That is hard to say. There is the lady in Williamsport who dressed as a different “King” every day. I was told it was a different king from Revelations and then later it was a different king from the Bible. I’m not familiar enough with the bible to say. She never wore shoes, even in winter. Her feet bled in winter, but she didn’t seem to notice.
She may qualify, but I know so many other crazy people…
I used to work with a guy who did the same thing; I saw him do it.
I don’t know this woman but I encounter her from time to time. She conducts endless telephone conversations. She uses excellent English and the conversations seem logical and to the point—the only thing is, she doesn’t have a telephone, although she holds her hand to her ear as if she does. I think she actually hears responses to her phone calls; I’ve seen her suddenly look alert, hold her hand to her ear and say, “Hello.”
Two of them. One guy, who’s name is long forgotten, was a fellow student at Purdue, and an avowed Communist. He even wore a Chairman Mao peasant’s cap complete with a red star. At a school where Ronald Reagan was viewed as a hero needed to replace Jimmy Carter, this kid sure stood out.
The other was at a different school, and his first name was Ned. Our behind the back nickname for him was Gonad. No social skills and hygiene to match, and the prototypic gamer before the technology took over. He lived for any kind of board style role play. In the sea of weird that is engineering school, he was the lunatic fringe.
I think the weirdest person I ever met was a guy I used to work with that we called “Crazy Mike”. Mike was ex-military (so he claimed) and would constantly tell these stories about how his wife was hooked on crack. None of us ever saw this woman. But the stories just kept getting stranger.
According to Mike, she got involved with some Jamaican gangsters and was out prostituting herself for crack. She was a PhD level psychologist (again, according to him), so it was a bit unlikely that she would be turning tricks, but…
Mike regaled us with tales of how he went into the gangsters’ bar with two guns drawn to get his wife out. And then there was the time he painted a crushed soda can black, threw it into the bar and yelled, “Grenade!”
Then there was the story of how he was eating lunch in a Chinese restaurant and the waiter turned out to be his long lost son from Vietnam.
I could never decide whether to go the other way when I saw him coming. I knew that I was in for a good story, but I didn’t want to waste 30 minutes or more hearing it.
Frances. He was a frequent customer at the Pizzeria Uno in Porter Square, Cambridge, MA where I waited tables for a while
He looked exactly like Uncle Fester from the Addams Family. 40ish, strange eyes, bald head, rotund body. Except he was usually in drag. Bad drag. He wore a wig of long ratty brown hair, flowing floor length skirts and a fanny pack. Usually he came in wearing a trench coat and fedora over the skirt and wig. He was also always covered in talcum powder. It coated the wig, his face and hands. He carried many bags, would walk into the restaurant, take his favorite seat and then walk back into the kitchen to alert us to his presence. If a pitcher of Diet Coke did not appear soon after at his table he would start yelling for it. He always ordered the same pizza, the same way (extra toppings, extra cheese) and would send it back if it was not to his liking. I don’t know why, but I was told to put up with him. He was more interesting than not so I didn’t mind.
Sometimes his girlfriend would after him. She was strange in her own right and I will never be able to forget her spine scratching voice yelling, “Frances!” over and over again as she limped her way to his table hitting passing customers with her cane. They would then proceed to have loud conversations about their sex life.
One of the older waitresses mentioned she had been to Frances’s apartment once. I don’t know why and I didn’t want to ask. She said every surface was covered in talcum powder and his apartment was filled with piles of magazines, newspapers and books.
Was Talcum Powder one of the extra toppings?
I’ve got a relative (by marriage) who claims multiple personalities. She is institutionalized roughly twice a year. This makes for interesting holiday get togethers.
One memorable Thanksgiving day, she adopted* the persona of a 4yr old. She was chasing peas around her plate unsuccessfully, and ended up putting her head down on the table and shooting them in her mouth one by one with her fork, hockey style. Later she was a 99yr old man.
Another time she was having a seemingly normal conversation with my mother. Mom was surprised that she was so talkative, as she’s usually withdrawn and not much of a conversationalist. In mid sentence, she interrupted and said, “Sally** is not here. I’m Tammy***. You can call me Sally if it makes you comfortable, though.”
*I say adopted because the general concensus in the family is that, while there is no doubt as to her mental illness, the multiple personalities is put on for attention.
**Real name has been changed.
***Really really not her real name.
A guy named Nick. He used to save used tampons and thumbtack them to the inside of his closet.
I’ve only been on Park Ave once or twice, despite technically living in Winter Park, so I’ve never met this guy, but to hijack, have you ever been past the Lynx stop at Aloma and Semoran? There’s a guy who I’ve seen several times while waiting for my order at Steak ‘n’ Shake who stands near the bus stop in a hoodie and air boxes complete with ducking and weaving. Fortunately when someone comes nearby he stops for a bit. But the odd thing is that even when the bus comes, he doesn’t get on.
