Thursday, January 04, 2007

Memories of Temps Perdues

Angelina had an interesting post earlier this week on something I hadn't conceived of: passports which transmit radio/cell phone-esque signals, which allow you to check in to customs, track your location, download music, shank a fellow prisoner in the yard, etc.

She also had a funny passport photo of herself, which, of course, brought forth memories of mine own international identification thing, and, of course, the last time I used my passport for international travel: The Year of Our Lord, 2000.

Yes, that picture of myself as a 23 year old man, living a carefree life, tells a wonderful story. If you'll notice, the passport itself was issued from the U.S. Embassy in Paris, as I had lost my original documents the day before.

I left my original passport in the side pocket of a Martin backpacker guitar. In a phone booth. Just off the Champs-Elysees. I walked about two hundred meters down the street, and had one of the most major "Oh, Shit!" realizations of my life. I turned around, walked back to the booth, and it was gone.

Also in the side pocket of the backpacker guitar - a container of Sweet Breath brand breath freshener. Filled to the brim with liquid LSD. Straight from the crystal. Like my old friend "Tattoo Vinnie" used to make up in the mountains around Boulder.

Somewhere, someone, be it some gypsy, criminal, normal Joe, or none or all of the above, found my sweet guitar. They also found some breath freshener, which they may or may not have tried. And, of course, my passport, so they know who their benefactor was. I like to think they took that guitar, took a whole bunch of dose, and wrote the album that will sell a billion copies worldwide. And then they'll look me up, since, you know, they fucking know who I am. And hook me up.

Or they'll hunt me down for making them insane. I never promised you a rose garden..


Anonymous Melina said...

It's posts like this one, David, that make a blog a blog.


Blogger copyranter said...

Best. LSD. Lost. In. A. Martin. Backpacker. Guitar. Post. EVER.


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