Weeknotes: January 6-10, 2025
Monday January 6
Outside the giant home decor superstore shreds of yellow caution tape flap like pennants, suggesting unknown drama. Scant cars punctuate the desolate parking lot. Grim is the word that comes to mind. In Chris Frantz's Talking Heads memoir (which I've stuck with, and am now enjoying) he recalls how Johnny Ramone used that word over and over to describe their shared 1977 tour of Europe ("Oh shit, man, this is gonna be grim").
I don't go to this store very often. It's one of those wastelands of excess that makes me feel edgy and cynical. It's like a blander Pier 1 without any curation, a shelter for the world’s decorative vases and wicker plant stands to live out their days in a heady fug of candle store aroma. I'm in the market for new bathroom rugs that will pair well with the tricky seafoam walls and faux driftwood floor covering I inherited when I rented the house. Last winter I spontaneously bought a complete set of grass green rugs and matching towels which I pretended to like for a couple days before recognizing I'd turned my bathroom into a 1980s Holiday Inn. January is when I'm most inclined to tackle these problems. Aren't we all working on our interiors this time of year?
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: September 16-20, 2024
Monday, September 16
There's a bad smell coming from somewhere on the porch. Is it just my overripe trash can? I'm standing out there sniffing, looking over the rail for a decaying rodent when CC pulls up. I guide her up the steps to "the spot" but she doesn't smell anything out of the ordinary.
We play through a handful of songs in the living room while Islay whines, begging for treats. Her brat summer continues. Many of our rehearsal tapes have insolent dog noises on them, like ambient feedback. She eventually settles down, head on paws, and listens from the couch.
CC and I revisit songs from previous albums and scale down a newer one from its full-band arrangement to duo format. We also add a few more short pieces which preface longer songs like sympathetic key siblings. In this way, our next set will contain about 20 songs in 45 minutes.
Weeknotes: July 8-12, 2024
Monday, July 8
In my dream I'm exploring a vast art deco hotel. It's mostly empty, either abandoned or in the offseason. Crates of interesting goods are stacked haphazardly around a casino-like room and behind the ornate bar I notice a beat-up cardboard box advertising a Casio keyboard model I've never seen before. What I pull out of it ends up being a gig bag containing an ornate handmade bouzouki, or maybe a cittern. Its strings are strangely paired with the middle ones in overstuffed clusters of three or four, all tuned in unison rather than octaves. I also notice the wood has rotted around the soundhole and on the back. A shame, as it's a beautifully designed instrument. I decide not to steal it.
I spend some time with Pretzel, my neighbor's three-legged cat, for whom I'm caring this week. He has barfed on his white couch blanket every day and every day I carry it down to the laundry room and re-wash it. I listen to Jake Xerxes Fussell's new album as I drive to Dexter to meet up with my cousins one last time before they depart to their respective homes in Pennsylvania and Florida. After dinner we visit our grandparents' grave where last summer we also laid some of their mom's ashes in a spontaneous little family ceremony. Then it's hugs all around and off we go into the furnace of a July evening. I put on some Hawaiian slack key music and keep all the windows down even on the highway.
Weeknotes: May 13-17, 2024
Monday, May 13
In my dream I'm on stage with State Park. Matt grabs an oversized megaphone and takes it over to his mic where he uncharacteristically adds blaring vocals to our song "Witches," then misses his horn cue at the end. After it's over we calmly discuss it for a minute as the crowd grows restless. Sensing this, I get on the mic and try to recover with some stage banter: "We were just making some notes. You guys like notes? I write tons of notes every day…"
After work I drive to Lowe's to buy one more 2"x8"x8' for a pair of Leopold benches I'm building. "Measure twice, cut once" is the old adage, but I fucked up one of the larger pieces on my first bench and now I have to buy another eight feet of lumber to gain the 33 extra inches I need for the second one. My versatile little Hyundai has transported plenty of lumber, but today a freak shift causes the board to bounce up off the dashboard and crack my windshield. The cost of this second bench just went up by several hundred dollars. It's a setback that would have sunk my mood most days, but the weather has been so nice and I'm enjoying my spring projects. I shrug it off and go home to set up my tools. I’ll sort the windshield out later.