This marks the fifth year since they removed my prostate for the usual reason so I went down to Stanford hospital and had a scheduled blood test to see if there's any sign of recurrence. “Any urinary problems?” Nope, Tight as a drum. “Any problems with the ladies?” Only that I don't know any available ladies anymore and I've done no work whatsoever in finding one my age. “OK, come back in another year.”

Something like eighty-five percent of patients in my category remain cancer free during the first five years after surgery and, the doctor said if it does come back, given my circumstances, basically they can zap it with radiation and that almost always kills it dead. That was enough information for one day so I said my thanks and got back on the highway, a very crowded highway, but not so crowded it slowed me down any getting home. Something like this pretty much does in the day, though. Normally I might have a sake right now to ease my jangled nerves through the rest of the afternoon, but wouldn't you know, I'm totally out of sake at the moment.

For some reason (the store sells beauty supplies and, I guess, sun glasses) they had a male mannequin decked out in the window this week. Maybe it portends a trend. Or perhaps it's a lady mannequin who's undergone Magic Marker hormone therapy, giving her all to sell the goods. One of the usual suspects makes her living with one of those big department stores doing clever things for them with whole armies of mannequins, perhaps I should ask her what she thinks.