A little bit of background…

Years ago, I was sitting alone in the living room, watching the sunlight from the open windows cut through the dust in the air, and I became horribly restless, as though the world might tear apart if I didn’t do something. I gathered my wife, Amanda, who was folding laundry in our bedroom, banged on Reg’s door down the hall, then Jon’s door at the back of the house, and begged them all to grab a drink with me. Thankfully, they agreed.

It was one of those glorious afternoons in Midtown Sacramento, with the sun shining down through elm trees and a cool breeze that met you at every corner. There weren’t many people walking around that day, and traffic was practically non-existent, so we didn’t bother with things like sidewalks or crosswalks or lights as we made our way to the bars.

From what I recall, we began at the Shady Lady Saloon. I ordered a Hemingway Daquiri for obvious reasons, which was made with grapefruit because ol’Papa had been a diabetic. Reg and Amanda ordered Strawberry Daiquiris, and Jon ordered a Bloody Mary. We then walked a few doors down to Burgers and Brew for lunch. A couple beers later, I was starting to feeling good. We all were. And our conversation began to flow as though each of us had been holding back something important. Reg spoke about his desire to act again and started hassling Jon and I to write another screenplay, something with him in the leading role. Jon described a comic book he was brainstorming, something about a pot-smoking detective with superpowers. Amanda told us – and I already knew this – how she was saving money for a Prismacolor pencil set so she could get back to drawing. I went on and on about the book I was destined to write, and how all my false starts would eventually lead to this century’s great American novel.

Not wanting to lose our momentum, we walked to Fox and Goose soon thereafter and ordered a few pints of Boddingtons – no other bar this side of the Capitol seemed to pour them. Afterwards, as we stumbled back outside, talking and laughing loudly, I realized we were all drunk. All sense of anxiety and depression was gone, left behind with the foam in our emptied glasses. But we were also getting tired. We ended up around the corner at the Elixir, and they poured our cocktails strong. Each sip was like a punch to the gut. I don’t think any of us managed to finish our first round. But it didn’t matter. By then, our conversation had slowed down considerably, and, after some hemming and hawing, we agreed that it was time to go home.

On our way back, less than two blocks from our street, I noticed a yard sale in an apartment backlot. I stopped at the entrance and looked over the merchandise displayed on a dozen or so plastic foldout tables. Maybe here they would have a working typewriter. I had been searching for one for almost a year now, but found only rusty clunkers or sleek, refurbished models that cost hundreds of dollars.

I called out to Amanda and the guys, who were dragging along nearly a block ahead. Woefully, they doubled back and followed me inside.

I was browsing along the back row of tables when I saw it: an Olympia De Luxe Typewriter, sitting in a pile of old office equipment. And it was beautiful… with its compact, metallic frame, intact keys, and glossy logo. Yes, the grey finish was faded and chipped in places, and the keys stuck regularly, but that was all fixable.

This was it. I had found my typewriter.

It was a heavy sucker too, made of solid steel, and I had a hell of a time hauling it to the front counter. I plunked it down at the register and asked the old hippie standing there for a price. He hesitated, on the verge of tears it seemed, as though I was robbing him. “$3,” he muttered. I gave him my last remaining $5 bill, and he handed back two singles. I stuffed them in my pocket, cradled the typewriter against my chest, and hurried out of there to make my getaway. Amanda and the guys were already waiting by the entrance.

 Since that day, July 3rd, 2016, my typewriter and I have built a meaningful relationship, one more meaningful than most of my relationships with actual people. He/she/it has become my friend, my psychologist, my confidant, my cathartic thrust against an indifferent world. And now, after much back-and-forth, we’ve agreed to share that relationship with you.

Each entry, whether blog or otherwise, is written in a stream-of-conscious fashion in, presumably, some state of intoxication. Despite the crass content that will inevitably emerge, the purpose of this blog is a benevolent one. At least that’s the intention. The following parts, chapters, pages, paragraphs, sentences, and words are meant to inquire, to entertain, to evoke thoughts and emotions that might not otherwise be experienced. Also, it’s worth mentioning that my typer and I don’t like prejudice of any sort, so, if you’re looking for something like that, get lost. We prefer our hatred indiscriminate and ironic, just so you know.

One more thing, this blog isn’t a work of fact or fiction. It’s somewhere in-between, riding an emotion or spiritual truth rather than a literal one. People, places, and events will be melded together or torn apart as needed. Keep that in mind if you’re looking for the gospel-truth. I can’t imagine why you would. We don’t fuck with that kind of truth around here. So please, pour a glass of wine, sit back, read, and enjoy.