Weeknotes: April 28 – May 2, 2025
Monday, April 28
Taking a break from my A-Z listening, I put on Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon, an album so famous I sometimes forget to listen to it. Growing up, Floyd was hands-down my favorite band. My early fandom coincided with their Roger Waters-less revival, and in 1988 my parents took me to see them play at the Palace of Auburn Hills. I was 11 and my neural pathways were wide open for the pomp of a big art-rock stadium show. The lasers, lights, projections, fog machines, flying pigs and airplanes, and most of all the music… I assumed that's what all rock shows would be like from that point forward. Between us, my brother and I collected all of their albums, read articles in guitar magazines, and learned everything we could about Floyd's different eras, from Syd Barrett's woeful decline into mental illness and the deep experimentation of the early-'70s on into the peak commercial period that stretched from Dark Side to the The Wall.
I'm remembering all this because I saw the new 4K cut of Pink Floyd at Pompeii – MCMLXXII on the big IMAX screen yesterday and it blew my mind all over again. When I saw the Becoming Led Zeppelin documentary at this same multiplex in February, I was one of about eight paying customers and expected something similar for Pompeii film. I was a little shocked when the theater filled almost to capacity with rowdy, excited fans for a Sunday matinee. After the slow-zoom opening shot of the band beginning "Echoes" in the empty Roman amphitheatre, it kicked into close-ups of David Gilmour and Rick Wright harmonizing and they became my favorite band all over again.
Today the neighbors are getting a new roof. There's a lot of hubbub on the block. I run five miles and officially kick off the training schedule for my next race which is at the end of summer. I prefer running in the shoulder seasons, but this one fits my schedule and I've never run it before. A new challenge.
Weeknotes: March 17–21, 2025
Monday March 17
It's Islay's 11th birthday, today. My dog and both my parents are now firmly in their senior years. Mom calls to tell me they've hired some arborists to fell a few trees in their wooded backyard. Slated for execution is Dr. Pepper, the massive white pine that grew directly outside my boyhood window. I don't remember why I named it Dr. Pepper — I was only four when we moved there — but it's become a beloved landmark and feels like an extension of the house.
When my parents started building in 1981 they spared this tree and cut a hole in the deck around it. As its circumference grew, my dad enlarged the opening until it reached a crossbeam, then he found a way around that problem too. It has been our primary shade tree and its evergreen needles have danced outside my old bedroom window for as long as I can remember. It became a popular destination for flying squirrels.
We all love Dr. Pepper, but he too is now a senior who stands perilously close to the house. My dad is afraid it will fall on the roof, an emergency that would be tough to handle. I understand it's time to say goodbye. My mom's voice caught when she told me the news. The house will look significantly altered next time I visit, but I'm grateful for the warning; I'd hate to be caught off guard.
At the brewpub a folk band is doing their best with some Irish tunes. I'm at the far end of the bar drinking an obligatory St. Patrick's Day beer. To my right is the kitchen service window where a hand periodically delivers plates of fried food onto the stainless steel shelf and rings a bell. My parents text my brother and I photos of Dr. Pepper's dismantling which are a little heartbreaking. They've found an old photo of my dad just after they bought the lot, standing next to the tree with only the foundation of our house behind him. The next image is of him today standing on the deck next to its broad stump. Everything changes. So long, Dr. Pepper.