In my experience, whenever some one offers the information that they're crazy, as in "I'm so crazy! You never know what I'll do next - that's how crazy I am!" this is a sign that they're perfectly sane and merely annoying.
But I occasionally wonder about myself. I often find I'm the subject of nervous glances on the TTC, then realize that I've been singing, sometimes rather loudly.
When I pick up on the fact that people are surreptitiously eyeing me while pretending to study the Poetry On The Way posters, I'll lower my voice and sort of fade out, like it was time to end the song anyway.
I've always sung in public. Sometimes jazz. Sometimes rock, blues, reggae or rap. There's no set list, really. Just whatever happens to be going through my head at the time. It's a habit I picked up from my mother.
Unfortunately, this is commonly regarded as a sign of instability and a possible reason for alarm. I think of the woman who lives a block from me and wanders the streets yelling at herself, usually followed by several cats. Still, like me she appears to be self-sufficient, and has moments of lucidity, as I have discovered when talking to her.
Similarly, I have seen the old man on College who shakes his fists at an invisible tormentor but still enjoys a quiet, pleasant drink on a neighbour's porch. Yelling at things certainly seems to be a common symptom of madness - and singing aloud, alone and off the stage, appears to be one, too. I'll notice someone singing on the subway, stop right in the middle of my rousing rendition of Besame Mucho and think, "Damn, look at the psycho."
There was an old woman with chaotic red hair who used to ride my streetcar. Smiling sweetly at everyone, she would board the car, head straight to the back and promptly burst into a horrid, distressingly piercing and relentless song of gibberish and start dancing with an expression of wild euphoria. But even as she grated like sandpaper on my nerve endings, I had to recognize the resemblance between us. Frightening though this realization was, it made her 10 times more bearable.
So when a man got onto the Dundas car one night belting out Bohemian Rhapsody, I joined him. Sure, there was that moment when the rest of the car exchanged "Look at the crazy man" glances, when I teetered on the edge, precariously tilting toward taking their side, but I righted myself just in time and went the other way. Who was I kidding, anyhow? I wanted to sing along.
He smiled at me as I jumped in. We got about halfway through "I'm just a poor boy nobody loves me. He's just a poor boy from a poor family. Spare him his life from this monstrosity," at which point he suddenly switched to Harry Chapin's Taxi. Luckily, I knew the words to that one, too. But the man could not pick a song and stick to it. Two verses into Taxi he started in on Meat Loaf's Paradise By The Dashboard Light. Of course, I just happened to know that one, too. Everyone stared at us or made a point of not staring at us, like we were crazy people. We hadn't actually said anything to each other, after all.
And for all he knew, I was a crazy person. For all anyone knows, we're all crazy people. So screw it. Let's sing.