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.

Straight From Growing Up to Growing Old

IF YOU TELL A WOMAN that Scientists at Newcastle University in the UK have discovered that girls tend to optimize brain connections earlier than boys; that the researchers concluded that this may explain why females generally mature faster in certain cognitive and emotional areas than males during childhood and adolescence*, the woman will likely say something like: "I could have told you that."

IF YOU TELL A MAN about that same research, he's likely to say something like: "Hey do you know why Helen Keller played the piano with only one hand?”

I’m not going to lie; sometimes the close personal scrutiny I put myself through as I reflect on my second-coming-of-age can be a bit painful. For example, it has dawned on me that in a lot of ways I have remained, well; immature. While it’s been years since I lit a fart on fire, to this day I would much rather sit in a public place making fun of other people than I would engage in deep talk about socio-political B.S over “senior” coffee with a bunch of old geezers at McDonalds.

Is that narcissistic of me? No. Not in the classical sense anyway—where poor old Narcissus became stuck in time when entranced by his own beauty upon seeing his reflection in a pool of water.

I’m not saying that I’ve grown past adolescent self-absorption. Nor, am I saying that I’ve grown up much at all. I’ve just grown older. Wiser too? The jury’s still out.

I love a good growing-up story.

So, about my chronic immaturity: Part of it I attribute to being a dude. Part of it comes from the fact that I’ve spent most of my working years with teenagers and young adults (and I treasure those years). Part of it comes from fear—the fear that once I step over the threshold and start having adult conversations about stuff like social security, medicare, obamacare, and who-gives-a-care; once I start feigning indignation over hilarious, slightly inappropriate jokes, and wearing socks with sandals… there will be no turning back.

I imagine that for most normal people, maturing is a process. But, somehow it seems to me to be like an Exit on a freeway. Like at some point I have to realize, I’m sixty-something and there are these big signs that are saying, “Last Chance! Take this Exit! Food, Gas, Restrooms, Moccasins, Cracker Barrel and Maturity.”

So what was Robert Frost really feeling when he wrote his defining poem:

THE ROAD NOT TAKEN
By Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

If I could, I would sit down with Robert Frost over a Cafe Au Lait, or a pint of ale, and I would say something like, “So, Mr. Frost, it was like a fork-in-the-road experience for you too?” And then we would talk deeply about life and stuff.

And then I would say something like: “Talk about your life-defining stories, have you seen “Tommy Boy”?!

P.S.: Helen Keller played the piano with only one hand because she sang with the other one. (I know; I'm hopeless, but I think Helen herself would find that funny.)

*http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/the-athletes-way/201312/scientists-identify-why-girls-often-mature-faster-boys

Horse Then Cart

Let’s see if I’ve got this straight: horse, then the cart. Check.

In several posts on this blog, I’ve mentioned my longing for an Airstream trailer and the adventures I can see with my mind’s-eye. It’s like an itch that needs to be scratched. In one post, a year ago, I likened it, maybe over-dramatically, to a sort of siren’s call.

Also on this blog, I’ve recorded the fact that us Men of a Certain Age need a good hobby, or pastime; something that we can enjoy into our retirement years. At times I’ve felt some desperation in the fact that I don’t really have that; yet. Oh, I love hanging out with the Grand-Girls, in short bursts. Their energy level exceeds mine exponentially.

I like to read and write. I tried golf but it’s too expensive and makes me say really bad words; out loud.

I do love to travel, to see new things, to wander and wonder. It’s like Ellie said, in the wonderful movie, UP: “Adventure is out there!”

So, the dream of an Airstream is still alive and well and closer than ever before. But as my Amazing-Missus has lovingly pointed out to me several times: I tend to get my cart before my horse. The fact is that we’ve had neither horse nor cart. UNTIL NOW.

Yesterday we bought our horse, a new TV! That’s “tow vehicle” in nomad speak. After careful research, wailing and gnashing of teeth, we threw out a fleece, and went for it. Now we have a shiny, black Ford F150 Lariat with Ecoboost. This black beauty is rated at 9,000 GVWR. I’m not sure what that means but the chart says she will easily pull our Airstream (when we ever get one), me, Mimi, three Grand-Girls and all their MUST-haves: dolls, princesses, books, etc.

There she is: Our Black Beauty. We stopped by Elemental for a celebratory cup of coffee

I just finished reading, “The Power and The Glory” by Graham Greene. I highly recommend it. Towards the end of the book, Greene describes a man in the story this way: “He looked old and tired and bored—a man without a hobby.”

To all my friends of a Certain Age out there: let’s not be that guy.

P.S.: I highly recommend, If you’re shopping for a Ford for your adventure, go see Zack Thiel at England Ford in Hinton, Oklahoma. Zack is the antithesis of every stereotypical car salesman you could imagine. He very patiently walked with me through my always diligent and cautious and long process of making a big purchase. Thank you Zack.