Weeknotes: March 3-7, 2025

Monday March 3

I'm on Spring Break this week. The last time that happened was 1997, by which time I'd already been a college dropout for a year. I joined a group of friends on a weeklong trip to Hilton Head, South Carolina where we drank impressively and agitated the local retiree populace as only drunken youth can.

This year, my friend Serge invited me on a weekend road trip to Newport, Kentucky to see Robyn Hitchcock at Southgate House Revival. It’s the successor to the late Southgate House, a grand old pile that for decades served as a staple of the indie rock touring circuit until its abrupt closure in 2011. GLMS played a show there sometime in the mid-2000s, though my memories of it are hazy. We opened for an Oregon band called the Stars of Track and Field in the tavern room and played mostly to the staff. We might have caught a couple strays who wandered in for a beer, but neither band had any fans there. Somewhere there's a photo of me in one of my occasional touring moustaches posing next to an oil portrait of some colonial chap who may or may not have been the manor's original inhabitant. 

The revival occupies an old church just a few blocks away and carries some of the original’s historic gravitas, even if it feels like a work in progress. But, a santuary seems like a good fit, especially for Hitchcock who was in top form. His set consisted almost entirely of requests, a detail I didn't learn about until I overheard his partner, Emma Swift, asking fans at the merch booth if there was anything they'd like to hear. I can hardly remember the songs I've just practiced, let alone dredge up curios from the distant past; this gig would be my nightmare. In fact, I've probably had this nightmare. But Robyn was game, and as a result I got to hear songs I never thought I'd hear live, foremost among them the timely "Don't Talk To Me About Gene Hackman," a cut so deep it was the second of two unlisted secret tracks buried at the end 1999's Jewels For Sophia. He closed with the Soft Boys gem “Queen of Eyes,” a song I’ve included in my own set many times. As an encore, he unplugged his guitar and paced around the congregation leading a sing-along of the Beatles’ “A Day in the Life.” My kind of sermon.

The next day we drove an hour east to see the great Serpent Mound, a 1,348-feet-long effigy built thousands of years ago, probably by the Adena culture. The gates were closed when we arrived, so we took our chances and trespassed on foot. Relative to this country's size, America has preserved so few of these ancient earthworks. Past a small visitor center and rickety observation tower (closed for repairs) the curving burial mound stretched serenely out of view, bordered by a paved footpath. With no one else around, it seemed especially peaceful and we grokked it with reverence for its prehistoric creators and apologies to its present-day stewards, the Ohio History Connection. 

Tuesday March 4

I must have slept like the dead. I can feel the effects of rest in the hair on the back of my head, extending outward in bedhead anarchy.  My coffee tastes extraordinary this morning. A reward for living. It's a vice I get to enjoy every single day and I sometimes can't believe how lucky that is. 

I'm reading Hannah Burr's Field Guide to Ambiguity. Like its subject, the book's layout is soft and vague with each concept branching out into dozens of different cross-referenced menus. My instinct is to read it linearly, but like a choose-your-own-adventure story, it asks me to do otherwise. Without any classes, I feel a little softer this week and I want to lean into it. Can I allow myself some ambiguity?

At the office, attendance is higher than usual. I have other errands to run, but can't resist stopping in for a free paczki. I catch up with co-workers I haven't seen in a while and paw through a small stack of promos. I'd heard whispers of an unused standing mat which I locate in a spare room under two heavy boxes of CDs and an artificial Christmas tree. On my way out I announce "I'm taking this standing mat, this Dio Holy Diver reissue, and this paczki." On cue, a co-worker picks up the thread "... and that's all I need. Except this ashtray, this paddle game, and this remote control…"

Returning from a late afternoon run I hear a seagull calling high above my house. Hardly a rarity, but they're uncommon here in town. It's enough to turn my head. For the first time in years, I'm excited about spring migration. I got into birding in my early-20s and was obsessive for many years. I lugged my Audubon, Peterson, and Kaufman field guides everywhere and made annual spring trips to Point Pelee to look for unusual migrants. At some point during the past decade, it faded from my life. At least the seeking part. I still love birds and try to identify them when I'm out, but I rarely make special birding trips anymore. During the pandemic, so many of my friends took up the hobby, one of the more positive outcomes of lockdown. Identification has been made much easier with Cornell’s Merlin app, though there's a part of me that appreciates having had to learn the hard way. 

