The Smith Premier #2 is another astonishing machine--it is more petite than I thought it would be (compared to a klunker like the New Century Caligraph), wonderfully light and compact. It needs a bit of tweaking here and there, and a new linkage, but it is a marvel of Victorian ingenuity. A vastly, and rightfully, popular typewriter in its day, it is still magnificent. Included in the deal was the original case-cover, an added delight.

All of which makes up for the Remington 16 that arrived along side it with a fractured back. The 16 has been one of my favorite machines for years, and this one, though admittedly not perfect, had potential. Now all I can do is use it for parts to repair my OTHER Remington 16. Fortunately, it had been insured--but I'd still rather have an intact machine than an insurance settlement.

Back to matters of real importance--typewriters. The Smith Premier #10 is an amazing mechanical beast. Some may go all gooey at thoughts of microprocessors, but a marvel of engineering like the double-keyboard, front-stroke #10 really sends me. Eighty-Four typebars all aiming in the same direction! It isn't any easier to use than an Underwood Standard (I keep reaching for that phantom space bar) but I am wowed by the sheer ambition of the design and complexity of the machinery--eating one's cake and having it, too. These Edwardians! "We are going to have a separate typebar for every character AND make them all fit." The microcomputer may be a miracle of science, but everything these people made 100 years ago reached a similar MECHANICAL pinnacle, and much of it STILL WORKS. I defer to the inventors of my great-grandfather's generation and wonder at their prowess. What secrets did these men possess?

The "war" is over. I realized today that the enemy is so clueless that it would serve no purpose to escalate this conflict. I received an e-mail from the head of The Children's Television Sweatshop (the Autocrat of the Children's Table, as it were) and realized that my rage was wasted on one as oblivious to the feelings of others as the Generalissimo:


Hi Andy,
I was disappointed to hear from T____ that you and your wife had decided not to continue with the radio station project. If you have any concerns you would like to discuss with me, please feel free to do so.

I was hoping you might be interested in appearing on [The Children's Television Sweatshop] this fall, if you'd like to discuss it please let me know.

Ron


Maybe he didn't realize just who he was calling a coward for taking insulin--but I don't think so. He's just so dense that he believes he can say ANYTHING to ANYBODY and they'll still think he's wonderful and want to do his bidding. Mad? Not anymore. I spent the afternoon laughing my ass off.

Perhaps "war" is too mild a word for the conflict I am engaged in. "War" is subject to the Geneva Convention. I could quite cheerfully--almost offhandedly--rip the lungs out of certain persons associated with the Children's Television Sweatshop. I have never quite gotten along with the Generalissimo, but another kid, who I always rather considered a friend, is indeed more rabid a guerilla warrior than his Leader. This is why I am particularly resentful of their attitudes. I love animals, but when I reflect on their no-doubt sincere beliefs--that anyone who must survive using products tested on animals should feel guilty for merely being alive (punctuating these assertions with ripe vivisection porn)--I feel like going downstairs and sticking forks in my cats. I used to think these animal-rights jerks were just cranks, but now I realize that they're the Khmer Rouge. Forget the cats; I'm sharpening my forks for the Children's Television Sweatshop.

I am offically at war with The Children's Television Sweatshop. These sanctimonious, Greener-than-thou, vegan-or-die types eat serious dog hockey, and their bullying, egomaniacal leader is an asshole bigger than all outdoors. (I am getting my quiet revenge as we speak.) The main problem with having a fascist, corrupt regime in power is that I have to rub elbows with all these hemp-suckers at politcal gatherings. Well, the minute we get a nice, safe Democrat in the White House, I'm going back to being the Conservative I've always been deep down, anyway. (A bleeding heart Conservative--but a Conservative nonetheless.) Of course, anyone to the right of Pol Pot is a Conservative to these ultra-Rousseauvian levelers. They should ALL get diabetes and have to deal with the "ethical dilemma" of taking insulin. (Originally tested on DOGS by those two monsters, Banting and Best.) Green? I hope they get GANGRENE.

Add to the list of typewriters a Smith Premier # 2 and a little Remington portable with Scandinavian characters. I have finally abandoned all pretense of trying to control my writing-machine habit--I have absolutely lost my steering and my brakes. Rather than wince as I accelerate toward doom, I am now determined to enjoy the ride. It is most exhilarating.

