Weeknotes: August 24–28, 2026
Monday, August 24
My evening bike ride into Ann Arbor passes through three different college campuses, including my own. "See you soon," I think, and follow the river up through Gallup Park, where Skyline High School’s rowing crews are already practicing. The entire region is awash in back-to-school energy. I chain my bike to a post on Main Street where, a few feet away, local street artist David Zinn kneels, contemplating a pile of broken pallets. A half hour later, I return to find his signature.
After a beer at the Grotto, I end up at my friend Chris' house in Water Hill, a neighborhood I lived in 20 years ago, before anyone called it that.
Tuesday, August 25
Still no internet at home — for the second straight morning I walk over to the library and work amid the mingling aromas of books, body odor, and surreptitiously eaten food. Not unlike public transport, a busy downtown library is a dynamic space of utility, spontaneity, and a surprising amount of noise. I'm grateful for it, but after lunch, I relocate to the more tranquil Café Liv to finish out my workday.
Wednesday, August 26
I’m in the fourth row, stage left, gazing past the monitor mixer at a rack of Fender and Rickenbacker basses. Last week, my brother stumbled into a pair of VIP tickets to see Rush in Detroit, and I'm his plus one. We're both ecstatic — we grew up with Rush and neither of us has ever had seats like this for a big stadium show. Watching them from such close proximity, we are a little surprised to realize that they are just a band, playing their instruments, messing with their pedalboards, and working hard to entertain a lot of people. It's easy to forget this when you're up in the cheap seats watching the action on a screen. Anika Nilles, the drummer filling in for the late Neil Peart, is outrageously good, a goddess on her throne.
Thursday, August 27
In Nepal, hundreds of people are washed away in flash floods from a collapsed glacier. In Washington, a bitter, old, climate-denying billionaire mumbles some garbage about renaming one of the Great Lakes because he thinks Canada is being "nasty" to him. I'm just so tired of it all. At the end of the night, I post an old photo of myself standing on Lake Ontario's southern shore. A friend who used to follow my band DMs to say "I was waiting for you to say something." I reply "Honestly, my level of outrage has been worn down to a rough callus over the past 10 years, but this one is pretty egregious."
Friday, August 29
Back in Detroit, this time to see Quicksand at El Club. K saw Gorilla Biscuits, Walter Schreifels’ other band, in New York last year, and is now going through her hardcore phase at age 50. I'm down. I'd forgotten how affirming this scene is. The kick drum rattles my torso. Sergio Vega stands at the edge of the stage like a brick wall, playing a Fender Six. Walter is a magnetic leader, a machine gun of positive rage. I've been lucky with the power trios this week. It's a great show.
ETC.
R.I.P. Dolly Parton, an emblem of the kind of American spirit more of us should aspire to. I think the notion that she was one of the only things we could all agree on is fairly accurate.
R.I.P. Tim Curry, another cultural icon I grew up with. Everyone remembers their first Rocky Horror viewing.
I don't know if this is considered semantic satiation, but the word I chew on when it comes up is twenty. Of course, the correct pronunciation is twen-tee, but it more often comes out in some variation of twenny, twunny, or twun-tee. I'm fairly certain that when I use it in conversation, I say twunny, and I hate this about myself.