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You're all going crazy, every last one; Tea Party mad hatters, Obama bumper sticker slappers, dog lovers, cat killers, pedophiles, oenophiles, Maoists, Zionists and ski bums. Each one of you is a developing whack job at some level of your Big Store brain, the only difference being at which particular floor you get off. Third floor – Ladies Delicates, Leather Eyewear and Bedroom Swings … excuse me, this is my stop.
Madness is no different from any other evolving condition. Long stretches of boringly infinitesimal mutations, interspersed with cataclysmic events that permanently alter the psychological landscape, continually stretch the mind into an oblong aspect. This ongoing process is a side effect of learning. The brain feeds constantly on life's chum and sometimes doesn't chew it thoroughly. There are big indigestible chunks of information banging around inside your skull, usually revealing themselves on picket signs and stupid t-shirts. There is no method to any of it, beyond the evidence that we get crazier every day.
I recognized the advantage to being an acknowledged screwball at an early age, trapped among elderly family members whose mental editors took the train to Miami Beach and left their wrinkled bodies and brains behind in New York. Those people sat at the table, blurting and grousing like imbeciles and entertaining the crap out of themselves. I liked that. I decided that one didn't need liver spots to enjoy such freedom and went straight to babbling old coot at the unripe age of twelve. Now, that's crazy.
Friends and family see me as a gooney bird, unpredictable and prone to flying upside down. It's liberating, leaving me incapable of offending anyone, since no one pays much attention anymore. I can say almost anything, covered over with a dopey look, and get away with it, just like your grandfather. I confess to picking my spots, so I may not be totally insane. It's a work in progress, as I'm currently working on holding one nostril closed while blowing boogers out the other.
There is a perceptive correlation between the appearance of people and the degree of kookiness we're willing to permit them. Bag ladies get a total pass. There isn't anything they do that goes beyond any boundary of expectation. On the flip side, a well-groomed middle-aged man in a Brooks Brothers suit doesn't get the leeway to drop those expensive pants in broad daylight and defecate on a street curb. Nor should he, given that he purposely projects an image that says he has yet to pay his crazy dues in full.
Being obviously insane is a full-time occupation that requires the constant reinforcement of visually erratic behavior. A uniform helps. I used to play for a semi-pro baseball team called the Sewanhaka Indians and our game uniforms matched those of Cleveland's team. Sometimes I'd wear the top out in public in Manhattan and invariably be stopped by passersby, usually Yankees fans.
"Hey, Indian, welcome to New York."
"I'm from here, genius."
"So, why are you an Indians fan?"
"I'm not. I'm a Mets fan."
"What?"
"Let's go Mets!"
"What?"
That's the cue, the verbal double "What?" accompanied by the "What?" facial expression, telling me I've immediately established myself to this complete stranger as being a little off. From his point of view, with the expectations concerning me permanently altered, a public poop seems a little less outrageous – Not that I would do it, but it's nice to have options. Acknowledging your own insanity means never having to ask, "Where's the bathroom?"
Speaking of Indians, there was a legend among pioneer folk that Native American warriors wouldn't scalp a visibly insane person, considering it "bad medicine." I don't know if it's true, but I have this grand scheme forming in my head to test the extent that people share a similar aversion. Picture me in a fancy restaurant, sitting at a table with my party. I notice a person at a nearby table pushing their plate away, indicating that they're finished eating. I go over, stand beside the person, grab the plate and start eating what's left. How do you think that would go over? I'm curious, but maybe I should try it out in a restaurant at Foxwoods or Mohegan Sun, just to be safe.
Yes, I'm crazy and you're all slowly moving in my direction. I've been living in my own funhouse for so long it feels like a spring day at Disney. It's always nice to be ahead of the curve and incredibly convenient, too. While your kids are shipping you off because they notice the inevitable change, I'll remain in my own permanent state of goofball grace. Nothing I say or do will strike anyone who knows me as anything other than typically me. As for you people who don't know me, I'll try to be as obvious as possible without using your personal space as a toilet.
