More typewriter ephemera. Matchbook cover detail advertising this typewriter. I plan to print it out as an 8×10 and hang it on the wall above the Speedline assembly. If you’d like to do the same, you can download the large version from my Flickr page, or e-mail me to get the more printer-friendly 1200dpi original.

One can easily justify the absolutely unnecessary purchase of Yet Another Typewriter when they are as beautiful as these two. As many of use collectors can attest, a typewriter find can be hit-or-miss. Sometimes a beautiful case contains a beat-up junker, and sometimes a beat-up case contains a pristine typer. I was lucky to find two beautiful typers snug safe in their cases.

I call this one my China Doll. She’s a 1948 Smith-Corona Clipper. This was the last full year of the Speedline body style, as well as one of the last years of the flying boat from which she took her name. The airplane depicted in her logo is a Boeing 314, made famous by Pan-Am’s fleet of globe-hopping Clippers. Pan-Am had, in fact, retired their B-314 fleet a couple of years earlier, in 1946, and sold the planes to either the Navy or to private charter companies. Like the Speedines themselves, B-314s continued to appear sporadically under various names into the early 1950s.

Possibly the most famous flying boat was the China Clipper, which ran the San Francisco to Hong Kong route from 1935 to 1941. Technically, only Pan-Am’s original Martin M-130 flying boat can be called the China Clipper. The B-314 which replaced it on the same route in 1939 was called the California Clipper. Many people, however, continued to refer to it as the China Clipper. In fact, in the 1939 children’s book, Timmy Rides the China Clipper, it is the new B-314 that is depicted and not the true M-130 China Clipper.

But I digress. China Doll is a beautiful machine. Her workings move as smoothly as a Swiss clock, and I’m sure once I put a new ribbon in her she will be as much a joy to type on as to look at.

Oh, and why did I select the China Clipper to name her for over the eight other Pan-Am routes? See, China white is a particularly pure and powerful form of heroin. It seemed an appropriate, albeit obscure reference to my own addiction to typewriters as well as her airborne heritage.

I’m feelin’ tragic like I’m Marlon Brando
When I look at my China Girl
I could pretend that nothing really meant too much
When I look at my China Girl
–Iggy Pop/David Bowie, “China Girl”

This chrome-laden 1936 Royal DeLuxe beauty was literally bought sight-unseen. Though he didn’t know exactly what he had, the very nice gentleman selling it gave such an accurate description that I knew there was a gem to be had for next to nothing. And indeed it turned out to be one. The only minor problem is that it seems to have a worn bearing in the carriage which causes it to stick about in the middle. I’m too chicken to attempt to disassemble and reassemble a carriage. This may be one that I tote up to Vale Typewriter for quality, professional repair. This is the A-model, BTW, the one with a tabulator. I’ll have to think of an appropriate person to name it after. Someone who is a wallflower, unnoticed by everyone, until she is drawn from her shell to become a flashy star. Hmm…Norma?

For your education and amusement, I present the 1950 Federal Work Improvement Program Equipment Maintenance Series #1 booklet, Typewriter Care. Here you will find an excellently illustrated guide to cleaning and maintaining your government-issued typewriter, how to lift and carry a typewriter, fastening the typewriter to a desk, removing the platen, and helpful hints to prolong your typewriter’s life. Though not perhaps as amusingly dated as Family Fallout Shelters, it is nonetheless an interesting and informative glimpse into the days when the typewriter repair guy was as ubiquitous to the office as today’s helpdesk guy.

Caution to those on dialup: the pdf is just over 5mb in size.

We’ve all seen them: those bracelets and necklaces and earrings made from old typewriter keys. The people who buy them think that they are somehow recycling parts from unusable typewriters. The sad truth is that the majority of those keys were cut from perfectly usable machines. Whole dumpsters filled with de-keyed typewriters have been spotted near flea markets. A look on eBay will reveal how desperate the situation is. Some of the key sets and typewriters being offered for harvest are highly collectible. Some are very rare (such as the Harry A. Smith branded Chicago typewriter whose keys were recently posted for sale). All are irreplacable, as these typewriters have not been manufactured for decades. I compare the harvesting of typewriter keys to the poaching of elephants for their tusks. Except the elephant has the advantage of reproduction.

Many, many years ago, on a trip through Montana, I clipped a ranting letter to the editor from a local newspaper. It was originally about drivers who fail to signal their turns, but I found that with very slight modification, it adapts nicely to my feelings about these keychoppers.

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People who cut off typewriter keys to make jewelry are of diseased instincts and flatulent morality. They are spavined and windbroken, possessed of the evil eye and have pockmarked brains.

They have the heads of goats, the perceptions of blind guppies and they dwell in malodorous holes beneath flat rocks.

Their eyes water. Their noses run without wiping. They lie, cheat and steal, beat children and spouses and pilfer from their employers.
Behind their ears there is perpetual damp.

Their lips move when they read, and the only writing they do is to forge signatures or leave messages on washroom walls.

All murder, rape, sexual depravity, dope-pushing, poaching and treason can be traced to them. they recite the Pledge of Allegiance backward and coin every dirty joke.

A yellow streak marches up their back, and then it marches down. They raid birds’ nests, to destroy the young. Their artistic appreciation is limited to graffiti, which they memorize and quote. When they think, they think Monday is the best day of the week.

The rarely vote, but everlastingly caterwaul about the worthless conduct of public affairs unless they can latch onto some political gravy train, whereupon they emit contented grunts and clap and claque for Sugar Daddy. They dote on pesticide, and curse the day defoliants were restrained. They streak.

They are America First for all native-born whites. They would burn crosses if they dared. They refer to Indian Americans as foreigners.
They hate all cops except those who beat up homeless people.

They belch in public places and spit on the sidewalks. Litter is their doing, as are the chuckholes in the streets. They light forest fires. They kick dogs. They vote early and often when they vote at all, and poison wells.

They cough and sneeze on others, spreading all infections. They waste electricity. Flowers wilt when they walk by. They rejoice in dirty streets, garbage-strewn alleys, and lynchings. They love biased news stories, corrupt politicians, shyster lawyers, medical quacks. Their armpits stink.

They consume most of the nation’s production of anti-itch medication.
They sing off-key and never brush their teeth. They strip mine. To multiply, they divide.

Their fingernails are black and they eat with their hands while lying on their bellies. Their hands are clammy, their feet are cleft. They are creatures of the Devil, and constitute a good reason for the death penalty.

And that’s only the bright side–the sweet talk.

They can, nevertheless, attain instant and perpetual grace, become radiant, beloved to God and man, by keeping their typewriters intact. Amen.