Weeknotes: July 6–10, 2026
Monday, July 6
The downtown library is crowded with other refugees charging devices and working on laptops. I am one of nearly 350,000 DTE Energy customers who lost power during Friday night's storm. At the time, I was 200 miles away in Benzie County, setting up for a gig after two nights of camping on the Leelanau Peninsula. The weather up there was lovely.
Today, the downed power line at the end of my block is still sparking and smoking on the curb, cordoned off by yellow emergency tape, but otherwise unbothered since its explosion almost three days ago. It's like a less-endearing Neil the Seal: troublesome, potentially lethal, but exciting to watch.
Last night, Nick and I drank scotch on a dark porch a few houses down, chatting with neighbors who claim to have heard that DTE were recruiting French-Canadian electrical workers from across the border. Makes sense that they’d seek reinforcement, but the French-Canadian part seems dubious — were none available from Ontario? My mind forms an image of a lively Québécois lumber camp popping up on our street, mingling aromas of woodsmoke and maple syrup as flannelled men scurry up the poles, shouting instructions in French.
It’s late afternoon and I'm dozing on the bed, unaware my electricity has just been restored. Nick sends a text from next door: They did it!!! Ooohhhh, Cannnnnn-ada! I don't know who is actually responsible, but I'm happy to give our Northern neighbors credit.
Weeknotes: May 4–8, 2026
Monday, May 4
Winter semester ends after my morning class. No homework for almost four months, a joy I never thought I'd relive at 49. I plant the morning glory seedlings along the back fence, then sit barefoot on the grass drinking a beer and reading Gavin Francis' Island Dreams.
All evening I play the bongos. I'm trying to match the random changes of an arpeggiated synth part I recorded nine years ago. I map it all out, edit together a take I like, then overdub three more on top of it. A storm cell passes and the lights flicker. Today I achieved all of the Four Rs: Run, Write, Read, Record. A banner day.
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.
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