Just When I Thought It Was Over
1 hour ago
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
La Vie de Speegle *Fixed*
As you may have gleaned from this post, I was recently (and thankfully temporarily) incapacitated. No sooner than I mentioned my condition than one Mr. Speculator from La Vie Graphite leaped to the fore and volunteered to provide a guest post. Being a long-time fan of the consistent incredibly quality of his own blog, I of course gratefully accepted. The only caveat is that to my extreme embarrassment, I am terrible at image formatting, a skill that I am told comes as second nature to extremely small children. Oh, and don't get used to the gorgeous images and cogent commentary people. Just Write goes right back to being low-def tomorrow.
“If you're ever in a jam, here I am.
If you're ever in a mess, S.O.S.
If you're so happy, you land in jail. I'm your bail.
It's friendship, friendship, just a perfect blendship.
When other friendships are soon forgot, ours will still be hot.”
~ Cole Porter, Friendship
With the esteemed Speegle still on the mend, albeit in the town so famous for one-armed bandits, here are a few words and images to help re-arm Just Write. Though I can’t really give my right arm, I can at least lend it. It’s got to be a thwarting feeling, to be sidelined at the starting-gate of novel writing, with a 30-day clock ticking away. A temporary thing, indeed. You may miss a few shifts in the first period, but you can always hop over the boards on a third period line-change and force an overtime. Life and hockey so frequently imitate one another. But as we saw, in that recent Twitter photo (which I expect to see on tabloid front pages at the supermarket), Mike is skating again. On his own strength. The blood’s been wiped off the ice, and it’s time to applaud. So, like that famous song reminding us to “simply remember our favorite things, and then we won’t feel so bad,” I’ve remembered a few.
A fine day in Portland, Maine. Speegle would surely approve of the fish & chips at Gilbert’s and the homemade ale at Gritty McDuff’s. Since it’s a workday, there’s always Moxie. Many perches for outdoor typing. Friendly passers-by, but beware the low-flying seagulls.
One of our mutual friends, the Olivetti Lettera 32. Sturdy and elegant, like a Downeast schooner. I know this is one of his favorite things. One of us should re-write that song! No graphite spared here; we are both fans of Helix Oxfords and Caran d’Ache.
Another Speegle favorite, the Waterman Phileas. The one pictured here has been living a flawless life for about 10 years and counting. Not even a problem 35,000 feet up on all those transatlantic flights.
I hear tell that Speegle is soon to at least one Ballograf to his bullpen of pens. They will surely take their place among his favorite things. Made in Sweden, I bought these in Oslo, Norway. The salesman told me they are designed to reduce writer’s cramp- and that the ballpoint ballbearing has microscopic divits like a golf ball. He ever told me how many kilometers a refill can write. The one on the left has a teak wood barrel. If not NaNo, why not NaSagaWriMo!?
Speegle’s a worker, and we get to trade words during our respective daily battles. Here’s the 0.5 Ballograf with me at work.
At last, but surely not least, gratitude to go with the props to you Mike. Thanks for this chance to say thanks. There is something extraordinary about this circle we call The Typosphere. We are flung to the corners of this vast continent, with our diverse perspectives and backgrounds. It’s the important things- perhaps even our favorite things- that join us. Perhaps we are something of a retroscribal version of the Inklings: Inspiring one another to write- not what to write, but to just write. Here’s to that rarified brand of comradeship, acceptance, and humor we all share. Enjoy this, Speegle, and feel better!
~ speculator
“If you're ever in a jam, here I am.
If you're ever in a mess, S.O.S.
If you're so happy, you land in jail. I'm your bail.
It's friendship, friendship, just a perfect blendship.
When other friendships are soon forgot, ours will still be hot.”
~ Cole Porter, Friendship
With the esteemed Speegle still on the mend, albeit in the town so famous for one-armed bandits, here are a few words and images to help re-arm Just Write. Though I can’t really give my right arm, I can at least lend it. It’s got to be a thwarting feeling, to be sidelined at the starting-gate of novel writing, with a 30-day clock ticking away. A temporary thing, indeed. You may miss a few shifts in the first period, but you can always hop over the boards on a third period line-change and force an overtime. Life and hockey so frequently imitate one another. But as we saw, in that recent Twitter photo (which I expect to see on tabloid front pages at the supermarket), Mike is skating again. On his own strength. The blood’s been wiped off the ice, and it’s time to applaud. So, like that famous song reminding us to “simply remember our favorite things, and then we won’t feel so bad,” I’ve remembered a few.
A fine day in Portland, Maine. Speegle would surely approve of the fish & chips at Gilbert’s and the homemade ale at Gritty McDuff’s. Since it’s a workday, there’s always Moxie. Many perches for outdoor typing. Friendly passers-by, but beware the low-flying seagulls.
