Me vs. Any Random Crazy Dude

I started wondering the other day why I really write this blog. I think I can count on one hand how many people actually read it, so I certainly am not doing it because I have some sort of following who live and die with each word that I type. I don’t have any delusions of grandeur either…I mean, I’m a suburban dude writing about nothing particularly interesting. I started thinking about how this is essentially me just talking (writing) to myself and that realistically, there isn’t a whole lot that differentiates me from the random crazy dude on the TTC who is rambling on about nothing other than the fact that we each have a different medium. He chooses to use his voice and actions to get some sort of point across that really only he understands while I use my computer to get no point across to, well myself. Now I ask you, who is crazier?

If anything, at least the guy on the TTC has an audience that he can confuse and scare simultaneously. There may even be one person who secretly connects with him, but then gets off five stops early to wait for the next train…only to start hoping that the crazy guy doesn’t do the same thing, because being stuck in a subway car with a crazy guy and a bunch of other people is one thing, but being stuck beside a crazy guy on a platform where there might not be that many people depending on the stop and the time of day after trying to avoid the crazy guy, well, that’s just downright dangerous. I mean, he’s crazy, he’s not stupid. He knows you were trying to avoid him.
Anyway, I sit here and write. I suppose it is some sort of catharsis, maybe it is what holds me together…but then to say that would mean that I am actually holding myself together, which might be a completely unreasonable statement. Random comment from left field: I am listening to Sloan’s 1992 release Smeared right now and am surprised I remember all of these lyrics…and a few seconds ago I just flashed back to seeing them in concert with a few friends at Kool Haus (or whatever it was called then)when we were 16, when they played with Jale and Hip Club Groove. As you can see by the lineup, the show was trash, but the highlight was that Jale got all pissed off because somebody in the crowd threw a shoe and their drummer. I’ve been to a lot of bad shows, but never have I felt so strongly as to subject myself to going home with one shoe in the winter. Maybe the person brought the shoe with them, but either way, it was brilliant and made the night.

So yeah, this is what I do…and for some reason, I always do it late at night.  I can’t write during the day.  The only creative things I do during the day are the following: complete crosswords and then get the same crossword and complete it again with random words; see how many random things I can count on my way into work; fake smiles at people.  That’s pretty much it.  But for me to call this “creative” may be a stretch anyway.
Anyway, I am going to stop thinking about why I write this stuff and just get back to writing it. Somebody has to provide the standard by which the society measures borderline sanity. My cause, at last, is found.

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