"I don't feel old. I don't feel anything until noon. That's when it's time for my nap." - Bob Hope

Our drive up to Seattle went fine. It started raining about 10 miles into WA and got heavier as we headed north. Just south of city center the freeway locked up because someone in a white Toyota who had sped by us just a few minutes earlier zigged when he should have zagged and encountered the front bumper of a semi. It pretty much ripped the left rear fender off his car.

The folks have lunch in their unit and dinner in the very nice dining room on the third floor. I think there are a bit over 200 residents at Ida Culver House and most of them have the evening meal there, arriving anytime they want during about a 2-hour window when the meal is served. Linen table clothes and napkins, a printed menu, nice silverware and plates... It's pretty elegant, at least by Elmira, OR standards.

But there's no question that it's a retirement residence.

Just before we left I picked up refills of my four prescriptions at the Walmart pharmacy. Three of the four were under $5 each for a 90-day supply. The fourth, Crestor, was over $425.
I had them reduce it to a 30-day supply, which got the cost down to just over $200.
I'll contact Humana, the company through which I have my Rx plan, to see what's up with that, and if there's a deductible that will soon be met for 2016. Otherwise I'm done with Crestor. Ain't no way I'm paying that much for a little pink pill.
(Another option I'll look into is getting it from Canada.)

Christie and Fiorina are out. I think Dr. Carson is on life support.
The next GOP debate may not look like a chorus line.

I wake up stupid early and if I don't get up and start doing things my mind goes places I don't like. This morning I thought about what it would be like to lay in a bed knowing you'd never get out of it, that it was the last space you'd occupy before dying. You'd gone where you wanted when you wanted, traveled to remote locations, seen all kinds of sights, and now this 36" x 80" surface is the entirety of your world. For days, maybe weeks, your universe is three feet wide and six and a half feet long. From here to death. The other side of the room might as well be the other side of the world. This is it.
If I were any good at it I'd write a poem about that.
I'd title it, in situ.