OK, not adventures exactly.
I know that posting has been light. I’ve been doing hard-core actual work out here, with little time to post. But I have to relate the following story.
It’s amazing how you (or, well…me) can live somewhere for decades, and never notice a place in the neighborhood. OK, not exactly in the neighborhood, but not more than three miles from it. For the last many years we lived in Redondo, Patricia and I were always looking for good breakfast places in the South Bay. While looking for one on my own before work in Torrance, I noticed yesterday morning, for the first time ever, that there was actually a Norm’s Restaurant on the west side of Hawthorne, just north of 190th.
So I went in to check it out.
The waiter had an expensive “tricked-out name tag” that said (well, strongly implied) that his name was Ismael. I had to resist two impulses.
The first was to say, “So, can I call you Ismael?” Hardy har har.
I resisted because either a) he wouldn’t have gotten the literary reference, so he would either say “Sure, it’s my name, why not?” (leaving me feeling as foolish as I should) or b) he would get it, and say, “Yes. Please do so. I’ve never heard that one before. Well, not more than 83,436 times. Doing so will leave my sides bleeding and my spleen on open display at the continuing hilarity.” Which would also go over like the proverbial depleted-uranium blimp. Many would have done so, either because they didn’t anticipate these two almost certain responses, or because making lame jokes and being the life of the Norm’s party was more important to them than these consequences.
I also considered asking him if he had a sister named “Isfemael.” But I had only just given him my order. He hadn’t gone into the kitchen yet. One never knows what happens in the kitchen. The possibilities are endless, and disgusting.
As it turned out, they had great corned-beef hash with eggs.
