Mental Jewelry

Sometimes I think I'd like to not think so much.

Being a man of words, sometimes it becomes quite difficult to shut them off. I spend about 99 percent of my waking hours with thousands of thoughts boiling around between my ears. Ask anyone who knows me and they’ll probably tell you that I think too much. Unfortunately, try as I might sometimes, it’s hard to shut that faucet off.

I think about the typical things - work, bills, errands, appointments, manners, food, Jimmy Hoffa’s burial place, you know, the usual - but there are dozens of other thoughts racing around in there that startle me sometimes. Occasionally, I'll share a thought or two with my wife, and occasionally, I think she must think I've lost my mind. Lifelong friends of mine are used to my “fits,” if you will, but my lovely bride and I have been together for a little less than five years, so I think she’s still getting used to being married to half a nutjob.

While I can assure her and you that my mind is still all there, I can’t really say that what is there is normal. When I look into the mirror, I don’t think, “holy cow, you’re f***ed up,” but I do sometimes snicker at the funky monologue that goes on 24x7 in my head. And of course, I don’t know for sure that the rest of you don’t house a similar kangaroo court of thoughts between your ears similar in their breadth and depth to mine. I do know, however, that when I share some of that strangeness with those around me, I often receive quizzical looks that suggest that they think I might be better served to put the peyote away for a little while.

For instance, have you ever wondered about your refrigerator light? I know that it does go off when the door is partially closed, but how do we know it doesn't come back on when the door is shut? There could be a conspiracy between the electric company and the refrigerator people to jack up the electric bills and to see more refrigerator light bulbs.

I've actually gotten on my hands and knees and stuck my eye right up to the crack of the door and tried to see if the light comes back on as the door closes. Perhaps the only way to find out is to remove all the shelves and climb in. I'll let you know what I discover. Maybe I should make sure someone else is home when I do that.

Sometimes, I also wonder about graffiti on bridges and overpasses. Who puts that there? And why? I've never met a single person who would admit to spray painting their beloved's name on a bridge. Sometimes, I think the construction crews must pre-graffiti things just so they blend in with the rest of our infrastructure.

But I assume that the people who do spray paint 'Steve and Lisa 4-ever' (inside a misshapen heart) must be terribly in love. I've done some pretty silly things in the name of romance, but I've never been so inspired as to drive to Sherwin-Williams, pick out a suitable color, locate an un-graffitied bridge, dodge passing traffic and scrawl a love letter to my sweet thang. Maybe I'm just not all that romantic after all.

Do you ever wonder why the people who put graffiti on bridges have common names, like Bob and Mike, Lisa and Mary? I think I’ve figured that one out. It's because people with names such as Montgomery and Willowdeen would never risk permanently scribbling their names anywhere. I mean, there’s about a billion Bobs and Lisas out there, so who’s going to know that graffiti on the overpass is yours? If your name is Willowdeen (I actually knew a Willowdeen, believe it or not) then your graffiti will forever immortalize the fact that you once had the hots for some schlep named Montgomery.

I also wonder who "they" are. I can't tell you how many times I've heard people say "I wish 'they' would find a cure for cancer," Or "'they' are making it impossible for a kid to get good education these days." When I've asked who 'they' are, people say, "you know, 'them.'" Aaargg!

This is a obsession that goes clear back to my college days when I was a columnist for The Ball State Daily News. In those days, I wrote a weekly column, titled appropriately enough Straightjacket Required. In 1987, I first publicized my concerns about this nefarious organization of theys and thems. I’ll spare you the entire diatribe (though I reserve the right to post the entire thing here later) but the general gist of that meandering column was that I want to know just who in the hell “they” are and where they’re holed up. I don’t necessarily mean any harm to the good folks at Them, Inc., but I would just like to see their compound and find out what they’re going to invent or do next.

You ever wonder about the fact that they (damn those faceless, sinister bastards) often include Braille on ATM machines? You know, I’m all for making things in our society accessible to those with physical limitations, but this is one thing that makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. Sure, a blind person could walk up to an ATM machine and use the Braille to identify the buttons, but they can’t READ the on-screen prompts so that they know what buttons to push and when. And don’t get me started on why drive-up ATMs include Braille. Seriously, do I need to go into why this is a tremendously bad idea?

Have you ever wondered why we call them fortune cookies? The fortune cookies I usually get would be more appropriately titled “statement cookies.” They usually read something like, “You are strong of character.” That’s not a fortune. That’s a statement. I know. I went to journalism school. A real fortune would be something like “you are about to be found out and clubbed to death by those closest to you.” Now that’s a fortune. I could make a mint at the ol’ fortune cookie factory of they’d just hire me. Were I to be filling those fortune cookies with my thoughts, I'd make you take a deep breath before you blindly open your next fortune cookie after downing a plate of egg foo yung...

