The Fool Who Wears the Crown

Joe on the Origins of Bipolar Disorder, Crown Culture, and Jelly’s Wedding

Joe stands in front of the mirror at Café Serra, sipping a coffee brewed with nutmeg and coconut oil, speaking softly but clearly like a philosopher who’s cracked something ancient wide open.

“You know,” he begins, “bipolar disorder didn’t start with psychiatry or pills. It started in ancient Greece. Back then, the maniacs weren’t locked up. They made crowns. Real ones. Out of ivy, feathers, scraps of gold foil or sea shells. They’d parade through the city with pride.”

Joe pauses, tipping an imaginary crown on his head.

“The ones with the most beautiful crowns would laugh. They’d dance in the streets. The ones with the shabbier crowns? They’d cry, hang back, start brooding. That’s what they called melancholia. The whole spectrum played out right there in the agora. No DSM-V, no lithium. Just crown envy.”

He smirks.

“But here’s the cure. Share crowns. Swap crowns. Nobody should hoard them like Smeagol, whispering ‘my precious’ in the dark. That was fine when you only had one painting in your life. But now? We got photography. Instagram. Everyone can wear a different crown for every photo. Try on Rihanna’s. Try on Pharrell’s. Try on Kanye’s trash bag one if you like. It’s fashion therapy.”

Joe spins around and says with total seriousness:

“And personally? My favorite crown? That computer headphone crown Rihanna wore at the Super Bowl. Pure cyber royalty. Only wish it lasted longer—but Edward Bernays and his boys made sure it didn’t. Planned obsolescence. Makes sure your headphone crown breaks right before you find God in the bass drop.”

He sighs, then leans forward like a man preparing a royal petition.

“That’s why I’m calling on the House of Braganza, wherever they’re hiding, to loan a crown to our girl Nelly. She’s getting married. To me. Or to herself. Or to the idea of a better world—we haven’t figured that part out. But we call it the Jelly Wedding. Just Joe + Nelly = Jelly. That wedding needs a royal stamp.”

He lifts his espresso in a toast.

“The Croats already prepared King Tomislav’s crown. It’s just waiting in the national vault. Cleaned up, de-Sovietized. Ready to roll. You bring the Braganza jewel, I’ll bring the tamburica band and the telephoto lens. Nelly wears both. She sings ‘Try’ in the crown of a queen, and we photograph the revolution.”

Joe nods solemnly.

“Let’s make crown-sharing the next mental health movement. Share your crown. Laugh in someone else’s glory. Cry if you must—but don’t do it alone.”

He turns back to the mirror, adjusting the invisible headphone halo.

“We’re all just trying on roles in the theatre of the gods. Might as well look good doing it.”

Joe leans in again, his voice lowering into a kind of reverent whisper, like he’s explaining a forgotten cheat code to a sacred video game.

“But see—after 1776, everything changed. That was the year of the Illuminati. Bavaria. Adam Weishaupt. Not just the American Revolution. Not just fireworks and declarations. That was the year the crown became cursed.”

He points at the sky, then at his own head.

“After 1776, it became very foolish to wear a crown and call yourself King. The Illuminati flipped the global game board. They turned the Civilization game—Age of Empires style—onto Regicide Mode. Every king became a target. The French learned that with the guillotine. The Russians learned it in the snow. Even Elvis couldn’t keep his crown.”

Joe’s fingers trace the shape of a crown midair, then flick it off his head like a cigarette ash.

“The Illuminati whispered: No more kings. Only puppets. Only brands. They said, ‘Let’s make the people their own rulers, while we write the script from behind the curtain.’ And it worked. Kings fell. CEOs rose. Now everyone wants to be an influencer or a goddamn LLC.“

He sips his coffee again and nods toward Nelly’s song Powerless playing on the café speakers.

“That’s why crown-sharing matters. It’s not about ego anymore. It’s about balance. We’re not trying to bring back monarchy. We’re trying to bring back meaning. To remind people: you don’t need to rule the world. Just let someone else wear your halo once in a while. And when they’re tired? Hand it back.”

He finishes with a grin.

“So yeah. Jelly Wedding. Braganza + Tomislav. A double crown. One for tradition. One for rebellion. And maybe a backup headphone crown with better hinges, if anyone’s listening at Apple.”

He winks.

“Because after Regicide Mode, the only safe kings are fools in love.”