You Too Can Join The Club

In my last post I wrote about becoming a hat-wearing guy. I have to tell you about the man that has helped me with the whole journey. I wish you could meet him.

First let me offer an opinion: I know that sometimes we have to buy our stuff at Wal Mart or Sam's or GAP or Target... you get the idea. And that's fine for everyday stuff: toilet paper, bologna, Q-Tips, etc. But whenever you can, buy from a shop owner, artist, or craftsman. Here's why:

Lemmel Fields has become a special person to me. Lemmel owns the hat shop where I've bought my hats. Lemmel calls me by name; he calls my Amazing-Missus "Shorty." If you go to Lemmel's shop and tell him you're looking for a hat, he will quietly take a look at your head, then turn to the vast selection of hats on his wall, choose one and place it on your head just so. He may snap the brim, then stand back and look you over.

Maybe he'll say, "That's not the one." You don't know why, but you trust him, because this is what he does. He just knows. If the hat meets his approval he'll say, "Have a look in the mirror." You can continue to try on hats as much as you want, but from my experience you will buy the one Lemmel picked for you the first time.

Lemmel Fields, hat shop owner and Pops' friend. This man obviously knows how to wear a hat.

Sure you can buy a hat cheaper a lot of places, but you will not find a fit and an experience like this.

Let me tell you about Lemmel's shop. I love Tulsa. It is my home. There are so many things to love about it, but there is a horrible, tragic, ugly event in the city's history. In 1921, there was a race riot. An area of Tulsa which was known as "Black Wall Street" for its highly successful Afro-American business district was burned to the ground and many people died. No one knows the count for sure. The area centered around Greenwood on the north edge of downtown and was the wealthiest black community in the country.

Today some of the area has been restored and Tulsa's minor league baseball team plays at a new stadium that back's up to Greenwood where Lemmel's shop is.

Whether you need a hat or not, if you are ever in Tulsa, visit the historic Greenwood district. Stop in Lemmel's hat store and tell him Pops and Shorty said HELLO.

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

What A Day!

Mark it down. It's July 16th and the actual outside temperature is 72 degrees. If you're not from around these parts, that's about 30 degrees cooler than normal July temps.

Mark it down. It's July 16th and apparently Archie Andrews is dead. Well, not the real Archie, the perpetual teenager that loves both Betty and Veronica. The Archie that died is (or was) apparently a sort of What-If Archie, as in: what would have happened if Archie had grown up? What-If Archie had his own comic book series called "Life With Archie." Today issue #36 hit the marketplace. This issue tells how Archie died. I called every comic book store in town and they are all sold out.

Turns out that Archie as an adult was quite a character, but continued to have red-hair, freckles and a good heart. He was somehow married to both Betty and Veronica. He met his demise when he stepped between a gay senator and a gunman. The senator was making a speech about gun rights.

I didn't even know that Archie had grown up, or that comic books had grown up for that matter.

But don't be too sad, because, as I said, Archie was lucky enough to have two story lines. The "real" Archie is apparently still alive and still a teenager.

Maybe I have multiple story lines too. Except for me, in the real one I do become sort of adult-like, my joints hurt and I long for the good old days when there was peace in the middle east, when Democrats and Republicans got along -- you know fictional.

Well, RIP Archie, whoever you are. Maybe your teenage self could come for a visit. We have a "Pops" here just like you do in Riverdale. We could get a burger and Grapette and you could explain to me why you can't just admit that Betty is the better girl for you. Today would be a great day to visit because it's July 16 and only 72 degrees.

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.