Life is starting to move very quickly, and will for the next month. Tomorrow, Kate takes her first AP test, and may I just say? AP classes are a big fuckin’ racket that I wish had never been invented. She’s hated the thing all year, and now she’s making herself nuts for a class that most likely won’t be accepted for credit by whatever college she ends up at; it costs $80; and it’s 3.5 hours long. Three! And a half! Hours! I didn’t have a college test that long in my entire career.

And of course, the great irony: The better the college you’re aiming for, the more AP classes you need. The better the college you’re aiming for, the less likely the college is to accept AP classes for credit.

Well. In 24 hours it’ll be all over. And then we go to the weekend, when Kate will be at a two-day practice for Europe. Then finals (taken early, because Europe). Then Kate goes to Europe, and Alan and I go on vacation for a week, and then the summer gallops before us like a nymph you chase through the woods. How is this possible? It was 40 degrees yesterday.

All of which boils down to: It’s a bad time to have only half one’s vision. But I’m gettin’ ‘er done. Dinner tonight: Grilled flank steak, potatoes, and a lovely orange-avocado salad. I made the salad for our dinner party Saturday and thought: I should make this more often. So I am. Sweetness, silkiness, and a superfood. Part of me thinks bad things can’t happen to anyone who’s had a good dinner the night before. Best of luck to Kate Wednesday.

But I think I’ll duck out for a Wednesday-night ride at the Hub, down in Detroit. Girl needs some exercise from time to time.

Bloggage? Maybe:

Don’t follow this link, or you may not come up for air for hours — the fallout from a recent “Kitchen Nightmares” about a Scottsdale dump I’m tempted to travel to see. Maybe Scout or someone on the ground can give us some recon.

Josh Marshall on what you need to know about the IRS scandal.

Throb, eye, throb! I’m done.

Oh, wait: Today is my 20th wedding anniversary. Happy two decades to us.

And so, 10 days or so after having a surgical procedure I still hesitate to describe bluntly, lest the few remaining readers of this blog barf and run screaming for the exits, it’s back to work.

I’m still, as Marsellus Wallace said, pretty far from OK, but I’m mending. The redness in my eye is gone (thanks, prednisone) although the pupil remains dilated (atropine eyedrops) and will for another few days. Still basically blind on that side, but I’m assured this will resolve itself. I’ve started driving again, gingerly — short hops only. I did a little freeway piece on Sunday in light traffic, but it was jarring enough that I’m putting that aside for a while. The depth perception I’m growing used to, but the blind side is still too dangerous for the sort of combat-driving conditions one can expect on a Detroit interstate.

But I’m hale and hearty enough that we threw a little dinner party Saturday, and I managed not to fall into the grill or anything. (I had a hell of a time getting my mascara wand back into the tube this morning, however.) So Monday I’m back at it. Which is today.

I’m still feeling a little giddy about being sprung from facedown life, frankly. The night of the day I was cleared to stand up, I went to bed early, swallowing two ibuprofen and a melatonin on the way. I slept like a corpse for eight hours and rose feeling 10 years younger, or maybe 15. Recovery, even from something minor like a cold, always gives you that ESCAPED AGAIN feeling of having beaten something, and you walk around grateful for everything from a warm breeze to a hot cup of coffee. I hope it lasts, although I know it won’t.

So a lot happened last week.

I’m amazed that so few media outlets, in their coverage of the Cleveland kidnapping cases, are failing to mention, or mentioning only obliquely, the case of Ariel Castro’s daughter, now serving a 25-year sentence in Indiana for attempting to slash the throat of her own 11-month-old daughter. As one of you noted in the comments last week, it seems there’s a long history of craziness in that clan, or maybe it’s just, in the trite phrase, a history of violence.

One of the movies I watched during my facedown recovery — or started to watch, but didn’t finish — was “Goon,” a comedy about a hockey enforcer. The decent cast did what they could, and it had promise, but like so many Apatow-influenced movie projects these days, failed to find its way. Funny is funny, but there’s only so much you can do with one punchout after another, and I abandoned it around the 30-minute mark. Reading about the late Derek Boogaard in the New York Times a year or so ago sort of spoiled hockey goons for me for good. His family is now suing the NHL, which will be an interesting case to watch.

