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: 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.