Weeknotes: March 9–13, 2026
Monday, March 9
Esteban reclines on a peninsula of sunlight, his black fur illuminated and glossy. I pet him the length of his body and remember someone once telling me this reminds a cat of being groomed by its mother. Suddenly, it seems strange not to know anything at all about my pets' parentage. When we found Esteban, he was a feral kitten surviving in a drainage ditch outside K's office.
It was about a year after we adopted Islay, the runt of a litter of puppies being trampled over by her siblings in a crate at a Tractor Supply store. In my mind, their stories begin with me — typical human arrogance. Of course they both had mothers who cleaned and fed them until circumstances brought them into my life. How strange to call myself the parent of these wonderful little beings.
The temperature rises into the low 70s — a healing balm. After my run, I sit on the porch finishing Heather Rose's book, The Museum of Modern Love.
The purple house across the street is up for sale. I walked through it during a weekend open house, unlocking new rooms in the mental map of my surroundings. It's much more spacious than I expected. I wish I could afford to buy it — everything is so expensive right now.
I linger outside until the light begins to fade, listening to the sounds of my neighborhood: the see-saw tones of the bus door opening a block away, an eastbound train, a seagull calling over the river.
Weeknotes: March 2–6, 2026
Monday, March 2
The ancient editorial program we use for work is almost unusable this morning. We're in the process of beta-testing its successor, but right now I'm caught in the drying amber of the original's slow decline. While the next entry on my screen loads, I try to stay productive in other arenas, scheduling a band practice on my phone, using a different computer to send emails and design a logo. It's an ineffective and exhausting workflow; nothing gets done as well as it should.
Outside, the sun glares over bleached lawns — March's signature look. I take Islay for a walk and think about Jonathan Richman twirling his guitar and dancing snake-hipped at the edge of the Vickers Theater stage. On Saturday, Greg and I drove three hours across the state to the little town of Three Oaks to hear him play. At 74, Richman still seems so youthful and vibrant, a rare specimen of preserved health and creative spirit. I've always loved his self-titled 1989 record and of course the first Modern Lovers album. I figured he would be good live, but I had no idea how special and whimsical it would be. Halfway through the first song, I thought to myself: this is one of the greatest performances I have ever seen.
Before and after the show, Greg and I set up shop at the Tom Cat Tavern, just down the block. At breakfast the next morning, I realized I'd left behind my favorite woolen scarf, gifted to me by friends after their visit to Ireland. When we got back home to Ypsi, I called the Tom Cat and confirmed proof of life. Unless I can convince them to mail it back to me, I have another three hour road trip in my future.
At six o' clock I go for a run through town and listen to Alvvays. Molly Rankin's voice sounds like a beam of light. Behind the old Michigan Ladder Company building the moon rises, pale and full.
On Break: Back Soon
Weeknotes: February 16–20, 2026
Monday, February 16
Before my A.M. class, I break my routine and just play guitar for an hour. It has a regenerative effect, and I spring to life like Popeye with his spinach. For the first time in weeks I feel creative and capable, ready to face the day.
Later, I drive into Kerrytown to spend the remainder of a gift certificate at a shop that sells a mixture of art supplies and eclectic home goods. Of practical use to me is a small box of Kaweco fountain pen refills. Otherwise, the items I buy are unnecessary, but attractive in a way I can only explain to myself. A silver candle snuffer with a hinged bell and a sheet of tiny stickers depicting a mysterious city.
Weeknotes: February 9–13, 2026
Monday, February 9
On the television, a hulking blue-clad figure slips down the mountain, video drones screaming overhead, capturing the bird's eye view of his 80mph descent. "He's loose as a handful of sand," says color commentator Steve Porino. At six feet tall, Italian skier Dominik Paris is a mountain of a man, nicknamed "King of Bormio" for the number of World Cup wins (seven) he's claimed in this locale. He's also the frontman for groove metal band Rise of Voltage. Despite his dominance in alpine skiing, he's never made the podium in any of his four previous Olympic appearances. This is his fifth and final shot. He takes home the bronze.
Weeknotes: February 2–6, 2026
Monday, February 2
"I hate how good it is."
I just poured two fingers of Kirkland Signature Islay Malt Whisky, a birthday gift from my brother, who misses no opportunity to troll me for my aversion to Costco.
"Is it ok?"
"It's legit Islay malt… tastes like Laphroig."
"Put it in a different bottle."
"No, I will participate in your cult, albeit second hand."
I'm also wearing the Costco Wholesale sweatshirt he got me for Christmas two years ago — I won't be seen in public wearing it, but I loathe to admit it's become my preferred house hoodie.
I don't understand the Costco obsession so many of my friends have. They'll spend 30 minutes comparing notes about the impressive blocks of cheese, bulk frozen ravioli, or in this case, repackaged booze they managed to score, all of it emblazoned with that godawful black and red logo. Am I just a grump? I appreciate a bargain and I know they have a decent reputation, but being inside a Costco is an aesthetic nightmare. It makes me feel 20 years older.
Maybe I will pull out my decanter after all, and give this good whisky the home it deserves.
