There’s a G-man in the dining room

The FBI knocked on my door today.

OK, he didn’t so much knock as call and set up an appointment. And even then, he couldn’t get into the building until I let him in. (OK, he was with the FBI. I’m sure he could have gained access to the building if he really wanted to.)

He was very nice — very grandfatherly. We discussed the weather. He sat in the dining room and asked a series of questions about Indiana and my brother. He knew I have an attack cat. He asked about patriotism and loyalty and terrorist groups. Before he left, we discussed baseball.

Before you make too many assumptions, I’m not wanted by the FBI. My brother is. For a job. Seriously, stop jumping to conclusions!