I'm Major Jackson and this is The Slowdown.

If you know me, you know I'm prone to unmiligated burst of expressive laughter.

I cannot help it.

They are often loud, full-throated, at times, spasmodically uncontrollable.

Whisper a sliver mark in my ear in a place of worship or concert hall, and I'm the

guy disrupting the sermon or performance with a body-shaking howl.

I don't know how it's possible, but I have several brands of laughter.

Though they retain some vestige of their previous incarnations, my multiple laughs individually

evolved over time, their sound, shape, and volume.

There is the hearty laugh where I bellow so hard and long I start coughing.

Beware that one, it's infectious, tears emerge and my body gets into it.

You might start laughing at me, contorting.

Then there is my fake laugh that's really a note of sarcasm, spawned by my making fun

of your joke, it goes, I also have the quiet laugh, which is a series of rapid dog-like

breathing noises that fade out into the ether.

Here in life, I would have happily visited an imaginary big-box store and pulled a different

laugh off the shelf.

During my pre-adolescent years, as my friend's voices were deepening, I became self-conscious

of my kid laugh, which was more of a snorkel.

Think-erkel from the 90s sitcom Family Matters.

I'm often told at parties, I knew you arrived because I heard your warm laugh across the

room, which I appreciate, but, and I don't know why, afterwards, I feel awkward.

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