Typed on an Olympia SF. Graphic from the Bongwater album “Too Much Sleep“.
There’s a story out of the French Revolution of a fellow whose guillotined head continued to scream for several minutes after being divorced from its body. Good story, but when you think about it, utterly impossible. Even if the executioner had botched the job so closely to the shoulders that he included the larynx with the head, the diaphragm would still be necessary to push air past the vocal cords.
I suppose it’s possible that a severed head could retain consciousness for 30 or 60 seconds. Possibly it could even work the jaw muscles, albeit silently. It’s completely possible that the eyes and ears would continue to process information until the brain became starved of oxygen. That would occur fairly rapidly. Vision is the first higher brain function to break down, so who knows?
But a screaming head? Not very likely.
What if Lady Gaga is really Marilyn Manson playing an elaborate practical joke on everyone?
What if all wormholes are an express train to a singularity–the terminus of time and space, the Big Bang–and everything ejected in the Big Bang is the material being sucked in by black holes throughout the universe, and the universe’s existence is a product of its own demise?
I should have had a proper typecast, especially since I hauled home four standards over the weekend, but between insomnia and a hellion child, I’m just drained.
Typewriter: The Underwood.
Though my family has a long history of serving in the armed forces–ranging from the War of 1812, to the Civil War to the Spanish-American War, to both World Wars–we have been fortunate that only two have died in uniform. My great-great-great uncle, a German immigrant named Hood, was killed in the Civil War, but his full identity has been lost to time.
The other was my mom’s cousin, Terrill Bilyeu. Here he is, taken about 1955 during a visit to my grandparents Kansas farmhouse:
On October 24, 1960, Terrill was flying a T-28 Trojan Navy training airplane about a mile from Pensacola Naval Air Station when he collided with Kenneth Shelley, Jr’s T-28 upon final approach. One of the planes crashed into a field and burst into flames. The other crashed, but did not burn. Both pilots were 21. Terrill had been in the Navy just 11 months.
Who do you remember today?
Weekend before last the local paper ran a nice half-page collectibles feature on typewriters. I and some of my typers had prominent spots in the piece, which is neither here nor there.
Now I see that there has been a definite shift in attitude at my favorite thrift store, the one that until now had been my best supplier of serendipitous finds. The price of a blasé Sears electric from the ’80s has inflated by 3 times, and a late ‘6os Remington Streamliner which once would have been $4 or $5 now has been given a spot in the glass display case up front and slapped with a $25 tag. It’s pretty, but it ain’t all that.
I can’t help but wonder if someone there didn’t see the article and decided that they were underpricing their typers. The typewriter evangelist part of me wants to spread the word of clattery goodness, but the selfish, cheapskate collector part of me wants to keep their desirability a closely-guarded secret.
Typewriter: Tippi, a 1970s Adler Tippa S
Typewriter: 1948 Smith-Corona Super-Speed
Sincerest apologies for the terrible grammar. I’m having a lot of trouble forming thoughts today.
Partially inspired by Strikethru’s Petaluma Police Department Royal FP. Typewriter: 1960 Royal FP