The Interrobang

There is no terror in the bang, only in the anticipation of it. —Alfred Hitchcock

Harper, our middle grand-girl

Interrogatio is Latin for "a rhetorical question" or "cross-examination";
Bang is printers' slang for the exclamation mark. 

Symbols—those little marks that represent something, that tell a bit of a story, that create identity.

For example, if you see a little stylized fish on the back of someone’s car, you assume that they (or the car’s previous owner) professed to be christian. You don’t assume though that the person’s religious convictions extend to more courteous driving or less road rage than their non fish bearing counterparts. And to be fair, we can’t really ask “WWJD” when it comes to driving, because we don’t have any record that Jesus ever drove anything (except the occasional evil spirit—from a person to a pig).

I like symbols. I think they’re interesting. I’ve yet to find a symbol however, that I was so affiliated with that I would have it tattooed on my person, but I have held allegiance to a few symbols over the years, enough at least to wear them as jewelry.

The Peace Sign was one. (Or, as it was called by “rednecks” back in the day: “the footprint of the American chicken.”)

For me, the symbol probably had something to do with my adolescent need to “belong.” It was like the brand of the 60s counter-culture movement and a tribe that was very accepting. Maybe I wore it out of wishful thinking—hoping that somehow if we rallied around the dream of peace I might not get drafted and end up in a jungle in Southeast Asia fighting in a war I didn’t understand.

When that war finally ended, I put the peace sign in a box with my “McGovern for President” button, and my idealism. I still have that box and occasionally drag it out and remember the old days “better than they were.”

Today, if I were to wear a symbol or give serious consideration to symbol-style tattoo, it would be an interrobang. The interrobang has an interesting history. You should Google (v.) it. The interrobang is a punctuation mark that actually appeared on Remington typewriters briefly. It really never made it’s mark though. (Although it is still included in many fonts on your computer.) It was a combination of a question mark and an exclamation point.

As I hinted at the beginning of the post the interrobang would be used at the end of a hypothetical question, being asked with a sort of gusto, like: “Wow, did you see that?!” or “What the what?!” You get the idea, right?!

Just as the peace sign was a good symbol for me in my first coming-of-age, the interrobang serves me well now, in my second.

There was once a day of youthful confidence; swagger, if you will. Today it seems like everything I used to feel certain of, in an exclamatory kind of way, also has a certain question to it. For example, say we’re trekking across country, my Amazing-Missus might ask, “Do you have any idea where we are?” And I reply, “Of course I do! I think?” Or the doctor asks, “How are you doing?” “Great!” I exclaim. “Aren’t I?”

That picture at the beginning of this post, of our middle grand-girl, Harper; her dad took that and commented about her “eye of the tiger” look. She will be 3-years old Saturday. I hope she always keeps her eye-of-the-tiger, strength-of-her-convictions swagger. Some will see it and call it "strong-willed". Her Pops will see it and will remember a day when he had it. A day when he thought Peace was attainable. A day when he was less squishy about his certainties.

Autumn

I LOVE AUTUMN. A few days ago, on the autumnal equinox (first day of fall), I thought I should write a post on About Pops about this amazing point in time. But then I remembered, I already had. It’s called Aequus Nox and you can read it by clicking this link.

Let me add this: another thing I love about fall is the return of favorite shows. “The Blacklist” is the one I’ve looked forward to most. It is spellbinding. Not only is it full of great story-telling, and rich characters, but it is one of those shows that make great use of music. Each episode ends with a song that is almost always new to me. The song is always apropos to the theme of the episode emotionally and sometimes lyrically. The song, along with the cliffhangers, pulls you forward, anticipating next Monday’s episode.

Last Monday, the first episode of the new season did not disappoint; at all. It was full of glimpses of the intrigue to come.

But, my favorite part was that final song. Thankfully I had recorded the program because I had to find my phone, rewind a bit, fire up “Shazam”, and purchase that song.

It’s a song by a group of youngsters that call themselves Ages And Ages. The song is called “Divisionary: Do the Right Thing.” Fortunately, NPR has already discovered this group, brought them in for a “Tiny Desk Concert” and posted it for us all to see, hear and enjoy.

There are several songs on this video. The “Divisionary” song is at the 3:50 mark. Watch them all, but watch this one for sure.

Joining The Club

Frank Sinatra, Humphrey Bogart, Sean Connery, Abraham Lincoln, Harrison Ford, Johnny Depp, Jed Clampett... See a theme emerging here?

If these guys have a club; I'm joining. It's partly out of necessity, partly because I just want to be one of those guys--guys who wear hats.

Sean Connery

Maybe you don't know me, or maybe you do and haven't noticed, but I have what they call a "receding hairline." And like Sean Connery, I've fully embraced it. No offense to guys who have, but I have never, ever been tempted to try to pull a fast one on the world by wearing a toupee; nor have I any interest in joining the "Hair Club For Men".

Sure there are cons to the life of the hairless, but there are a lot of pros too. One of the cons: the bald jokes. Not that they're cruel; just tiresome. I've heard them all, trust me; I've heard them all. And I have all the witty, stock replies:

"Hey, if you want to use your hormones to grow hair, that's your business."

