A few weeks back, I found a satchel in the library parking deck. The ever-paranoid fret voice warned me against even touching it lest it go kablooey, but I gave a cursory check and could find nothing immediately identifying the owner. I threw it in my car and took it home to dig through more throughly. I found a car title transfer form with a name and address, but the phone company didn't have a line there.
I let the bag sit for a week before digging through it again. Inside, I found a jumpdrive and a marriage license and eventually discovered a business card with a phone number and the name on the title form. I called him up. We rendezvoused Monday morning at an Asheville coffeehouse (The Dripolator, and what an appetizing name that is). He showed up, thanked me, and took his bag out the door. The bag contents suggested he lived at loose ends, and his appearance didn't alter that notion. On the phone, he said he'd wear a certain hat so I could find him. When he showed up, nope, no hat. Genius. I finished my hot coffee and read the Mountain Xpress before heading to work.
For the second year in a row, Your Sister's Spring Break starts with a snowfall.
I hope your hangover is tinged with joy.
Picture of the Day
Professor Akito Marada and his failed prototype sexbot cheer you from afar.