It might be because I’m sitting here with one eye blown out from the dilation solution and the other with its smeary Macular HoleVision, but I’m thinking this will be my last blog until post-op. I’ve got some chores that must be done beforehand, and I’m going to do them.

But right now it’s a lovely evening, and I’m watching Alan install my new Shimano pedals on the new bike. A robin just went flap-flap-flap over my head, or it might have been a dragon. I feel really fucking weird right now.

“Don’t go out,” Alan counseled. “If you got in a wreck, the ER staff would be drilling into your skull, looking for the cerebral hemorrhage.”

Fortunately, for you? I have some great bloggage today:

Oh, wait — I have an update. The good eye with the floaters is merely having an age-related floater-thing problem. “No tears in the retina!” the chirpy ophthalmologist said, having lost her condescension from the last visit. Instead, she praised my good sense in having everything checked out 48 hours before the surgical event.

“So, am I just going to have to live with this?” I asked. FYI, my good-eye vision is of a translucent spider straddling a world speckled with black pepper.

“They’ll either migrate to another part of the eye, or your brain will learn to ignore them,” she said. Fucking bloody hell.

So, back to the bloggage:

My former congresswoman, reppin’ in Washington:

Washington — Former U.S. Rep. Carolyn Cheeks Kilpatrick said Monday she was ready to boldly go where others have not gone before and called for an international probe into space aliens.

After a day of hearing testimony from believers in alien life forms, Kilpatrick offered up herself to launch an effort with other countries to bring to light the existence of extraterrestrials.

“It’s important that we work with foreign governments,” an impassioned Kilpatrick said after she and five other former members of Congress heard nearly eight hours of testimony. “There’s been 10 or 15 already identified who have acknowledged this existence. I want to be part of that.”

If you can’t quite figure it out, this is her, out of a job, taking a gig with an alien-chasing organization that rented out the National Press Club to hold “congressional-style hearings” on extraterrestrial issues. Persons who resemble congressional representatives will then be YouTubed into eternity, scowling at witnesses giving valuable testimony on this vital issue. Extra-weird detail:

Also in the audience were a man and woman from Chicago wearing metal headbands with quartz to better conduct communication with extraterrestrial life.

All in all, I still prefer her to Mark Souder.

Those of you who are fans of Roy Edroso will enjoy this interview with None Other, which includes a clip of his band, the Reverb Motherfuckers. Roy bought Adrianne and me dinner when we were in Washington last fall, and I just lurve him to death. So there’s that.

Pinterest fails. Because Pinterest fails.

If Russell Brand really writes this well, I want to know why he’s a bleh musician and actor and not a writer. Because based on this, he’s a pretty fair writer.

Finally, I’m only a few chapters through The Prophets of Oak Ridge, but I’m really looking forward to the rest of it — a story of how three people penetrated the Oak Ridge Security Complex, and by “three people,” I mean a drifter, a house painter and an 82-year-old nun. So far, it’s a gripping yarn. Hope you enjoy it, too.

So that’s it for me. I have a big box of furniture to unpack, a lot of loose ends to tie up and a laser knife to go under. See you when I surface. Whenever that is.

Sorry for the late entry today. It was another evening out, although I had the distinct pleasure of driving home into the rising full moon, which registered not as a crisp round disk of light but rather roundish, with a smeary side. For days, I’ve been fretting about my upcoming eye surgery, wondering if I really, truly needed it. What’s a little smudge in one’s central vision? It’s only on one side, etc. Last night settled it. I want to see a rising full moon in sharp focus. Also, I’m seeing way more typos in my work these days, and I can’t handle that.

One more week. Then I will suffer for my sight.

But as I’m getting a late start here and really should be working, I’ll keep this brief:

We’ve had a bit of a dust-up here the last couple of weeks, right here in Grosse Pointe. A brand-new student club at one of the high schools, the Young Americans for Freedom — called that to distinguish them from the Young Americans for Slavery, I guess — announced they wanted to bring Rick Santorum in to speak. The national chapter had fronted them his $18,000 fee, and he was going to address the student body on “leadership.” This was originally scheduled for during school hours. Some parties objected to this, and it was abruptly cancelled. Then it was uncancelled, with an opt-in permission slip attached. It was, in other words, from beginning to end, an administrative fumble and a giant win for the Young Americans for Freedom, which lurves this sort of thing.

