Lost and Found Report 2: Absentminded Boogaloo  

A note before we begin: I recently noticed someone during passing period who was wearing the hoodie I reviewed last week. While I can’t be certain that this was at all related to my article, or even that the person wearing the hoodie was the one who originally lost it, it was a sublime and wrongfooting reminder that my actions occasionally have impacts beyond my immediate circle. I come to you a changed man, perhaps pivotally. 

Item 1: Pirate Bandana 

As far as I know, there are no pirates at Lincoln, which makes this bandana, spotted during setup before homecoming, already perplexing enough: was it a Halloween prop two weeks early? Perhaps this is somebody’s unorthodox take on a spirit day: Lincoln Chic, or, less recently, College and Career Plans. And then there are the logistical flaws: even if you can look past the question of why every skull has an eye patch but none have them on the left, or leapfrog any quandaries about what function a patch over an empty eye socket could possibly serve, you will see if you look closely that the captain skulls are wearing glasses. Would not poor eyesight be a fatal hindrance to any aspiring pirate, or at least reduce your potential to second mate at best? When swashbuckling, what protocol could exist if your foe knocks your glasses off? Why are these guys the only ones who get swords?

Item 2: Two Lunch Containers

One, clear plastic, tightly sealed, emptier than the unforgiving vacuum of space, nestled among the water bottles and jackets. Another, stainless steel, lid ajar, greasy interior containing two green olives that could kindly be described as aromatic, perched alone on the highest shelf. These character foils, both alike in dignity, find themselves humbled as they await reclamation. Whether they will become bitter archrivals or unlikely allies remains to be seen. 

Item 3: Paper Cup

The qualifications for temporary residence in the Lost and Found are few, far between, and generally a low bar to clear. One of the boxes on this extremely brief checklist, however, is that items added to the shelves must be things that somebody, anybody, at all, would conceivably want back. I cannot overstate the unremarkableness of this cup. A plain, uniform white, with no markings whatsoever, it does not even possess any markings that would indicate it had ever held a beverage. I am unfortunately journalistically obligated not to tamper with my subject matter, so I must get what catharsis I can out of tearing this cup to shreds in writing.