Weeknotes: June 10-14, 2024

Monday, June 10

Morning Glory Report

This year’s varieties:

Heavenly Blue
Celestial Mixed
Flying Saucers
Scarlet O'Hara

Seeds Sown (Indoors): April 10
Seedlings Planted (Outdoors): April 30

Notes:

Flying Saucers are this year's overachiever, the first to reach the fencetop summit. The plant is split between two vertical trainers with one vine about 4" ahead of the other. The Celestials are in hot pursuit with thicker, hairier vines that are maybe 6" from the summit. Heavenly Blues' slender vines are about ⅔ up the twine with Scarlet O'Hara having only just begun her climb.

I say it's not a contest, but I go out and check their progress every morning, a favorite summer ritual that's about to be paired with A.M. raspberry picking. With nowhere to else go, the Saucers are about to become airborn, flaunting their windblown freedom. I spend an hour stringing up aerial trainers from the fencetop to eye hooks on the side of the nearby shed. If they continue to grow well, it will create a woven green trellis above the evolving Fronds Lounge.

Tuesday, June 11

I'm taking a break from my bullshit. That's how I'm framing it. Basically, it's just CBT (cognitive behavioral therapy), but the idea is whenever I get a flash of irrational anger or start to engage with one of my many hang-ups, I'll just try to take a break instead. It started over the weekend when I was exhausting myself over some bullshit or another and had the sudden epiphany "what if I took a break from my bullshit?" like I was the first genius to ever realize it was an option.

I begin slowly. A container of leftovers falls out of the fridge, but doesn't spill. No swearing or grumbling, I just put it back and call it a neutral event. These little wins begin to pile up throughout the day.

In the evening I drive around Ann Arbor gathering photos for an essay project, trying hard to remember why I love this city. Parts of town feel almost unrecognizable. Ubiquitous summer construction, more highrises being built over places that once held strong memories for me. It agitates my bullshit, but I dig deep to keep it in check. The twenty-somethings I see walking around are the age I was when I made those memories. Theirs will be of this Ann Arbor. Cities change, life moves on.

I’d like get a chill beer somewhere, but downtown is heroically congested. College towns are supposed to be sleepy in the summer. Back into the matrix of closed streets and detours, I'm diverted down Thompson and forced to take a left on Monroe. I'm funnelled into the heart of campus. Suddenly, an oasis. It's Casa Dominick's, an OG student hangout since the early-'60s. Townies don't go here during the school year, but summers are safe. I buy a Bell's Two-Hearted in a mason jar, noting with satisfaction that they still use their old '90s tap handle with the beer's original logo. I sit in the mostly deserted front patio facing the ornate Law Quad. The white-haired doorman sits on a folding chair, checking IDs and listening to the Tigers game on an old radio. Every now and then the PA crackles to life, "Julius and Steve, your food is ready, Julius and Steve," followed a minute later by a more insistent "Susan, Susan, your food is ready, Susan… Julius, your pasta is getting cold, Julius." On the radio I hear Dan Dickerson’s voice pick up as Tigers’ left fielder Riley Greene knocks in a three-run triple.

It's perfect. My bullshit nowhere to be seen.

Wednesday, June 12

Driving to Chelsea, listening to Geddy Lee narrate his audiobook memoir. I'm a casual Rush fan. I grew up with Permanent Waves and Moving Pictures, but I’m also just an advocate for anything Canadian. It's a perfect summer night, windows down, taking in the country air. CC and I are playing at a benefit concert at the old train depot, a gathering of the regional folk crowd in support of one of its captains, Johnny Williams. I've known some of these people since I was a teenager and others I've maybe met once or twice along the way. I'm introduced to a few new faces tonight. It's always been a warm, inclusive crowd. 

