I believe the children are the future.

When the alarm went off at 5 a.m., I knew immediately that I had made a terrible, terrible mistake the night before. Not that I hadn't had a good time. I did. In fact, I'd had a great time sitting in that bar with Morgan. The mistake had been to sit in that bar for quite as long as we did. Now lying there in bed, I was feeling it?in my head, in my guts, in my bones. And being an old man, I knew it would be hanging around for the rest of the day.

The problem wasn't in the hangover itself?those I'm used to. The problem was in the fact that in just a few hours, I was scheduled to make an appearance at a local high school, where I was expected to give a little talk to the young people of today.

The reasons why I was going to be talking to high school students remained a little fuzzy.

Sometime around the first of the year, I think it was, I received a phone call. The woman on the other end asked me if I would be interested in a speaking engagement.

My immediate reaction was "oh god no!" Then she explained that she was a friend of a friend, and that he might be involved, too. She explained further that her daughter, who was a freshman, had read my first two books and had since become a bit of an advocate of my goofy stories. That's when the fact that all the proposed business would be taking place at a high school came out.

I don't like public appearances, period. I get all antsy about going to the damned grocery store?but a high school? They'd knock me down and take my lunch money. Furthermore, who in their right minds would think it was a good idea to put a cranky, burnt-out, drunken (or extremely hung-over) fool in front of a group of high school kids? Someone suggested that maybe it was part of the school's "Bad Example Week"?but whatever the case, it was madness. Clear, unmistakable insanity.

Then, for some reason, I hesitated. The date she was suggesting, after all, was right about the time I would be doing a bunch of publicity around town for a new book. Maybe I could just add it to the pile and forget about it. I shrugged, and then I agreed to do it.

Everyone I mentioned it to over the next couple of days thought the idea was really, really funny. Myself, though, I was terrified. On the bright side, it was one of those fancy private schools, so chances were good that I wouldn't be shot. I might not even have to go through a metal detector, which is always good, too. But there were still the youngsters to deal with. I just don't deal well with the youngsters.

Then I began to think about it some more. When I was a kid, guest speakers at school were always a nightmare. I've written about this before. We had farmers and lumber company executives, canning-plant foremen and paper mill representatives. The only one who left a real lasting impression on me and several of my classmates was the convict they brought in from the local prison. I don't know if it was during career week or not, but he sure convinced us that a life of crime was a viable option for the young and desperate.

Maybe I could do the same thing for these kids.

I groaned my way out of bed the morning of the event, stepped painfully into the shower, and began the long, slow process of making myself somewhat presentable.

By 7, I was sitting at the kitchen table with a third cup of coffee. The coffee wasn't helping. Neither were the Tums or aspirins I'd been swallowing. The rain outside wasn't helping much, either.

As I sat there, I silently ran through what I thought I might say. I knew there would be a reading involved, but what could I say apart from that? I sometimes tend to simultaneously over- and underprepare for things like this. Neither is any good. Fact was, both were usually pointless, given that, however these things end up going, they never go in any way you might have imagined beforehand. Nevertheless, by 9, I had pieced together what seemed to be a reasonably funny, wrongheaded little talk. I put on my shoes and coat, then went outside to the corner to wait for my ride. There I smoked some more, and decided not to worry about anything. My guts were still in a bit of an uproar, but the pounding in my head had reduced to a slow burn.

Patti (the woman who'd called me initially) showed up with her daughter, Aviva (who, it turns out, had pushed through most of the arrangements at the school). I'd met them both briefly a few weeks earlier at a local bookstore. Aviva told me about an English teacher she had, and I suggested that this teacher sounded like a bit of a weasel.

Anyway, I climbed in the car, and we headed south.

I knew nothing about Poly Prep, and was astonished to find this old, fortress-like academy situated on 25 acres in Bay Ridge. There were geese wandering the grounds, for chrissakes.

The car curved up the long, serpentine driveway and dropped me and Aviva off at the front door. She led me inside and down long hallway after long hallway. The floors were carpeted and the walls covered with student artwork. What struck me most about the place was how quiet it was. Granted, classes were in session, but still?in my old school, even when classes were going on, the halls were a zoo.

She walked me into the enormous, airy, modernist library, and introduced me to the librarian, Jim Kemp. Kemp was a smart, jolly fellow who'd also helped arrange this whole thing. I sat down at a large table that looked out over a sea of chairs and through a set of floor-to-ceiling windows and waited.

In time, some students showed up. Then some more. A class showed up, as did a few wandering teachers. Everyone, from what I could tell, seemed mighty clean-cut. More than me, certainly. And since I am no longer capable of gauging age with any accuracy whatsoever, everyone?the students, at least?seemed tiny. Even the ones who were taller than me.

After an introduction from Mr. Kemp, I decided to win them over immediately by saying "A big hello!?to the young people?of today!"

Although the windows were sealed, I could still hear the crickets. This is why I don't do things like this.

Figuring there was probably no saving it at that point, I told them about the prisoner who inspired me when I was a young person.

Then I tried to do a reading, but the light situation, unfortunately, combined with a hangover fog, left me mumbling and stumbling and squinting?and finally abandoning the reading. I'd never abandoned a reading before, but it was simply impossible. At this point I had three choices: I could launch into the speech I'd prepared at the breakfast table that morning. I could throw the floor open to questions. Or I could grab my bag and try to make a run for it. I knew if I did that last one, though, they'd be on me like a pack of rabid hyenas, so I did the question thing instead.

Only once, in all these years, have I ever done a Q&A with a live audience. It was several years ago, it was a complete disaster, and I've never done one since. Here, though, I seemed to have no choice. That speech I'd come up with really blew.

Immediately, and much to my surprise, hands started going up in the air. What the hell was that about? There was supposed to be a long, uncomfortable silence first. But there they were.

Soon after I began answering questions, I found myself having one of those out-of-body moments, where I was able to step back and actually hear myself making references to Conrad and Camus and Eliot and Sartre, confounded that I was even talking about these people, having no idea why I was doing so, hoping against hope that it wasn't completely obvious that I had no fucking clue what I was talking about.

The Latin teacher threw a couple curveballs at me, regarding our perceptions of madness.

A girl in the back asked if I was still a nihilist. (I told her no, but thinking about it, I wish I could answer her again).

After the fifth or sixth question, I could feel myself start to slow down.

"What did you read in high school?"

"Ummm?Ya know, I'll tell ya?that whole period is pretty fuzzy for me, umm?In fact, there are long periods of my life that are pretty fuzzy, for various reasons?"

One young man mentioned his desire to be a writer, and I complained about the money writers made, before suggesting he have a back-up plan.

Then it was over with, and I hadn't had a chance to give them half the words of advice I'd hoped to. (I didn't even get to use my closer, adapted from Where the Buffalo Roam: "I don't mean to give any of you the impression that violence, drugs, alcohol, brain damage, attempted suicide and genetic disease will help you achieve all your goals in life?but they worked for me.")

Afterwards, the English teacher I had termed a weasel several weeks earlier came up to me and announced himself as such. Then we went across the hall to have lunch.

I shared a table there with a couple of teachers and a number of students. And that's where I learned something.

Many of them were children of privilege, sure?but at the same time, they were reading actual books. They could carry on conversations. They had senses of humor. Some were putting out their own photocopied zines. They were listening to Residents records and going to Cramps shows. Who would've guessed? In an odd way, it was almost as if these kids were nostalgic for my youth, the way I am myself sometimes. So who knows? Maybe I didn't have to tell them anything at all.