I forgot to mention this amusing sidelight: I received an invitiation (an E-vitation, actually) to the Children's Television Sweatshop's "Green" Summer Picnic/Vegetarian Barbecue. This begs the question: what the fuck does a VEGETARIAN barbecue? These types probably eschew tofu dogs because they IMITATE meat products. Can you think of a prospect more dismal than such a convocation? Egad, if I slapped a mosquito they'd call the ASPCA. The Generalissimo also requested that these cheerful vegans "please bring a dish to pass, your own beverage and recyclable/reusable place setting." If I HAD to attend this funeral, I personally know what beverage I would bring--but these drips would make me pour it out in case I accidentally had too much fun. Nope, no guilt here. I hope the Generalissimo sits in the grass, gets a tick on his ass (which he refuses to remove on humanitarian grounds), and gets a nice case of Lyme disease to kick off the new Fall season.

The Blog is to literature what the high colonic is to bodily health. Sometimes a good purge is all that is required to bring the sun out from behind the clouds, so that all is serene once more. Damn, that last one felt good! (Though, like a successful irrigation, it is likely to provide less delight to the bystander than to the patient.) I am finally at peace regarding the matter of the Children's Television Sweatshop and all parties connected thereto. I no longer feel guilty about refusing to climb eight flights of stairs to be bullied by CTS brass. (I really DID used to ascend four stories to be lorded over by this public-access Tartikoff, this little-league Silverman--a hundred pounds ago. At my current weight, I have no taste for such martyrdom.)

I just bought three more typewriters. (A Remington #16, an Oliver #5, and a double-keyboard, front stroke Smith Premier #10.) I have been searching also for remaindered copies of "Skidding Into Insolvency: The Fun With Ramen Cookbook"--to absolutely no avail.

If this is the Silly Season, why don't I feel sillier? In spite of cutting way down on my beer consumption (or perhaps because of it) I feel disinclined to chase down any of the several trucks seem to have run me over. If this keeps up, I might just start taking Wellbutrin again. (I don't know why I always feel I have to arm-wrestle my depression--especially since I can't beat it.) I will just have to find the energy to cut the lawn, which seems a Herculean task from this morose perspective. Susan is going to register voters tomorrow--I barely have the energy to put on my shoes. I can't walk for a few minutes without needing to sit, and I cannot sit without wanting to sleep. Part of my problem is my susceptibility to (continued) bad news, the burden of my great weight, my general hopelessness with regard to the prospects of my own projects, and my dread of handling complex relationships with people--and of letting those people down, as I ultimately must.

One such impediment to my greater happiness is the matter of The Children's Television Sweatshop. For six months, in the summer and autumn of 1996, I participated in the viewer-access fiasco that I shall refer to by that name. I found a certain amount of satisfaction in the venture, contributing video essays to the Sweatshop, until at last its egomaniacal proprietor and president-for-life, a local animal-rights and gay-rights activist, had issued a sufficient number of micromanaging memoranda. I sent a tart and irrevocable letter of resignation, and that, I thought, was that. (He had, after all, refused to run my prize footage--that of the mayor of our city cursing at me from his office window as I was taping a none-too-complimentary piece next to City Hall. THAT, I felt, was unforgiveable.)

Fast forward to this year--some of the people in our Howard Dean group had gotten a tentative license to build a low-power FM station--which I expressed a keen interest in. The unfortunate matter is that the license is in the name of The Children's Television Sweatshop. (It was the only certified non-profit in sight willing to sponsor the FM, apparently.) So after assurances that the generalissimo of the Sweatshop had "no interest in radio"--and I having pledged my fealty to the FM project--The Sweatshop and its Fearless Leader suddenly became VERY interested in radio. Moreover, one of the "conditions" under which they would actually let us build the station was that I WOULD HAVE TO REJOIN THE CHILDREN'S TELEVISION SWEATSHOP AND SERVE ON ITS BOARD OF DIRECTORS. Two words: NO WAY. So I am in the unenviable position of having single-handedly killed low-power community FM in Utica. I am the villain--the well-meaning asshole once again. And the fun part is, I still get to face all these people I disappointed at every other meeting for all the other organizations Sue and I belong to. Yowzah.

Since my last post, I have won--and received--what I pledge will be my eBay last typewriter for a while--a Monarch Visible #2 from 1910. It looks good, and works decently, but the sheet metal side panels its seems to have once had are missing. Still, it is a good enough example of the Monarch (another machine made down the road in Syracuse) that I don't regret the missing parts. Until I looked at a vintage Monarch ad, I wasn't even aware that it lacked anything. And it types smoothly enough that I am using it to write a letter to my friend in prison (unwired, but not unbound).

