Richard Polt knew, that’s who. A while back, sold a typewriter to a young gal who said she was from Singapore, which prompted RP to observe that that that city-state is a global center for typewriter collection.
An idle search found lots of proof that typing machines are finding favor in a place that thinks nothing of balancing a cruise ship atop a skyscraper:
Such as this site, “AITYPE” http://aitype.wordpress.com/about/
To me, typewriters are not “cute” things, but a few minutes on this mega-cheery site, and I started to think, hmmm, maybe some Hello Kitty stickers would make my SG-1 easier to carry–then a few minutes more, and saw there was much more to this site; Aitype eloquently expresses the deep connection to the past that these machines embody–and young as she may be (at least compared to me or her machines!), she’s already working to make sure that people younger than her dig the clack.
And she may have coined a lovely new word–at least I personally haven’t seen it anywhere else before– here it is, as Karen of Singapore puts it on Aitype:
<<<< Bring a laptap (typewriter) instead of a laptop to a family picnic… >>>
LAPTAP. It already brings to mind a variation– desktap — for larger typing machines.
What think’st the typosphere — is this a new noun for an old machine? Should it get into usage? Has she coined this word or has she simply acquired it from elsewhere? (yes, PC maker Micromax is selling something they call a Laptap–but good luck with that!)
As far as its noun status–my mind has set like lime Jello in the fridge; must fetch the laptap (which word currently requires a quick backspace to foil the spellcheck which of course, keeps saying, “you must mean lapTOP” and must learn “lapTAP” is what I in fact meant) and impress some words on wood pulp; Cheers and happy tapping.
WP says: The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2013 annual report for this blog. (below, in EZ-graphics)
And I sez:
Yes, Phillytyper had some 10k visits, which “equals four sold-out shows to the Sydney Opera House…” — No denying, it was a tough opening night at first–row upon row upon row of people booing me and my typewriter on the otherwise empty stage, demanding the headliner — Phil Collins or Don Henley or some such; my agent can get a bit spacey about these opening slots. Hey, jeer all you want, kids, the contract calls for a 45 minute set, all originals, “high-energy; and..at or above graduate level prose.”–whatever that means nowadays. So I’m here for the duration, and I’m not screwing around tonight.
Warm up with a few love letters, then it’s show time. My hands feel good and I type fast, then faster: notes of apology, waffle recipes, filthy limericks, eulogies for the scriptwriter who composed “Bride of Chucky”, blank verse about Craftsman hand tools, histories of post-Kraftwerk Euro-drone, dredged-up lyrics for stillborn jam bands, letters of recommendation for great-great-grandchildren–tossing each completed page to the audience–who are slowly realizing there are words on those pages.
At my signal, the house lights go up and the stage fades to a few dim, moody reds and purples. A lot of my work is now landing back on the stage, like little snowballs rustling past. One–doink!–bounces right off my noggin, getting some laughs–who knew that skinny tween in the Adele t-shirt had an arm? But here and there, some heads are down, reading my stuff; there are even a few nods, like, “mmm cinnamon and cardamon? — could work…” Hey, that 10-year-old is asking her mom-mom what that word in the limerick means! She’s climbing up on her chair and reading the whole thing out loud–that will hit Youtube tomorrow, I bet.
I keep typing as my roadie Frannie, slices open another ream of Hammermill Bond; I’m in the groove. My agent has jogged out from the wings and put down a warm bottle of Yuengling–he’s laughing so hard his glasses fall off. He’s uncrumpling the balled-up pages and flipping them back into the audience. This Rasta-type dude rolls his up and makes like toking an enormous blunt–but when I glance back, he’s leaning forward, using the footlights to pick out the Pica type. It’s time to close this deal out–the stage lights are back full blast and for a moment I have to feel for the carriage return as my eyes adjust. There–it’s the last page ziiiip and out of the rollers and into the audience.
OK, Phil or Celine or whatever one-name-wonder you are, follow THIS! I pop the hood on my faithful Olympia SM-9 (yeah, same axe as Auster uses), tear out the ribbons-no epilogue tonight, sorry!– and frisbee them, unspooling high into the lights, the crowd reaching up like for a foul ball at the Vet. Snatching up the Olympia like it was a Macbook Helium, I get my left hand under the hefty wooden desk. (Lift with the legs, watch that back, Mike!) and flip it off the edge of the stage. Blank sheets are flying everywhere and sealed bottles of Wite-Out rattle off the footlights. Security is like, “WTF!?” then they get into it and hoist the desk up into the crowd, who are yanking out the drawers and passing it overhead before, oof–they toss it back onto the stage, a little worse for wear.
Okay, time to get downstairs before it gets too crazy. Just three more shows to go here in Sydney.
Here’s an excerpt:
The concert hall at the Sydney Opera House holds 2,700 people. This blog was viewed about 10,000 times in 2013. If it were a concert at Sydney Opera House, it would take about 4 sold-out performances for that many people to see it.