My 63rd birthday. Another day full of doctor's visits interspersed by looking out for wife-beating arsonists.

You know, they say that gettin' old ain't for the fainthearted. Given my experiences in the three and a half years since they took the stomach tumor and eighty percent or so of my guts, I reckon they're right. Still, they wrote me off as a poor actuarial risk at the time of the surgery and then again when the hospital gave me a MRSA infection but I'm still here so I figure God's still got something in mind for me. Now, if I can just figure out what it is . . . In any case, I'm trying to make what time I have left count. Whether I succeed or not is for God to judge later. Drink water and drive on, as my son says.

I'll try to have more this afternoon. No rest for the weary, as they also say.