So then the day for the visit arrives, which was Wednesday. The speech was live-streamed. I didn’t see it all, but I saw enough. “A nothingburger,” went one description. And as you might expect, it went off without a hitch, but there was one hitch-ette: One of the kids at the school tweeted “Hey Mr. Santorum, would you sign this bomb for me?” I gather the kid is known as a joker, and he’s a kid, and while the tweet was thoughtless, you’d have to live in a police state to see this as a credible threat. Even the local police seemed more irritated than alarmed. But it couldn’t end there with a stern talking-to, a grounding and the suspension of the Twitter account.

No, now the Wayne County Prosecutor is getting involved.

Sigh.

OK, off to the mangle. The best email I got yesterday follows. For you non-journos, a style guide is the collection of individual style quirks of a particular publication; whether you capitalize The in The New York Times, say, or if Road should be spelled out or abbreviated. Sometimes they get really baroque, and the one from Penthouse magazine is a minor classic of the form. Anyway:

I’m working on our in-house style guide. It’s one of those projects that could turn into one’s life’s work, if one were so inclined. Really, there is no end to the crap that has to be explained. To maintain my sanity, I’m having some fun. I thought you’d appreciate this excerpt:

penultimate: Means next to last. Example of how not to use this word: “We were called the Rock Bottom Remainders, and when they write the penultimate history of rock ’n’ roll, we will not be in it.” Now you know something Mitch Albom doesn’t.

And you know what? She’s right.

Good day, all. Good weekend, all. See you Monday.

On edit: A good read on the Boston carjacking victim. Tasty morsel within:

The story of that night unfolds like a Tarantino movie, bursts of harrowing action laced with dark humor and dialogue absurd for its ordinariness, reminders of just how young the men in the car were. Girls, credit limits for students, the marvels of the Mercedes ML 350 and the iPhone 5, whether anyone still listens to CDs — all were discussed by the two 26-year-olds and the 19-year-old driving around on a Thursday night.

First (long) bike ride of the season was Saturday. Fifteen miles at a bit of a clip left me thinking:

1) God, am I out of shape.
2) Even for Detroit, this is a lot of broken glass on the street.
3) I need a road bike.
4) No you don’t. Get your ass in shape and stop thinking equipment is the answer to this scurrying-on-a-wheel feeling.
4) But I’m in my top gear and I’m scurrying! I need a bigger ring.
5) Shut up and look at the scenery.

So I did. It was a gorgeous, warm day, which in Detroit means all the snow is gone, but the detritus of the winter has not yet been cleaned up or overgrown. Belle Isle is not looking good, which makes sense in a bankrupt city I suppose, but a trash-strewn shame just the same. The conservancy folks haven’t gotten busy yet, so we’ll see what we have in another month. And even on a bad day, Belle Isle has the river and a breeze and lots of birds, so — did I say breeze? Whose idea was it to make eastbound the first part of this ride, anyway?

The bike will only come when the right Craigslist bargain drops into my lap. But for now, I think another couple of padded-crotch shorts are definitely in order. Plus a lot more time in the saddle.

All in all, it was a grateful-to-be-alive sort of day. I needed it.

Saturday night was the dilemma of the season: “The Ten Commandments” on ABC or a gorge on “Homeland,” screening as part of Comcast’s free-everything weekend? I did a little of both, savoring just enough of the restored Technicolor cheese-fest and then three straight hours of watching Claire Danes do her face-crumple cry thing on Showtime. “Homeland” has grown on me, although I can see it painting itself into a corner this season, but if ANYone think they’re going to spoil the second half of the season for me in comments, I will CUT YOU. It’s better than any other Showtime series I’ve seen, by a mile. There are those who like “Dexter,” but I watched it a couple times and meh. “Nurse Jackie” had me for a time, but then meh. Dollar for dollar, I’m still an HBO girl. And I hope that soon I won’t be an anything girl, because I’ll be out riding my bike so much.

I hope everyone had a pleasant Easter. We went to Toledo for lunch with Alan’s sister, then to the museum for a couple of hours. It’s a very good museum for a city its size, thanks to the Libbeys and other responsible local tycoons. I spent a little time with “Alex,” a Chuck Close canvas.

I wish I could afford more art. If I won the lottery, my indulgences would be, in order: Travel, art, land. Not a house, land. All I really want out of a house anymore is a fireplace and a decent kitchen, and not even that’s essential. Art-wise, you go through our house, and you can see our starving-reporter days (framed posters), then less-starving (framed prints), then photos, and a painting or two. I still like everything we have on the walls, whatever that means.

