One of the happy side-effects of writing this column is the fact that crazy people often write to me.
Don't get me wrong -- I love crazy people. They are
my people. They are also my bread and butter. Without the unstable minds that read this column regularly, I would be all alone in this corner of the Internet.
In fact, I would be a little unnerved and rather unhappy if crazy people didn't read my column. What fun would there be in having sane readers?
I'll bet George F. Will's readers are sane. And I'll bet none of Will's readers e-mail him pictures of rats. Mine do. One Christmas, a woman sent me a picture of her three pet rats, each of them wearing a tiny halo that the reader had made out of pipe cleaner.
Rats with halos. In your face, George F. Will!
More recently, I received a response to a column from a guy who makes a living doing cartoon voices. Not only am I proud to count him as a reader, I am immensely jealous that he gets money for doing something that I usually end up doing after a few beers.
Of course, he's considerably better at it than I am. Every voice I perform strangely comes out like
a weak impression of Charlton Heston.
Because things live forever on the Internet, I get to hear from crazy types well after a column was published. A few weeks ago, I heard from an eccentric kilt-wearing fellow some two years after I had written about
my first kilt-wearing experience. He explained that I had neglected to mention one of the most important reasons to wear a kilt -- the CDI (chicks dig it) factor.
You need no more proof of the CDI factor than the fact that this reader was wearing a kilt when he met his wife. In a cave. In Mexico.
"Mexico," he confided, "is very good place to be when you meet a woman."
I'm not sure what he means by that, but it sounds very deep. How could I not appreciate such a wise and crazy reader?
The fact is, I consider myself lucky to be among a happy band of kilted cave-dwelling Don Juans, rat costumers and cartoon-voiced readers. And the more that I think about it, the more I am inclined to believe they aren't crazy at all.
Crazy people are the ones who are too normal to let their imaginations wander. Crazy people are the 14-year-old boys who are too cool to go on a family outing -- sitting at home watching "Matlock" reruns while the rest of the family serves witness to a heart-stopping rendition of "1812 Overture" at the International Yodeling Festival.
When I was a young man, I used to think my dad was a bit of a dork. He likes to listen to John Phillip Sousa marches in the car, and, where some people like to air guitar, my dad likes to "air conduct." Crazy people conduct marching bands that aren't there, I decided.
So, I ducked my head when I was in the car, and spent the rest of my time in my room, being too cool to do anything. Clearly, I was the one who was insane -- living in self-imposed solitary confinement.
These days, I am one of the greatest air conductors alive. Although, I must admit, I have a bit of a reputation amongst the air trombonist community because I am always shouting at them to play louder. But at least I am less crazy.
A life unfulfilled is a life of true craziness. If it's been a while since you last did something that made people look at you a bit funny, you need to step away from the computer and do some Scottish country dancing. Or visit a museum dedicated to a foodstuff. Or both.
And once you get back, be sure to drop me an
e-mail and let me know how it went.
Chris Cope is married, with no children. His column appears every other Tuesday. 
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