Yesterday, I left my house groggy-eyed. Before you tsk-tsk at my grog-infused eyes, know that it was 0438 and I was headed to the gym. Not fifty feet from me, two of San Diego’s Finest coppers stood behind their police-cars. Barricading off the cul-de-sac one driveway above me. I, vewy vewy caaawfully, got into my car and drove off to the gym. Still no word on what that was all about.
Today, while at Carl’s Jr, while ordering a low-carb Western Bacon Cheeseburger and sweet potato fries, the kid behind the counter apologized profusely and diffusely (with spittle) that he was unable to offer me a military discount. I smiled and told him no problem. Wide-eyed, he announced to me: I am just about to go and enlist myself. I encouraged him, chatting briefly about the joys of linguinism (the practice of linguistics.) I have not taken the AVSAB yet. I smiled, mildly corrected it to ASVAB. And later when he delivered my lettuce-wrapped hambuggie, he asked me whether I knew so-and-so. He’s a recruiter. He recruited my dad into the Air Force. I thought about the name and shook my head. Hmm, figures. My dad is 61, he added. (No further commentary at this time. . .)