It has been two months of no writing. It's durn time I start up again and what better way to reintroduce myself to the blog than with an image of my new toy? As you'll see in later photos, my new toy needs a bit of work, but it's story (and this is the first time I've actually meant this phrase) is worth little Olivetti's weight in gold.
I'm here at Sweet Apple, the Taylor family home, in Mentone, Alabama and Dad and I went into Ft. Paine to pick up a pair of Schwinns that were finished getting a tune up. On our way through town looking for a body shop that might do a little touch up to go with the tune up, we passed a scrap-metal yard that sent pangs through me for the good old days of Boeing Surplus and dumpster diving with my Industrial Design compatriots in Seattle's SoDo alleyways looking for that perfect piece of junk to finish off a (mostly) working prototype.
We swung into the parking lot and stretched our legs as two booted men swaggered towards us with matching dysfunctional lawnmowers. I noticed immediately that though these men's body parts from the waist down were completely clothed, they were little to nothing from the waist up. Dad asked if we might take a look around and the older, sweatier man nodded a simple approval and kept on swaggering. I asked this same man if it would be okay to bring Moonpie, Dad's dog, with us. He nodded again, then stopped, scratched his head and asked, "He like cats?" Before I could respond, he continued with, "He can eat all of 'em he wants to. I don't mind. But if you mind, better leash him up." I leashed him up.
We walked through a veritable museum of the ghastly remnants of a never-ending technological race. In a perverse way, it pays homage to the ruins of our past advancements. It excited me so much that I want to return tomorrow to document it. At every corner it stank, it moved, it amazed me. A car poised on a television. A cube of tin cans twice as tall as me. A black felt hat resting on the seat of an old Packard. Lug nuts shining among the gravel. Rust eating away almost everything until reaching indestructible plastic. A small aqua blue Olivetti typewriter sitting among pink and blue Big wheels.
It still has its red and black tape threaded neatly and kept in place. The keys are rusted but the body is completely intact. What a find. The shirtless junk man waved his hand and pshawed when I meekly requested a price for my find. He asked me to bring him some scrap sometime. I told him I would.