Halfway through the first set I'm standing outside with my guitar chatting about gear with Chris DuPont, whom I met at another folk revue in December 2022. Across the narrow street is an old farm and feed store decorated with tin signs and decades of tchotchkes. The massive white Jiffy Mix silos tower just behind us. It's a unique little town, a still vibrant farm community with a bit of money flowing for arts and culture, some of it thanks to local celebrity Jeff Daniels. CC pulls up and we stand next to the tracks rehearsing our song. 

Inside there are crockpots of homemade soup, a veggie tray, wine, and a cooler of beer. We're the third act of the second set. We play a new song we're both excited about called "Mayor." My guitar work feels a little sloppy, but we harmonize well and it gets a nice response. There's a singalong at the end of the show and as I'm walking offstage I run into Steve Bergman. In 1996, right after I dropped out of college, Steve hired me at his Ann Arbor record shop Schoolkids' Records, starting me on my career path. I have worked in the music industry ever since. I still work with two of my old Schoolkids' expats, one of whom is responsible for getting my band signed to our first label in 2000.

I take the highway home as Geddy talks about Rush's first studio experience and how crestfallen they were by their debut's original mix. Apparently, their first American gig was in East Lansing with the New York Dolls. I love music stories. 

Thursday, June 13

The raspberries are almost ready. I pick some, maybe prematurely, for my oatmeal. Three or four come off easily, but I have to yank the others. They need a couple more days. The tiger lilies are blooming along the side of the house, everything feels a little early this year. It seems like midsummer, but we're not even at the solstice yet.

After work I sit out back on one of the new benches with my guitar trying to record a short promo video for my show in Grand Rapids tomorrow. I blow a couple takes before getting one I can tolerate. Video is not my medium. Not yet, at least. 

"Sounds great!" It's Nick, standing next to his Kia in our shared driveway which I mention in the lyrics of the song I was just singing. He saw me with my tripod and waited until I was done, bless him. The Kia hybrid beeps melodiously when in reverse, one of the many ambient neighborhood sounds I've come to know and appreciate. The train tracks a block away, the chicken coop across the street, the pub just behind it, the nearby bus stop, sirens on Huron, my noisy backyard wrens and chittering squirrels, the Kia backing up, all signifiers of home. 

I thank Nick for his courtesy and sit on the front porch waiting for a storm that threatens, but never comes. 

Friday, June 14

I walk through the deserted distillery to the back patio, but every table is in full sun. "I've changed my mind" I announce to the bartender and pull up a stool inside. The only other patrons are a couple parked at the other end of the bar eating an impressive spread of tacos, tortilla chips, and assorted sauces clearly brought in from another restaurant. I'm hailed before I even get settled. "You like tacos?"

Over a gin and tonic and their leftovers I learn that both are named Jamie (spelled the same way as my brother, so easy to remember) and have been at this bar since it opened at noon. It's 4:30. Jamie (woman) is a schoolteacher enjoying her first weekend of summer vacation. Her daughter will be a sixth grader next year and rides horses. They have a big 4-H meet tomorrow and she compared being a horse mom to being a soccer mom with more responsibility and equipment. Jamie (man) disappears for most of this and I only see him again as I thank them on my way out.

Driving south down Division past Mexican grocers, a pest control business whose large clock shows icons of different pests in place of numbers, and a tire shop with a cart out front bearing the weight of four large bags of onions. I like this part of town. After soundcheck I chat with the other acts then set up my merch on a tall cart provided by the venue. I play mostly new songs, though I only recognize three fans of my own, so I assume they’re all new to the rest of the audience. "Mayor," the one CC and I debuted in Chelsea on Wednesday, continues to get a big response. I think it will become a set staple. 

After post-gig drinks at an English-style brewery, Caleb and I stand around his basement talking about recording set-ups, our bands' shared histories, and our mutual fascination with the murder of John Lennon. I spend the night down there, warned that their old incontinent cat might pee next to me on the floor or bed. I grew up with so many cats, this doesn’t phase me. When I awake at dawn, I remain un-peed-next-to.