. You do it because somebody else is paying the bills, and you are being controlled by so many other hands that you might as well be a puppet. Certainly, Robin Williams could act, as his Academy Award and nominations can attest. But it was his stand-up comedy that made him famous in the eyes of his public, his “hood,” if you will.

Who were his public? I was one of those guys who noticed him, as I was coming out of my own rehab in 1987, living in a small apartment off Montezuma Road, trying to get a graduate degree and stay sober, so I could teach and give back to the world what I had selfishly devoured during my drinking and drugging years. That’s when I saw Robin, Billy and Whoopi, and several other “court jesters” displaying their talents on the strange telethon for the homeless called “Comic Relief.”

When I saw Robin’s routine, he knocked me out. This man had the fastest wit since Shakespeare, and he didn’t have to ponder first before writing, he just said it — in an instant — and his face glowed with inner joy as he said it, as if he were personally commenting on the entire society from his lofty perch near the King’s throne. But, like Robin Hood of yesteryear, he was doing his routine to benefit those who were less fortunate than he. Robin had found his “hood” in 1987 because it was his way of doing what we call in the Program “service work.” His sponsor would have told him he needed to do this to stay sober.

When Robin died, so did a part of me. It wasn’t because of his great comedic talent that I mourned him. It was because he gave up on the purpose of our Program. It’s no secret. We exist because we know as long as we can help one other person stay sober one day longer, we will have been successful. The “rub,” as Shakespeare would say, comes because that is not society’s purpose.

Robin was no idiot. In fact, a psychiatrist I met in the Program, who studied recovering and recovered alcoholics and addicts, told me that people who abuse substances are often some of the brightest and most talented people in that society. The problem with us is not how intelligent we are but how difficult it is for us to remain fulfilled as human beings. Dr. Abraham Maslow talked about “peak experiences” being the experiential zone of fulfilled human beings, and Robin had his peaks doing stand-up and improv. I have mine writing a creative story or novel. This is also where the plot thickens.

Let’s get back to the “rub.” Today’s society — especially that society that is called “entertainment” — is a harsh mistress. Personal performance artists must not only be good performers, they must also have attractive appearances. In fact, if you are rich and attractive you can become a celebrity. Look at Paris Hilton and the Kardashians.

I can imagine that when Robin found out he had contracted Parkinson’s disease, he thought, Oh shit! They may find parts for Michael J. Fox — at least he looks young. But me? Who wants an old fart slurring his words and shaking in front of them or on camera? I might as well be drunk! Of course, I cannot say what was actually going on in Robin’s mind. I can merely speculate as a fellow member of the Program and as a creative artist myself.

At least in my profession, when I write, I can be anybody I want to be, and my physical appearance matters little to that identity I put forth on the page. But, Robin? This man was driven by appearances, but I submit to him now that he could have surmounted even that obstacle if he had remembered that he was of value as long as he could entertain one other human.

One of Robin’s friends said, “Robin came alive when there were more than two people in the room because he then had an audience. However, one-on-one, he was unable to relate.” This is what killed Cock Robin. A sponsor is the key to our success in the Program. We must be able to relate to one other human being on an intimate — not entertainment—level because it means our survival!

I am not one to talk. I am a loner, and my relatives and friends have even called me a “hermit.” Yes, I have over 25 years clean and sober, but I also know that unless I can share what’s going on inside this whacky head of mine with one other person I trust, then I can easily lose my mental sobriety — my spirituality, if you will — in an instant. I don’t like society, and I don’t really trust society, and my writing often reflects this distrust. However, I do trust the people in my Program to help me get over whatever inner turmoil I may be having day-to-day.

Whether Robin Williams realized it, or not, when he appeared on Comic Relief with his dazzling stand-up routine, he saved one other drunk from the abyss of loneliness. Robin had his hood that day, but as soon as he was alone, that same fragile, caring man was faced with his personal insecurities and demons. Without that one person you trust to help you get through these moments — and they can be merely moments when you can lose it all — you have lost the only audience that can save your life: one other drunk talking to another drunk to stay sober and sane for one more day.