Change your beliefs, change your world.

The piece below is actually my first published piece, and in a weird twist of internet fate, took on a life of its own entirely independent of me, an experience I describe above.

It started out innocently enough. I began to think at parties now and then, to loosen up. Inevitably though, one thought led to another and soon I was more than just a social thinker. I began to think alone, “to relax” I told myself, but I knew it wasn’t true.

Thinking became more and more important to me and finally I was thinking all the time. You know the pattern; I denied it, of course, but I wasn’t fooling anybody but myself. I thought I had my thinking under control… how wrong I was.

“That’s a faulty syllogism,” I said impatiently

I began to think on the job. I knew that thinking and employment don’t mix, but I was too far gone to stop myself. “Boss” I’d say, “why do we offer half-price coupons, when the coupon program itself costs money to run? Why don’t we just lower prices?” Or I’d say, “Hey Boss, we’ve been advertising this product as ‘new and improved’ for ten years!” Naturally he was furious.

“Skippy” he’d shout, shaking his fist, “we don’t pay you to think around here!”

But I would only listen to reason. I began to avoid friends at lunchtime so that I could read Thoreau or Kafka. I’d return to the office slightly disoriented, asking, “what is it, exactly, we do here?” I tried to talk about politics, even religion. I soon had a reputation as a heavy thinker. Golf invitations came further and further apart, then stopped. One day, the boss called me in. He said, “Skippy, I like you, and it hurts me to say this; your thinking has become a real problem. If you don’t stop thinking on the job, you’ll have to find a new job.”

This gave me a lot to think about.

Things weren’t going so well at home either. My wife had caught me staring off into space on several occasions. “What are you thinking about?” she’d snap. “Nothing,” I’d snap right back, but she knew it was a lie. I was sneaking thoughts around the house now, spending extra time in the bathroom or the garage. One evening I turned off the TV and asked her about the meaning of life. She spent the night at her mother’s.

I came home early after my conversation with the boss. “Lambchop,” I confessed, “I’ve been thinking…”

“I know you’ve been thinking,” she said, “and I want a divorce.”

“But Poopsie, surely it’s not that serious.”

“It is serious,” she said, lower lip aquiver, “You think as much as college professors and college professors don’t make any money so if you keep on thinking we won’t have any money.”

“That’s a faulty syllogism,” I said impatiently, and she began to cry. I’d had enough. “I’m going to the library,” I snarled as I slammed out the door.

“Don’t take the car,” she screamed, “You’ll kill yourself.”

But it was too late.

I headed for the library, in the mood for some Nietzsche, with This American Life blaring on the radio. I roared into the parking lot and ran up to the big glass doors… and they didn’t open. The library was closed. To this day, I believe a higher power was looking out for me that night.

As I sank to the ground, scrabbling at the unfeeling glass and whimpering for Zarathustra, a poster caught my eye. “Friend,” it asked, “is heavy thinking ruining your life?” You probably recognize that line. It comes from the standard Thinker’s Anonymous poster.

It was then, for the first time, I admitted the truth to myself. I had a serious thinking problem. My life was a wreck. I was almost out of a job. My wife wanted a divorce. Even my priest was giving me stiffer penance than usual, after I asked him about the Church’s role in the Spanish Inquisition. I made a solemn vow to myself that I would get the help that Thinker’s Anonymous offered.

Which is why I am what I am today: a recovering thinker. I never miss a TA meeting. At every meeting we watch a non-educational video: last week it was Porky’s. Then we share experiences about how we avoided thinking since the last meeting. After that, the meeting breaks up and we sit around eating Cheese Whiz on crackers, chatting, and reading back issues of TV Guide. They’re a great bunch of guys. We watch a lot of football together.

Life isn’t easy for the non-thinking thinker. There are a lot of temptations to think, especially in election years. I take it one day at a time. You might have seen me around town. I’m the one with the bumper sticker that says IT’S OKAY NOT TO THINK.

I still have my job and things are a lot better at home. Life just seemed… easier, somehow, as soon as I stopped thinking. I like to think God has forgiven me, even if the priest hasn’t. So I’ll never think again, that’s for sure. It’s hard sometimes; just yesterday, I began to wonder what life would be like if we all stopped to think now and then… I caught myself just in time. It’s best not to get started thinking like that.

Did you like this essay? You’ll love my books!

Tagged as: belief systems, humor

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Too bad I’ll never publish the pornography on this blog…

Occasionally an otherwise blameless chicken will sprout a black feather or some other damned spot that catches the attention of its peers and they will peck at the flaw, curiously at first, until a featherless spot develops, and then a wound, and then the flock pecks with something more like malice, and the gang plucking continues until little is left of the hapless fowl but a bloody red smear on the chicken yard floor.

an endless variety of nicknames such as Genghis, Gus, Dingus, Anus and—in retrospect my favorite—Fungus

And that’s exactly what it’s like to be a kindergartner with a name like ‘Angus Stocking’. In a sea of Toms, and Pats, and Roberts, I alone stood out and my classmates hung on me an endless variety of nicknames such as Genghis, Gus, Dingus, Anus and—in retrospect my favorite—Fungus. At first, desperate for some role in the flock, I accepted and even encouraged these monikers but the day came when some sense of self-preservation led me to resist and I began to beat up anyone who called me anything but the name assigned to me at birth. Fortunately, I was a large and resilient lad and did pretty well in the recess wars and soon enough, at least to my face, my name was Angus.

This put me in a curious position. Part of me still hated being different, and for many years I secretly wished to be called Craig, a name I now use as a pseudonym when publishing pornography. But publicly I was a proud defender of my unusual appellation. The name Angus, after all, is derived from Angus Og, the Celtic god of love and laughter, is the name of a great many Scottish heroes and writers, and you know what they say about Angus beef… once you’ve tried it, you’ll never go back.

I got so comfortable being the guy with the funny name that it was a substantial shock when at Boy’s State, a summer camp for budding politicians, I met another young man named Angus. We had much in common, were the same age, and he seemed eager to be friends. I hated him. That he should have the same name as me seemed deliberately offensive, and to call another person by my name was so repugnant that I refused to do it, and I was inexcusably rude to… Angus, until he got the hint and went away.

It was just such events that my father had hoped to avoid when naming me. His name was ‘Bob’, and growing up he resented being one of several Bobs in any group. So he married a woman named after the wickedest city in the Bible, Corinth—and surely that was part of the attraction—named me Angus, and my brother is Garth—stuck with the most common of names, he collected unusual names about himself. And for many years this made me feel sorry for myself and angry at him. But meeting this other Angus led to a shift in my thinking: rather than feeling sorry for myself, I began to feel sorry for the rest of you with your humdrum names, your Steves and Marys and Daves and Kathys and Jims… with the same label as millions of other humans, how do you people even know which one is you?

Eventually I realized that my father had given me a priceless gift: by sticking me with a weird name he freed me to be weird, which is to say, he freed me to be myself. He died before I thought to thank him, so let me say it now—thanks Dad.

Did you like this essay? You’ll love my books!

Tagged as: belief systems, humor

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