"I'm not bald, this is a solar panel for a sex machine."

Well, this wasn't intended to be an essay on baldness. This is my public declaration: I am now a guy who wears hats!

Is it really necessary to declare it? I think so. Otherwise, I'm just another guy with a hat on. Let me illustrate. If you saw Bill Clinton walking down the street in a fedora, you would probably say, "Hey, there's Bill Clinton, why is he wearing a fedora?!"

If you saw Pharrell walking down the street, you might say, "Hey there's that happy guy!" You wouldn't mention his hat, because Pharrell is a guy who wears hats, whereas, Bill is a guy that is inexplicably wearing a fedora. See what I mean?

I mentioned necessity earlier. I don't NEED, in a psychological way, to be a guy who wears hats. But, after my doctor torched about the tenth "abnormality" off the top of my head. He said you better wear sunscreen and a hat. So, if next time we meet, I'm smelling like a coconut and wearing a hat; you don't have to say anything besides, "Sup, POPS? How are the Grand-Girls and the Amazing-Missus?" You don't even need to mention the hat, because you now know that I'm a "hat-wearing guy."

Our oldest Grand-Girl, Karlee in Pops' hat and her Uncle Kyle's shades. The red cups? All hers.

Part of this declaration process is to convince myself that I am now different. (I can hear you.) Self-reinvention is never easy. There are some hurdles I'm trying to clear. For example: I have facial hair--not a full beard, just a goatee. Have had it for years. I'm not just a guy who's grown a goatee, it's who I am. It comes from my part of my life philosophy: grow it where you can.

Anyway, with facial hair and a straw hat, it could appear as if I need to ask my Amazing-Missus to take all the zippers out of my pants and put an orange triangle on the back of the old Volvo® buggy.

But hurdles aside, I'm following doctor's orders, trying to stop the consequences of a youth spent at the pool and tennis courts, and also to become worthy of my new membership in the "Hat Club For Men."

BTW: One of the perks of the club that I've noticed--it is so fun to tip my hat to a lady. I know I sound chauvinistic--get over it. Oh, and if you consider yourself to be a lady, we meet, and I don't tip my hat; it's not that I didn't notice, or that I question your lady-ness, it's just that I'm still developing the lifestyle and sometimes forget.

Cock your hat--angles are attitudes. --Frank Sinatra

Being Semelparous

A FEW MORNINGS AGO, ON MY WAY TO WORK, I heard a story on NPR® about a plant that I suddenly felt a kinship to. It's called an American Agave plant.

Kinship to a plant? Maybe all this Whole Foods® shopping, yoga, juicing and listening to NPR® is getting to me.

This plant is grayish and prickly--kind of like me. It's nickname is the Century plant, although it seldom lives that long. Correlation? I think it sounds good to live as if I could live a century, but I really have no desire to do so.

American Agave Plants

Here's the part that really intrigued me though: when it flowers, it has big, spectacular flowers that can reach up to 8 feet tall, or more. I like that! Here's the problem: it's semelparous!

I had to look that one up: "Semelparity and iteroparity refer to the reproductive strategy of an organism. A species is considered semelparous if it is characterized by a single reproductive episode before death, and iteroparous if it is characterized by multiple reproductive cycles over the course of its lifetime." --Wikipedia

In other words, after this plant finally does it big flowery production (which can take up to 50 years or more), it DIES--sort of a One Hit Wonder.

It started me thinking, you know, about living life. Would I prefer to be known for something big and then fade or flame out. Or would I rather be a guy that just sort of lives a good, consistent, generative life?

The Tour De France is on. I know, I saw about 5 seconds of it as I was clicking through the channels to see what else is on. I thought of Lance Armstrong. WOW! He was huge and spectacular before he got his pants caught in his chain, so to speak. Too much for fertilizer for that plant, if you get my meaning.

I don't want to be like Lance, or Lebron for that matter. But take a guy like Sheriff Andy Taylor. Andy never rose to anything but sheriff of Mayberry and Opie's dad, but in 30 minutes, once a week for many, many years, he re-humanized most everyone in Mayberry. Yes, I know he's fictional.

For me one of the biggest One Hit Wonders of my era was a song called, "Wipe Out" by The Safaris. I guess you could say it was a self-fulfilling prophecy of sorts for The Safaris, because it was their only big hit. But what a hit it was. I am confident that every young drummer, like myself, who grew up in the 60s became a better drummer because of the hours of practice to learn the Wipe Out drum solo and develop the hand speed to play it. To this day, you play Wipe Out for an aspiring percussion student, and they will determine to learn that solo.

Which brings us back to the semelparous American Agave plant: don't feel too sorry for it, because, you see, it also produces little suckers, adventitious shoots from its base, which continue the legacy so to speak.

We have two sons, a daughter-in-law, three Grand-Girls. I am so proud and grateful for all these little "suckers", and thanks to them, I may burn out or wipe out, but I know I won't fizzle out.

Now do you see why I feel sort of kin to this plant? I haven't been drinking to much kale/wheatgrass/ginger juice.