It's hard to focus on the tasks at hand as you go through your everyday life. There's always a catchy radio song, an exam or a new romance to steal away your attention. But I've had my mind preoccupied by something else the past few days. Something far more sinister. Robin Williams has hijacked my brain.
It started innocently enough. Saturday afternoon, I sat watching the Independent Spirit Awards on TV. And there he was. There were his goofy voices, his spastic body motions, his joke about actresses who had undergone so many facelifts that their nipples were now on their cheeks. It was Robin Williams, and my peaceful existence was about to wave goodbye.
The next evening, I sat watching the Academy Awards telecast. And there he was-the voices, the nipple joke and all. It was Robin Williams again.
A freshman friend looked at me curiously.
\Amos, why is Robin Williams making SpongeBob jokes?"" he asked. ""He's a serious actor.""
""Funny you should say that, Timmy,"" I replied. ""Before you were born, he was known mostly for his coked-up standup comedy routines, just like Richard Belzer.""
""Who?""
""You know. Detective Munch from 'Law & Order: Special Victims Unit.'""
I went home relieved that I wouldn't have to deal with Williams again until next awards season. Or so I thought. Just as I laid down to sleep that night, a voice entered my head.
""Hey chief.""
""Robin Williams?"" I responded.
""Right-o, cowboy. Nielsen told me you were one of the six people watching the Independent Spirits, so I figured you'd be a welcoming host brain.""
""But I wasn't watching for you. I was looking for Julianne Moore. She's dreamy.""
""Ah, can't fool me, slugger,"" disembodied Robin Williams responded. ""Hey, have you heard my impression of a Frenchman?""
""Mr. Williams, I need to sleep.""
He then went into an improvised four-hour riff on the comedic qualities of sleep before finally calling it a night. He has returned every day since, distracting me from lectures and free time to periodically plug his next movie or share his impression of Popeye wrestling Osama bin Laden. And nothing I did could make it stop.
Every generation has to deal with the sloppy, bothersome remains of legends it never saw in their prime. Children of the '70s saw Fat Elvis without ever seeing Cool Elvis. Younger people only know Michael Jackson as a scary, old child molester. As for us, every awards season we have to face the blithering, unfunny mess that Robin Williams has become. But this year, he decided that a couple nights a year just isn't enough of my life to take away.
""Hey cowboy, what's up?"" he returned today.
""Not now, Mr. Williams. I'm trying to write my column.""
""Oh, I can help. I do dialects. Why don't we write a column in Ebonics, yo?""
""I write alone.""
""Hey chief, show a little respect. I have an Oscar.""
""Mr. Williams,"" I snapped, ""They only cast you in 'Good Will Hunting,' because by 1997, you were about as funny as child abuse, advanced math and cancer.""
""I know where I'm not needed.""
""No you don't. That's the problem. Now get out of here,"" I ordered. ""And take Mike Myers and his stupid Scottish accent with you.""
He quietly said goodbye in his Tinkerbell voice, reminded me that ""Robots"" debuts next week and finally left, ending my nightmare. But he poked back into my brain a last time.
""I'll see you next awards season, champ.""
Sigh.
Amos can be reached at AmosAP@gmail.com.
