Stay Drunk, Ponyboy….

Another cold, empty winter is fast approaching- I feel it tonight in aging, creaking bones and I can smell it clearly on the winds blowing in hard from the west.  Memories of humid summer Indiana afternoons disintegrated under the blanket of an early darkness falling.  Thoughts of a hopeful spring rejuvenation, growing lush and green and virginal, are nothing but a distant mark in a rapidly crumbling recollection, bullied away by invasively invisible invaders all out on the hunt. And the final kill knows no season. Above me a limp, unimpressive skyline of an increasingly infected and judgemental City of Wayne tries unsuccessfully to hide itself behind the skeletons of trees blown bare from the incessant crawl of an isolated winter’s fatal touch.  Too many punctuating …

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More Fear of the Loathing

It wasn’t just her. There were several people that came to mind when I wrote my last tantrum in a whiskey-fueled, late-night empty hour, “burn it all down” frantic madness.  But I fear that she inadvertently took the brunt of my boorish rebuke.  That was neither fair, nor intended, so I must now be man enough to throw myself willingly upon my literary sword and write for her…better words. She deserves at least that much. Most nights, especially after those when our ridiculously adult schedules happen to align, and I can actually choke back my phobias long enough to share the naked intimacy of a transcontinental telephone call, I have come to realize that when she crosses my mind, it almost always makes me feel a …

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Where There’s Smoke, I Am On Fire

I wanted desperately to believe her all through another catastrophically dark night of the soul, cutting jaggedly across a continent that I confess I no longer fully understand. I held a dispassionately slipping white-knuckled grip upon late-night promises hastily made in the midst of well-intentioned temporary empathy, even though I feared the very real risk of inevitable reignition because I had been left burning before. And I knew just how much it was going to fucking hurt. First, I was consumed in the flames of the bridges left behind as the conflagration caught hold and raced unobstructed through the tinders of my misunderstood heart, purging the possibility of structural integrity as my world collapsed all around me, leaving behind the undeniable realization that it was my …

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NSFW- The Naked Lettera 22

After perusing one of the local antique malls recently (on my birthday, actually), tucked way in a quiet corner of the very last vendor booth I happened to spy what I have come to call a “bowling ball bag”.  I knew from experience it would would contain something interesting and it just so happens that I was right. A quick unzipping and there it was….an Olivetti Lettera 22.  And a price tag.  A price tag that stated $25.  She was a bit dusty, which is about the norm anymore.  The paint was scuffed in a few places and stained in others…  In other locations, the paint had somehow gotten mucky.  Like, really mucky. I’m not sure if something had been spilled on it, or if it …

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Run! It’s a Copper!

The other week I found myself lucky enough to have won an online auction for a sterling that nobody else seemed interested in (I was the only bidder).  Even with shipping and the additional handling charges added on, it was $20 typer. I knew going into it that the paint was a bit rough: Not too bad at first glance, BUT in the long, sordid history of this typer, it seems as though someone had spilled coffee onto it.  So even after cleaning the paint, the stains remained.  So, it was time to play.  But first, some more “as found” pics…. Showing some of the surprises inside, along with coffee stains…. Such a dirty girl…. Scuffs and stains…. Worn and dusty…. First step, disassembly and washing …

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