Tale of a Typewriter

Unlike the pager, the PDA, the floppy disk and the VCR, the typewriter has escaped the heap of gadgets defunct and disused. The reason, according to Steve Soboroff, president of the Los Angeles Police Commission and typewriter collector: Its slow pace is meditative, not frustrating, an exercise in deliberateness closer to engraving than typing on a computer.

WSJ

I remember, I remember, that Underwood sublime

I had upon my wooden desk at home upon a time.

A second-hand appliance that would often drop the 'i',

scuffed and very dingy -- twas the apple of my eye.

The platen was of rubber, and quite often in the heat

it melted just a little, kept my work from being neat.

The type guide had gone missing and the type bars weren't aligned;

typing fast upon it got 'em very much entwined.

But though it jammed up frequently, with ribbon never tight,

that old machine-companion was a source of pure delight.

 It coughed up papers for reports, so very long ago.

I liked the easy pacing; I could think both long and slow.   

I used up carbon paper by the reams, in vanity;

my work would be immortal, going down in history.

 I typed up letters on it to my pals at summer camp.

I typed so many ballads that my fingers got a cramp.

And once, oh once, when I was young I gave my heart away

on that discrete contrivance to a girl I met in May.

I sent her notes of romance and I sent her mercy pleas.

She sent me nothing in return; love faded on the breeze.

And when I was ambitious and typed up my resume

it netted me a mail room job with modest weekly pay.

For years that timid little bell did ring when I returned

the carriage to begin new lines as fancy brightly burned.

For I was much determined that a novel I would write.

An epic tale that Hemingway would gladly want to cite. 

(Hardly need I say it; the whole thing was dull and trite.)

No matter where I traveled and no matter what I did

that Underwood stayed with me as around the world I slid.

Then computers came along, and the word processor bulky.

I looked down on my Underwood, and got a little sulky.

Why be mired in the past? Technology's the thing!

I parted ways with Underwood, despite its charming ding.

I remember, I remember, promises I kept,

and others that I so ignored eventually I wept.

And now my faithful Underwood is gone beyond recall

as my memories grow larger while my heart remains too small.

Postcards to President Trump

Marilyn -- Round Three

Marilyn’s last text to me this afternoon occurred at exactly 5:02 p.m. Mountain Standard Time. It reads thus:

“I want my part of my food and I will never ever do this again. You ate all of it, didn’t you?”

At 5:40 she was back at my door again, as bright and cheerful as a summer morn. I was a bit taken aback; I figured she’d crossed me off her list for at least the rest of today. Her vagaries, of course, are becoming a large part of her charm. Just like the variation of storm and blue skies on the mountains makes for a charming view.

I did not have to question her about her volte-face; she happily supplied me with the information as soon as she sat down and asked for more cookies and m&ms.  Her friend Holly had stopped by earlier to “share” some pills with her. And, said Marilyn brightly, Holly would be back at six to take her over to her house for a sumptuous dinner.

So I unplugged the slow cooker. Soon as it cooled down I’d put the rest of the smothered pork in a baggy to pop in the fridge. (It was quite toothsome, bye the bye; what with mushrooms and chickpeas simmered with it.)

And so begins Round Three with Marilyn.

As if for my personal entertainment, she began a comic search through her purse for some Poligrip; her lower plate was coming unglued.

It was quite a routine, the kind of schtick that Lucille Ball might have performed. Punctuated by mild curses, she first opened her wallet, although how her Poligrip could be in there is beyond me. She found a discount card for Kohl’s, but alas it expired back in 2017. Then her laundry quarters cascaded onto her lap. When she had those stowed safely back in the hold she took out her cash to count it. High drama ensued as she realized she was thirty dollars short. Where had that thirty bucks gone to? Holly. Of course, Holly had stolen it. Holly steals anything that is not nailed down. No, that wasn’t it; Holly had not been near Marilyn’s purse during her brief medicinal visit. Had she spent it and already forgotten on what? She glanced over herself to see if she was wearing a new piece of jewelry or new blouse. No, that wasn’t it.

I broke into her reverie to remind her she had given me 30 dollars cash during the weekend to cover her end of our food bill. Mystery solved.