Far from the weirdest person I’ve (never) met, but that would take pages.
Wow, that’s weird, because one of our clients (well, an employee of one of our clients) calls here to get information and parts, and sounds exactly like that. His name is also Dave. Very slow, very deliberate but slightly slurred speech, almost like he’s chronically depressed and self-medicating. The questions he asks and the way in which he speaks is fairly normal – or as normal as it gets for him anyway, but he will not end a conversation. Ever. My first few conversations with him typically ended like so:
Me: “…okay, that’s in stock.”
Him: Okay.
Me: “…”
Him: “…”
Me: “…iiiiis that everything you needed?”
Him: “Yes.”
Me: “Okay, then, we’ll ship that out to you.”
Him: “Okay.”
Me: “…”
Him: “…”
Me: “Aaalright, have a good day, then.”
Him: “Okay.”
Me: “…”
Him: “…”
Me: “Bye.”
Him: “Bye.”
Me: “…”
Him: “…”
Me: <click>
Given his druthers, he will stay on the phone, perfectly content to listen to dead air, until you hang up.
Years ago, I knew Joe Waldholtz.
Years ago (about 20) at the newspaper I where I worked, I pitched a Halloween story. I knew several local people who had fun “haunted house” stories. Interview the people, shoot some creepy pictures and boom, fun feature!
Immediately the editor suggested I interview this guy (I’ve since forgotten his name; let’s call him Bob) who had run an ad some months previous. He offered to do exorcisms of demons from thoroughbred horses at area horse farms. I’m sure he had no takers (but hey, you’ve gotta give him credit for trying … there is a lot of wealth in the horse industry).
So, off I toddle to his home in a remote section of the county, accompanied by the photographer. (He later told me he hung around until I was finished with the interview, once he saw the calibre of the guy; he’d intended to shoot his pix and leave.)
After about a 10-minute interview on the subject of demons possessing horses (and why exorcising them would make them start winning races), he started in on subjects much nearer and dearer to his heart … the spirit world which teems around us.
Part of me was like, “hey this is great for my Halloweeen story!” I was particularly captivated by his suggestion of placing eggs in the corners of rooms to dispense with particularly stupid spirits. There apparently are spirits so dumb that they don’t get the “LEAVE NOW THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU” method of demon/spirit removal and you have to put out eggs to, you know, absorb them!
So Bob continues to go down the path of weirdness, finally ending up discussing the spirit of his late wife. His EX-wife, significently enough. I’m sitting there, pinned at this point, unable to get a word in edgewise, as he goes on and on and ON about how he had to help her pass on to the other side, and she was resistant, and did I tell you you have to put eggs in the corner of the room … and then her spirit lifted up and up, and my spirit went out to meet her and guide her home …
He had hair sprouting out his ears and an oppressive amount of junk in his living room. I was so grateful James the photographer waited for me! By the end I was a little worried he might want to add me to the population of his fantasy world!
Unfortunately, on some days, yes. It would come off of him in little white poofs. We had to wipe the seat down when he left.
Dr. Trips. I’ve probably met weirder people, but the most recent one appeared when my husband and I headed out for vacation in Playa del Carmen, Mexico. We flew out of Mpls/St. Paul and so first observed the guy in the departure gate. He was wearing khaki dockers, sandals with socks, a loud shirt and a cordouroy jacket with patches on the elbows. This was topped off with a plastic lei and a white hat adorned with lots of pins and flowers. He had a white beard, and we decided he must be an English or philosophy professor somewhere.
We ran into him later at a tequila bar. He was minus the jacket and socks, but had the hat, plus all his fingernails and toenails were painted a variety of colors. He plopped down next to us at the bar and immediately launched into an extremely rambling, profane and bizarre monologue that seemed designed to shock or offend us. It was vacation, so we mostly laughed and tried to end the conversation, unsuccessfully, for a half hour until we’d finished our drinks and bailed.
Mostly it was this stream-of-consciousness thing that made it so interesting, liberally sprinkled with gems like (looking me in the eye), “Does he lick your pussy? I bet he just loves it. I bet you just love it. That’s all women are, you know, cunts. You just walk around all day and that’s all anyone’s interested in, that cunt between your legs. You think you’re smart, right?”
Me: “Actually I am quite brilliant.”
Him: “Nah.” (Shifting to look at my husband), “Your ever try acid?”
