I don’t like crazy people. OK, maybe “don’t like” is the wrong phrase. I do like them, the way their imaginations run wild, taking them places far beyond the planes of normalcy, where an old hedgehog is just a stick away from being a toothbrush, and even ants can get you high if placed in the right orifice. And I enjoy observing the darling creatures, but only from a safe distance. You never know when I’ll resemble Scooter the Muppet, renowned in the crazy circuit for his ability to play Jenga with cheese. So, I like to keep a comfortable 15 yard cushion of empty space between “us” and “them”.
Once upon a time, it was easy to spot the loonies. Unlike us “normals” who enjoy eXtreme sports and watching reality TV, the mentally ill, or “weirdoes”, exhibited a surefire telltale trait. No, not ticking or the swatting of imaginary bugs. We all may do that from time to time when we’ve got an inconvenient itch. It’s the whole “talking to oneself with loud voice and wild gesticulations whilst meandering down the boulevard” that would usually tip me off.
Now, however, life isn’t all that simple. One very common invention, proven time and time again to be the modern equivalent of lead for the Roman Empire, can be blamed exclusively: cell phones. They prevent silence in the movies or the theater. They reduce brilliant works of music to “DEE DEEDLE DEEDLE DEEDLE DEEET, DEE DEE DEE DEEET, DEE DEE DEE DEET”, and now, they prevent us from identifying the real nut-jobs out there. Hands free cell phones may help reduce alleged cancer in the alleged brains of alleged people, but they’re seriously damaging my alleged social life. Now, since anyone could be talking on the phone without holding one, who’s to say who’s crazy and who’s just obnoxious? No one? Everyone? Most people? See my dilemma here?
I’m walking down the street, and on each side of the street are two guys chatting away with mysterious “others”. One is dressed in black Perry Ellis pants, Kenneth Cole shoes, and a shirt from Brooks Brothers; the other, dead pigeons and stapled banana peels. Which side do I walk on? It’s not as easy as it looks. I’m not one to judge on appearance, but that one guy was wearing navy blue socks with black shoes–obviously a few ounces of steamed milk short of a latte. So there was really only one option. Take my chances with Mr. Compost. Needless to say, I ended up spending hours carefully taking Gouda from the bottom and precariously placing it on top of the Roquefort.
So now I don’t leave my apartment. But it’s ok. I don’t mind. I’ve taken up used q-tip mahjong.