I want to share something about me.
Not because I think I'm particularly fascinating, but because I hope that someday, if this virtual campfire grows the way I hope it will, you'll share something about yourself with me, too. For perspective. I am not the type of person—or, apparently, the type of group of people—that you ever want to say, “Ask me anything.” I tend to take that as an open invitation to ask some very personal questions. Some close friends call it brutal honesty. Others have called it extreme directness. I'm sure there are less-kind descriptions. They love it now. 😂
I just don't see much value in spending time on the vanilla questions society seems to have decided we're supposed to ask each other when we meet. We all know them. “How did you sleep?” I usually answer:
"I started on my back but rolled over onto my side because my snoring is ridiculous and wake everyone up. Then I had to go on my stomach, but that hurts my neck the next day. So? I finally ended up on my right side. I had a couple weird dreams and drank too much water before bed so had to get up twice to pee. I had a peaceful night after that. Thanks for your concern. For asking."
You're welcome.
Did we just learn anything about each other? Not really. And that's my point.
I'm not interested in embarrassing people. I don't do this publicly, and I don't try to put somebody on the spot in front of a crowd. Quite the opposite. My real goal is to draw someone out—privately and safely—when they interest me. I want to ask questions they may not be accustomed to hearing. Questions that make them stop. Maybe for a few seconds. Maybe for a long while. Questions that require a person to actually think about the answer rather than reaching automatically for the socially acceptable one. Because I think that's where you start learning who somebody really is.
Compare that with the conversations we often have with friends: “It hasn't been this dry a summer since 2019, has it?” “What fishing line do you use?” “What did you have for dinner?” “Do you think my cat Raymond prefers mint or dental feline floss?” That last one is not made up.
I actually overheard two people having that conversation in Omaha.It went on for another ten minutes. I desperately wanted to interrupt and say: “Oh my lord. Why don't you ask Raymond which one he prefers and reclaim the next ten minutes of your lives?”
I didn't. You're welcome, Omaha. But seriously—where does that get you? Sometimes nowhere. And sometimes you get exactly what you put into a conversation: ten minutes of weather, fishing line and Raymond's dental hygiene.
Then there was Edna. Edna was a very sweet older woman who worked at Walmart in Jacksonville, Florida. I went there regularly enough that she recognized me. One day I must have been having a particularly rough day. Or perhaps I just wanted to have some fun. She greeted me with the standard: “Hello. Welcome to Walmart. How are you today?”
I looked at her and said:“Not good. Not good at all.”Then I told her that my nuts were itching like crazy and burning, that they were apparently the color of a fire engine, and that I'd been scratching and screaming like a wild animal.
I explained to Edna that my wife was out of town and I suspected one of my backup female friends had given me a venereal disease. Finally, I asked Edna—because, apparently, I considered her an authority on all things Walmart—if she could direct me to the section where they kept the ointment. I even asked what she recommended for all the men she gave it to. Edna didn't miss a beat.
She said: “I'm glad to hear it. Have a nice day.” And continued greeting the customers coming through the door. A true professional. I learned something from Edna. There are people who will tolerate almost anything if they are being paid by the hour. Then there was the other end of the spectrum.
Years ago, I somehow won the fan lottery. A sportswriter friend had gotten me a pass to a charity dinner, and through some cosmic accident that I still don't understand, I ended up sitting at a public table next to a Boston sports legend. A hundred-thousand-to-one shot. FLUKE. After the interviews and photographs and general chaos of the evening, most people had finally left. I tried to excuse myself. He stopped me. He told me that was rude. Then he gave me his name and said: “Tell me something about yourself. Or better yet, ask me any question you'd like.”
I thanked him and complimented him for being gracious.Then I said: “Sir, you really don't want me to do that.” He was intrigued. I told him my questions weren't the kind most people were prepared to hear. He insisted. I warned him again. He insisted again. Finally, he said: “Just give me three.” I knew the only way I was getting away from the table was to take the bait. So I quietly said: “I'll give you three questions. But once I do, you're probably going to want to hit me.” He laughed.I asked him to promise he wouldn't. He laughed harder. “No chance that's going to happen.”
I gave him my three questions. At the end, he sat there in dark, silent amazement. Then he looked at me and said: “You were right. I wanted to hit you after the second one.” We both laughed and eventually went our separate ways.
Months later, he was interviewed by a newspaper in his hometown.He talked about having been back to Boston and loving the people there, but he said he was always amazed at how different Bostonians could be—how bold and direct they were. Sometimes, he said, it could even be inappropriate. But funny. Then he mentioned that a guy had once asked him three questions he had absolutely not been prepared for.
My friend who had gotten me the tickets—and his wife, both of whom had known me for years—read the article. I got a text. “Fred, what the hell did you ask him? LOL.” I'm not telling you. At least not yet. And this isn't about building myself up as some kind of fearless conversational genius.
It isn't. I intentionally make the occasional sarcastic response because I don't think every conversation has to follow the same damn script. More importantly, I think we sometimes miss the opportunity to actually know people. And I mean really know them. That's part of why this virtual campfire matters so much to me. I don't want Kim's Warriors to be another place where we all stand around talking about the weather. I want it to be a place where people sit down, pull up a chair and eventually say something real.
I recently came across a great piece from Marc & Angel that takes this idea in a direction I really like. They put together 40 questions designed to make you stop and think. Not trivia questions. Not “What's your favorite color?” questions. Questions about you. Here are the first five:
Those are different questions. And that's exactly why I like them. You don't have to share your answers with anyone. In fact, I'd encourage you to sit somewhere quiet and answer a few of them honestly for yourself first. Write them down. Lock them away if you want. You may discover something about yourself that you weren't expecting. And if you eventually decide to share an answer with somebody you trust? Maybe you've just started a conversation that actually matters. That's what I'm interested in. Not using someone's answers as weapons. Not trying to expose anybody. Not proving that I'm smarter, braver or more honest than somebody else. Simply saying: “You have my interest. You matter enough to me that I want to know more about you.”
That's a pretty powerful thing to give another human being. So here's my challenge. Read all 40 questions. Pick two, three, five—or hell, pick one. Ask it privately to someone you care about. Or, if you're brave enough, ask somebody new. Change the dynamic. Change the focus. Forget the script for a few minutes. Actually have a conversation. You might be surprised where it takes you. And if you read the questions and find a couple of favorites, fire them back at me.
I'll answer honestly.Well...Probably honestly.This is Kim's Warriors, after all. Pull up that chair. Let's get to know each other.