Weeknotes: April 20–24, 2026
Monday, April 20
For the second year in a row, Kenyan runners Sharon Lokedi and John Korir win their divisions at the Boston Marathon. Korir sets a new course record at 2:01:52. I do the math; that's a 4:39 pace, four minutes faster than my best marathon effort. Astounding!
Since the Tigers are in Boston, they play the annual Patriots' Day morning game at Fenway, losing to the Red Sox, 6–8. I usually try to log a run of my own on Marathon Monday, but the best I can manage is a brisk evening walk. I put on my dad's old Air Force field jacket and ramble through town, up past the water tower, then loop back home through campus.
This jacket has hung in my parents' closet since my dad completed his military service in the early-'70s. I've seen old photos of him in it, but my strongest memories are of my brother wearing it during his teenage delinquent period.
I noticed it in the hall closet while visiting my parents on Saturday and asked if I could take it home. "As long as you respect it," was my dad's reply. A day later, I showed it to my brother. "Is that the coat I went to jail in?"
Weeknotes: April 13–17, 2026
Monday, April 13
An early spring balm has seeped into the room. My jeans, left overnight on the chair, have a clamminess I associate with deep summer. Outside the open window everything is busy living, expanding, rising. On Saturday, I raked the perimeter of the house, pruning the overgrown sage bush, clearing debris, and pulling up endless bunches of yard garlic. I even mowed the lawn, mostly to mulch the thousands of accumulated twigs.
After my A.M. class, I work at my desk, watching the mercury on my window thermometer climb to 80°. I can’t help but feel like I'm missing out on the season. April 13, and I'm already panicking like it's mid-August.
Back by the fence, I trim back the raspberry bushes and clear old pots from the abandoned garden. I never know what to do with this area. Last year it was a half-baked sculpture garden. I was given a sack of wildflower seeds for my birthday — maybe I’ll till the weedy soil and scatter them. The lilies of the valley are sending up their tiny spears and a single red tulip has bloomed, hidden behind a thorny barberry bush.
Around 8:30, a thunderstorm marches in. Not a lot of rain, but noisy and theatrical. Nick and I stand on our porches, barefoot, talking across the driveway.
Weeknotes: April 6–10, 2026
Monday, April 6
The purple house opposite mine is still for sale. Two mallards explore its front yard — please be my new neighbors, I think.
In the afternoon, Nick appears at my back door bearing the most miraculous gift. "Hello sir," he exclaims, then holds out a white Riva flute case. Inside it is a vintage Casio PT-1, a 13" wonder of monophonic 8-bit joy. Like many kids in the '80s, this was my first keyboard.
I replace its four AA batteries, locate the green demo button among its rainbow array, and press play. Listed in various Casio manuals as "German Folk Song" or sometimes "Unterlanders Heimweh," this jolly little melody is pure nostalgia. A post on the Casio forum traces it back to a German-inspired Japanese children's tune called "Yama No Ongakuka." To me, it simply sounds like Brighton, Michigan, 1985.
For the first time in almost two weeks, I run my regular route through the city and across the Spring Street bridge. A memorial has sprung up for the 13-year-old boy who drowned in the river below. The last time I was here, emergency vehicles were just arriving to search for him. Colorful bouquets are taped to the cold steel rail along with cards and messages. I pause to read some of them, then look out at a pair of mallards, wondering for a fleeting second if they are the same ones I saw this morning on my street.
Weeknotes: March 30–April 3, 2026
Monday, March 30
The young college DJ announces she'll close out her afternoon show with They Might Be Giants' "Birdhouse in Your Soul," an old favorite of mine. There's a period of dead air, followed by about ten seconds of the song's intro, then more dead air. An acoustic guitar track I don't recognize makes a couple false starts, then after another long gap Arcade Fire's "Sprawl II" begins to play. A change of heart, I think, but no — it too goes quiet. An additional seven or eight seconds of dead air (an eternity on radio), then finally, the marquee event: "I'm your only friend, I'm not your only friend, but I'm a little glowing friend…"
There was a time when I would have turned the dial, but I've been so smitten with WCBN lately. As AI becomes more intrusive and our trust in the authenticity of content erodes, I think we are instinctively attracted to what feels human. You can't fake inexperience. Hearing someone fumbling around learning the ropes on live radio gives me more pleasure than the edgeless infinity of algorithmic curation.
A few hours later I'm sitting on a lawn chair outside the back door, squinting at my laptop and enjoying the warm sunny afternoon. Islay stands next to the Mexican blanket I laid out for her, browsing a menu of sticks to eat. All of a sudden a wild turkey runs around the side of the house, sees her, and vaults itself noisily over the back fence. My dog is unphased, but a minute later she goes crazy barking at a guy walking by out front. I wave hello and he asks "did you just see a turkey?"
Weeknotes: March 23–27, 2026
Monday, March 23
I awaken from a dream about living in a wall tent dormitory with an unexplained desire to listen to Scott Walker. I put Scott 3 into the CD player and brew coffee to the discordant strings of "It's Raining Today."
In 1996, my brother and I were obsessed with Razor & Tie's Scott Walker anthology of the same name. I remember the two of us sitting in my car outside the Fisher Building in Detroit, grooving to "The Old Man's Back Again," before taking the elevator up to the studios of WJR-AM. We were musical guests on The Mitch Albom Show, an honor that involved being completely ignored by the two co-hosts and frantically self-editing about 20 seconds of live performance into the gaps after commercial breaks. We never met Mitch, who was broadcasting from the East Coast that day. After one of the breaks he made fun of my falsetto which I admittedly overused back then. I still think of this every time I see one of his books in a grocery store checkout lane.
All day I'm beset by abstract weariness. I yawn self-consciously through my morning class and subsequent errands. At the vet I pick up a prescription for Trazodone, hoping it might curtail Islay's destructive chewing. I suspect it’s just boredom, but I haven’t ruled out seperation anxiety. Bolstered by two naps, I work steadily all afternoon and through most of the evening, eyeing bedtime as my just reward. When I finally turn in, I revive a credo from a few years ago and say out loud "my favorite part of the day is right now."
Weeknotes: March 16–20, 2026
For this week only, It This Something? is reimagined as a zine! An assignment for my Publication Design class prompted this exercise which, apart from scanning the end results, required no computers or electronic devices of any kind. I spent a very pleasant Saturday morning with my Olympia manual typewriter, Polaroid Sun 660, date stamp, X-Acto knife, cutting mat, rubber cement, a couple pens, and my overburdened paper morgue. It was quick and messy, and therefore well outside my comfort zone. Many thanks to my instructor Ingrid Ankerson for fostering the opportunity and to my friend Nick Azzaro for encouraging me not to bail on it when I was about to pivot to something different. I also made a classic black and white photocopied edition, but opted to scan the original version for this post.
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.