Laying her wallet aside, she dove into her purse -- producing in quick succession a hair brush, lip gloss, a book of matches, a makeup mirror, a pack of cigarettes (gasp!), a ball of crushed Kleenex, another hair brush, a lozenge of aluminum foil, and an empty container of Tic Tacs. But no Poligrip.

Next she tried her zippered side pockets. Her purse is equipped with at least a half dozen slits and pouches -- deviously placed to defy discovery (quite possibly for secret spy messages and microfiche.) One by one she inveigled the zippers open and probed with her long lavender colored fingernails. Results were disappointingly meager: more balled up Kleenex and several wrinkled receipts from various box stores. She stepped up her cursing a notch, becoming more indistinct as her lower plate continued to come unmoored.

But I had had my eye on that aluminum foil lozenge. With the keen analytical skills of a Sherlock Holmes I felt it was an Important Clue in the Case of the Missing Polident, and pointed at it and asked casually what might be in it.

“Oh, some q-tips” she replied.

“Indeed?” I queried, with one eyebrow raised. Well, okay, I didn’t say exactly that. More like “Why dontcha open it up to make sure?” And I can’t manage to raise one eyebrow quizzically, either.

She did. Voila! A nearly played out tube of Poligrip.

By now it was fifteen past six.

“Where is that girl?” Marilyn asked herself crossly. Holly was never on time; she couldn’t be counted on.

So we sat and chewed the fat some more. She recounted her brief career as a jazzercise instructor at Baileys Gym Health Club in Cincinnati. She was very hot, if she did say so herself. Men from far distances queued up to take her class, panting like airedales. But an inopportune slip on a pineapple chunk on the floor of a daquiri bar fractured her ankle in several places. That ended all her undoubtedly spectacular opportunities in the twisting world of jazzercise.

As the minutes ticked slowly by Marilyn began a barrage of texts to Holly, beginning with “Hope everything is okay. Where are you?” and ending, twenty minutes later, when there had been no response, with a profane kiss off telling her their friendship was definitely over for good.

So I warmed up some of the smothered pork for her, with a side of cottage cheese -- on which she sprinkled sugar. Holly, she proclaimed between bites, had just lost the best friend she ever had. I merely nodded, stifling a yawn. I was played out, ready to wash the dishes, take a shower, and hit the hay.

Marilyn, bless her soul, saw how tired I was and noticed the stack of dishes in the sink, so she kindly patted my shoulder as she made for the door, bidding me sweet dreams.

Now, as I hang up the dish towel to dry, there comes one last text from Marilyn:

“She has the nerve to say she’s been calling and valuing there is not one call or text from her at all and my phone is on loud . . . she has major issues that girl.”

Clearer heads and bolder hearts than mine will have to decipher that message. For me, it’s time to snuggle up in bed with my Kindle.

Marilyn Doesn't Get a Massage

This morning was pleasant and productive. My son Adam gave me three pieces of paid rewrite work -- an article on Valentine’s Day, a piece on Opioid Addiction, and a story on maintaining long distance relationships. I knocked all three of ‘em off in a few hours, cleaning up a tidy sum to help pay the bills and keep me wallowing in riotous luxury. Since my name will not appear on any of ‘em, I don’t care what kind of cliched dreck I ladle out to the internet masses -- as long as I get paid.

Enter Marilyn, at noon. Demanding sweets. I gave her a bowl of vanilla wafers and m&ms, with a glass of milk. Which she appreciated. Then I dived into the maelstrom.

She met my daughter Sarah, a professional massage worker, the other day here at my place when we all had split pea soup together. I trust my daughter’s opinion and instincts when it comes to ‘reading’ other people. So I talked to Sarah yesterday about Marilyn. She said that Marilyn is obviously abusing her prescriptions, with symptoms including foggy memory, slurred words, and the shakes. I hadn’t really noticed it before, but after talking to Sarah it dawned on me that Marilyn is far from well, and certainly has all those symptoms. Marilyn asked Sarah for a massage, and Sarah put her off with a vague promise to think about it and gave her a business card. When I talked to Sarah she said no, she would not consider giving Marilyn a professional massage because she was probably on opioids, prescription or not, and a full massage could be dangerous to her. Make her pass out, or worse.

So while Marilyn was munching on sweets and cooing softly about how nice I was to her I took the bull by the tail, as W.C. Fields famously said, and faced the situation. I told her that Sarah would not be giving her a massage because she was worried about Marilyn’s pain prescriptions. I did not beat around the bush or try to candy coat the message. The result was pretty much what I had expected. She blew up.

