Not that anyone reads this piece of internet porta-potty drivel (which, for the record, I’m totally okay with. I write for me. Technical writing pays well, but it’s disturbingly dull …), but due to a Facebook convo sparked by a friend’s post regarding his robust, illustrious history with computers, I feel compelled to write this piece.
It stems from the fact that my desktop speakers that I bought about 14 years ago with the first computer I built on my own have finally kacked. They’re dead. No worky. THESE ARE EX-SPEAKERS. I ended up buying a new set from Best Buy the other night. My buddy posted that he bought his first computer “33 years ago.” My retort? “Atari 5200 doesn’t count. ;)” Which then sparked the whole thread about his past history, games played … and we’re to Pitfall.
And really, this post is indeed for a single, solitary person. This person will probably never read this either. Again, that’s perfectly fine.
To “that one person,” I owe you my thanks for a number of reasons. You were a good friend for those few months we were neighbors and classmates. From watching Friday the 13th at your place to wanting to club my brother over the head for lying about caving in his snow fort (which oddly enough is *still* a source of much “consternation” and “raucous debate” between him and me), we had some good times. Your ability to hock a loogie still baffles me.
But really, it was the ultimate selfless act of lending me your Pitfall II game that, for me, forever cemented you in the annals of the “good guy” pantheon. That game propelled me into the gaming world. It became my basis for Gameboy marathons, all versions of Descent, Quake, Unreal, and, more recently, Crysis, Half-Life. Myst, Riven, Myst III … the list is long.
Yet my oversight and thoughtlessness found me packing your game along with all of our games. We packed up the truck, and drove away. It wasn’t until weeks later that I noticed your game. I felt badly about it then, but now, moreso than ever, I feel like I robbed you of time you could have had that in your hands (or, more preferably, Atari console).
And so it is that I offer this humble apology for moving two states away with your prized possession. Yes, yes … I’m fully aware that you ended up getting it back. I vaguely remember calling and asking if it had shown up. So that’s nice.
But what a jackass thing to do … packing and moving with someone’s friggin’ game? Seriously?
So here’s to you, Mr. Nice Guy Spitting Champion. May your gaming fingers always be well-calloused and blister-free.
Hey … it’s like they say: elephants *never* forget. 🙂