One of our mutual friends, the Olivetti Lettera 32. Sturdy and elegant, like a Downeast schooner. I know this is one of his favorite things. One of us should re-write that song! No graphite spared here; we are both fans of Helix Oxfords and Caran d’Ache.
Another Speegle favorite, the Waterman Phileas. The one pictured here has been living a flawless life for about 10 years and counting. Not even a problem 35,000 feet up on all those transatlantic flights.
I hear tell that Speegle is soon to at least one Ballograf to his bullpen of pens. They will surely take their place among his favorite things. Made in Sweden, I bought these in Oslo, Norway. The salesman told me they are designed to reduce writer’s cramp- and that the ballpoint ballbearing has microscopic divits like a golf ball. He ever told me how many kilometers a refill can write. The one on the left has a teak wood barrel. If not NaNo, why not NaSagaWriMo!?
Speegle’s a worker, and we get to trade words during our respective daily battles. Here’s the 0.5 Ballograf with me at work.
At last, but surely not least, gratitude to go with the props to you Mike. Thanks for this chance to say thanks. There is something extraordinary about this circle we call The Typosphere. We are flung to the corners of this vast continent, with our diverse perspectives and backgrounds. It’s the important things- perhaps even our favorite things- that join us. Perhaps we are something of a retroscribal version of the Inklings: Inspiring one another to write- not what to write, but to just write. Here’s to that rarified brand of comradeship, acceptance, and humor we all share. Enjoy this, Speegle, and feel better!
~ speculator
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
NaNo Day 18: Typewritin' Pariah
Whoaaaaa-k then. There I was, at the plaza today, riding high on my last couple of public typing experiences, feeling like a public darling. So lofty was my mood that I decided to throw all caution to the breeze and drag out my less-utilized SM-9 for a little fresh air.
It seemed like a good idea at the time, but then hindsight is an exactly even ratio between two-times-ten, is it not?
I arrived around 11:30, a time when most partaking in open-air luncheon activities are just beginning to trickle in. After hastily devouring one half of a Subway spicy Italian on white, I produced the massive black case from under the table and extracted the SM-9.
It would be too kind to say that the mood then soured appreciably. I clacked away, all-unknowing of the distress that my work was causing to the gaggle of mothers and lunching families around me. A little girl, who was chasing birds, happened by my table on a rambling circuit and stopped for a moment to stare quizzically at my labors. No sooner had I finished the line I was on than her mother addressed the young lady in strident, panicked tones, exhorting her to get away from him. Not wanting to exacerbate the situation, I kept my head down and pretended not to have noticed the exchange. After all, some uptight soccer moms probably wanted to leave the dim vestiges of the mechanical past behind. But...when the furor died down and I dared sneak a look at the parent who was so nonplussed by my presence, I spied a blue-haired woman with tattoos festooning her limbs. THIS was the woman that was so put off by a man with a Hawaiian shirt and a typewriter?
During the course of the hour several other subtle incidents occurred, none of which bears such a text wall as can be observed in the previous paragraph. Stuff like people taking tables next to me and then moving away when they got the chance. A subtle undercurrent of discomfort, if you will.
Finally, an hour and three pages later, I packed up and got ready to go. I opened the sinister black case and manhandled the typer into it, and when I did one of the foam-rubber blocks which hold the SM-9 in place during transport came loose and bounced away. I let it go for a second, as my hands were full, but a boy of about seven spied it and walked over to pick it up, presumably to return it to my possession. His mother's voice rang out like a whip crack, "Johnathan Michael, don't touch that!" Everyone turned to look. Embarrassed, I stood and retrieved the block myself, careful to check it to make sure that it hadn't suddenly transmogrified into offal or radioactive goo.
Nope, still just slightly faded black foam-rubber.
I'm still kind of irked. I mean, all joking aside I pride myself on being friendly and open with all folks who are interested in writing machines, but today was kind of a shock. Was it just a weird day, or is there something about my choice in typers? I'd hate to think that my SM-9, who only lives to serve would be an object of outright derision. Signora Olivetti is great, but I think that she deserves a break once in a while.
So...yeah.
It seemed like a good idea at the time, but then hindsight is an exactly even ratio between two-times-ten, is it not?
I arrived around 11:30, a time when most partaking in open-air luncheon activities are just beginning to trickle in. After hastily devouring one half of a Subway spicy Italian on white, I produced the massive black case from under the table and extracted the SM-9.
It would be too kind to say that the mood then soured appreciably. I clacked away, all-unknowing of the distress that my work was causing to the gaggle of mothers and lunching families around me. A little girl, who was chasing birds, happened by my table on a rambling circuit and stopped for a moment to stare quizzically at my labors. No sooner had I finished the line I was on than her mother addressed the young lady in strident, panicked tones, exhorting her to get away from him. Not wanting to exacerbate the situation, I kept my head down and pretended not to have noticed the exchange. After all, some uptight soccer moms probably wanted to leave the dim vestiges of the mechanical past behind. But...when the furor died down and I dared sneak a look at the parent who was so nonplussed by my presence, I spied a blue-haired woman with tattoos festooning her limbs. THIS was the woman that was so put off by a man with a Hawaiian shirt and a typewriter?