Wednesday March 5

What a mercurial day, see-sawing back and forth between rain and sun. I watch the puddles out my office window and try to gauge the breaks. During a quick flare of sunlight, I throw on my running gear and get moving, but it's already gray and windy by the time I'm on the road. At home, waiting in my inbox is the following message: 

Unfortunately, you have not been selected in the drawing to run the 2025 TCS New York City Marathon, nor have you been selected in the NYRR Member-Only Second-Chance Drawing if you met the eligibility requirements. 

Ouch. I had hoped this was finally my year. I've entered the lottery six times, but my number never gets called. I'm disappointed, but I know I'm not alone. There are thousands like me who got this same email today. How many years have they been trying? I didn’t get into the Chicago Marathon either, my other white whale. But, there are other big November races I haven't yet run which aren't in such high demand. Maybe I could try for Philadelphia, Indianapolis, or Richmond. 

After work I put on my raincoat and walk up to the brewpub for a conciliatory beer. I sit by the window writing in my notebook and reading my Iceland travel guide. In the empty half of the room near the stage, a white-haired gent riffles through a stack of papers, occasionally talking to himself, then tests the P.A. in short little musical bursts. A few diminutive puffs on a harmonica, the buzz of a mic cable being plugged in, a short strum on a guitar, then nothing. He drifts away to chat up another table. Outside, a man in a wheelchair waits outside the transit center across from the strip club.

It’s dark now and I detour to a nearby pizza shop known for its adventurous menu and ramshackle appearance. Above the counter are poorly printed photos, one of them of something labeled "Rice Experiment" in black pen. On another wall is a picture of an unappealing juicy brick called "Detroit PBJ." The inventions here are generally very good, if poorly presented. 

Thursday March 6

Today is my mom's birthday. She and my dad were born 27 days apart and they've been together since they were 16. It’s pretty incredible. I’ve never seen two people more devoted to each other. I'll see them tomorrow at our gig in Dixboro. We have a surprise song worked out, one of her favorites. 

At work I listen to Ghost's new single “Satanized” while updating the bio for some bland CCM act. After that it’s a bunch of ball-capped country bros singing hacky songs about their trucks. It’s tough going, but we have to cover all genres with the same professionalism. That’s the job and I’m glad to have it.

Later, I get out for my fourth run of the week. Of all my good habits, running has taken the biggest hit since I added school into the rotation. Something had to take a backseat. I'm still bummed out about the New York race, but maybe I can get a running streak going to help lift me out of these late winter doldrums.

At night I pull a box of old lyric journals out of the basement, curious to see if there are any worthwhile scraps that would stand up to contemporary scrutiny. I'd like to collate my older notebooks into some kind of archive; I didn't really develop any kind of organizational hierarchy until the past ten years or so. Some of these date back to the '90s and very little of what I read is useful. I see some early sketches of songs that made it onto albums along with ones I developed for years, but eventually abandoned, usually for good reason. So much of it is just embarrassing and it puts me in a dark mood. I lay in bed wondering if I should burn them. We like to think the good stuff is what will be remembered, but legacies are managed.

Friday March 7

The backyard is a mud pit and the driveway rutted with tire tracks which have unearthed some primal scent that Islay is obsessed with. I have to run out in my boots to stop her from licking the mud. I keep a junk towel and tupperware container of soapy water in the laundry room for cleaning her feet when she comes in, but it's futile. Paw prints are a spring feature of my kitchen floor.

Our gig is packed. It's a tiny space and there aren't enough seats or tables for everyone who showed up. I should be thrilled, but it makes me feel anxious. Midway through the first set, things fall into place and I start to enjoy myself. So many of my favorite people are here. We sing Gillian Welch's "Acony Bell" for my mom with CC taking the lead harmony. I watch my mom singing along like a beam of sunlight.

The second set is loose… it always is. Laughter, false starts, weird banter, a thinning crowd. I've been careful all night, but on the last song, my injured fingernail catches on a string and tears almost all the way off. It's a gruesome finale, but I don't miss a beat and no one seems to notice the blood on the floor. As soon as we're done I find a bandage in my bag and quickly cover it up.