The biggest problem with writing on the train is the burning desire to visit Purble Place. What a wonderfully hideous game. I can make cakes slowly or quickly and there's no punishment for mistakes except the delight of seeing them swept into the cyber-trash. Have even managed to rid myself of the baker who chastens and scorns.
Then there's matching eyes-nose-mouth on the shapeless blobs. I am NOT the demographic.
My favorite, though, is the version of concentration that lets me match such things as “blue acorn guy,” “other blue guy,” “brownie cake,” “cake abomination” and “green guy”s hat.” I wonder if other people name things to remember them.
Like the guy on the train platform who walks a boxer in the neighborhood. At first sight, I named the guy “Chuck.” Once upon a time, someone addressed him by his actual name, “Hello, Not Chuck.” Yeahhhh, I can't remember, so in a nod to the '80s band Was Not Was, he is Chuck Not Chuck.
And on my walk through the city, there's Troll Guy, who passes me with surprising regularity on our mutual commute. And I don't mean it meanly. There's nothing cruel in naming him Troll Guy. He has this beautiful face central casting would kill to see. I truly name him with affection.
I don't have names for the people I interact with at the office building, so it must be a Familiar Not Familiar experience thing, an attempt to make the unknown known. Known Not Unknown.
On the train, I look to see if anyone's doing laundry at The Projects. In truth it's a lone apartment building with occasional graffiti on the back. Score! This morning there's steam coming out the vent.
Next up, The Condo With The Tree On The Roof.
Do other people do this? While I'm curious, the answer won't change my weirdness.
Oops – about the hit That Place Where the Tracks Bend. Better pack up.