During the course of the hour several other subtle incidents occurred, none of which bears such a text wall as can be observed in the previous paragraph. Stuff like people taking tables next to me and then moving away when they got the chance. A subtle undercurrent of discomfort, if you will.
Finally, an hour and three pages later, I packed up and got ready to go. I opened the sinister black case and manhandled the typer into it, and when I did one of the foam-rubber blocks which hold the SM-9 in place during transport came loose and bounced away. I let it go for a second, as my hands were full, but a boy of about seven spied it and walked over to pick it up, presumably to return it to my possession. His mother's voice rang out like a whip crack, "Johnathan Michael, don't touch that!" Everyone turned to look. Embarrassed, I stood and retrieved the block myself, careful to check it to make sure that it hadn't suddenly transmogrified into offal or radioactive goo.
Nope, still just slightly faded black foam-rubber.
I'm still kind of irked. I mean, all joking aside I pride myself on being friendly and open with all folks who are interested in writing machines, but today was kind of a shock. Was it just a weird day, or is there something about my choice in typers? I'd hate to think that my SM-9, who only lives to serve would be an object of outright derision. Signora Olivetti is great, but I think that she deserves a break once in a while.
So...yeah.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
NaNo Day 17: It's a Small (Retrocscribeomechanical) World After All *Pic Update*
It has certainly been a strange, heady week for me down at my typing spot this week. After all, I spent days 1 through 15 in the far corner of the aire libre food court, bashing out the ol’ novel and trying to keep my head down. And, other than a few sotto voce comments, I didn’t really interact with my fellow diners in any significant way.
Then there was yesterday, which was odd, to be sure.
So today I was back out there, plugging away when ANOTHER young lady approached me and complimented my typewriter. She was not however, interested in my image, thank God. No, rather she was the very first Las Vegas retroscribeophile that I have ever run into. We chatted and then she asked the golden question: “So…do you like fountain pens, too?”
I tried not to do a little dance in way of response.
Turns out today’s new friend is Darlene Dalmaceda of Vegas Pens, and soon to be proprietor of a new local pen shop! It was too cool. I mentioned that I had a Hero (thanks again, LFP!), and Darlene magically produced a Parker 51. I mentioned my desire to one day purchase a Waterman Phileas as Speculator’s suggestion, and Darlene just happened to have one of those on hand. She let me demo it right then and there and guess what? She uses brown ink too.
So, finished making new friends and back at the office, I hit the interwebs and pulled up her site and whosoever should I see on her blogroll? You friend and mine, the inimitable Strikethru.
It’s a small world after alllllll…
*UPDATE*
Oh lordy, I checked out Darlene's Twitter, and there was a picture after all. Avert your eyes, children, if the concept of giant beast-men hunched over small, defenseless typewriters perturbs you.
Then there was yesterday, which was odd, to be sure.
So today I was back out there, plugging away when ANOTHER young lady approached me and complimented my typewriter. She was not however, interested in my image, thank God. No, rather she was the very first Las Vegas retroscribeophile that I have ever run into. We chatted and then she asked the golden question: “So…do you like fountain pens, too?”
I tried not to do a little dance in way of response.
Turns out today’s new friend is Darlene Dalmaceda of Vegas Pens, and soon to be proprietor of a new local pen shop! It was too cool. I mentioned that I had a Hero (thanks again, LFP!), and Darlene magically produced a Parker 51. I mentioned my desire to one day purchase a Waterman Phileas as Speculator’s suggestion, and Darlene just happened to have one of those on hand. She let me demo it right then and there and guess what? She uses brown ink too.
So, finished making new friends and back at the office, I hit the interwebs and pulled up her site and whosoever should I see on her blogroll? You friend and mine, the inimitable Strikethru.
It’s a small world after alllllll…
*UPDATE*
Oh lordy, I checked out Darlene's Twitter, and there was a picture after all. Avert your eyes, children, if the concept of giant beast-men hunched over small, defenseless typewriters perturbs you.
Monday, November 16, 2009
NaNo Day 16: Say Cheese!
Being a big fan of cooler weather, I decided that I was going to head out and work on my NaNo draft at the plaza, busted arm or no. So I packed up senora Olivetti and we made haste to my usual spot, where I proceeded to hack my requisite 1667 words out one painful letter at a time. Mind, my left arm works perfectly well, and the right one is much better, but as you kids may well know, it takes a little bit of force, even on a Lettera 32.