“That’s what all you damn Mormons all do, is judge people” she said. “I won’t put up with that kind of (expletive deleted). Who does she think she is; is she a nurse or a doctor? She’s just a punk. A (expletive deleted) punk.”

I had to demur at that point, and warn her that verbally abusing my daughter in front of me was not going to be tolerated.

But Marilyn had found her point of argument, and was going to stick with it come heck or high water.

“So why isn’t she a doctor, to tell me something like that? Why didn’t she become a doctor or a nurse? Just tell me that” she said with a triumphant gleam in her eye, as if her logic would sweep me into abject confusion.

“She has professional training and knows what she’s talking about” I said quietly, sipping on some herbal tea. Bengal Spice, if you know the brand.

“I don’t give a (expletive deleted) about that. Just explain to me, if you can, why she isn’t a doctor right now. I wanna know why she isn’t a doctor!”

She never studied to be one, I said patiently.

“Aha!” she cried triumphantly. “That’s what I mean.”

“But she did give me the address and phone number of a yoga center in Orem that will be glad to give you a professional massage, and charges less than she does” I managed to interject before she was off again.

“I don’t want anything from your stinking stupid daughter. Nothing! She can’t just tell me what to do. She’s a phony, just like you.”

At this point in the discussion (or diatribe) I sat back and silently sucked on my herbal tea. Words were no longer of any meaning. We were down to the level of raw addled emotion.

“If all you’re going to talk about is negative things, I’m leaving. I came in here all happy and positive and now you start talking crap to me.” She arose and headed for the door.

“I made smothered pork chops for us in the slow cooker today. Are you coming back for some?” I asked her receding back, clad, I must say, in a very becoming white cashmere sweater.

She did not deign to answer, but at least she didn’t slam the door. She couldn’t; it has a hydraulic spring on it and only hisses slightly when too much pressure is applied to shutting the door.

But a few minutes later the texts started to arrive.

I quote them verbatim:

“I’m very mad at you right now . . . awwww, did your poor little girl tell you to not let me have a massage? I’m not Mormon nor do I ever want to be it totally sucks.”

“The majority of people take meds and 80 percent get massages.”

“Tell you very unintelligent daughter that a massage has never ever hurt anyone on medications if anything it helps.”

“Never ever bring a third party into a relationship . . . plus I could give a rats ass about your daughter’s opinion.”

“Fifty million people are on benzos not to mention the rest of the meds . . . educate yourself better before running your mouth off you and your daughter.”

“You Mormons sure know how to judge people . . .  my business is my business only plus between me and my doctors so get your own doctor and but out of my life.”

“You and your daughter should be ashamed of yourselves.”

And so it looks like the end of Round Two with Marilyn. Will she reconsider when she cools down (or runs out of pills) and want to kiss and makeup? Maybe. And I’ll calmly let her come over for meals and to chat. Why? Because I’m finally beginning to get a handle on this, well, I won’t call it a relationship anymore. A sad farce is what it is. She’s a woman who needs lots of help. I am willing to put up with her guff and give her some help, within very strict boundaries.

And most important, I now have discovered the perfect way to get her out of my hair when I’ve had enough of her shenanigans for one day. Simply tell her the truth.. Give her suggestions as to what she can do to help herself -- such as get her own daughter up in Orem to give her rides when she needs them. She can curse me to Hades and back when I tell her a home truth like that, but it won’t upset me a smidgen anymore. She’s sick; she needs understanding and encouragement to make smart choices; and she’s striking out at those who want to be her friends. I understand that now. And I can accept it, up to a certain point.

And now, since she’s nowhere in sight and not likely to share lunch or dinner with me today -- I’ll just tuck into those smothered pork chops, with some pickled beets on the side. Oh, and I MUST remember to take my Vitamin D gummies . . .

Postcard to the President

Postcard to President Trump

Marilyn and the Tummy Tuck

I had a mild attack of kidney stones last night, so was up during the wee hours drinking water by the hogshead to alleviate the pain. At last things calmed down, around 4 in the morning, and I hibernated for a few hours until Marilyn came knocking at my hollow plywood door at ten. All the doors in this apartment building are stained to look like burled walnut -- but the effect achieved is more like curdled fudge.

