August 24, 2004
X-Box…2002 - 2004…RIP
My X-Box is dead.
I tried to revive her, but it was no use. The spark of light that once greeted me with a warm, green glow is gone. It has been replaced by a sick, taunting red light…blinking at me, laughing at me, taunting me.
What was once a sweet, innocent young girl of a machine…it's been poisoned. Possessed, even. In fact, the sound it makes when I attempt to communicate with it using my controller - my secular rosary - sounds very much like young Linda Blair's head twisting around 360 degrees. I'm afraid to open the disc tray, for fear that gallons of pea-soup will escape its gaping maw…coating me in binary vomitus.
I call her a "she", but she really did transcend gender. My X-Box was like a mother, daughter, brother, father, and even lover to me. My X-Box never cared if I was drunk…or sober…or even wearing pants. She just accepted me.
She saw me through a lot. Whether I was Sam Fisher from Splinter Cell, the Prince Of Persia, an Outlaw Golfer, Master Chief from Halo, or even the greatest golfer ever to grace the hallowed courses of Links 2004, she was there with me.
Oh, she was crafty…she never made it easy on me. In fact, she often made me want to crush my controller into dust. But the thing is that with my X-Box - as with any true love - I couldn't remain mad. She would blink at me with her round, green, cycloptic eye, and I would melt. "I can't be mad at you, X-Box," I'd whisper. "I'm sorry that I cursed at you. I'm sorry that I called you a 'Hell-spawned whore of machinery'. Please forgive me." And every single time, she would. After a few seconds, she would process my apology, accept it, and forgive me…all with that one beautiful word that meant so much. "Retry?"
Sure, I could get another one. After all, there's an X-Box at work that I've got as a "loaner". I basically use it in the office, in order to copy footage that could go directly onto digital video tapes for Day Job. But it's not the same.
Is your second wife EVER a replacement for your first wife, who died so tragically? Think of Daphne DuMaurier's "Rebecca". Was the Second Mrs. DeWinter EVER a replacement for the late Rebecca DeWinter?
Actually, she was, now that I think about it. Max actually murdered Rebecca in a jealous rage. That's a bad analogy.
But the POINT is that I don't think that I'll ever get over the loss of my first…my X-Box…my Rebecca.
Sweet dreams, my Rebecca. You will be missed.
(sob)
