Just My Type…

Writer.

Actually, if you know me, you’d know that I actually don’t have a type. Also, if you know me, you’d know that by writing that last line, I’m going to get a phone call from Tanya.

Okay, let me revise that first statement. I used to not have a type. Now I do. I prefer blondes. And an occasional redhead. Now don’t get all worried about me, Tanya won’t kill me, by “an occasional redhead,” I mean that Tanya is occasionally a redhead.

See.

Actually, I’m really confusing the issue here. The title of this post doesn’t refer to chicks. Their hair notwithstanding. It refers to something much different. Although I am a little perplexed by the issue of type. Does someone’s hair color really make them a type? That’s a little shallow, don’t you think?

Again, let me revise my first statement. I used to be attracted to...bitches.

I’m kidding, my exes aren’t bitches. Not all of them anyway. Don’t think that I’m bitter or anything. I have better things to do than be bitter about my ex-girlfriends. Unless Tanya’s reading this, in which case…they’re all bitches.

Sorry, I’m going to need to revise the penultimate statement too. I’m not bitter about my exes, but I don’t have anything better to do. In fact, it might help to pass the time.

But none of this is at the heart of this post. Now that I’ve made everyone uncomfortable about my personal life, let me get to it.

The other day Tanya and I were getting rid of her impressive cardboard box collection down at the local Post Office, when Tanya spied something cool.

An old typewriter! Just sitting in the parking lot. So I went to look it over. Tanya didn’t want to keep it at first, but the second she heard the soothing chime of the typewriter’s bell, she was hooked. Well, not hooked, but she did let me put it in the trunk of the car.

How could anyone pass this up?!

Sure it needed a little attention, but it was in good shape, all things considered. Someone had either never used the thing, or it was well loved. That is before they shoved it in front of a dust blower.

With this kind of dust, I suspected that it might have been used as a movie prop. Either that or it was used by the French Foreign Legion. (My second reference to the French Foreign Legion in a week! I think I’m setting a record. Especially since everything I know about the French Foreign Legion was learned watching Bugs Bunny cartoons)

But I decided that I could clean it up. And that’s exactly what I did. It was a dirty business and it took me two hours, but at least it was spider-free.

Spider-free is very important to me. Had it been spider-filled, it would have gone right back to the parking lot. Somehow. Because I wouldn’t have touched it.

Here is the result of my effort:

It’s not the best picture in the world, but you get the idea (interesting background, guitars and liquor, yup, that my cool rocker life pretty much). I’ve since researched my new treasure. The internet being what it is, I could only find out that it is a Royal Typewriter model HH manufactured in 1956. But that’s it. You would think that I could find all that out by looking at the machine itself, but you’d be wrong. Well, I did find the “Royal” part that way.

If you look closely, the typewriter doesn’t include an exclamation point. Maybe in the 50s exclamation points were considered too provocative? Anyway, I found a way around their safeguard against emotion by utilizing the super-huge apostrophe, the backspace function and a period. I’ll show them! Stupid 50s types.

So now I have a 1956 typewriter in my apartment. I don’t type well. But it’s neat looking. And out of all the other knick-knacks littering up our apartment, this one is by far the heaviest. So it has that going for it.

After the big clean, the cute little typewriter wrote me this message:

In case you can’t read that it says, “Thank you for rescuing me! I owe you my life!”

Wasn’t that sweet?


No, it wasn’t sweet. I typed that. I’m a narcissist. 1956 typewriters can’t type by themselves.

But it is amazing that it still works after all these years. I think I’ll keep it.


Fun Fact: You can all rest easy tonight. Paris Hilton’s rat-dog has been returned safe and sound! Oh my God! I was like sooo worried!

Honestly, this was not only on the local news this morning, but also on the national news! The newscasters read the story with a shade of sarcasm, but really, why do any of us care about this woman!? She still can’t stand up straight! She’s still a media whore! She’s still an ugly person. She still has no discernable talent!

And no, being born rich isn’t a talent.

Enough of Paris Hilton! Enough of the crooked hooker! Geeze.