Do I have bloggage before I make dinner and we watch “Game of Thrones?” Why yes, I do:

Laugh-out-loud funny is Anne Lamott, describing dating in late middle age, something I hope I never, ever have to do:

…91 percent of men snore loudly – badly, like very sick bears. I would say that CPAP machines are the greatest advance in marital joy since the vibrator. It transforms an experience similar to sleeping next to a dying silverback gorilla into sleeping next to an aquarium.

…Yet union with a partner — someone with whom to wake, whom you love, and talk with on and off all day, and sit with at dinner, and watch TV and movies, read together in bed, do hard tasks together, and to be loved by. That sounds really lovely.

Who is killing the prosecutors of Kaufman County, Texas? (Texas has a Kaufman County? Who knew?)

In Detroit, “garden supply centers,” particular those with “hydroponic” on the sign, is a nudge-wink that means “medical marijuana will be in your future sooner than you think.” Apparently this is the same elsewhere, too, although for one couple, it just meant fresh vegetables year-round. To the police’s embarrassment.

Monday awaits! Enjoy your week, y’all.

Finally, sun. Finally, spring. Happy Easter to all.

First day of spring. Ah, the sweet smell of …nothing green in the air. Not around these parts. The high temperature didn’t reach the freezing mark. The sun came out for a while, but worked only a half day. The birds have been singing their springtime songs for a few weeks now, but other than a few mild days here and there, the weather hasn’t caught up.

But there was this:

Tilted Axes, a strolling band of electric guitarists, organized by Patrick Grant, a Detroit-born-but-since-relocated artist. Each player carried a little Marshall amp the size of a cigar box, hanging from his belt. It wasn’t much of a procession, but it was fun, and you have to admire anyone willing to parade around in 27-degree weather just for the hell of it. Look at those sad little clumps of snow clinging to the base of the parking meters. That’s late winter in hell.

I know, I know — in four months I’ll be bitching about the heat. But right now it’s cold.

Here’s a remarkable piece, and I’m sorry my Russian isn’t good enough to translate directly, but I trust my source: It’s photos of bears huffing gas fumes, and showing the results, i.e., a bear sprawled in the snow, looking much like a homo sapien huffer. Is the need to alter our consciousness the same across all mammalian species?

As for the “50 most perfectly timed photos ever,” I suspect some ‘shopping. But some nice pix, just the same.

Since we’re doing videos, here’s a great one: Donny & Marie singing some Steely Dan:

How can I top that? Well, I have a big story dropping at 8 a.m. I’ll add the link when it does. Meanwhile, enjoy the downslope of the week. UPDATE: Why young people don’t vote in Detroit.

Oh, and thanks to Charlotte for finding this: Welcome to Michigan, Elaine Stritch. If I ever see her in a coffee shop over on the west side, I think I’ll scream. She is SO BEST.

One thing I love about Detroit: All these ethnicities have their own food traditions. And they’re all sold in the markets.

The press introduction of Detroit’s emergency manager was today. For you out-of-towners, it’s the law in Michigan that whenever a unit of local government meets a certain threshold of financial distress, the governor may appoint an emergency manager who has special powers to clean up the mess. So far, this has been deployed infrequently, but Detroit is by far the biggest city to be EM’d.

This is by no means a surprise — it’s been in the works forever, with constant maneuvering to stave it off. The city council has been rattling sabers for at least that long, with the volume set to Screech for some members. One warned of civil unrest, for instance, and defended a protest tactic that’s popped up in the last couple days: Flying wedges of cars throttling freeways down to very slow speeds. Because there’s no tactic for getting the public on your side like making people late.

But finally today, the governor introduced the man for the job, a bankruptcy specialist from D.C. with deep Michigan roots, and held a press conference. I listened to it on the radio. Kevyn Orr came across as personable, highly qualified and — very important — optimistic. Such a change of pace, an upbeat attitude about this civic disaster. So I’m feeling good about this, even though this is going to be a bloody damn job and still likely to be impossible.

Oh, well. As the city motto says, “We hope for better things.”

Today’s Our Bloody Nation story comes from upstate New York, where a mass shooter shot a bunch of people and then fled, barricading himself before being shot and killed by police. The final victim:

A police robot equipped with a camera was ready, but its use may have been limited because the gunman’s hiding place was littered with debris.