Marilyn was radiant, dressed in a black and white outfit that showed off her becoming figure admirably. She was excited to go to Church. When she found out I would not be going with her, she immediately wilted and began fuming like a Bessemer furnace.

That’s when I smelled the Rice Krispies -- at least I thought they were Rice Krispies. It turns out that Marilyn, following the advice, somewhat, of one of the Relief Society ladies she talked to in Church last week, microwaved some rice for a minute to put into a sock to wrap around her aching neck. All well and good, but Marilyn used a bag of Uncle Ben’s Minute Rice, and left it in her microwave for a good five minutes, just to be on the safe side. The plastic pouch the rice was in melted and the rice started to smoke when Marilyn decided to extricate the whole mess, wrap it in a towel, and apply it to the back of her neck for pain relief. So she told me. Snap. Crackle. And Pop.

When I suggested she might consider using just plain old regular uncooked rice, and to just microwave it for a minute at most, all I recieved for my trouble was a surly growl. So I dropped that subject like a hot potato. I just hope she doesn’t try Cream of Wheat or Plaster of Paris next time . . .

If I wasn’t going to Church then she wasn’t going to Church. But understanding of the feminine psyche is not totally beyond my grasp. I worked on her vanity. Told her that her outfit was beautiful, a standout. Too bad none of the ladies would get a chance to see it today, I sighed; they’d either swoon with delight or turn green with envy. Marilyn remained quiet for an unusually long time, for her -- about five minutes. Then she announced perhaps she would, after all, deign to go to Sacrament Meeting. I rewarded her in Pavlovian fashion with a Hostess Cupcake and a glass of milk. From now on every time she makes a good decision I’ll condition her to expect Hostess cupcakes and a glass of milk.

I had promised her chicken with rice and mushroom gravy, for Sunday dinner, and while I still felt a bit seedy, I cooked the whole shebang while she went to Church. I even swiped an elderly card table from the building’s storage room so we wouldn’t have to eat off of TV trays. Marilyn likes to cut her meat with gusto, causing her wobbly TV tray to shake and scatter napkins, utensils, crumbs, and beverage cups all over my carpet.

The meal was a great success with Marilyn, restoring her good humor until it reached flood tide, when she called me the sweetest man she’s ever had in her life. To emphasize this, she accidentally flipped a plate of sliced tomatoes with cottage cheese onto my living room carpet. As I cleaned up the curds and whey I asked her what they had talked about in Church.

In response she used an indelicate word that indicates the end product of a bull’s digestion.

“Huh?” I grunted, on my knees collecting stray slices of roma tomato.

“Oh, it was something about staying home on Mondays and playing games and making fudge. It sounded so fricking stupid I wanted to leave.”

Family Home Evening.

When I finished removing cottage cheese from my rug I sat down at the card table to explain FHE to Marilyn. But I might as well have tried to explain Einstein’s theory of relativity to Donald Trump. Marilyn was having none of it. She belligerently declared that back in Cincinnati, where she’s from, Monday night is “Half Priced Chicken Wings Night” at all the sports bars in town -- a person would be a fool to forgo such a pleasure to stay home and play games with the rugrats.

“It’s any night the family wants to designate as a time to get together for some games and religious instruction -- it doesn’t HAVE to be Monday” I continued, thin wisps of steam stealing out of my ears. What WERE those missionaries thinking of when they baptized her?

But her interest in learning anything about Family Home Evening had already evaporated after she mentioned her old stomping grounds of Cincinnati. She had something else on her mind; something of immediate and tremendous importance.

“Do you think I’m pretty?”

“Yes, Marilyn, I do.”

“Should I get a tummy tuck?

“What in the . . . what in the world is a tummy tuck?”

She explained. I said it would be gilding the lily. She didn’t know how to take that expression -- apparently not being familiar with it. Was I complimenting her or dissing her?

“It would be superfluous, unnecessary for you. You are remarkably thin already.”

“I’m not anorexic, if THAT’S what you’re trying to get at.” she replied huffily.

Feeling now that I was in an old Burns & Allen comedy routine, I threw in the towel and simply replied that she should do whatever she felt like and I would be happy to support her.

