I became frustrated with planet Earth today. It was episodic. And intense. And a lot like being in charge of who’s head goes next in a Charles Dickens yarn. From Mar Vista to Mar-a-Lago—the murder of Anne Heche which is being covered up and no one is talking about: it shows me people are afraid of something; and the rifling through a former American President’s ‘compound’ to discover confidential US documents—apparently on display for friends and wayward staff (declassified by Donald himself, and relocated to said compound by White House staff)—well, that shows me something, too: people are afraid of something. And so. And so. And soooooo I walked into town. I downed a Dairy Queen Buster Bar. The big one with the peanuts. Then, I strutted down Main Street, and ducked low into a dim alleyway and through a hedge and into the wee bookstore, like a spy on the lam. I grabbed a couple reads for a cool $20. A lavender lattee and a whole lot of intense shadowy Bad Juju dissipation later (“You don’t wanna see me with the house lights on.” #RobThomas), I am reading about our nation’s first President, and discussing his life with a little jade plant I named Honey. History must comfort me. And plants and books do share common ancestry. Anyway. Anne Heche—I will not forget. And Mr. Washington, Sir, will you take care of this shit in DC and Florida, please—by the sword, General, if you must. And, Honey, dear, will you pass me my lavender latte?…and a long extension cord?