Margin Release
I've talked before about being a lover of all things vintage. Razors, pipes, and funny-looking hats. You should probably add another long-lost member to this list - the typewriter. It should really come as no surprise, being that my blog is named the Monkey's Typewriter. And that I've switched to this tacky Courier font. Do yourself a favor and get a real typewriter font.
Anyway, my love for the typewriter comes from my close association with my late grandmother, who would always use her trusty Smith-Corona Super Sterling to create her correspondence. I still maintain that her handwriting was barely legible to anyone outside the house, so it was a good thing to have around. I even typed my first book report on it, in those last few years before we got a computer. It had to be typed, and I couldn't work on it anywhere else, so what choice did I have? Anyway, ever since she passed, I had been meaning to dig it out of the closet and use it again.
My golden chance came when I realized that I haven't really been in touch with my good friend Brian, who has by now sold his soul - or at least part of it - to the dreaded Real World. He's out in California, the veritable Neverland of weirdness, Democrats, movie stars, and common chaos. How I envy him.
Anyway, he and I have been sort of literary cohorts ever since we met. We were both mechanical engineering students, and we both hated the restrictive nature of the major and the profession to come. I actually met him in Philosophy Club, and mutual homework assignments forced the friendship to grow. We became such good friends that future historians - those who bitterly regret having been assigned to such losers - will probably mistake us for closet homosexuals. I guess that happens when you make a prolonged series of dick jokes every time you see each other.
Well, since we both have a decidedly literary mindset, we met up in San Diego when I was doing an engineering conference and talked about philosophy, literature and the like. I'm pretty sure this was after his trip to India. Last time we talked about it, he was planning to write a book about that trip. From what he described, it could be a profound book, if he's able to execute it well.
But it's been quite a while since we sent each other any messages, much less talked. I imagined he'd probably be getting stuck into some boring rut by now, so I got the typewriter out and wrote him a letter. What struck me as odd was his e-mail response to my question of whether he received it:
Anyway, my love for the typewriter comes from my close association with my late grandmother, who would always use her trusty Smith-Corona Super Sterling to create her correspondence. I still maintain that her handwriting was barely legible to anyone outside the house, so it was a good thing to have around. I even typed my first book report on it, in those last few years before we got a computer. It had to be typed, and I couldn't work on it anywhere else, so what choice did I have? Anyway, ever since she passed, I had been meaning to dig it out of the closet and use it again.
My golden chance came when I realized that I haven't really been in touch with my good friend Brian, who has by now sold his soul - or at least part of it - to the dreaded Real World. He's out in California, the veritable Neverland of weirdness, Democrats, movie stars, and common chaos. How I envy him.
Anyway, he and I have been sort of literary cohorts ever since we met. We were both mechanical engineering students, and we both hated the restrictive nature of the major and the profession to come. I actually met him in Philosophy Club, and mutual homework assignments forced the friendship to grow. We became such good friends that future historians - those who bitterly regret having been assigned to such losers - will probably mistake us for closet homosexuals. I guess that happens when you make a prolonged series of dick jokes every time you see each other.
Well, since we both have a decidedly literary mindset, we met up in San Diego when I was doing an engineering conference and talked about philosophy, literature and the like. I'm pretty sure this was after his trip to India. Last time we talked about it, he was planning to write a book about that trip. From what he described, it could be a profound book, if he's able to execute it well.
But it's been quite a while since we sent each other any messages, much less talked. I imagined he'd probably be getting stuck into some boring rut by now, so I got the typewriter out and wrote him a letter. What struck me as odd was his e-mail response to my question of whether he received it:
"I got it two days ago. You will not hear from me again via e-mail - unless there is an emergency. Respond with your address (so that I have a record) and keep an eye on your mailbox."
This is indicative of two distinct possible scenarios. He could be on the run from the law, worried that every electronic move he makes could be completely traceable and a catalyst towards his imminent incarceration. Either that, or my typewritten letter has sparked some sort of reclusive instict leading him to shun post-1973 technology. I think this is probably the more likely scenario, so I look forward to receiving a letter of reply instead of a letterbomb.
So now I've purchased an electric typewriter for $5 online. Hooray for eBay. I've always appreciated receiving stuff in the mail that isn't either junk or a bill, and I imagine he does, too. Maybe you, dear reader, do too. Maybe you should start writing some real letters for a change, like us. If you're a friend of mine, who knows? Maybe I'll be sending you a letter soon, too. If you ask nicely, maybe I'll even throw in a few dick jokes.
0 comments:
Post a Comment