“Yeah, but . . . should I get a tummy tuck or not? I could start saving this month, about two hundred I think, and then in a few years I’d have enough for the plastic surgery . . . “ At this point she became completely downcast once again, because it came to her as a blinding and devastating epiphany that if she saved for a tummy tuck she couldn’t simultaneously pay for a new car.

“But you think I’m pretty, right?” she asked through a few brave tears.

I was tempted to say “Tell the folks goodnight Gracie” just to see what would happen, but instead I reiterated my belief in her overall yumminess, and then asked if she was going to watch the Super Bowl. She has a plasma big screen TV, which is lying flat on her living room floor for lack of a few nuts and bolts to mount it.

“Will you watch it with me?” she asked, batting those fiendish eyelashes of hers at me in a manner reminiscent of Mae West inviting Cary Grant to “Come up and see me sometime . . . “

Here was the Moment of Truth. What man could possibly turn down a lovely woman’s invitation to watch the Holy Grail of football games with her in her apartment. I scratched my head, pulling on my hair like Stan Laurel. I sighed deeply. I rubbed my fingers all over my face in a fine fettle of indecision. Then said no, I would rather stay at home and read myself to sleep with a book. She gave a disappointed cluck and then arose to give me a quick kiss on the lips and head out the door. Her last words were “Hope I’ve got some dip and chips left.”

Well, not her last words really. I just got a text from her: “Have diahrea bad. You think it was the chicken? LOL. Be a sweetie and get me some Immodium at the store. K? Love, M”

So if you’ll excuse me I’m just headed out the door on an errand of mercy. Or a wild goose chase -- with Marilyn, who knows?

Ralph Northam -- "I am not the person in that photo"

Virginia Gov. Ralph Northam on Saturday denied being in a racist picture from his 1984 medical-school yearbook and said he wouldn’t step down, statements that intensified calls for his resignation.

The embattled Democrat, who has been in office for a year, said he was mistaken when he said Friday he had appeared in the yearbook photograph, which depicted one person in blackface and another in Ku Klux Klan garb.

“In the hours since I made my statement yesterday, I reflected with my family and classmates from the time and affirmed my conclusion that I am not the person in that photo,” he said at a news conference in Richmond.

WSJ

Governors and Democrats will often get the laugh

when they say they never was in some old photograph.

For Governors and Democrats just love to see their face

taking up tremendous acres of the public space.

It happens that a Democrat (a Governor as well)

was tasked with being in a portrait that did not sit well

with voters in his bailiwick, so he was told to quit --

but do you think he'd do it? He said nossir! Not a bit.

For Governors and Democrats don't take things lying down;

to them the honorable thing to do is silly -- like a clown.

To push them from the spotlight takes a Samson-like resolve.

To make them do the right thing mighty struggle does involve.

And speed is of the essence, since no matter what their crime

the indignation dies down given just a few day's time.

The news cycle is pitiless; it quickly wants new fare

and thinks a story one day old is pretty darn threadbare.

And so this crafty Governor (a Democrat so tall)

said the photograph in question was not him at all.

Although at first he said it was, what made him change his mind

was the fact Republicans are famously purblind.

They cannot see the forest for the trees all round about;

they cannot see the hot dog that is served with sauerkraut.

They cannot see the poverty that stalks our land today;

they cannot see that Trump is but a useless stowaway.

So they and all their minions saw that infamous mug shot

with a vision blurred by paranoia and dry rot.

So Democrats and Governors had no need to delay

because the face in question might as well be Doris Day. 

  
The Governor remained convinced that photo wasn't him,
although the features in it showed his vigor and his vim.
He won his case and kept his seat as leader of his state,
which is a marvel some Rembrandt some day should illustrate.

My tale is told, my lute grows mute, and I must hit the road
to mingle with the peasant and the rich man and the toad.
Remember that one photograph is worth a thousand phrases,
most of which suggest Ralph Northam ought to go to blazes. 

Postcards to President Trump

The Return of Marilyn 1

Last Thursday evening I was sitting in the lobby of my apartment building, staring off into space. I had recently had another disastrous encounter with my former wife Amy -- when she lost her job we agreed to be married again so she could move in with me and not worry about being homeless. But then the toxic emails from her started again -- accusing me of everything from bull-baiting to throwing live infants down wells. She obviously is still suffering from a major mental challenge that I just am not willing to deal with anymore. Today nobody knows where she is living -- she won’t tell me or our children her whereabouts. She has her mail forwarded to me . . .

