Today in Pray-Harrold, there was a used book sale. After getting our after-Audition coffee, before our outside-Quirk cigarette, Sid and I perused the literature. Lots of philosophy, some economics, lots of logic... and a BASIC programming book from 1978. Naturally, I bought it for $1.00. (Along with Marx Selections and Classic Essays in English.) To my surprise and delight, inside of the front cover of Basic BASIC: An Introduction To Computer Programming in BASIC Language's Second Edition by James S. Coan, there was a folded peice of notebook paper - now yellow with age. At first, I thought the paper was blank but upon closer inspection discovered faded handwriting in pencil, written and spaced very much like this:
"Karen
- Thanks for the book -
Sorry about missing the last bundle on the route yesterdays.
- I would like to start going out with you -
call me tonight if you have any time -
- Tim"
(The word "last" is written above the other words, as if Tim had put it in as an afterthought. And yes, it does say "yesterdays".)
Who's Karen? Who's Tim? What book is he referring to? Basic BASIC? Or is he giving her the BASIC book? Or is it some other book entirely? Did he ever even send Karen the note? Did they end up going out? What bundles? "The route yesterdays"?
I am incredibly intrigued.
There are, however, no more clues in the book. There is a similarly faded peice of blank scratch paper at the beginning of the chapter on Loops and Lists, but no annotations from Tim, Karen, or anyone else. Thus, it remains a mystery. I do hope everything turned out well for Tim and his Karen; Tim has inspired me with his bold note more than he will ever know - and assured me that there may be some hope for geeky love.
**Note: It was later suggested that Tim and Karen are actually employed doing some sort of delivery and Tim wants to start making deliveries with Karen. I still think that they are in love.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Saturday, February 07, 2009
"Our house wrapped in disrepair, a small mouse peeked out from a hole beneth the stairs..."!
I am pretty sure there is a mouse in the wall of my apartment. I'm convinced by the squeaking and scuffling coming from the wall between the kitchen and the blue siding outside that this creature has taken up residence in my abode.
I came home from buying a pound of coffee at the Mug and sat down at my computer to read some news. After a moment I hear: Squeak! Squeak! Scuffle-scuffle-scuffle. Perplexed, I made my way into the small kitchen, apparently the location of said ruckus. Yes, I thought to myself, that is certainly squeaking... Could it be... ? No... Oh! It is! I yelped quietly as I realized that this was certainly a mouse, and it was certainly in my wall. Frantically, I grabbed my cell phone and called John. "I'm being stereotypical!" I told him, "But there's a mouse in my wall!" Calmly, he told me to call the landlord's office and leave a message. After our brief conversation, I did so, and explained that I am convinced that a mouse is squeaking around inside my wall.
Now, I know that a mouse is no great threat to me. He may be a threat to my food or to the cleanliness of my floor, but he can't really hurt me. (In fact, he's probably pretty freaking adorable...) I cannot help, however, imagining fantastical things about my new, uninvited, room-mate. I imagine Archibald (that is obviously his name) escaping the confines of the wall and entering my kitchen. He then eats all the food he can get his grimy little claws on. Nourishment causes Archibald to grow bigger than any mouse ever has before. He is so fat, and so cunning that he takes over my entire apartment, forcing me out of it onto the street.
The vision of a fat, greedy mouse sitting in my computer chair using my Facebook, listening to my Motion City Soundtrack CD's, and wearing my earrings is going to haunt me for days. Days.
In conclusion, I'm no big proponent of personally owned property, but, Mr. Archibald Mouse, I pay rent for this bedroom, kitchen, living room and bath room! Get the fuck out or I'll send your ass over to the folks at FU, Penguin.
I came home from buying a pound of coffee at the Mug and sat down at my computer to read some news. After a moment I hear: Squeak! Squeak! Scuffle-scuffle-scuffle. Perplexed, I made my way into the small kitchen, apparently the location of said ruckus. Yes, I thought to myself, that is certainly squeaking... Could it be... ? No... Oh! It is! I yelped quietly as I realized that this was certainly a mouse, and it was certainly in my wall. Frantically, I grabbed my cell phone and called John. "I'm being stereotypical!" I told him, "But there's a mouse in my wall!" Calmly, he told me to call the landlord's office and leave a message. After our brief conversation, I did so, and explained that I am convinced that a mouse is squeaking around inside my wall.
Now, I know that a mouse is no great threat to me. He may be a threat to my food or to the cleanliness of my floor, but he can't really hurt me. (In fact, he's probably pretty freaking adorable...) I cannot help, however, imagining fantastical things about my new, uninvited, room-mate. I imagine Archibald (that is obviously his name) escaping the confines of the wall and entering my kitchen. He then eats all the food he can get his grimy little claws on. Nourishment causes Archibald to grow bigger than any mouse ever has before. He is so fat, and so cunning that he takes over my entire apartment, forcing me out of it onto the street.
The vision of a fat, greedy mouse sitting in my computer chair using my Facebook, listening to my Motion City Soundtrack CD's, and wearing my earrings is going to haunt me for days. Days.
In conclusion, I'm no big proponent of personally owned property, but, Mr. Archibald Mouse, I pay rent for this bedroom, kitchen, living room and bath room! Get the fuck out or I'll send your ass over to the folks at FU, Penguin.
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