Finally, enjoy: A video made for the bid to get Detroit selected as the next X Games venue. Very well-done in the usual manner, which is to say every rust stain is a brushstroke of paint on our ruined masterpiece of a city, etc. But inspiring in its own way:

So we’re back, we’re all back, and let’s see how the week goes, eh?

The surgery was surreal. I entered the outpatient center, was called back to the pre-op area, and the usual preparations began. A gown over my clothes, covers on my shoes and hair, an IV started. Monitors. Oxygen. As I’ve discovered at other points along this journey, I was the youngest person in the room by a long shot.

“I hope I don’t hurt your young skin,” the nurse fretted as she pierced the back of my hand. Young skin. That’s a new one.

Then the anesthesiologist dropped by and said he’d be putting me out for a while, and he did. I asked for the demi-Michael Jackson, he chuckled, and the next thing I knew, I was awakening in a warm cloud of opiates.

“Is it over?” I asked.

“The numbing is,” the nurse said. They’d put me all the way down so that two shots could be administered above and below the eye, but the surgery was still ahead. And for that, I’d be awake, although the anesthesiologist would be on hand “to take the edge off, but only if you need it.”

And then they were wheeling me back. “Fentanyl, please!” I called out to the room. No, none of that. “Then pour me another Michael Jackson,” I said. Nope. “You’ll be fine,” someone said. The surgeon said, “No more talking” as he laid the drape over my face and the world went black.

But I was awake. I heard the machinery beeping, a computerized voice announcing numbers. The procedure started — pressure here and there, but no pain at all. No anxiety. I could feel my shoulders were tense, so I told myself, relax your shoulders. I did. The doctor began to whistle. The nurse said, “Are you playing any golf this week, doctor?” He said maybe, and they chatted about teaching the game to their children.

This must be good news, I remember thinking. Golf is better than “oops,” anyway.

And here’s the thing: I could see the needles. I couldn’t see-see them, but their shape, their movement within the eye, was quite visible. There were two. They appeared as shadows on shadows, and I was totally calm, able to think, those are the needles in my eye and not FLIP RIGHT OUT. It must have been the drugs.

And then it was over, the dressing was taped on, and they wheeled me to a post-op cubicle. The monitors and IV were removed, the gown and other stuff taken off, and up we go. I was sitting next to Alan in recovery probably five minutes after leaving surgery.

The doctor appeared to say it all went well. The nurse kept asking if I wanted a blueberry muffin. I had a glass of water and went home. Two hours in and out.

Before we left, I told the doctor I could see the needles. Really? he asked. Absolutely, I said. He shrugged. “Must be some sort of optic-nerve thing.”

It reminded me that doctors, for all their education, can be as tough to interview as anyone. About 10 percent studied enough poetry in college to have a sense of wonder about the miracles they perform every day, the drama they witness as a matter of course, and can talk about it with some feeling. The rest are flesh mechanics. You wouldn’t expect the guy who fixes your Buick to marvel at the magic of internal combustion, would you?

The rest was the recovery, by far the hardest part. Lying facedown with your head supported by a donut pillow feels a little like, as Jeff Foxworthy said, a St. Bernard coming in through the cat door. It wasn’t so bad during the day, when I raised the donut, stacked a bunch of pillows and assumed a position not unlike humping a pommel horse. I put the iPad under the donut and watched Netflix. I watched “The Trip” and I watched “The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel.” I watched some “Mad Men” and I watched nine! hours! of “House of Cards.” I watched the FalconCam. I read the news and stayed up on Twitter. And when the night came, I lowered the donut, adjusted the pillows and tried to sleep. Wasn’t easy. I tried to drift off to Netflix, which only led to puddles of drool on the iPad. I tried drugs, but all I got was some lousy Tylenol 3, which didn’t do much. The final night was the worst of all by far, but Tuesday came and I had my follow-up. The macular hole is closed, and I am cleared to rise to my feet, watch TV from the couch again, read and ditch the damn donut.

