I have another reason for posting, which I’ll get to in a minute, but first I wanted to share a moment to remind you that I’m not that smart.

I drove home from work this morning and pulled into a parking space. Before I turned off the car I saw the odometer was at an even 57,000 miles.

“Oh that’s cool, the trip counter is at 254.0 miles — they’re both round numbers. Wait, of course they’re both round numbers. They have to be. Cars all start at zero. Duh.”

I went inside thinking this was yet another example of me not being that bright. Five minutes went by as I poured a bowl of cereal and went upstairs.

“No, that’s not right at all. I could have reset the trip counter at any number. They’re both round numbers because I was at a round number on the odometer the last time I got gas. I’m not that dumb after all.”

So being not smart about being not smart totally makes me smart, right? Whatever.

What does make you at least seem smart to other people is reading books, and I recently finished another one. It’s Raymond Chandler’s “Trouble is My Business,” the latest in a long list of his books I’ve read starring the no-nonsense detective Philip Marlowe.

This one was slightly different from the others in that it’s a collection of four stories instead of one novel-length tale. I guess I’ll admit to forgetting that during each of the first three short stories and being surprised when they suddenly ended.

They’re pretty straight forward detective stories, so there’s nothing really profound to get into. But one thing I like about Chandler’s writing is the kind of language he uses to describe things. It’s probably mostly because this book was published in 1934, but I’ll give him credit anyway:

“I pulled up in front of a cottage that had a sign in the front yard: Luncheons, Teas, Dinners. A small rabbit-faced man with freckles was waving a garden rake at two black chickens. The chickens appeared to be sassing him back.”

You don’t see too many writers today talking about sassy farm animals.