So a tactical dog named Ape, equipped with a camera, went into the building first on Thursday, followed by agents with the State Police and the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

Ape, a Czech German Shepherd, was shot in the chest just as he breached the doorway.

Ape didn’t make it. One of the women in our Lansing office has a Czech German Shepherd puppy, and boy, is that dog adorable. Of course, all puppies are adorable. Poor Ape.

I’ve been purposely avoiding all this Lean In crap, because I’ve lived through about nine million women’s-career-book publicity blitzes in my life, and I have a feeling this one won’t change anything. But I did think this column, taking issue with Sheryl Sandberg’s book, was very good.

All this talk about the new pope inspired me to seek out the craziest Catholic website I have EVer seen, Tradition in Action. I suggest you start at the Cultural section, but clear your calendar first. That thing is a serious wormhole.

You could be there all weekend. See you Monday, then. And beware the Ides of March.

I’ve been a reporter off and on for more than 30 years, but one thing I’ve never done is stand outside a courthouse and yell “how do you feel” to people leaving. Despite what you might think, I’m not in the minority.

That said, there are always exceptions.

That’s Charlie LeDuff asking about “babies,” by the way. Not a fan.

So, the Kwame Kilpatrick verdict was all the news today. If you live here, you already know all you want to know about it, and if you don’t, there’s a story in a nearby newspaper, most likely. But only this blog will draw your attention to the former mayor’s remarkable fashion choices, obscured but still viewable in this photo: A horizontal-striped shirt and a plaid tie. I didn’t even know you could buy a horizontally striped man’s shirt.

They bundled KK off to the Graybar hotel pretty quick. THat might be the last fashion choice he makes for a good long while.

Oh, am I whipped. Can I cut to the bloggage?

How’d you like to take a wild Justin Verlander pitch to the junk?

Much more than that, I haven’t got. Bleh.

When I go to the market on Saturdays, I generally confine myself to the sheds and the Gratiot Central Market, aka the Meat Mall, across the freeway. But recently someone said I had to check out Saad’s, a halal meat place a block or two away, and so this week I did.

My befuddlement must have been evident when I walked in and looked around a blank anteroom, because a kindly girl directed me: Take a number, and step through the plastic flap door to do my shopping. It was a little like Dorothy leaving the house after it’s landed in Oz. I don’t think I’ve seen a retail arrangement quite like it. You shop amid a row of hanging carcasses — lamb, they looked like — with open cases offering meat in every imaginable cut and preparation, from frozen pre-marinated shwarma to beef skin and goat heads, complete with eyeballs, not to mention bins of tripe, frozen and carved into blocks. Women in headscarves and men in skullcaps gathered great shopping bags full of product; I have to assume they were restaurateurs, stocking for the week ahead. But I didn’t laugh out loud until I saw this:

Sharifables. Halal Lunchables. I’m always cheered by stuff like this. It suggests we have more in common than not. Even Mecca-Cola, born out of an explicit desire to buy non-American, pro-Palestinian products, doesn’t seem all bad. We have different faiths, but we all enjoy a refreshing cola beverage from time to time.

I’d wandered in thinking I might get the ingredients for a nice lamb stew, but left without buying anything. I think I need a more sedate experience. Still glad I went, though. I hope Stephen Colbert learns about Sharifables soon:

Meanwhile, a sad story unfolded elsewhere in Detroit. I’m sure any of you who have dealt with mental illness can understand how this happened:

Kelly Pingilley was trying to make sense of the voices in her head when she went looking for answers on the Internet.

She stumbled upon a website promoting a religion that believes in UFOs, vampires, conspiracy theories and doomsday prophecies.

Pingilley was drawn to the writings of time travel and people’s thoughts being controlled by cell phone towers, friends said. With the teachings feeding into her delusions, Pingilley’s behavior grew increasingly erratic.

The woman killed herself late last year. Lots of good detail. This one jumped out at me:

Kellie Pingilley declined to say why the family failed to get help for her granddaughter’s apparent affliction.

I really hope they did what they could. It’s a terrible situation to have to deal with. I hope they did something. But what makes this story interesting is the fact the reporter reached the crazy person who clicked with this other crazy person, and then said, when all this was explained to her, “Some stuff was pretty out there. It was just crazy.”

Good to know.

And now another week lies ahead. Let’s hope for a good one.

Something a little different from the buskers, today. That washtub bass sounded pretty sweet.