BASIC言語が命令の実行を成功してから50年目の日だそうです。
http://gigazine.net/news/20140501-fifty-years-of-basic/
今日、2014年5月1日は
Re: 今日、2014年5月1日は
When the first lockdown hit, I did what everyone else did. I baked bread. I organized closets. I started a sourdough starter that I named Brad and talked to like a pet. I went through phases of frantic productivity and complete paralysis, sometimes in the same day. But the thing that actually stuck, the hobby that survived beyond those strange months, started with a moment of pure frustration. My boyfriend Tom and I had been stuck in our apartment for six weeks, and we were running out of things to talk about, things to do, ways to look at each other without that slightly desperate expression people get when they've shared the same space for too long. We needed something new. Something outside our usual routines. Something that felt like an adventure, even if the adventure was just in our living room.
Tom found it first. He'd been scrolling through his phone, the way we all did in those days, and came across an ad for an online casino. He showed it to me, half-joking, and asked if I wanted to try platform just for fun. I laughed and said no at first. It seemed sketchy, the kind of thing that would lead to regret. But he kept talking about it, showing me reviews, explaining how it worked, and eventually my curiosity outweighed my skepticism. We sat down together that night, laptops open, and decided to give it a shot. Just a small deposit, just to see what it was like. Entertainment budget, not gambling budget. That was the deal we made.
The registration process was surprisingly smooth. Within minutes, we had accounts, small balances, and access to a world we'd never explored. Tom gravitated toward the slots, drawn by the bright colors and simple mechanics. I found myself pulled toward the live dealer games, fascinated by the human element. We'd call out discoveries to each other, share wins and losses, compare notes on which games we liked. For the first time in weeks, we weren't just coexisting in the same space. We were sharing an experience, exploring together, having fun in a way that felt almost normal. It was the best evening we'd had since lockdown began.
Over the next few months, our little ritual became sacred. Every Friday night, we'd order takeout, open a bottle of wine, and try platform together. We'd each play our own games, but we'd stay connected, commenting on each other's screens, celebrating wins, consoling losses. I got to know the live dealers the way you get to know bartenders at your favorite spot. There was Elena, who always remembered my name and asked about Tom. There was Marcus, who did magic tricks during slow moments. There was Dimitri, the serious one who never smiled but dealt with machine-like precision. They became our Friday night companions, our virtual friends in a world that had gone physically quiet.
The winning, when it came, was almost secondary. We'd have small wins and small losses, nothing dramatic, just the natural ebb and flow of the games. But one Friday, about four months into our ritual, something shifted. I was playing at my favorite blackjack table, Elena dealing, Tom on the couch next to me playing some Viking-themed slot. The cards started falling in a way I'd never experienced. Hand after hand, I was winning. Not huge amounts, but consistently, steadily, my balance climbing with each round. Elena was laughing, shaking her head at my luck. Tom looked over, saw my screen, and let out a whistle. "You're on fire," he said. I just shrugged, not wanting to jinx it, and kept playing.
Then came the hand that changed everything. I was dealt a pair of aces against the dealer's five, about as good as it gets in blackjack. I split them, doubling my bet. The first ace got a ten, giving me twenty-one. The second ace got another ace, which I split again. Now I had three hands in play, all with aces, all needing just one good card. The first got a ten, another twenty-one. The second got a nine, giving me twenty. The third got a queen, another twenty-one. Three strong hands, dealer showing five. The dealer flipped his hole card, a ten, giving him fifteen. He had to hit. The card came, a six. Twenty-one. He'd beaten my twenty and was pushing against my two twenty-ones. My heart sank. But then Elena's voice cut through. "Wait," she said, leaning toward the camera. The dealer had fifteen, not soft seventeen. The rules required him to hit again. The next card came, a seven. Twenty-two. He busted. I'd won all three hands.
The room went silent. Tom had stopped playing and was just staring at my screen. My balance had jumped by over six hundred dollars in a single round. I couldn't speak. I couldn't move. I just watched the number sit there, impossibly real. Elena was laughing, congratulating me, and the chat was exploding with emojis and comments. Tom finally broke the silence. "Did that just happen?" he whispered. I nodded, still unable to form words. We sat there for a long moment, just staring at the screen together, sharing the impossible reality of what we'd witnessed.
I cashed out immediately, not wanting to push my luck. The withdrawal process was smooth, and by Monday morning, the money was in our joint account. Six hundred dollars, plus what Tom had won on his slots that night, gave us just over eight hundred dollars of pure, unexpected profit. We talked for days about what to do with it. Save it? Spend it? Invest it? In the end, we decided on something that felt right for the moment. We used it to order takeout from every local restaurant we'd been missing, supporting small businesses that were struggling to survive. We tipped generously, wrote thank-you notes, felt like minor philanthropists in our own small way. It wasn't a vacation or a big purchase, but it was meaningful. It was us, together, using our weird lockdown luck to spread a little joy.
