Typewriter and laptop trials clog up daily living

Time Traveler:As far as I know the Portuguese Pirate will not be making a contribution to this week's column, as he and his wife Janice are camping out at Silver Lake or somewhere. I hope she returns uninjured this time. Every time they go on vacation Janice returns injured or narrowly escaping injury. Two years ago she fell off a cliff at Turner Falls, Oklahoma, while whale watching. Last year the Pirate absentmindedly drove off and left her in the middle of a corn field in Nebraska or Kansas. It all seems very suspicious to me.As our regular readers are aware, in attempt to escape the clutches of the 19th century and abandon the Ticonderoga No. 2 pencils I usually write this column with, I borrowed a typewriter from Kathy Harris. Little did I realize the 1919 Corona she loaned me was possessed by the evil spirit of a long dead columnist. When I say evil that's with two Es … Eveel. The damn thing turned my life into a living hell, changing words I had typed, pointing out weaknesses and flaws in my character, really nasty stuff. Then one night I awoke sitting at the typewriter and discovered it was me typing all those lies. Then I knew that not only was the corona typewriter possessed, but it had possessed me as well.As most of you know it was then that I enlisted the services of Frank Ordaz of Ordaz Galleries. Besides being a fantastically talented oil artist he is well versed in Mexican exorcisms. Frank showed up with a bunch of roses and some holy wine (Chianti, I think it was) and, filled with confidence, he dipped the roses in a bowl of wine and proceeded to beat the hell out of the possessed Corona. I couldn't watch. A half hour later he emerged badly beaten and bloody, and drove home without a word. As I understand it his long suffering wife Jana has been able to get him out of bed and takes him for short walks in the garden, weather permitting.I next tried to get Madam Kahli, our palm reading, financial advising, spiritual Romanian Gypsy to help out, but she took one look at the machine from hell and let out a little scream, threw her cigar at it, signed a cross and ran out of the room.There is hope however. This morning Meriwether Blume, who also writes a column for this paper and lives next door to the Pirate, rode up on her bicycle and upon hearing my plight offered to help. "Let me take that nasty old thing off your hands," she said. More than willing I helped tie it onto her bike basket. What a little sweetheart, I thought, as she rode away. She stopped 10 or 15 feet down my driveway and turned to look at me. But only her head turned, not her shoulders. I would not have been surprised if she had barfed pea soup, then in a voice that sounded like Johnny Cash growling inside a barrel said, "You are done old man, finished! You've been writing too long. Time to let someone with the real talent have a turn." Off she rode away.I must have imagined the whole thing. Anyways, I have to finish this col ….You are a fake and a fraud Time Traveler! Wait, I didn't write that. I …You couldn't write a decent grocery list, loser!No, no what's happening to me? Why can't I control my hand? Meriwether Blume:&emsp;&emsp;Poor Time Traveler. Either he's having a psychotic break, or he ate some of that chocolate I brought over as a present for his son Jason Downs. I warned Traveler never to eat the things I make without asking for the ingredients first. The only safe assumption anyone can make if I'm bringing goodies to Jason is that they're vegan. The 1919 Corona is not possessed, just nonfunctional. She's a beauty but has all the ailments of a relic typewriter. Ribbon doesn't lift. Spools don't spin. Sticky keys. She made me thankful for my new Olivetti, a replacement of an old Olympia which replaced a Royal which had replaced another Olympia. I happen to love typewriters, the old manual ones that work when the power is out, smell of metal gears and reward the end of another line written with a chime. They're faster than writing by quill but satisfyingly archaic, and you can still purchase ribbons at our brick and mortar Auburn Staples.Anyways, the Corona isn't what's cursed in this town: it's me. Somewhere along my travels in Tennessee a monkey lashed itself to my back, and it's been throwing banana peels in my path ever since. I miss my first flight ever. The bridge crossing Auburn Ravine gets demolished. I'm bed bound for a week by muscle fatigue. Electric bike motor dies. Doesn't that pattern start to scream curse? Finally I caught a break, coming into the gift of a 1985 Honda Accord. I tried to preempt divine retribution by renouncing meat. Alas, the sacrifice wasn't painful enough! The gods came and took my 2-year-old MacBook laptop.Madame Kahli would know what's up, so I asked her to read my morning coffee grounds. "Was it Simone?" I asked. My ex-roommate did claim to be a witch."No," said Kahli. "Something else." She took my hands and closed her eyes. "Without your computer, you no longer have access to email, correct?""Correct.""No podcasts?""Correct.""No New York Times online, no movie pirating, no … internet?""Correct."Madame Kahli's eyes popped open, alight with merry insight."How fantastic!" she said. Catching my confusion, she explained, "Blume, what are the two technologies developed past 20 years that've fundamentally changed daily life?""Personal computers and cell phones.""And what do you not have either one of now?""Personal computer or cell phone.""Isn't it obvious?" chuckled Kahli, lighting a cigar. "Willingly or not, Meriwether Blume, you're traveling back in time."