I also wonder just how there are still job opportunities for clowns? Is there ANYONE out there who doesn’t find clowns to be at least a little creepy? C’mon – grown, pudgy men wearing wildly colored clothes, freaky pancake makeup, gloves and shoes several sizes too big. The last time I went to a circus (and it’s been a long time because I find clowns to be friggin’ creepy) I nearly chin-skipped one clown who got too close me and invaded my personal space. Read Stephen King’s book It and if after you’re finished, you don’t want to bum rush the next clown you see, then I’ll shut up.

Speaking of people who dress funny, do you ever wonder just what in the hell is up with those Shriner dudes who drive those little souped up go-karts in parades? I mean, really. Most of those old coots shouldn’t be driving automobiles on clearly marked highways in the daylight, much less doing figure eights and crisscrossing in front of each other at light speed in the middle of a crowd of people, many of whom are children. I mean if just one of those guys has a painful gas bubble at the wrong time, it’s going to look like an air show disaster as one after another crashes into the Shriner ahead of him. Just because they’re Shriners, however, I think we give them a pass. You know, they’re cute on their little toys with their fezzes a’flyin’. C’mon folks, they’re a public health hazard. If they want to ride their tiny cars around together, that’s their prerogative, but they should do it somewhere well away from the general public.

I could go on and on about the things that vex me – and I will in future posts – but for now, I’ll leave you with two more random thoughts:

1. How do huge flocks of birds fly together and all move in the same seemingly random way? Is there one leader bird that all of the other birds follow blindly, or more frightening, is there a collective consciousness within flocks of birds and are we doomed if they ever decide to all take a dump at once?

2. Did you know that you can take a Hostess cake donut, place it on a plate and leave it in a closet for two years and when you come back, it will still look like a cake donut? I know because I did that once when I was a kid because I wanted to see what happened. It didn’t mold or crumble. It got really hard, like a hockey puck, but other than that, it looked like a donut that I could go buy at the store. Just what in tarnation could they be putting in a garden variety donut that could make it survive the trials and tribulations of two years deep in the bowels of a 9-year-old boy’s closet and come out the other side intact? And we wonder why our digestive tracks hate us.

I'm sure that They have answers to all of these questions.

What's Good for the Goose...

This morning while driving to work, I received a speeding ticket. I admit that I was driving over the posted speed (not by a lot, but enough) and I do not dispute the charge. Subsequently, I will pay the fine and outrageous court costs without complaint.

I do, however, find it objectionable when I frequently see police officers speeding themselves. I'm not talking about officers on their way to an emergency call (meaning that they are using lights and sirens). I am talking about officers with what appear to be spouses in the car, who are in plain clothes, or who are from agencies that don't have jurisdictions in that area (county police from 75 miles away or more, for instance). These officers are driving in excess of the posted speed, without lights or sirens and very clearly not on their way to an emergency call of any kind. In short, it appears that they are on their way to or from work, or to some other engagement, just like I was this morning when I was stopped.

What makes police officers exempt from the same traffic laws that govern me?

I see this often enough, that I feel that I must speak out, especially when citizens, such as myself are ticketed for the same offense. In fact, the last time I received a ticket, I was absolutely amazed to see an officer in plain clothes - but driving a marked vehicle - go past the same speed trap I was caught in while driving faster than I was traveling. The police officer who stopped me just seconds later actually waved at the first officer before pulling me over and handing me an outrageously expensive ticket. Again, I was wrong here, but so, too, was the off-duty officer ahead of me. At least if our law enforcement officers are going to apply the laws so selectively, they could try to be a little more clandestine about it. There were a good 10-15 cars in the immediate vicinity and every one of those motorists saw the laws unevenly applied. In fact, the officer who drove away unscathed had been tailgating me because he wanted me to lane over so that he could go on his merry way, at a speed a full 20 mph over the posted limit.

I realize that there are times when an officer might exceed the speed limit without lights and sirens for some official purpose unknown to the general public, but I do not believe that each and every time I see an officer speeding in a marked car - often times wearing plain clothes or from a jurisdiction far outside the area I’m in - that the speeding is warranted or legal. Because I take the same home route every day from work, I regularly see the same officer who must get off work at the same time I do. He is a city officer who obviously lives 15 or so miles outside the city in which he has jurisdiction. He consistently speeds, rides the bumpers of the cars in front of him, and in general is an ass on the road. And he’s obviously just driving home. Where’s his ticket?

