| What's in a Name, King Arthur? I like people who, when you ask them their name, feed you the whole mouthful. I hate having to dig through anonymous plaster with a spoon. If you only tell me "Betty" or "Bill," you haven't told me your name at all. Identity crisis is contagious. The personal columns are full of disease. Will the brown-haired, brown-eyed lady last seen wearing a Sony Walkman, a sleepy smile, zebra-striped sneakers, and carrying a paperback copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude Please call me? Thanks. Excalibur. |