So I was sitting in the lobby, feeling old and shabby and seedy -- past my prime and of no use to man nor beast. A parcel clearly ready to be stamped RETURN TO SENDER.

Then Marilyn walked in, sat down on a distant couch, and said conversationally she was waiting for a friend to come pick her up for a party. I said Oh that’s nice, and fell back to brooding. We aimed a few more bland and pointless comments at each other, and then her ride came.

The next day she knocked on my door. I was still feeling seedy and pathetic, lacking the spirit to be good and the ambition to be bad. I invited her in, we sat and talked, she told me she was back on all her legal prescriptions, seemed happy and sensible. So I invited her to stay for vichyssoise, which I had cooling on the stove.

This morning insomnia got me up at 3 and refused to let me find sanctuary back in bed again, so I made a batch of split pea soup and read a biography of Carry Nation. Marilyn knocked on my door again at nine. This time she wanted me to go grocery shopping with her. I am a dedicated supermarket tourist, so agreed. And then she sprung her Big Idea on me. Since we had both just lost our Food Stamps (I was getting nineteen dollars every month and she was getting in excess of one-hundred-and-fifty dollars each month) she thought if we combined one meal a day, splitting the cost of groceries, we could stretch our food money to stave off looming starvation.

This actually made a lot of sense to me, since cooking for one is so doggone hard without winding up with lots of leftovers that just get thrown away. Plus I like to cook for other people. So we spent a total of 40 bucks at Fresh Market for pork chops (2 packs for the price of one), boneless chicken breasts, potatoes, onions, rice, a variety of greenstuff, butter, and a loaf of bread to be split between the two of us. I made the chops and boiled the spuds for mashed potatoes this afternoon, feeling happy and useful again.

Marilyn, however, had suddenly sunk into an inexplicable funk, bemoaning her back pain and neck pain and ranting about how hard it is to take the bus to Nordstrom’s Rack for a hunting expedition seeking lingeries and other feminine accoutrements that are as mysterious and exotic to me as Machu Picchu.

After the meal, which I must admit, casting all modesty aside, was very good, Marilyn seemed to reach the nadir of her misery -- beginning to grizzle over how unfair it is that she has to suffer such painful agonies while the rest of the world skips merrily along like gamboling lambs.

Not knowing what else to do to halt her imminent blubbering, I offered, in complete desperation, to give her a back rub. She took off her winter coat (she claims my apartment is part of an arctic conspiracy to give her pneumonia) and glared at me as if challenging me to remove one iota of her personal and artisan pain. Limbering up my hands like a concert pianist by cracking my knuckles, I dug my fingers deep into her shoulder blades, beginning the attack. (It should be noted that I have no training, no experience, in massage therapy -- except my devoted and regular patronage of foot massage parlors in Thailand when I lived there.)

Marilyn immediately turned to butter, cooing that my hands were pure magic. Ten minutes later when I finished pummeling her neck as I’d seen done in old Charlie Chaplin movies, where the great comic would sneak into a spa for the weekend, she looked up at me in the purest bliss, and said “You’re wonderful.”

Then she fell asleep in her chair for an hour. When she woke up she was cheerful and sensible once again. I helped her bring her laundry bag from her apartment to the washing machines downstairs; then trudged back to Fresh Market to get quarters after she mislaid a roll she claimed to have squirreled away in her purse. While waiting for her laundry to finish, I made us lemon bars -- and Marilyn actually begged for a class of milk, instead of a bottle of merlot.

She is gone now, back up to own apartment, to fold her clothes, after giving me a moist buss on the cheek -- her profuse thanks for both the meal and the neck rub are still echoing in my ears -- and so I must query myself is this the fabled turning over of a new leaf that is often mentioned but rarely seen? Is it possible I can have a sane relationship with this woman now?

I’m making us baked chicken breasts with mushroom gravy over long grain rice, with a green side salad, for Sunday dinner tomorrow. Perhaps the combination of home cooked meals and neck massages is the golden key that unlooses her better angels.

Then again, I can’t escape the feeling she’s playing me for a sucker -- somehow. To help me figure that conundrum out, I will detail the daily outings of little Timmy in the Mad World of Marilyn . . .