I have an immense respect for police officers and for the work they do ensuring the public's safety. I realize that their job is dangerous and mostly thankless. That said, I get a pretty bitter taste in mouth on days like today when I receive a ticket for the same offense I see police officers committing regularly. That’s pretty hard to accept or respect.

Frankly, I think those officers out there who do drive in excess of the speed limit because they know they can do so with immunity ought to be ashamed – especially if those same officers write speeding tickets for civilians who are caught speeding. The inequity is just flat stunning.

In the end, I will pay my fine because I was wrong. I just wish the officers I see speeding illegally had their wallets tapped, too.

Communication Breakdown

I made a pretty, ochre-colored splotch on the carpet in my office when I melted down today.

I was in mid-groove this afternoon as I slid out of my shirt and tie and eased into a battle-scarred pair of jeans and big, floppy sweatshirt, and then saddled up to my computer desk.

Everything was fine here at the Kughen Home for the Mentally Deranged and Criminally Insane...that is until I logged in and pulled down my email. Now, it is not unusual for me to receive in excess of 100 email messages a day during the week. I accept this as part of the obligatory ball and chain that goes with being a modern Internet user at home and at work.

But today, as I watched the happy little parade of email roll into my equally happy PC, I began to shudder. With hands trembling and my butt sinking deeply into my high-back chair, I rested my face on the keyboard and wondered just what had happened to my once serene, non-technical existence. As I drifted into a fitful sleep, face-down at my computer, I dreamt of those carefree days when I actually talked to folks on the telephone, occasionally visited in person and almost never got more than a few emails a week. Those were happy days.

With a snort, I flopped over into a bale of computer cables beside my desk and ebbed farther away into a deep sleep. Then, I dreamt of running through a flowery field in the sunshine, the birds singing and chirping in the distance as a fair maiden's lithe voice drifted o'er my head. But as I ran through that utopic field, chasing maidens (all of whom, incidentally, were my wife) and butterflies, I began to notice the world around me begin to change. The change was subtle at first, but it grew more overt with each passing second.

The sun slipped behind menacing clouds, and flowers wilted and dropped their pedals into the yellowing grass. The skies opened and a black rain began to hose this once beautiful field. And as I lay there, cowering in the crab grass, I heard the rodent-like scurries of an army of little feet tramping my way.

That's when I saw them.

There were thousands of sickly grimacing little email notes that had sprouted knobby legs and were wielding pitch forks and hot pokers. They scampered my way, whining and chortling, and in general seeming as though they were up to no good.

I know trouble when I see it, so I stumbled to my feet and ran like the wind, the rain biting my face and the sick, dead grass squishing between my toes. I ran and ran and ran.

They ran faster.

And then I heard their battle cries. They screamed like berserkers as they bailed from miniature airplanes that darted overhead. The sky grew dark as millions of miniature emails blotted out the sun and drifted into the dead grass around me.

Panting like a dog, I stumbled once, twice, then careened into the grass landing on my schnoz with a dull thwack. I lay there for a few seconds with blades of grass stuck to my tongue - eyes hazy and wild - too tired to give additional flight.

They then surrounded me, shouting something about Custer and Little Big Horn, but by then I was curled into a ball, shielding my ashen face from their tiny little hot pokers. I saw one of them wing by my head with what appeared to be a rather large meat fork.

I opened my mouth to scream, but was silenced as they rushed to me, their tiny feet digging into my soft, lily white beer belly and as I tried to bellow again, my mouth was filled with thousands of them and...

With a clatter, I careened away from my desk, knocking over a pile of blank CDs and launching my wireless mouse across the room. Spitting mouthfuls of paper out, I realized that I had swallowed a sizeable portion of a notebook on my desk.

Shaking the sick mass of paper that had formed a spitball the size of a small dog on my tongue, I glanced at my computer screen to see that my in inbox of unsorted mail had grown to more than 1,600 individual pieces of mail in just the past month.

Kicking aside the CDs that had been dashed to the floor, I settled back into my chair and saw that some 100 or so email messages had invaded my machine just today and were now marauding about my inbox. I thought I heard one or two of them snicker, but I wasn't sure.

So after my meltdown, I settled back into a posture that all to familiar these days: me hunched over the keyboard, illuminated by the flicker of a computer monitor, hunting and pecking at breakneck speed, answering the daily typhoon of email.

Sometimes I wonder just why it is necessary for any human to communicate that much. I try to remember a simpler time when folks had to use a crude device known as a telephone to talk to folks who weren't standing in front of them.

I vaguely remember telephones. I believe they're those funky looking things with buttons antennas. If you're not sure, walk over to it, shake the dust bunnies away and lift it off the charger and place it to your ear. You should hear an irritating hum. That's a telephone.

Now if we could just remember how to use the damn things.