monogramed wares, a crippled master and your new comrad Sophist

Its been a while since I rapped at ya'll.

1) I injured myself whilst in the act of being old, bringing back an old Ultimate shoulder injury. Having chosen a life free of clutter (like health insurance), I enlisted the help of an on-base Japanese Masseuse, a Mr. Richard Wagner. Mr. Wagner is about 157 yrs old and looks not at all unlike an American version of the Hunch Back of Notre Dame. I've heard he's a master at setting right muscles, tendons and skeletal ailments and charges just $28 for 45min of therapy/massage/cosmic advice.

After making my way into the fitness club as a "family member" I found Mr. Wagner's room, which i'm fairly sure is a re-purposed janitor's closet. He closed the door to the dimly lit area (accented with big-band jazz and swing instrumental music) and requested that i "get down to my undershorts and lay on the table." (no need to insert gay jokes here). After sizing up my joints and identifying my spine as that which belongs to a daily computer user, he set to work on the shoulder with a litany of Poking, finger stabbing, twisting and general manipulating. He couldn't quite stand up right and one arm seemed a bit lame, but he the hand strength of a retarded monkey. I'm not really sure what happened but when i got there i couldn't lift my arm and when i left, i could. Also, i smelled of eucalyptus and spearmint.

In the end, he didn't exactly make it magically better, but i think the problem lays more in the rotor cuff, and he seems to be a miracle man that focuses on muscles, but i'm still impressed by his encyclopedic knowledge of tendons and muscles.

2) Later, it was Xmas time and in celebration of Santa Claus's Birthday, i was given a set of monogrammed bath towels. I've never had an item that was monogrammed before and I'm quite certain this will eliminate the daily confusion and towel tomfoolery that takes place in the second floor bathroom.

3) Lastly, I learned that my great grand father was Russian. (it's true, it's true.) A random conversation with an aunt revealed that she was tracking the Sophist family's ancestral migration to the New World and doing so required the translation of some Russian paperwork belonging to great granddad. Apparently he was a Russian bloke living just this side of the Polish border when he decided to break east. this leaves unresolved answers, such as the origin of the Polish name and how he lost half his thumb (noted as missing on the immigration paperwork) but i'm working on the answers.