Typewriters in Fall

As a writer, I’m subject to certain aesthetic ticks. Fortunately, the monocle and sword-cane phase didn’t last past adolescence.
But others remain, such as my allegiance to the brass tacks styling of Portage brand reporter’s notebooks and ink black blazers. Unlike some of my colleagues, however, I don’t fetishize vintage typewriters – a phrase that, I realize upon writing it, has been redundant since at least the ’80s. Continue reading “Typewriters in Fall”

When is Autumn? Like, now, baby.

If I were an olde English person, I’d write, “Autumn is icumen in, lhude sing cuckoo!” If I were Ezra Pound, I’d write, “Autumn is icumen in, Lhude sing Goddamm!” But since I’m just a small town newspaperman, I’ll simply write “It’s autumn – I think.” Or to paraphrase William Blake who was “stain’d with the blood of the grape,” it feels about time to “Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers” doesn’t it?

More to the point, I can’t go anywhere without wearing a dark blazer and so, sweating out much of spring and summer, I’ve been long in my longing for the crisp breeze and overcast days of fall. Let us reflect on autumn and its balmy majesty for a moment … Done? Good. Now, let’s get the facts. Continue reading “When is Autumn? Like, now, baby.”