Weeknotes: May 26–30, 2025
HAIKU EDITION:
Monday, May 26
9:35 AM
High school marching band
Fires up "You're a Grand Old Flag”
I watch from my bike
11:20 AM
Summer tools sorted
The shed's condition is now
Satisfactory
2:30 PM
Just above the dam
Two eagles on the river
Warm sun on my back
Iceland: The Sweet Sunny North
That title, “The Sweet Sunny North,” refers to a pair of Norwegian folk compilations by David Lindley and Henry Kaiser, though I thought of the phrase often while traveling through Iceland. I arrived in this subarctic country appropriately layered, anticipating the wind, rain, and mercurial weather shifts I’d spent months reading about. After the fifth straight day of sun, it was clear I’d landed during a fluke season. This was confirmed on my last day in Reykjavík by a pair of young Icelanders in a gift shop who proclaimed it their sunniest spring in years.
Weeknotes: May 5 – 9, 2025
Monday, May 5
I'm spending another morning with Pink Floyd, this time working on a review for the Live at Pompeii soundtrack that came out last Friday. I re-familiarize myself with some biographical material and stumble upon their early single "Point Me at the Sky." I'd completely forgotten about this song, a fantastic bit of late-'60s psych-pop with shared vocals between David Gilmour and Roger Waters. I loved it when I was young, though it was a rarity that could only be found on bootlegs. I credit Wazoo Records in Ann Arbor with introducing me to the bootleg scene. They had a special cassette section where, if you knew what you were looking for, you could find strange compilations of unreleased live material, non-album tracks, and other oddities from a multitude of artists.
I still have a David Bowie compilation with a photocopied cover that includes a version of him singing "All the Young Dudes," the song he wrote for Mott the Hoople which, incidentally, was the first song I ever learned how to sing and play on guitar. I'd been playing for a couple years by that point, but didn't yet fashion myself a singer. I was about 12 when my guitar teacher, Mike Lutz, taught me how to play "All the Young Dudes," and it was the most complex chord sequence I'd learned to date. I remember feeling a great sense of satisfaction once I'd managed to separate my unformed voice from my strumming which felt like a creative version of patting your head while rubbing your belly. Before that, I assumed I'd be the guitarist in a band with someone else acting as lead singer, as was the custom in most of the hair metal bands I listened to at the time. Being able to handle both was a revelation to me. I can see now that I've followed that path ever since. I love collaboration, but if I can find a way to take care of something on my own, that's how I will probably do it.
Later on, I take my guitar to the luthier for what I've now accepted to be its regular seasonal adjustment. I've had this Martin 000-15M for two years now and its mahogany body is so much more sensitive to humidity and weather shifts than my old birdseye maple Shenandoah. I played that guitar hard for 30 years and, apart from replacing the bridge about ten years in, barely ever had it worked on. It's as sturdy as they come. The new 000-15M fluctuates all over the place, though when the action is right, it's a joy to play and hear. I hope it settles into itself at some point, just like I did.
Weeknotes: March 10–14, 2025
Monday March 10
The day rises bright and clear, an hour later than it's supposed to. Daylight Savings has begun and even though I enjoy the brighter evenings, it makes the mornings feel rushed. I put Grace Jones' Nightclubbing on the turntable and dive into Monday stuff.
CC sends me my horoscope from an app she uses:
Timothy Monger wants to push the limits today. Distract the museum guards while they kiss a painting.
I spend the afternoon with some co-workers volunteering at a local food bank. We sort giant bags of carrots and pack up about 120 boxes of dry goods. It's satisfying labor, but I wouldn't say I pushed my limits. Mostly, I just feel tired and can't figure out why. It's 65° and sunny when I get home. I sit in a camp chair in the yard finishing out my workday. To my left Islay assumes her customary position at the foot of the driveway, already in warm-weather mode.
March is a tricky month. You get warm days like this, but the sun is not itself. It's harsher and more unrelenting, glaring over dead lawns strewn with winter's detritus.
Here are some nice birds I've already seen this week:
Bald Eagle
Pileated Woodpecker
Harlequin Duck
Weeknotes: March 3–7, 2025
Monday March 3
I'm on Spring Break. 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.
Weeknotes: May 27–31, 2024
Monday, May 27
Riding through Frog Island, I awkwardly balance a mug of coffee in one hand, its contents sloshing against the clear lid. The ratatat of a snare drum echoes across the amphitheater's bowl. At the confluence of pedestrian bridges under Cross St., I turn right, then walk my bike up the hill to meet the band. American Legion Post 282 has a tradition of pausing the Memorial Day Procession -- they are adamant about calling it a procession, not a parade -- in the middle of the bridge and honoring lost mariners by dropping flowers into the river below. I stand next to a group of curious Girl Scouts leaning over the cement barrier and listen to the volunteer band play a shaky hymn. After the selected Legionnaires and Daughters of the Revolution send their bouquets over the edge, the bandleader stands in his Chuck Taylors and blows "Taps" on his bugle. Thirty seconds later the three gun salute startles me and I'm clearly not alone.
Even though the parade is not well advertised, I feel ashamed by the scant turnout. There are more bodies in the procession than there are spectators, making it feel somber, rather than celebratory. I'd planned on bowing out after the bridge ceremony, but given the circumstances I decide to bear witness to the whole thing. My dad is a veteran. Someone has to show up. I ride up River St. ahead of the procession to Highland Cemetery whose stoic iron gates I've run past hundreds of times. I've always meant to explore the grounds, but somehow haven't made the time since I moved here.
I love cemeteries. They are places of respect where all residents are basically on the same level. The most elaborate mausoleum has no real advantage over the humblest headstone. Everyone's journey is over and their remains are all mixed together among the shady hardwoods, watched over by the same squirrels and birds. I ride down a lane past the groundskeeper's barn and feel a flash of yearning to make that my profession. I'd keep a good cemetery. But, they don't need my help. Highland is a gorgeous and well-maintained place.
After the speeches and ceremony around the Civil War memorial I wander back to my bike leaning against a giant oak. A small banner with Lionel Richie's face on it and a "Hello" caption is planted next to a nearby headstone. Humor reminds the living we are alive. As I'm wheeling towards the exit I see in the distance a young girl in rollerblades careening down one of the blacktop lanes, arms windmilling. She cruises onto the grass and somehow recovers her balance, no harm done. Her father and dog follow unhurried down the hill behind her.
Weeknotes: February 26 – March 1, 2024
Driving home through western New York. The ski trip was mostly brown and warm. The brown Allegheny River and National Forest, brown leafless trees on hills of brown earth. At the resort white strips of man-made snow rolled like avenues down the mountainside, a bright tarmac of ice, slush, and gritty false powder. I loved it anyway.
We cross the bridge over Chautauqua Lake which so enchanted me the first time I saw it back in 2000. After lunch at a Lebanese restaurant in Mentor, Ohio, we detour to the Mentor Lagoons, a nature preserve bordering Lake Erie. A beaver-felled tree, its stump like a sharpened pencil, lays not ten free from our car. It's the second one I've seen on this trip.