Still, a clear day this eighth day of March, my birthday as it happens, the beginning of my sixty-sixth year on the planet, the day (the month, actually) I'm qualified for Medicare and all its variants and addenda. There was a time I thought sixty-five close to the end of the game when maladies abounded and you found fliers from old folks homes in your mailbox every morning. You do get mail (over and over) from the various prescription drug plans, but so far no old folks homes calling. I suspect they don't have to advertise and struggle with a waiting list. And the current maladies don't seem age related, more “me” related, resulting from one or two silly things done when I was younger. That damned jaw operation. A pain the well, sinuses. Keep their knives away from your sinuses, my bucko's, anyway you can.

Now, now.

I know, I know. No complaints except when I'm complaining.

But what to do on this day that's been forever in the distance and has now arrived just kerplunk? Dinner last night. The waitresses recognized us immediately (we have been tipping overly much, I'm afraid) and we had a good time. No need to repeat. I got up later than is my habit, had breakfast at the usual place after noon, walked back along the lake, took not a picture.

It's late afternoon now, the new Saturday night Japanese soaps all hopelessly juvenile (or culturally too different) for me to appreciate. They'll get back to the old samurai family epics again, I have no doubt, and Saturday night will be better. Odd habit, this, watching subtitled Chinese, Japanese, Korean what I call soaps - many chaptered stories - rather than whatever is available on cable. The first season of The Wire is coming from Netflix. From what I've seen it's very good and often a bit depressing. Too close to the real world, no doubt, but maybe it will get me involved and I'll look forward to renting the second season. Pretty exciting for a Saturday, I'm thinking, here in Oakland.