Oklahoma, where the wind comes sweepin’ down the plain, sometimes in a circular motion at close to 200 miles per hour, with a two-mile-side footprint. Mercy, this is awful.

Of course, all natural disasters are awful, and every time they happen, you are reminded anew of how each variety is awful. The sight of bare trees, stripped of their leaves and branches, sometimes even their bark, always freaks me out, as do photos like this, a classic of the genre — a half-destroyed room, where the doors of a cabinet have been flung open, but the glasses inside stand untouched.

Sometimes these things end better than you’d think. I recall a twister in Indiana that tore off a roof and destroyed a room. When the occupants rushed in, they found their baby sitting in her high chair in the middle of it, covered with insulation but otherwise unharmed.

Not so much in Oklahoma, I’m afraid. As I’m sure everybody will already know by the time they read this, at least one elementary school was destroyed, and perhaps two.

Which makes today’s accomplishment by dumb ol’ me — I had my first taste of rye whiskey, and friends, it was sublime — look pretty punk. It was this stuff. I’ve never sampled the stuff, because rye? Who drinks rye? Characters in old novels, that’s who. But boy, was it good. I had about a teaspoon, then drove home in heat that just kept climbing. It was 87 when I got home, so what the hell? A bike ride. Ten miles in 50 minutes was all I had the energy for, but I got ‘er done.

Not much bloggage today, but I enjoyed this: What your state bird should be. He has a point. Many points.

Fucking Apple. Ai yi yi.

More 80s today, but by the weekend? Highs in the low 60s. Because that’s how we roll now.

Spring has finally deigned to arrive, and it appears to be a pretty good one. Saturday I rode in the Cycle Into Spring, a group ride put on by the same people who do the Tour de Troit in the fall. Whenever I think group rides are a waste of money, I think of the police escort and the wonderful feeling of rolling through under the red lights. Worth $25, in my opinion. Ten bucks extra bought lunch: Three sliders and two sides from Slow’s, the barbecue place.

All in all, a perfect morning. I’d planned to go to the Eastern Market early, but even at 7:30 a.m., the freeway exit was backed up for a quarter mile. I ducked out and opted for breakfast at the Jefferson Avenue IHOP, where one of Alan’s colleagues had to submit to a full body search to be seated after midnight one night when the tunnel was backed up.

No body search. In fact, hardly any other customers. But it made for a nice early breakfast. IHOP — the classics never change.

And the ride was quite nice. I went with a friend, who stayed to my right and kept the blind side filled with a friendly presence. Twenty miles in three hours. It was a cinch. Then sliders, then home, then a nap. And that’s what I call a Saturday.

How was yours?

I would have taken some pictures, but I’d recently edited this column, and am thinking you don’t always have to take a picture to prove you were there.

Although sometimes you have to take a picture. This is Jerry, who helped us get the mast up:

The wind vane at the top of the mast got whopper jawed in the raising, so Jerry went aloft to straighten it out. This was a new one. Brave Jerry. We tipped him.

Do I have some bloggage? I do:

The Atlantic photo blog delivers again. Great pictures.

A video of a wolf pack howling. Those of you who have cats — I’m interested to know how they respond to this.

What is going ON with this episode of “Mad Men?” If you have a clue, share.

The crush of stuff I alluded to earlier in the week has arrived, so I’m calling in sick today. However, I have a fabulous time-waster for you today: Geo Guesser, in which you are served a random Google Maps street view from somewhere in the world, and asked to figure out where you are. I played two rounds, scored 11,000 and 9,000 points respectively, and am really hoping no one does this as an iPad app, because then I’ll get nothing done.

But you geography nerds will enjoy. My tips: Street signs. License plates. Flags. Cars. Pavement quality. Your gut. This is what will carry you along.

I’ll be back Monday.

Well, I found a better FalconCam. Campbell Ewald is an ad agency in Warren with a building that stands out in its field, so to speak, rising several stories over the usual inner-ring suburban low-rise sprawl. They’ve had peregrines visiting for a while now, but this year they finally got a nesting pair, and they have the HD video installation such a bird requires. The greatest-hits video blog is here, and the link to the livestream is here. The eggs hatched only this week, with one to go.

It’s really quite arresting, watching the parents come back to the nest with a dead bird in hand to do the regular feedings. I think they’re doing an eat-and-regurgitate thing for now, which makes sense.

As Campbell Ewald is an ad agency, the people running this are a little too cute for my taste. After only a day of occasional checks, I’m growing tired of the memes and anthropomorphizing, but oh well, it’s their camera. They can brand-build with it all they want, I guess.

Of course, now the 20th-century technology of Fort Wayne’s FalconCam looks pretty dim, but the chicks are older, and moving around the nest more, so there’s that.

And there’s bloggage:

A friend is doing some canning, and recalled the single best canning headline ever. Photo is just the lagniappe.

I recall the Freep slobbered all over this place when it debuted, so it’s only fitting they cover the inevitable failure. Yes, it’s another Mike Binder project, which I am shocked, shocked to see didn’t fly. Isn’t Los Angeles just DYING to eat shitty coney dogs? Binder obviously has passed the point of success — let’s call it the Binder Point — where forever after, no matter how many times you screw up, you can no longer fail. Lagniappe: At the time I’m posting this, the local “iconic” potato-chip brand name is misspelled in the story. Because it’s so iconic.

This happened to the son of a woman I worked on a project with a few years back. I get the feeling it happens every year, somewhere. Because BROTHERS.

Hump day is behind us, so let’s float down the other side.

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.

We had a bit of a server problem last night that cut into my blogging time, so not much today. But how can any of us think about ANYthing else than the death of Dr. Joyce Brothers? How is it possible this icon of my childhood is gone? Actually, how is it possible she was still alive? She died at 85. Old, but not that old.

Once upon a time, every time you turned on a talk show, she was there, offering advice with the imprimatur of her doctorate. She outranked the ad hoc wise women like Ann and Abby, but she wasn’t all credentials, right? I remember her being common-sensical and wise.

I interviewed her once. Some book, probably. At the end of the interview, I mentioned Gilda Radner, and she laughed about Roseanne Rosannadanna and the sweatball story. You have to like a person who can have a laugh at their own expense.

And after a day of computer-monitor staring, frankly, my eyes are athrob. So let’s take it away, comments.

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.