OK, this is getting weird. Saturday, at the diner with the running club, a woman at an adjacent table asked me my name, saying I look really familiar to her. If she hadn't been with her husband and daughter, I might have thought it was a pick-up line. But no, and they lived in a different part of town than I, so it's unlikely they'd even seen me around.

About 10:30 this morning, I'm walking down Charles St. in search of some kind of breakfast, when some guy driving up the street in a Mercedes honks at me. He, of course, is going too fast for me to identify him.

I decided to check out the newly-opened Caribou Coffee shop near downtown. I'm sitting there eating my muffin and drinking my tea, and there's a table of four young-ish people, maybe college students near me. They get up to leave, and one guy comes over to me and asks if my name is "Russell."

"No, can't say that it is."
"Oh, I was just trying out my psychic powers."
"Better luck next time, then."

I must have a twin somewhere in this city, named Russell, who knows a guy in a Mercedes and a family of three in Fells Point. If he looks like me, I should probably feel sorry for him.