Weeknotes: August 17–20, 2026

Monday, August 17

The Depot Town parking lot next to Frog Island is finally being resurfaced, a development decades overdue. I get my watch battery replaced at Olde Towne Coin & Gold, then drive west up Cross Street. On the sidewalk outside Sweetwaters, someone in a Totoro costume is hugging passersby. 

At Petco, I buy another jar of expensive hip and joint supplements for Islay. She's been on them for a couple weeks and I haven't noticed any results — I hope they're not a racket. Through the glass window of the salon, I lock eyes with a ginger Akita being aggressively brushed by a groomer. Its expression is serene, almost curious — it's taking the abuse quite well.

After dinner, I spend a couple hours Door Dashing, trying to generate a bit of extra cash to stretch my paycheck. It's slow going, and when I finally return home, I notice the forgotten KFC lemonade in my cupholder. I consider driving the six miles back to my last delivery, but I just don't have it in me. I'm sorry, Jennifer H.

Tuesday, August 18

I ride my bike north past the botanical gardens to a little tavern on Plymouth Road. Soaked in sweat, I step inside to order a beer. The bartender is playing Tom Waits' creepy spoken word experiment "What's He Building in There." As I head back out to the patio, the jaunty rhythm of Magnetic Fields' "Strange Powers" begins to play. I smile to myself, recognizing a fellow head inflicting her eccentric tastes on a helpless clientele. When I head back inside to use the bathroom, she's playing Chico Buarque and Milton Nascimento’s subversive Brazilian protest song, "Cálice." 

I realize it’s been one of those wholly immersive music days. I've been up since 4 AM either listening to it, reading about it, writing about it, or making it. 

I take the scenic route home, riding past the Humane Society, then down Gale Road to Vreeland, where I stop to admire a sedge of cranes in a soybean field. Behind me, insects thrum a wall of sound.

When I arrive home, Jennifer H's lemonade is still in the refrigerator, reprimanding me. I shower and place Bernice's Eau de Bonjourno on my turntable. 

Wednesday, August 19

Shrieks pierce the morning stillness. It's 8:00 AM. I rush to the front window, worried someone's dog has been hit by a car. Instead, I see a rowdy procession ferrying my blindfolded neighbor up the street in a wagon. Their wild shouts and laughter ricochet off the houses in bullets of joy, marking some insular ritual or celebration the rest of us aren't privy to. An hour later, the ruckus returns, then disperses between our houses, leaving only the breeze and distant shock-squeak of approaching garbage trucks.

Later, in the garden level recreation room of her Ann Arbor apartment building, CC and I rehearse for the first time in 18 months. Her daughter turned one last week. We sit together and harmonize on an antique yellow couch opposite a small weight room. It's like being in a deserted hotel lobby.

Thursday, August 20

Detroit's northern suburbs always seem like they're on the far side of the world. Driving from Ypsilanti to Clarkston or Rochester Hills only takes about an hour, but the traffic and complexity of the routes makes it feel like some kind of odyssey. It would take the same amount of time to hop on I-94 and drive west to Marshall, which, as the crow flies, is about 30 miles further away. But, Oakland and Macomb Counties are where all the bandshells are.

Neil picks me up during rush hour and we spend almost 90 minutes trekking up to East Jesus (Sterling Heights) to see three bands at Freedom Hill Amphitheatre. It's an international bill representing three continents: Empire of the Sun (Australia), Polo & Pan (France), and Midnight Generation (Mexico). I'm here for Polo & Pan, a whimsical Parisian house duo whose signature bounce I find irresistible. I never thought I'd get to see them live.

The audience is younger than I expected. The women are uniformly dressed in what I think of as "Coachella Basic," a bland mix of country influencer and mall boho, with cowboy boots, sequined tops, and some kind of scarf or billowy cape. Their male companions just look like regular bros.

Polo & Pan are a delight, but I'm blown away by Empire of the Sun. Luke Steele is a captivating frontman, theatrical, stylish, and charismatic. Visually, their show is all over the place, a glammy pop stew of sci-fi imagery, ancient mythology, elaborate headdresses, and frequent costume changes. The two dancers are fantastic. I go to a lot of small indie shows, so it’s fun to see a bit of pomp and pageantry every now and then.

The drive home only takes us an hour.