As I crossed 56th Street, I reached down for my water bottle, only to discover that it wasn't there. I must have forgotten to take it out after filling it. Oh well. I'll manage.

Luckily, the city of Lincoln has not eschewed the idea of public drinking fountains in parks around the city, so I was able to find enough water stops that my throat didn't get too parched. (If worse came to worse, I suppose I could have stopped somewhere and bought bottled water, but the idea of having to buy water to drink is an anathema; no decent society would make people without money go thirsty.)

It was an excellent day for biking. Perfect temperature as I cruised down the trail that runs almost parallel to Vine St.

I decided my first destination would be to search for the mysterious scribblings reported near 10th and R. I found the intersection easily enough, but all I could see was the big Lincoln Journal Star building on one side, some random (graffiti-free) buildings on the other, and the opening to a big freeway in between.

I rode around some of the other nearby streets, up 9th, but eventually decided that I wasn't going to find anything.

Next stop: Book store. I parked my bike outside A Novel Idea and wandered in. What followed was a very amusing exchange with the altogether-too-cute sales clerk who was running the store. ("Sales clerk" might not quite be the right term here. I'd use the word "librarian", except for the fact that this was a store, not a library as such.)

I inquired whether they might have any used copies of Daniel Quinn's Ishmael available, but went on to say that I would be slightly surprised if they they did, given how recently it was published.

"Recent? Noooo, no. That came out like 15 years ago."

"Really?" I was in slight disbelief. Though I hadn't ever actually checked the publication date, I I had assumed that it must have come out within the last year or so, given the recent wave of rampant chatter about it around the blogosphere.

She said she wasn't sure whether they had any copies at the moment, since that title tends to move pretty quickly. While locating the shelf where it would be stored, she commented that, indeed, his most recent work is a pretty rare find on the used market.

From deep within the shelves, out came a copy of Ishmael, in good condition, priced at $5.50. Excellent.

While she ring up the total, I peeked inside the front cover, and noted the copyright date. 1992. Sure enough. How silly I felt for having flaunted my ignorance in such a manner.

After I had paid for a book, she asked if I wanted a bag. I declined.

A mischievous glint appeared in her eye. "Don't let the Secret Service catch you carrying that out on the sidewalk."

I smiled quizzically. "Secret Service?"

"With the Patriot Act in force, you never know what's going to happen next."

I think it was right about this moment that I fell in love.

We talked for a moment about the implications of the act. She was obviously very knowledgeable on the topic. I asked if this store's records had ever been seized, or if she would be allowed to tell me if they were.

She said they hadn't, but confirmed that if the government did request the information, she wouldn't be allowed to tell me or anyone else. But since their store doesn't really do any recording of who buys what, anything turned over to the authorities wouldn't do them much good anyway.

Yay for not keeping log files!

I think I just might become a regular customer there.

From there, I headed south. To South Street!

I ventured eastward on South Street until I arrived at 23rd. But the only thing I saw there was a church in the middle of a residential neighborhood.

My current theory: Linknoid and Humblik live in a parallel universe version of Lincoln. This parallel universe is a utopia, where place of a freeway, there is a grassy open space where Food Not Bombs is held every day, and instead of the church, there is a health food store filled with a variety of affordably yummy natural, non-genetically modified organic food (the unsold portions of which, of course, are donated to the Food Not Bombs.)

Perhaps someday, I shall find a way to cross over into this parallel universe of theirs. Until then, I'm stuck in this one.

And now, I must ready myself for the clerk role. Time ticks by too fast.