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 24×7 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, find 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 a good education these days.” When I’ve asked who ‘they’ are, people say, “you know, ‘them.'” Aaargg!

This is an 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 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:

How do huge flocks of birds fly together and all move in the same seemingly random way? Is there one leader bird that all 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?

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 these questions.