The dog Zippy, prostrate with grief over the expiration of the C-1000
Where was I yesterday? Let me just tell you. Once again, I was torn from the comfort of my Sixties-era bungalow and forced to execute capitalist maneuvers in a shopping mall.
For lo, and did I slink into the kitchen yesterday morning with a pain between my eyes that only 3 rapid cups of espresso could adequately address, only to find that when I pushed the button on the C-1000 (my redoubtable super-automatic coffee machine), it gave forth of a choking sound that positively sickened me, and did spew a couple of puffs of dust, and did cease to be. That’s right. After 5 years of semi-dependable service, the C-1000 finally bit it, sorely putting a hitch in my patriarchy-blaming gitalong (I was to discover shortly thereafter the fatal implosion of my hard drive, but for obvious reasons this was a matter of trifling importance compared to the greater crisis at hand).
I spent the better part of the day making funeral arrangements and seeing to the coronation of the C-1000’s successor, the superciliously-monikered “Impressa E8.”
Poor, absurd C-1000! Not that I mean to malign the dead, you understand; I am merely overcome with grief. The dear old C-1000 made a superb cup of freshly ground cranky-juice at the touch of a button–and, let’s face it, touching a button is pretty much the outer limits of the ante meridiem talents of even the fittest spinster aunt (in fact, in the dark days before the C-1000–days that dawned with the unspeakable ordeal of having to cookneeds a cup of coffee in order to raise herself to the level of consciousness required to make a cup of coffee) — but it was high-strung, for a machine. Moody.
Moodier, some said, than any coffee machine in the Sixties-era bungalow of a pompous and caffeine-dependent snobberino had a right to be. Maybe they were right. The C-1000’s was an extravagant and erring spirit, its inner workings an eccentric tangle maddeningly prone to clogs and other emergencies. Its random demands for decalcifying pills and filter cartridges were undeniably petulant. And its joke of user’s manual — haha! — was written in German by 97 monkeys with typewriters and a taste for sadistic whimsy, then translated into English by a couple of 9-year olds who’d missed the short bus.
Despite these idiosyncrasies, before it had brewed its last, the old C-1000 gave of its best when the chips were down, and I owe it my life several times over. Here’s to you, old friend.
The Espresso Machine Is Dead! Long Live The Espresso Machine!
The Impressa E8, pressure-brewing its first caffe Americano. Note the satanic red glow emanating from its large knob. What the fuck!