Goodbye 8036
Throughout her life, my mom has made a lifelong habit of correspondence — thank you notes, birthday cards, holiday cards, messages of sympathy, congratulations, or simply to say "I was thinking of you." I inherited this trait from her. I love sending and receiving mail. I always have stamps on hand and a box of notes ready for any occasion.
I began renting P.O. Box 8036 at Liberty Station in the summer of 1999. It's located in the vestibule of a downtown federal building that opened in 1977, the year I was born. At the time, my band was about to release our first album and we needed a business address to serve our administrative needs. Eventually that band ran its course, as did its predecessor, though we continued to list 8036 on subsequent legal documents. Over time, it became the de facto address for all my various enterprises: the Original Brothers and Sisters of Love, No Bitings Records, Great Lakes Myth Society, Northern Detective, Timothy Monger State Park.
Weeknotes: January 26–29, 2026
Monday, January 26 - Thursday, January 29
I walk the frozen city through trails that telegraph its residents' means and desires. The clean, sharp-edged channels of business who can afford a plow service terminate in white berms at property lines. Their residential equivalents usually extend the length of the block in neighborly harmony. Elsewhere, tidy lanes shoveled by hand taper into rough footpaths, then open back up again. You can identify the fastidious digger by the amount of cement showing underneath — they've been out more than once. The latecomers and reluctant shovelers' paths are lumpier, but at least they made an effort. All of it is stitched together in a patchwork of cooperation and need.
Weeknotes: January 19–23, 2026
Monday, January 19
I dream intensely, though when I wake, I can't remember any details. While the dark recedes, I stand with my coffee at the window, watching a snow squall whip down the street. Today is Martin Luther King Jr. Day — no work or school, though I end up devoting time to both.
In the afternoon, I drive into town to buy ink cartridges for my printer. Arctic winds shoulder my little car as I try to stay in my lane amid the blowing snow. Minutes later, sunlight pierces my dirty windshield — it's a day of extremes.
Weeknotes: January 12–16, 2026
Monday, January 12
Winter semester starts bright and clear. On WCBN, the DJ is playing a block of Bowie tunes — "Cat People (Putting Out Fire)," "Look Back in Anger," "Heroes." Great Lakes Myth Society recorded a cover of "Look Back in Anger" many years ago with our friend Stirling, but it was never released. It was produced by Mike E. Clark of Insane Clown Posse fame.
I feel anxious about so many things lately, but today I'm nervous about the amount of work I'm taking on. Career, school, gigs, recording projects, this blog. I've been able to maintain it all well enough over the past two years, but the classes are getting more advanced and I'm not good at removing tasks from my life. I only ever seem to add more. There's a lot of winter left — I have to make sure it's not a joyless slog.
I pull into a parking spot behind a silver sedan whose license plate frame reads "I'm Speeding Because I Have to Poop."
Weeknotes: January 5–9, 2026
Monday, January 5
Driving west on Cross Street, there is a police barricade just past the Domino's Pizza. Typical Ypsi drama, I think, and detour around it. At the vacuum cleaner store I present two of my kitchen knives for sharpening. Why is that a combo — vacuums and knives? The woman in front of me is having a new motor installed in her KitchenAid mixer. I guess they do a little bit of everything.
I need to drum up a some cash for next week, so I spend the next hour Door Dashing. At La Marqueza Taqueria, Jodi B's order isn't ready yet, so I wait on a stool and listen to a young AT&T salesman make an awkward business pitch to the cashier. I get the sense that everyone in the room — even the salesman — is just waiting for it to be over. Despite the lateness of her order, I get a small tip from Jodi.
At home, I pull out the red plastic milk crate that holds all my percussion toys. I lay down shaker, maraca, tambourine, and vibraslap parts, but when I listen back, I realize I've accidentally left the monitors on — there's a ton of bleed and I have to track them all again. Meanwhile, my phone is blowing up. Behind that police barricade on Cross, a man with a sword is holed up inside his house after a neighborly dispute. When officers first arrived at the scene, he brandished his weapon at them. The standoff has now exceeded 20 hours. Typical Ypsi drama.
Weeknotes: December 29, 2025–January 2, 2026
Monday, December 29 – Friday, January 2
Silver days and cozy nights. The illness that tugged at my throat just before Christmas reached its crescendo on Sunday, then persisted to a lesser degree through the new year. It ran parallel to a week of dazzling snowstorms, reminding me of childhood winters, sledding hills, and runny noses. I always seemed to have a cold during the holiday break. I even spent a night in my boyhood bedroom, house-sitting for my parents, re-examining my hometown, and hiking snowy segments of the Penosha Trail. I bushwacked my way to the reedy edge of Deidrich Lake, frozen over like I remembered it, though not enough for skating. The next morning I stood on the high ridge above Mt. Suicide, a classic thinking spot from my earnest teenage years.
New Year's Eve, stepping from the ambient glow of Andy's bar into the December hush to find the Frog Island pathway draped in a mat of virgin snow. That's how you start a new year — you make your mark on a blank page. My footprints mirrored the river then crossed over it at my favorite bridge. At home I hugged my pets and said good riddance to a year of tumult and chaos.