Weeknotes: January 13-17, 2025
Monday January 13
My limbs trundle reluctantly up the hill past the south edge of campus, the wind biting my bare face. The first half mile is accomplished by will alone, but it gets better. I gauge my footfalls gingerly over the ice patches and head down the ginnel that connects College Place with Pearl. By the time I cross onto Spring Street, my body feels relaxed and lithe. At Waterworks Park a woman stands over the hood of her blue minivan arranging loaves of supermarket bread to feed to the assemblage of ducks and geese closing in around her.
I think of my mom, a lifetime nurturer of urban waterfowl populations. I picture her tiny figure holding up a bag of hamburger buns to feed the squawking gulls. For a brief time she and I kept up a Christmas Eve tradition of emptying a large bag of cracked corn on the grass by the Brighton Mill Pond, a gift to the cold feathered peasantry. Even now when I go to visit my parents, she is constantly managing a half dozen feeding stations. Just yesterday I caught her scattering seed on the front porch for her favorite possum and then on a metal table out behind the kitchen for her resident doves. She loves her doves. My parents have always had big hearts for wild things.
Weeknotes: December 16-20, 2024
I guess I felt like writing this week. Happy Solstice!
Monday, December 16
My Christmas lights shine weakly against the gloom. After such a crisp start, December has retreated into rainy drear. At the supermarket I stand in the baking aisle looking for cardamom pods. The woman next to me is coming up short in her own spice search and we exchange friendly smalltalk about holiday busyness. A few minutes later she finds me in the next aisle waving in victory a small jar of ground cardamom. Such a sweet gesture, but I really want the pods. I thank her anyway.
After work I head back out into the drizzle on a longer set of evening errands. Just over a week until Christmas, but I'm thwarted on most of my stops. I do find the cardamom, though. I walk around Ann Arbor feeling dispirited, carrying only one of the several gifts I'd sought. I catch the last ten minutes of happy hour at Conor O'Neill's. I remember when this Irish bar opened in the late-'90s. It felt like an overly-commercial upstart on Main Street, but tonight I'm drawn to its well-established and unpretentious vibe. Some type of Harry Potter party must have recently happened; there are "Wanted" posters for Fenrir Greyback and "I solemnly swear I am up to no good" signs are tacked over several booths. I work on a pint of Smithwick's and write in my notebook, replenishing my cheer sip by sip.
A father with his young son approaches the bar asking if the North Pole mailbox has been taken down. The boy has a letter for Santa. The bartender disappears for a bit, then comes back to confirm said box is presently in the store room being prepped for delivery to the North Pole. He accepts the envelope on Santa's behalf, and moves off stage with a smile, ferrying away the kid’s hopes and dreams.
Weeknotes: November 11-15, 2024
On WCBN the DJ plays four Alvvays songs in a row. I think about driving to Cleveland with Serge this past spring to see them play the Agora Ballroom. We had a fun night. Ever since, I've wanted to title a song "Alvvays in Cleveland." My brother and his girlfriend went to Cleveland a couple weeks ago to see the Mongolian folk metal band the Hu and visited the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame for the first time. I told him to give my regards to Colin Blunstone's sweater. He sent me a picture with the caption "I am changed."
Weeknotes: September 23-27, 2024
Monday, September 23
The second day of autumn. That's the title of a song my brother wrote in the early '90s and I always think of it on the day after the equinox. In the evening, K and I drive up into the northern suburbs to see Vampire Weekend at Meadowbrook Music Hall. I brought a blanket, but we rent lawn chairs and sit in the cool damp evening, drinking gin and tonics and listening to Ezra Koenig's keening voice pierce the hill.
Weeknotes: September 9-13, 2024
Monday, September 9
I'm about to go to bed and make an early night of it. As I’m switching off the lights in my studio I realize I haven't touched an instrument all day and it bothers me. I pick up my guitar and sit casually atop my desk, thinking I'll just strum through a quick song as a matter of principle. An hour later I'm still up and have the bones of a new song in place. Whenever this happens, I think what might have happened had I just skipped the exercise and not played. When a song is new, it's always your favorite one.
I take it as far as I can, then stay up past midnight reading Leif Enger's marvelous I Cheerfully Refuse. It seemed like it was going to be a special book when I read the flap and I was right.
Weeknotes: August 19-23, 2024
Monday, August 19
It's my last week of summer. One week from today, I will be one of those middle aged adults in a classroom full of teenagers at my local community college. My path of higher education ended indefinitely in April 1996 after two unfocused semesters at Central Michigan University, a school I attended mostly because my brother was already up there and it was the expected thing to do. My high school years were heavy on arts and humanities. I was a theater kid, president of my Thespian troup by senior year. I formed my first band in 7th grade and began gigging professionally at age 15. My brief college experience was half-hearted at best. I just didn’t have it in me. I wanted to make music.