There is a problem I experience from time to time that I know I am not alone in. It's where I have a number in my phone's contact list and have no idea who in the Hell that person is. This is a relatively minor problem, of course, as it suggests a true connection is lacking and thus, the necessity of having this phone number is not that great. But it can get worse when I have assumed it to be a person of the same name that I see with passing regularity. As it happens, at times I then text this mystery number that I expect not to be mystery at all, only to find that there is mystery indeed. Because it has been some time since the exchange of numbers I identify myself in text, only to find that the recipient is incorrect. Yet surely they are still someone I have met and should they not remember me? Guess I didn't manage to make myself too memorable either.
But the crux of the problem is that when you move about, you meet so many damned people, and after a while, names can get tough. I remember faces very well, but struggle with names, where once I was so good. I can even remember life details, which I think is more important in a lot of ways, and yet it would be nice to get names. Many others suffer from this affliction though, and so we are afforded the opportunity at many reintroductions.
Moving on then, I turned to this blog as a break from some other writing and when I did so I noted that I was on word 1111 of 1111. I greatly enjoy coincidences such as these. That's really all there is to say about that.
Further pertaining to writing, there is a lot of doom and gloom talk about the death of publishing so it was nice to see this piece from Lloyd Shepherd—a Hell of a name by the way—coming out with a much more optimistic outlook. Kudos to my pal Jeff Phillips for sharing it with me.
Shifting to another love of mine, the Track and Field World Champs are upon us. There have been some surprises there is no question, but rather than a long-winded analysis, I bring you my favorite name: Ethiopian turned Bahraini Shitaye Eshete. I am in the habit of saying it phonetically as Shit-eh, Eh-sheet-eh. And I say it with a very bad Italian accent, like one mocking the menu presented by an Italian chef. The accent isn't bad for the purpose of making it funnier, I just happen to be bad at accents.
There is a dude that just rolled into the coffee shop I am inhabiting and I recognize him as a former barista from a coffee shop just down the street from this very one. I guess since he no longer works at the other place, it would be weird to keep showing up there. He looks as if he would fit in very well in The Shire.
Also, it's about to be Fall. That's weird. Gotta wear my white pants as much as possible before Labor day. Insert pregnancy joke. Cool. Later.