it is impossible to imagine Goethe or Beethoven being good at billiards or golf

1. How many hats/caps do you own? How often do you wear them?
   20-some? Probably? Maybe 30. I don't know. I'll probably find out this weekend when I try to find/make room for them. I wear a hat maybe 5x/year. I love my brown straw cowboy hat with the turquoise beads, but it's a little flash and reminds me of the last time I drank tequila—to my detriment—so I usually just sigh and move on. The fez (red velvet) has gotten some recent play. Hats are fun.
2. You wake up in a darkened circus tent, wearing a bright blue and yellow clown costume and a fluffy red wig. There is a dwarf standing over you with bucket of water. "You okay?" he asks. What’s going on?
   First, I'm assuming that is an empty bucket, formerly used for water, since I did not likely wake on my own. The last time I woke in a situation even close to that, I'd fallen asleep in a station wagon parked outside a 4H barn after a wedding in Iowa at which I'd been the bride's stand-in at the bar crawl between the wedding and reception. Apparently it's "the done thing" down there—the bridal party drives (!) from bar to bar, drinking at each one. Since this particular bride was small in stature and reasonably sensible besides, she didn't want to get completely wasted before her reception, so as people bought her drinks in each bar (which one might expect), she took a polite sip and then handed them off to me. Since I was not yet of age, I was more than happy to 'make them go away.' She was drinking Chambord & orange juice. Or, more accurately, I was drinking that, after she'd had her one tiny sip. After awesome reception food (fried chicken! Oh happy day!) and stupid dancing and what-have-you, I got as far as my friend's faux-paneled station wagon before passing out. I woke around 5:AM with the sun beating down on my face, my entire body cramped, and hating life. After two Cokes and a package of Hostess cupcakes for breakfast, I was a much happier camper.
   Right. So. Circus tent, clown costume, dwarf. My guess is that I was out with George—nowhere near Fluffy, who hates clowns—and something went terribly awry, involving Chambord & orange juice. With luck, no one was tattooed while under the influence.
3. If you could be a member of any band in history, which would it be? What would your role be, or have been?
   Robin Hood's merry men. My role would have been, no doubt, "naysayer" and perhaps "devil's advocate."
4. Show and Tell. What comes to mind first when you see this picture? Or, tell a story if it reminds you of one.
   Public Domain PhotoI had a PhyEd unit in HS called "Recreation & Leisure Sports"—shuffleboard, ping pong and...what else...dodgeball? I don't recall. Anyway, the guys had to involve the girls in class, even though they hated to do so. When we had the ping pong tournament, I was paired with my dream guy: Jay. He was a basketball geek, underfed and overstimulated, very into sports (which is still a massive understatement), and utterly oblivious to girls. Although I was reasonably coordinated, I wasn't even on the map when he was around. So, rather than lose the tournament (which he would never consider), he "taught" me just enough to help him win. I became a kick-ass server—and then stayed the F*** out of the way so he could get it done. Once the teacher realized what we'd done, he insisted that the girls actually participate in the game. Then Jay taught me a few sneaky moves, little dinks just barely over the net and that sort of thing. It was enough to make us a damned good pair, and we won the tourney by a lot. I was hoping that it would be my entry into the secret life of Jay...but it was just freakin' ping pong after all.
   It turned out to be a good skill to have. My best friend in college and I used to play a lot of ping pong to relieve stress, although we sucked badly (I was out of practice and she just stunk). We spent more time chasing the ball across the cement floor than we did actually playing—but it was incredibly fun and memorable. And then I ended up married to someone whose parents had a ping pong table in their basement. We used to play as a way to have conversations without his parents hearing us, because they are both hearing-challenged and the pinging and ponging was enough to drown out our voices. Frankly, it was also a reasonable excuse to be out of their vicinity for an hour at a time, which was desperately needed. We became pretty good volley-ers out of necessity; it's easier to make escape plans when your voices are covered by the ping of a tiny white ball.
   My parents also have a ping pong table in their basement, purchased on a whim (mine) a few years into my marriage—proof that my dad still has a very hard time saying No to me. That table hasn't been unfolded in ages, having fallen victim to the accumulation of "stuff" in the basement (my parents', mine, and now my brothers'). Hmm, maybe I should have them bring it down here...?

[from the original source; title quotation by H.L. Mencken]