Like A Phoenix From the Ashes

In the history of this big old world there have been some amazing men. Some were powerful men who built empires and designed governments that stood for centuries, some men inspired people around them to great acts of heroism, and others were poets and artists who created breathless works of beauty. But of princes and paupers, of war lords and peacemakers, of scholars and saints, there have been none greater than my dear, wonderful, beautiful Mr. Poopie. Winston Churchill, Julius Caesar, Leo Africanus, Simón Bolivar, Mahatma Ghandi, stand aside. It was great while it lasted, boys, but only one man told me how to resuscitate my tragically defunct iPod, and that man was Mr. Poopie. Don't worry, you'll get your own curtain call, but for now, let us celebrate the man who single-handedly revived my flagging investigational prospects, guaranteeing me a future filled with oral history interviews recorded on that nifty little white box of magic. Oh, Mr. Poopie, I love you so.

He told me in the comments the other day not to fret, that my iPod "just needed to be rebooted." What the hell is that anyway. Reboot? How do you "boot" in the first place? I only know the word as a verb from my overly enthusiastic indulgence in a delightful substance called "alcohol." Back in college if I drank too much of this "alcohol," I would become ill and "boot" all over the place. Actually, now that I think on it, I may or may not have "booted" much more recently than college from drinking too much alcohol, but that's a discussion for another day.

This word, "boot," however, strikes me as an apt analogy. Maybe my iPod drank too much "alcohol" from my laptop, and it "booted." And then it needed a little break, as do I whenever I "boot." So maybe it took a nap, had a shower, drank a beer, you know, just to take the edge off, and then magically it could "reboot?" I'm thinking this is a nice metaphor. How Mr. Poopie knew all this I'll never know, but I am so glad he did. Turns out that after taking a few days off, when I pushed this magic button (I'm going to call that button "hair of the dog" from now on) for several consecutive seconds, my iPod CAME BACK TO LIFE. It was spooky, (I mean, didn't I just watch this thing die a tragic and horrible death just recently?), but it was wonderful. Welcome back, little white box of magic. I'm so glad you're still with me.

So now I find myself in a rather awkward situation. I believe that in a fit of mixed parts joy and skepticism I promised Mr. Poopie, and this is a quote, "if you're right, i'll kiss you a million times squared." How many kisses is that? I have only a tenuous grasp on the finer points of mathematical equations, but I believe it's somewhere around one trajillion gabillion, which is quite a lot of kissing for a man I've never met. Mr. Poopie, as I'm currently out of the country, would you mind very much if I took a rain check? Or how about some virtual kisses? I hate to leave a debt unpaid, but as we're only acquainted via the intrawebs, the logistics of debt execution are mind-boggling to say the least.

P.S. If you (or any other readers) have any idea why my iTunes keeps spontaneously turning itself on, I am now accepting solutions. I turn it off, and a few minutes later, boing! It's on again. So I turn it off again and within minutes, boing! On again. It's like that awful song from Chumbawumba from back in the late 90s. Honestly, I shouldn't complain. Between the horrid torrential downpours (and resultant humidity) and now an infestation of teensy flying ants that have taken up residence in my keyboard, I am lucky the stupi--, er, wonderful machine turns on at all.