Weeknotes: June 1–6, 2026
Monday, June 1
Light rain falls on the crew resurfacing South Elm Street. Greg and I watch the procession of heavy machinery from the front window of the Oaks Eatery. Black coffee, Nueske's bacon, roast potatoes, two eggs over medium, and a pancake. I think the single pancake, as a toast alternative, adds a measure of pizzazz to the day ahead.
Last night we returned to Three Oaks to retrieve my favorite yellow scarf, accidentally left behind after the Jonathan Richman show in February. For three months, I mailed postcards addressed to My Yellow Scarf c/o the Tom Cat Tavern, offering reassurance and reminding it to behave: We'll talk about your drinking when you get back.
"Can we keep the postcards?" asked the bartender, handing me a paper bag labeled "Tim's Scarf ♡." I certainly don’t need them. We stayed for a couple pints, and I thanked them for putting up with my shenanigans. I considered intentionally leaving behind another article, but through better of it. In the evening we drove to Sawyer to hear Marisa Anderson play songs from her new album at Out There, a wine bar and concert venue built in a converted Shell service station.
Weeknotes: May 11–15, 2026
Monday, May 11
I lie down on the grass next to Islay, whose dark fur stores the sun's heat like a solar mat. Not for the first time, I try to memorize the feel of my dog's body, the shape of her head, her floppy ears, and gray muzzle. I hope I can give her a fun summer.
At the studio in Ann Arbor, Geoff and I mix tracks for my upcoming EP. One of them, a percussive instrumental synth piece, is giving me trouble. It needs one extra element, maybe not even an actual part, but some kind of sonic layer. Earlier in the day I tried some random tones from the little Casio CT-1, then a few hoots from a clay ocarina. I'm grasping. A field recording of the local university alert system comes closest. Its repeating chimed notes match the song's key, but the recording is too clean. It needs to be scuffed up somehow.
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.