I knew this day was gonna come. The Blackberry–the magic talisman through which I’m able to sit through a 45-minute (or 90-minute, should it rain a little) train ride, shat the bed last night.

 It’d been a late night at work. Work paid for dinner. We got BBQ from Duke’s. The pulled pork was divine.

It was also enormous, so I sealed it off–or so I thought–in its Tupperware container to bring home. I threw the whole shebang in an old Duane Reade bag saved expressly for these purposes, slung my sack over my shoulder, and headed for the train.

Once on board, I went for my Blackberry in the bottom of my bag. Alas, the rich brown barbecue sauce from the Duke’s pulled pork sandwich had leaked out of the Tupperware and through the hapless Duane Reade bag, which featured more holes than a pair of Adam Sandler’s socks.

I had a blank screen.

I tried everything I could think of: Removing and replacing the battery, hitting each and every key, addressing Melchizadek, the patron saint of busted Blackberrys.

Nothing worked.

Eventually, I got the icons back on the home screen, but no keyboard, no wheel thingy.

No nothin’. I feel so early-2007.