I’m so clever.

I went to see my massage guy today and he told me things I should already have known. I’m old and rickety and I should lay off going to the gym so much. I’m sure anyone who goes too often gets told that. Massage guys like you to go to yoga, not to the gym. It makes their work easier. But my guy deals with a whole lot of runners and knows all about neurotic over-exercisers and how little they listen to advice to “take it easy”. I’m listening to him a little more than I usually would: I’m going to take two days off, both leading up to dinner at an eat-all-you-can Brazilian meat restaurant, The Brazil Grill.

I’m hoping that I’ll have better luck at the Brazil Grill than the three dinners I’ve had this weekend. The Industrial Cafe overcooked part of my steak (but it was tasty), the Widmer Gasthaus (also known as the Asshaus to my sister) way overcooked the meat in my sauerbraten (but it was tasty), and the McTarnahan’s Taproom Grill overcooked my chicken (still edible). But then again, my buddy tells me I used to happily eat Boy Scout food so what do I know?

I’ve decided I’m reading too many mystery books as well. I figured out why Detective Reese is phoning in all her conversations on Life (the actress is pregnant) and I figured out that the room full of people at the restaurant were probably doctors. These aren’t any huge deductions, but are probably enough that I could write my own mystery if I had any stamina.

(The way I figured out that the people were doctors was because the first dozen or so came in with laser printed papers that looked like scientific articles and the next few came in with things that looked like medical journals. I assumed they were doctors, but I was thrown off because they didn’t look smart enough. As I was leaving I asked one of them what their specialty was and they turned out to be orthopedists having their journal club. This answered the questions on their looks. As the joke goes, “How do you hide a dollar bill from an orthopod? You hide it in a book.”)

Like I said, not nearly enough for any conclusive evidence, but enough to make up stories in my head.