And so on, rolling in plenty of sexist, racist, politically misguided stuff. No professor, that one, or at least I hope not. We dubbed him Dr. Trips and would occasionally see him talking with other tourists, who always looked bemused and wary. He was also on our flight home and as he passed us heading back to his seat, he leaned into my face and waggled his tongue at me.
The weirdest person I ever encountered on a regular basis (I won’t say “knew” because I never actually met him, just encountered him pretty much daily for a few months during my late teens) was a guy who wandered around the downtown area of Ventura, CA. He was probably in his 50s or 60s but had a very “elfin” face that made him look younger. He always wore very natty pastel-colored suits (usually pink or baby blue) and blindingly white leather dress shoes. He also wore a short blond wig that was curled up on the sides like Little Lord Fauntleroy or something. Whenever I encountered him, he’d be walking around downtown with a file folder (might have been a manila envelope–the memory on this is a bit sketchy) held to the side of his head, and would be muttering to himself about something.
I remember him as being harmless and non-intimidating…just an odd guy who was part of the downtown scene. My friend’s mother said she’d heard a story that he used to be an engineer or scientist and that he’d either invented something important that he was afraid someone would steal (hence the folder/envelope) or that he was convinced he had.
I wondered why nobody ever mugged him for his envelope–maybe they did, and he just got a new one when that happened.
I was never brave enough to talk to him, but looking back I kinda wished I had. He might have been fascinating.
I work in a state run psychiatric hospital. Need I say more?
The weirdest person I met was an employee at a job I used to have. He was a fat, dumpy guy in his late 50s or 60s, with gray whiskers (I never saw him clean shaven, it was always this quarter inch of growth), terrible teeth, and one eye slightly askew. He wore a brown trenchcoat all year long, even inside.
He seemed to like me because I listened to him, I guess. On his breaks, he used to come to my desk and tell me all about his theories.
A partial list of oddities:
He claimed he used to work for the CIA
His job at the CIA was being a ninja
The CIA trained him in ninjitsu and the “ninjitsu healing arts”
He can heal carpal tunnel disease and many other ailments by laying on hands
He used to frequently hawk the laying on hands thing to women in the office
He is an artist in his spare time and likes to paint nudes, which he would also try to solicit in the office from young ladies
He can see auras
My aura is “lemony” in appearance, “like most people”
He is constantly monitored by the executive board of the company we worked for (a Fortune 100 company) with cameras
He knows who killed JFK and it wasn’t who we think
He’d really like to tell me who killed JFK, but I would be executed by the CIA
The Illuminati, the Mafia, and the Masons rule the world in conjunction with the Skull and Bones Society
One of my coworkers had fired him at a previous job due to sexual harassment, but it never stuck at this place for whatever reason.
He used to bring in books for me to read about conspiracy theories, which cracked me up to no end. He would put post it notes on the pages with the most important things. Eventually I had to stop humoring him because I really needed to get work done, but I found him hilarious.
I’ve lived in NYC and SF, so where do I start?
I guess I’ll start in NJ. With my high school film study teacher. Who was pretty much the poster boy for teacher burnout. Bitter. Cynical. Sarcatic. Spent most of his class time playing films, when he wasn’t drinking in the back room. When he talked to the class he wore Micky Mouse ears. But he did seem to love the movies as much as he hated us. I loved the guy.
To get to NYC, Red Ed. Who not surprisingly only wore red. And was what I belive is know as a gimp. He was an East Village fixture. He used to run parties at various locations. We had a few interesting conversations about what he wanted me to do to him but I don’t swing in quite that direction. Plus, he looked like an even geekier version of Bill Gate, in a red jump suit.
On the other hand there was the 6’ tall, 100 pound, masochistic transvestite performance artist I had a hugh crush on.
And finally for brief encounters, I was waiting for my SO to pick me up from work (car trouble) and got into a conversation at the bar with a rather portly middle aged man, about 15-20 years my senior. He seemed very nice. But as the conversation progressed it drifted more and more into his work as a spy in the CIA :dubious: . Which he couldn’t talk about. Of course. But the topper came when I was about to leave and he asked me to come out to his car with him and…put makeup on him. No I didn’t see that one coming.
I just look in the mirror! 
This isn’t so unusual if you know that Dan Brown is a hack who’s never written an original word in his life. There’s a book that’s been kicking around for some time now, called (IIRC) Holy Blood, Holy Grail, that claims to present factual evidence that Jesus had kids by Mary Magdelene. Brown lifted the plot for The DaVinci Code from that book, and even named his villain after the two authors as a winking acknowledgement of his source material. In return, the authors sued him for copyright infringement. Which is either an admission from the authors that they were making shit up, or a stunning new paradigm in copyright law. I wonder if HBO owes royalties to Edward Gibbon’s estate for their Rome miniseries?