So I’m plugging away when I see a shadow fall over the page, and I look up to see a cute 20-something girl looking down at me. Now keep in mind that I have a natural phobia of cute 20-something girls, so I was ready to grab my stuff and flee when she asked me if she could take my picture.
…
…
What?
I was kind of floored, and somewhat resistant until she explained that she liked my typewriter and that Signora Olivetti and I made a nice couple. She wanted an action shot, so after she moved my drink and my phone, I bravely pecked away until she got the picture she wanted, at which point she thanked me and took her leave.
Strange times, I say. So, mark your calendars for today as the first day in the history of anything that a girl has asked to take my picture. At least, a girl who wasn’t related to me.
What’s that? Do I feel pretty? Why yes, yes I do!
So I’m plugging away when I see a shadow fall over the page, and I look up to see a cute 20-something girl looking down at me. Now keep in mind that I have a natural phobia of cute 20-something girls, so I was ready to grab my stuff and flee when she asked me if she could take my picture.
…
…
What?
I was kind of floored, and somewhat resistant until she explained that she liked my typewriter and that Signora Olivetti and I made a nice couple. She wanted an action shot, so after she moved my drink and my phone, I bravely pecked away until she got the picture she wanted, at which point she thanked me and took her leave.
Strange times, I say. So, mark your calendars for today as the first day in the history of anything that a girl has asked to take my picture. At least, a girl who wasn’t related to me.
What’s that? Do I feel pretty? Why yes, yes I do!
Friday, November 13, 2009
NaNo Day 13: ¿Dónde está?
Day thirteen of NaNo, 23,006 words in, and the primary antagonist has yet to have shown his face. He hasn't called, written, or sent a telegram telling me where oh where he is in my head. I've looked near the corpus callosum, under the temporal lobe, betwixt dendrites innumerable, nothin'.
I hope he shows up soon, because without him this is gonna be one boring-ass horror book.
I hope he shows up soon, because without him this is gonna be one boring-ass horror book.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
NaNo Day 10: What're You Lookin' At? *Now With Pictures*
Things started off so well. Come November 1st, I was ready and raring to go. November second, the same thing. In fact, things went pretty swimmingly right up until last Thursday, when I tried to give blood. And maybe grill a phlebotomist or two.
Foolish, in retrospect.
Since then my right arm has been a mass of bruises, and I haven't been able to lift anything heavier than five poinds or so without a bright lance of pain needling me in the elbow.
Not a good sign, I think.
Perhaps because if this, perhaps not, I have been in SUCH a piss-poor mood ever since, and I am relatively sure that the rest of humanity if colluding to lengthen its stay. Idiots on TV, idiots in the government, idiots on the street and a new personal favorite, idiot children of idiot neighbors. I'm fairly sure that they belong to a cabal and are having secret meetings in an underground base, the ultimate goal of which is to drive me to punching someone right. in. the. face.
Sigh...and you wanna know the worst part? My arm is so jacked up that using a typewriter, or even a pen, causes little stabby sensations that I am fairly sure is my poor stippled circulatory system venting plasma into the intracellular void.
So, yeah, there are a lot of people out there who have it bad, and by comparison my life is just a warm and inviting slice of butter pie. But! This here is the interweb, and without pointless rants, well, it just wouldn't be the same.
So here are a couple of cameraphone snaps of the damage after five days of healing. It turns out that it's kinda hard to photograph your own arm.
NOTE: Donating blood is good and saves lives. I am in no way trying to drive anyone away from helping others. All I'm saying is that the one butcher who went at me maybe needs to find another line of work.
Foolish, in retrospect.
Since then my right arm has been a mass of bruises, and I haven't been able to lift anything heavier than five poinds or so without a bright lance of pain needling me in the elbow.
Not a good sign, I think.
Perhaps because if this, perhaps not, I have been in SUCH a piss-poor mood ever since, and I am relatively sure that the rest of humanity if colluding to lengthen its stay. Idiots on TV, idiots in the government, idiots on the street and a new personal favorite, idiot children of idiot neighbors. I'm fairly sure that they belong to a cabal and are having secret meetings in an underground base, the ultimate goal of which is to drive me to punching someone right. in. the. face.
Sigh...and you wanna know the worst part? My arm is so jacked up that using a typewriter, or even a pen, causes little stabby sensations that I am fairly sure is my poor stippled circulatory system venting plasma into the intracellular void.
So, yeah, there are a lot of people out there who have it bad, and by comparison my life is just a warm and inviting slice of butter pie. But! This here is the interweb, and without pointless rants, well, it just wouldn't be the same.
So here are a couple of cameraphone snaps of the damage after five days of healing. It turns out that it's kinda hard to photograph your own arm.
NOTE: Donating blood is good and saves lives. I am in no way trying to drive anyone away from helping others. All I'm saying is that the one butcher who went at me maybe needs to find another line of work.
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