In Defense of Crazy

I've met a lot of crazy people in my life.
Frank from Jersey City comes to mind. A local legend with Elvis hair, a fixture on the corner of Grand and Columbus, who kept a switchblade in his sock and sang doo-wop at passing buses.

Then there was Zef, who ran a gypsy cab company on the Upper East Side. He believed that rules…all of them…were meant for others, as evidenced by how he may/ or may not have ‘edited’ my application so he could hire me back in the day.

And Harry the Trucker. Built like a medieval door. Always sweating, always muttering. One eye pointed towards the sky, the other right through your soul. If you saw him barreling down the block, you instinctively crossed the street or made for an alley.

City life teaches you something early: crazy is relative. And without these people, life would be far less colorful.
But lately, I've encountered a different species of crazy entirely.

The holy kind.

The Other Kind of Crazy​

Continued below.

In Defense of Crazy

I've met a lot of crazy people in my life.

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