3 Questions, From Diane

3 Questions, From Diane

Per my request, Diane, who "works" here, asks:

1. What's the one thing that made you cry the hardest in your life?

It's either when I was 8, and our dog Ted died; or it's the time I zipped myself in my zipper my first year of college.

I wish I had the forethought to quantify just how much I cried. I figure you'd have to take into account many variables. I figure you'd have to quantify the amount of liquid you produce, both in the form of snot and tears, as wells as the strength of the heaves from the lungs in terms of force of wind and the volume of the sound produced. Finally, I think you'd have to measure the overall length of the cry.

2. What's the one thing that made you laugh the hardest in your life?

There've been a couple of times.

In the sixth grade, Paul, Chris and I were standing under a tree at the playground, watching a kid named James go awry in doing something he did every day at the playground. There was a bar that amounted to little more than a chin-up bar on the playground. I'd never seen anybody even come close to touching the apparatus. A chin up? It's the complete opposite of fun.

But James? He was new to the school. He didn't make many friends. He was boastful, and he acted tough. He liked to make fun of people. He told a bewildering story about a pig he had named Vance who barked like a dog. All that, and the lack of emphasis in his family on bathing daily, didn't win him many friends. He ended up alienated and forced to amuse himself at recess.

His game: He would start at the school building, which was a slow rise up from the chin-up bar. He was run the 100 feet or so from the school building to the chinup bar, which stood about six feet above the ground, held aloft by two poles each about the same width as a telephone pole.

He would run down the hill at full sprint, straight at the chin up bar. About five feet from the bar, he'd leap into the air, grab the bar, and swing back and forth until his momentum died.

He did this all the time. All recess. For 20 or 30 minutes. Until he exhausted himself, or until we were called back inside.

Anyway, I tell you that to tell you this. He was playing his game (And I think it was a game, for I heard him muttering to himself "that was the best one yet.") He took a long run, doing his very best to get as much speed up as he could. He took an extra long leap at the bar, caught it, and let his momentum carry him as high up as it would take him.

And then he lost his grip on the bar.

James stayed horizontal in the air for a Wile E. Coyote second. And then he fell, parallel to the ground the whole way. As he did, he let out a little scream. High pitched and as surprised as could be. He landed with a thud, and it made a sound similar to that of when you drop a hardback book on a hard floor.

James laid there for a long, long time. Chris, Paul and I laughed very nearly until we pissed our collective pants.

Probably not as funny, if you weren't there. In fact, it seems kinda cruel. But considering that James decided to saddle me with the nickname "Curly" on account of my curly hair, I felt like I was justified in my laughter.

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Other time laughing? I was stressed out because of work, school and what little social life I had. I was living with my old roommates Jeff and Bill. This was about the same time as the Bill Clinton/Monica Lewinsky mess. And I told a joke I'd heard about Clinton being in a band, and wanting to play his brand new whore Monica.

And I started laughing at the joke I'd just told. And then I kept laughing, until Bill and Jeff stopped laughing. And then I laughed some more. And then I realized that I couldn't stop laughing.

I laughed until I cried. I laughed until I was out of breath. I laughed until I saw spots in front of my eyes.

It was actually pretty scary. Part of my brain was sure that I'd somehow broken my mind.

Part of my brain still thinks that.

3. What's the one thing you fear most?

Aside from your every day, run of the mill trust issues?

I'm afraid that I'll be someplace where somebody is chewing tobacco, and they'll be utilizing a spit cup, or a bottle to deposit their tobacco leavins. And I'm afraid that at some point, I'll lose my bearings and forget that they're spitting their juice into that cup, and I'll pick it up and drink it.

Bonus Question, from Shyam: How do I take my coffee?

As black as a slavedriver's soul and strong enough to best me in an arm wrasslin' match.