We still play every Friday night. It's become our thing, our ritual, our way of marking the end of the week. Tom has gotten really good at slots, developing strategies and favorites that I don't fully understand. I've become a regular at the live dealer tables, with friends around the world who ask about Tom and our cat and our little apartment. The pandemic eventually eased, life returned to something like normal, but our Friday nights stayed the same. They're too precious to give up, too woven into the fabric of our relationship. Every time we settle in with our takeout and our wine, ready to try platform together, I think about that first night, about the desperation and boredom that led us there. I never expected to find something so meaningful in such an unlikely place. But that's the thing about life, I guess. The best gifts are the ones you never saw coming.
Tom found it first. He'd been scrolling through his phone, the way we all did in those days, and came across an ad for an online casino. He showed it to me, half-joking, and asked if I wanted to try platform just for fun. I laughed and said no at first. It seemed sketchy, the kind of thing that would lead to regret. But he kept talking about it, showing me reviews, explaining how it worked, and eventually my curiosity outweighed my skepticism. We sat down together that night, laptops open, and decided to give it a shot. Just a small deposit, just to see what it was like. Entertainment budget, not gambling budget. That was the deal we made.
The registration process was surprisingly smooth. Within minutes, we had accounts, small balances, and access to a world we'd never explored. Tom gravitated toward the slots, drawn by the bright colors and simple mechanics. I found myself pulled toward the live dealer games, fascinated by the human element. We'd call out discoveries to each other, share wins and losses, compare notes on which games we liked. For the first time in weeks, we weren't just coexisting in the same space. We were sharing an experience, exploring together, having fun in a way that felt almost normal. It was the best evening we'd had since lockdown began.
Over the next few months, our little ritual became sacred. Every Friday night, we'd order takeout, open a bottle of wine, and try platform together. We'd each play our own games, but we'd stay connected, commenting on each other's screens, celebrating wins, consoling losses. I got to know the live dealers the way you get to know bartenders at your favorite spot. There was Elena, who always remembered my name and asked about Tom. There was Marcus, who did magic tricks during slow moments. There was Dimitri, the serious one who never smiled but dealt with machine-like precision. They became our Friday night companions, our virtual friends in a world that had gone physically quiet.
The winning, when it came, was almost secondary. We'd have small wins and small losses, nothing dramatic, just the natural ebb and flow of the games. But one Friday, about four months into our ritual, something shifted. I was playing at my favorite blackjack table, Elena dealing, Tom on the couch next to me playing some Viking-themed slot. The cards started falling in a way I'd never experienced. Hand after hand, I was winning. Not huge amounts, but consistently, steadily, my balance climbing with each round. Elena was laughing, shaking her head at my luck. Tom looked over, saw my screen, and let out a whistle. "You're on fire," he said. I just shrugged, not wanting to jinx it, and kept playing.
Then came the hand that changed everything. I was dealt a pair of aces against the dealer's five, about as good as it gets in blackjack. I split them, doubling my bet. The first ace got a ten, giving me twenty-one. The second ace got another ace, which I split again. Now I had three hands in play, all with aces, all needing just one good card. The first got a ten, another twenty-one. The second got a nine, giving me twenty. The third got a queen, another twenty-one. Three strong hands, dealer showing five. The dealer flipped his hole card, a ten, giving him fifteen. He had to hit. The card came, a six. Twenty-one. He'd beaten my twenty and was pushing against my two twenty-ones. My heart sank. But then Elena's voice cut through. "Wait," she said, leaning toward the camera. The dealer had fifteen, not soft seventeen. The rules required him to hit again. The next card came, a seven. Twenty-two. He busted. I'd won all three hands.
The room went silent. Tom had stopped playing and was just staring at my screen. My balance had jumped by over six hundred dollars in a single round. I couldn't speak. I couldn't move. I just watched the number sit there, impossibly real. Elena was laughing, congratulating me, and the chat was exploding with emojis and comments. Tom finally broke the silence. "Did that just happen?" he whispered. I nodded, still unable to form words. We sat there for a long moment, just staring at the screen together, sharing the impossible reality of what we'd witnessed.
I cashed out immediately, not wanting to push my luck. The withdrawal process was smooth, and by Monday morning, the money was in our joint account. Six hundred dollars, plus what Tom had won on his slots that night, gave us just over eight hundred dollars of pure, unexpected profit. We talked for days about what to do with it. Save it? Spend it? Invest it? In the end, we decided on something that felt right for the moment. We used it to order takeout from every local restaurant we'd been missing, supporting small businesses that were struggling to survive. We tipped generously, wrote thank-you notes, felt like minor philanthropists in our own small way. It wasn't a vacation or a big purchase, but it was meaningful. It was us, together, using our weird lockdown luck to spread a little joy.
We still play every Friday night. It's become our thing, our ritual, our way of marking the end of the week. Tom has gotten really good at slots, developing strategies and favorites that I don't fully understand. I've become a regular at the live dealer tables, with friends around the world who ask about Tom and our cat and our little apartment. The pandemic eventually eased, life returned to something like normal, but our Friday nights stayed the same. They're too precious to give up, too woven into the fabric of our relationship. Every time we settle in with our takeout and our wine, ready to try platform together, I think about that first night, about the desperation and boredom that led us there. I never expected to find something so meaningful in such an unlikely place. But that's the thing about life, I guess. The best gifts are the ones you never saw coming.