I had a particularly surreal experience at the box office of the concert I reviewed last night. I arrived at the window and said, as I usually do, "There should be a ticket for me" and gave my last name. The fellow behind the window went off to look for it.
Usually, in these circumstances, when the person comes back, they say my first name in a tone of query, just to confirm it's the right ticket. Only this guy didn't say my name, he said "Bruce?" I said, "No, David," and he said, "It is [last name], though?" I said "Yes" and he went off again, leaving me to wonder who this Bruce with my rare surname who also attends classical music concerts might be.
He came back and said, "All we have is this," showing me tickets with a blank on which was handwritten my full name and "SFCV." I said, "That's me." He asked how I'd ordered the tickets, and I said, "I'm the reviewer for San Francisco Classical Voice. My editor would have phoned the request in." He said, "Just let me confirm this with the director."
While he was off this time, a woman came to the window and asked, "You're a reviewer with a paper?" I said, "With San Francisco Classical Voice. It said 'SFCV' on the receipt the man showed me." She nodded and seemed to understand.
Then the fellow returned, said it was OK and handed me the tickets, but asked, "Just one question: what's your relationship with this David?" I said, "I'm David." He said, "Oh, I thought you said your name was Bruce." "No," I said, "you said Bruce. I said, 'No, David.'"
So I don't know what planet my tickets came from, possibly the planet of the Bruces (Norstrilia?), but at least I got the tickets.