How d'you like that? I'm such a dumbass that when I mentioned I was a dumbass in my last post ("iMadumbass", ibid), I forgot to mention why I'm a dumbass. What a dumb, ass-like thing to do.
It all began last month, when my neighbor, he of the flat stomach and designer vodkas, moved out. When he left, he took his wireless Internet hookup -- and Moxie's and my ability to blog simultaneously -- with him. Therefore, whenever we're both burning to write something, I take my work laptop to a nearby cafe. It has good food, delicious coffee, excellent free wireless, and a cheerful, accommodating staff, all of whom just happen to have incredibly thick Russian accents. ("Vaht vill you heff?") This is just a coincidence and in no way suggests that the place is a front for the Russian mafia. No, sir. Absolutely nyet.
When I go there I bring my flash drive, which has all my reams of scribblings and screams of ribblings on it. And one night last week, for the first time, I also brought the new iPod. Because, hey: Wouldn't I do some really great work if I were inspired by my favorite music?
That'd be "No."
Instead, I spent most of the night concentrating on lyrics and further concentrating on not making raspy, guttural noises that were meant to simulate guitar chords. And as I packed up I apparently wasn't concentrating on making sure I had everything with me, because when I got home the flash drive was missing. I've asked back at the cafe, and re-traced my steps a dozen times, and turned the Laid-Off Lair inside-out, but it's gone. Hence, my dumbassitude.
Perhaps it was a caged deathmatch between two USB-based storage units. (Two gadgets enter; one leaves.) Or maybe the flash drive was jealous. We'd been together for three good years, and then this new thing sashays into my life, flashing its full-color utility and swinging its supple earbuds. It may have been too much to take.
The weird thing is, I don't remember anything between deciding to go home and arriving home, because my little hamster brain, which can only engage one thing at a time, was bopping along to Oranges and Lemons. This same little hamster brain, addled by the DVR, wants to rewind my life and find out just what the hell happened. But it turns out you can't do that. Yet.
For a while there, I had a fun little fantasy that the cafe manager had found the flash drive and pocketed it, just to see if it held any sensitive information that could be used for large-scale cyber-theft. Once he realized it was just a bunch of harmless Word documents, and not a database of anonymous brokerage accounts and their PINs, he'd say he found it in the dishwasher or something, and we'd have a good laugh.
Didn't happen. The guy very helpfully spent about 10 minutes helping me look around, but nothing turned up. This of course doesn't mean he doesn't spend his off-hours translating my fiction into Cyrillic and rubbing his hands maniacally. But it does tend to temper the plausibility.
So, will I ever find my plagiarized work in a bookshop in Little Odessa? Possibly. Will I go after the bastard and sue? Hell, no. I'm a dumbass, but I'm no fool.