The Howard Dean meet-up Wednesday night was great--the best ever turnout. Even some members of the media covered the event--the O-D (our local daily) and the Life & Times (the paper that will actually print my letters to the editor) showed up, to our delight. In fact, the group has ALREADY OUTGROWN the lobby of the Hotel Utica--half the group couldn't hear the other half speak, because the circle of chairs had grown too wide. Sue and I were also delighted to drink some beers with the proprietor of the website republicansareidiots.com, who, it occurred to us, would be a good congressional candidate against our local entrenched, ferret-faced Bush idolator. Our man is funny, smart, and knows where all the bodies are buried, so to speak--and whether he wins or not, would present a real and useful pain to the ferret-incumbent. If Dean is going to be President, he will need a Democratic congress to help clean up the mess Awol C Minus has made of this country.

We made a visit today that I had been dreading--to my aunt in the nursing home. Sue insisted we pay that call, much against my (or anyone else's) better judgement. Aunt Betty was weaker than I had ever seen her--an extremely OLD seventy-five--and meaner than ever. I have a feeling that her last breath will be expelled as a put-down. She USED to be nice--when she had my grandmother to snarl at, that provided her a focus. After Grandma died, Betty started unloading her animosity on anyone within earshot. On sundry occasions, she always took time out of her schedule to criticize my piano-playing, my songwriting, my weight (even 100 pounds ago) or whatever other sensitive spot she could poke at to make us more equally miserable. Today was no exception. Of course it was my obesity--my mere presence had handed her that weapon. Why should I be happy in momentary ignorace of my flaws when it was my duty as a member of this family to be aware of them at all times? The whole purpose of a family is to undermine joy. If one can find transport in, say, music or art or literature, then one needs to be slapped down to earth immediately by a Concerned Relative. Why find absurd delight in a symphony when you can just as easily leave the television on, half-attended to, and be numb? Don't get above yourself, young man--don't forget for a moment that you're from Utica and you're just as hopeless as we are. Doomed! Sit up straight and be bitter like the rest of us!

I know. You're thinking, "Cut the old broad some slack." Perhaps I should--but if YOU met her, YOU'D hate her, too. And, it's not just her--it's everyone else in my family. (If you don't have anything nice to say, you must be related to me.) Perhaps it is no surprise that I decided my line would stop with me. I know the seeds of dysfunction I carry. I have seen those seeds ripen into my RELATIVES. I will continue to squander them in my (blessedly) childless, deliriously happy marriage.

We saw a charming local production of Gilbert and Sullivan's "Iolanthe" this evening--it's refreshing to see G & S operas other than the "big three"--Mikado, Pirates, and Pinafore. Two years ago the same group of dedicated amateurs did "Ruddigore"--and that was equally delightful. (Sue and I lobbied for "Patience"--our personal favorite.) Of course, I would enjoy seeing a good try at the Mikado--anything but another "Pirates" or "HMS Pinafore." (We saw the Doyly C'arte production of the latter a few years ago in New Haven--an "art deco" version reintroducing one number deleted by Gilbert. It's fun to see high school and college drama departments tackle "Pinafore" or "Pirates"--but I've had my fill of both for the time being. Despite their enduring popularity, they are rather weak shows--Gilbert in particular really began hitting his stride with "Patience.")

One idea I had was that "Patience" could be revisualized as taking place in a Coffee House, with the "Twenty Love-sick Maidens" being cheerleaders turned goth-girls under the influence of Bunthorne. The Dragoons, of course, would become a football team. And Patience would be the hapless operator of the espresso machine. I think this really would work, with Bunthorne and Grosvenor being "slam poets." It's just that I've been too caught up in all this other trivia to attempt to write it. I still might--I'd really like to. (I have plenty of coffee house poetry experience of my own to draw upon.) (Egad! Another facet!)

The flatbed Royal #5 arrived since I last wrote--and it is beautiful! Save for the platen and one rubber foot, it was in nearly showroom condition. For a typewriter nearly a century old, it is in a remarkable state of preservation. Even the pock-marked platen is manageable--I wrote a brief note on the machine this evening. And the thing was PACKED BEAUTIFULLY. (After my experience last week, THAT is something I appreciate!)