Now all I have to do is recover the vision in my eye. It’ll take a few weeks. In the meantime, I’ll be frightening people with my bloody orb.

There’s a lot going on in the world, and I’m going to spend the next few days letting it pass me by. No regular blogging schedule until next week. The world is half-blurred, and I plan to ride the blur for a spell.

Carry on however you like. Open thread, all.

This is me. Still too face-down to write much, but I shall. In the meantime, a fresh thread and a gory picture.

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.

Up early, made Kate her lunch, packed her off, did a little this ‘n’ that, showered, headed to Ann Arbor, did radio, headed to Lansing, did lunch, did this ‘n’ that, took some pictures at the Capitol for a thing. Here’s one:

I like symmetrical things with some asymmetry sprinkled in. Don’t know why.

Then I did some more this ‘n’ that. Drove home. Cycled to the market for some lettuce ‘n’ crap. Made dinner — pasta with white beans, rosemary and onion; green salad (the lettuce), tomato/mozzarella salad.

Now it’s 9:35 and what I’m asking is, WHERE IS MY MEDAL? For the this ‘n’ that, at least. And the dinner, which was pretty good.

Somewhere along the way, my other eye — the good one — started acting weird, so tomorrow promises to be even more exciting, because I get to see the doctor! Again! With the specialist co-pay! But of course we must now say I’m so lucky I have health insurance, because I am.

Remember: If I’m blind, I’m going to feel everyone’s face. So I know you’re smiling.

Is there any bloggage? Just one: Ten types of shitty coworkers and how not to murder them. I’ve been them all, I think.

Let’s hope for a fabulous Tuesday.

The sun was out today, the temperatures reasonably mild, and in what I hope is the first of many mild, sunny evenings, I headed out on the new two-wheeler. Did I tell you I bought a new two-wheeler? I did. A used one, of course — a Volkscycle, an old frame tricked out with new components from the hipster bike shop down in the Cass corridor. Weren’t too much money, and I’m adding some clipless pedals. Look for me to add a broken elbow to my wounded eyeball any day now.

But it was a glorious ride, and I am so, so glad to be out of the house after all these months. What happened to me? I used to love winter. Now it’s just an ordeal to get through. Is this how people end up in Florida? Because this is disturbing. Along with this eye thing, this is making me feel very, very old. Other than the standard-issue lower back and knee pain, I’ve not really had any age-related decrepitude yet. And now it’s just dawning on me that I’ll be seeing a fucking ophthalmologist every six months for the rest of my life.

Makes me want to get on my bike and ride until I reach some other place. Someplace younger. Not Florida.

Oh, but before I do, I have bloggage:

This is so damn disturbing. Remember Patiend Zero from Randy Shilts’ AIDS book, “And the Band Played On”? The sexy Canadian flight attendant, whose promiscuity jump-started HIV all over the globe? He existed, but he didn’t really function as the Typhoid Mary of AIDS. It was exaggerated to sell books. Doesn’t that make you feel wonderful about American health reporting?

Here’s a long, readable and compelling story about what happens when the Satmar sect of Hasidism takes over an entire town.
And what do they do? Dismantle the public schools. Because they don’t use them, and besides, they really want to the few non-Jews left around to move out. It’s a fairly horrifying story.

This might be worth a trip to the National Archives: Searching for the Seventies. This woman could have been me, c. 1978. I loved this decade.

Finally, the Boston bombers’ horrible parents.

And now, let’s get Tuesday under way, OK?

Again, sorry for the no-show yesterday. I went to the Michigan SPJ awards, and you know how those things go. Woo. Actually, it was fairly dull, but Bridge got some stuff, and I got to lift a glass with my colleagues and eat rubber chicken. #winning

And then the skies opened, and it rained and rained and rained some more, until it stopped and started raining again. It’s raining now. Radar suggests I’m going to continue to do so for a while.

Well, wasn’t I complaining about how dry it’s been? I believe so. This is what happens when you complain. You get what you asked for.

But it was warm this morning before the rain came, so I went for a lunchtime bike ride. It was very windy, enough that I could actually feel the bike move in the gusts. It’s good to be back on two wheels, even for just a lunch hour.

