“C.! Hi!”
“Hey, how’ve you been?”
“Good, good. I’m here to check all the computers in your department, should take about an hour, and I was told you’d be able to take me around.”
“Yeah, not a problem.”
(Internal monologue: “Oh no…who is this guy?! I know I know him…what’s his name? Fiancee’s named Sarah, met him living in the Hood, majoring in recreational management…what is his name?!”)
-Mysterious X and C.
I’m usually pretty good with names. I’ve got a long list of friends the history of whom I can rattle off with only minimal memory searching, dozens of dates mentally stored, and a list of passwords as long as my arm from a lifetime of military, banking, NATO, university, and email necessity all committed to memory. But every once and a while I run into someone I met that one time in that one place whose name refuses to trot through my gray matter.
The funny part is that these mysterious people never suspect I have no idea who they are. When Venice and I were shopping at Nordstrom a nice girl behind a counter gave me an enthusiastic wave and a, “Hi, C., how’s life?” We walked over, made smalltalk for a while before I confided I was looking for a present for my mother. As quick as you’d like, she whisked me over to the right salesperson, checked the inventory to see if they had what I wanted, and gift wrapped my fab find before waving me out of the store. Venice, shrewd woman that she is, glanced at me out of the corner of her eye. “You do know who that girl is, right?”
“No idea,” I said cavalierly.
She just shook her head.
But this isn’t an isolated case! It happens rather a lot, see above quoted incident of yesterday. Also, if ever I saunter across campus by my lonesome I won’t see a soul I know but if I’m walking with a friend, every other person we meet will be someone I have a detailed history with. On a single run to get Tink a pretzel (her drug of choice during pregnancy) I met a kid I went to eelementary school with in Germany, two people I knew from different apartment complexes, and I girl I had two years of French with. I’m grateful for the universe making me look a lot more popular than I really am, but I’d much rather recall names of these mysterious friends of mine!
Small Dog Syndrome 
His name is Logan Mann. The funny thing about it is that I talked with him in the wilk a little while after this indecent occurred. I asked him about you and he seemed quite pleased to run into you, despite the fact that you had no idea what his name was. That’s sad, but downright funny.
That’s IT! Bless you, Casanova, I’d be lost without you!
In case you forgot, I will introduce myself next time I come into work… just to make sure you haven’t forgotten my name. I have my own selection of excellent techniques to employ when confronted by people who’s names I cannot remember. Behold: “Dude, “Man,” “Bro.” Fortunately, I use these titles for some women as well, so it’s not awkward. Sure would be nice to know my friends’ names though… (I wonder what my roommates’ name is?) PS – I’m surprised at you! TWO typos in one sentence at the end of your blog… I guess it was past 5:00 already huh? haha