Listening to: “Music is My Boyfriend” – The Hidden Cameras

I’m in love. With a typewriter. I found it in its case on street a few months back, right before a snowstorm. I probably wouldn’t even have noticed, except Tucker went up to sniff it. Having thus saved it from snow and dog piss, I brought it back to my apartment to have a better look.

I’ve always wanted a typewriter–not any of that electronic shit, but an honest fucking manual typewriter. Something to do with tactility and labor, and how these are good things. Typing on a computer is light, easy, fast to erase, potentially negligible. Typewriters are loud and heavy and permanent. You must press down each key to make a letter stick, and once it’s there, it can’t be unstuck. You can white it out, sure, but you’ll know the change had been made.

I still have some silly, bygone idea of old journalism, or what I pictured it to be–a newsroom deafening with the sound of punching keys and dialing phones, the smell of ink, sweat, and whiskey, a cloud of cigarette smoke rising up to a pressed-tin ceiling. I blame my old editor and His Girl Friday for this shamelessly romanticized image.

Anyway, I digress. The typewriter I found turned out to be a Smith-Corona Galaxie Twelve–a name that, for some reason, is totally beautiful. It’s from the late ’60s/early ’70s, from what the interwebs tell me. Tan and brown, with gorgeous knobs and springs and metal bits and plastic bits–an honest-to-god machine.

It’s been sitting next to the front door for awhile cause I kept getting sidetracked, but today I ordered ribbons for it. I found where the ribbons go, too. I was pushing and pulling at the Galaxie, trying to figure it out, when I pulled the top and it smoothly unfolded on metal stilts to reveal the two ribbon spots. That’s when I really fell head-over-heels.

I know, I know, I’m just another mid-twenties hipster chick who thinks vintage stuff is the shizz. Judge away, mon freres.