Surgery is scheduled for May 2, so you’ll have me around a little longer than I previously thought. I’m sure that will be the week the spring will finally burst forth in all its delayed glory. I’ll spend it staring at the floor. Or the mattress. God, I hope they give me serious drugs.

What do we think of the bombing suspects? I think it’ll be interesting to see how long it will take to find them. Via Twitter, the Reddit people already found White Hat Guy in a separate photo — see him walking around the corner at the left side of the flame, minus his backpack, strangely unmoved by the spreading chaos. I guess it could be a fake, but I dunno — it’s what Tim McVeigh did.

More will be revealed, as always. Let’s hope it’s revealed soon.

I have some bloggage, yes:

I love dogs as much as anyone, but even I can’t help but think this isn’t the greatest idea ever — a law to allow dogs in restaurants. Because what could possibly go wrong with a bunch of dogs on leashes around people carrying trays of hot food? Really.

Two pieces on fear, vis-a-vis Boston: Some perspective, from my friend Dave Jones, and a little scolding, from Gawker.

But that’s it, for now. Enjoy your weekend, all.

Good news, bad news about the ol’ peepers. Or peeper, in this case.

We know what’s causing my vision problems. I have a macular hole in one eye, and yes, that’s its actual medical name: Macular hole. It’s just one of those things that can happen as we, ahem, age, although I’d like it noted that I am still well short of the 60-year threshold when these things tend to appear. So anyway, I have this hole, and it needs to be repaired. Which means?

A DOCTOR IS GOING TO STICK A NEEDLE INTO MY EYEBALL AND SUCK ALL THE GOO OUT BEFORE REPLACING IT WITH A SALINE SOLUTION AND AN AIR BUBBLE. And yes, that is indeed what a vitrectomy is. So I guess that’s the bad news, although the ophthalmologist just shrugged; he does these all the time, mostly on people 20 years older than me, and they breeze through it.

The other bad news is, this will necessitate a break from blogging, because the worst part of all this will be the recovery — five to seven days spent in a face-down position 22 hours a day, so the air bubble stays at the back of my eyeball, providing a bandage of sorts that allows the macula to heal. They handed me this ridiculous pamphlet on the way out, showing me all the equipment I can rent for the recovery period. It’s mostly stuff that looks like a chair-massage outfit, with add-ons. “Visit with friends and family using the two-way mirror,” runs one photo caption, showing someone face down in the apparatus, conversing with someone across the room, using, yes, a two-way mirror.

I think I’ll try to get by with a doughnut pillow and my iPad.

I’m told I’ll feel fine, except for five days spent in more or less a plank position, followed by a few weeks of waiting for the bubble to be absorbed, when it’ll be “like looking through a goldfish bowl,” at least out of one eye. But I can drive, and hope to have a more or less normal summer.

As in so many things, the Burns family has come to my aid, only not J.C. this time, but brother Jim, who had retinal surgery a decade ago and did a comic about it. A dark comic, I guess. “Detached” — read it here.

But this won’t happen for a while, so we’re good. I have a feeling I may be figuring out a way to blog in facedown position before the end of it. And as always, we have to offer up two prayers. The American prayer: Thank God I have health insurance! And the karma prayer: Thank God it’s not cancer!

And I really am grateful. Because, as we so often say, it could be far, far worse. It’s just a little eye thing. Requiring a vitrectomy.

So, seeing as I was all tied up with my own personal things today, I don’t have much for you to read. We’re still waiting on news on the Boston bomber, of course. I didn’t spend much time cruising for news today, but I did see this: What is a pressure-cooker bomb and who makes them. (Gawker: They come in handy at the strangest times.)

This, however, was excellent: American daycare, American horror story. The New Republic. Good journalism.

And now I have to go read up about vitrectomies and all that can go wrong with them.

In West Michigan much of this weekend, where we saw…

…the wild swans of Muskegon:

And one unlucky one:

It was terribly cold, and I stayed mostly off the Internet. But there was this one story, which I think you all will just loooove, becaus so many of you are gardeners, and know how high the stakes are.

Let’s have a good Monday, because that’s pretty much it for me. See you tomorrow.