Alcohol Abuse
She survived an errant, screen-cracking blow from a falling ski boot, a botched battery-replacement surgery that would make even the most unskilled back-alley Mexican surgeon wince, and, perhaps worst of all, my constant stares of envy at shinier, newer ipods. But after some 28 months of dutiful playing, sharing, and shuffling, it was the booze that finally did in my 1st generation ipod mini. But the Green Machine went out in style, taking an unplanned bath in 12 year old Canadian Club rye whiskey. There are, surely, worse ways to go.
I had bought the bottle at the duty free shop at Trudeau airport, crammed it, sans-plastic bag, into my carry-on bag, next to my iPod, and boarded a plane bound for London, England. The Green Machine and bottle of rye survived the 7 hour flight (including a viewing of the in-flight movie, "Eragon", a film about a dragon who was, ostensibly, one letter of the alphabet less lame than his colleagues, hence ‘E’ragon. This film was, incidentally tied with the straight-to-video Tae Bo Salsa-splosion as the biggest piece of shit someone could safely cram into a DVD player), the dash through Heathrow, the jarring ride to Paddington station and, finally, a spirited, rush-hour cab ride to the front door of my sister’s flat in Primrose Hill. As I exited the cab and arrived at the front door, bags in hand, I let go of my bundle in a tired heap, momentarily forgetting I had crammed some fragile things in my carry-on. As the bag hit the ground, I heard the tell-tale breaking of glass, and saw a dark puddle forming below the bag. She was bleeding brown. I knew by the sound and the smell that the gift to my sister’s Canadian booze-loving flatmates (bless their taste) was ruined, as was my beloved Green Machine, her innards drenched and, in all likelihood, three sheets to the wind.
I like to think that the spirit of Green Machine lives on, where she might be shuffling around the cosmos, assembling a playlist so eclectic, and so large, that she may very well overcome the 4 gigabytes of internal memory reigning her in, and rise again, phoenix-like, to be a much more powerful iPod. Like maybe a 6 gigabyte iPod mini, in pink this time, with earphones that are ever so slightly less shitty. Godspeed Green Machine, Godspeed.
I had bought the bottle at the duty free shop at Trudeau airport, crammed it, sans-plastic bag, into my carry-on bag, next to my iPod, and boarded a plane bound for London, England. The Green Machine and bottle of rye survived the 7 hour flight (including a viewing of the in-flight movie, "Eragon", a film about a dragon who was, ostensibly, one letter of the alphabet less lame than his colleagues, hence ‘E’ragon. This film was, incidentally tied with the straight-to-video Tae Bo Salsa-splosion as the biggest piece of shit someone could safely cram into a DVD player), the dash through Heathrow, the jarring ride to Paddington station and, finally, a spirited, rush-hour cab ride to the front door of my sister’s flat in Primrose Hill. As I exited the cab and arrived at the front door, bags in hand, I let go of my bundle in a tired heap, momentarily forgetting I had crammed some fragile things in my carry-on. As the bag hit the ground, I heard the tell-tale breaking of glass, and saw a dark puddle forming below the bag. She was bleeding brown. I knew by the sound and the smell that the gift to my sister’s Canadian booze-loving flatmates (bless their taste) was ruined, as was my beloved Green Machine, her innards drenched and, in all likelihood, three sheets to the wind.
I like to think that the spirit of Green Machine lives on, where she might be shuffling around the cosmos, assembling a playlist so eclectic, and so large, that she may very well overcome the 4 gigabytes of internal memory reigning her in, and rise again, phoenix-like, to be a much more powerful iPod. Like maybe a 6 gigabyte iPod mini, in pink this time, with earphones that are ever so slightly less shitty. Godspeed Green Machine, Godspeed.
posted by filthy soapbox at 1:10 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home