Weeknotes: August 4–7, 2025
Monday, August 4
I dreamed I was in a sitcom. There was a daffy character who liked to get her hair cut at cheap department stores and carried around a little green book that was assumed to be some kind of positive affirmational text. Just before I woke up, another character went to spy on her while she sat in the department store salon. The big reveal was that the little green book was actually a gambling how-to titled Let It Bet — she had a severe gambling addiction. End of scene.
I drop off my car at the mechanic's for another pricey repair then catch a ride home from Donald. On the way back to Ypsi we stop at DJ's Bakery on Packard where I get a rainbow sprinkle doughnut to offset my automotive woes. Later, I bum a ride off my brother to go pick it back up. We listen to the Ghettobillies, an Ann Arbor band we played shows with in the last century. Our two bands had little in common except that we were both misfits with no obvious music scene partners — this and a shared sense of humor resulted in an oddball pairing and camaraderie that lasted several years.
About a half mile from the mechanic we come across a road block that wasn't there this morning. I release Jamie from his brotherly obligation and walk the rest of the way. In front of the violin shop where I worked for 15 years a fire hydrant is gushing a jet of water into the storm drain and the driveway is being dug up — there seems to be a broken water main. I have a long history of walking up and down this road which is also home to the studio where I have made every one of my albums. It's mostly industrial (S. Industrial Hwy.), but I have great affection for this part of town and particularly this road. It still feels like home.
Tuesday, August 5
The robins are gone. I'm an empty nester. Last night I watched mama feed her two fledglings who had almost outgrown the nest tucked between two spindles above my front porch. One little dude was perched on the lip as if martialing his courage to take that first leap. Can you imagine being a week old and deciding to jump off a building, hoping the instincts you don’t even know you have will kick in?
The air quality gets progressively worse throughout the day. I run seven flat, frictionless miles on the indoor track at my college's fitness center. That's 56 laps — eight per mile. I keep track on my fingers. I tried a couple miles on the treadmill over the weekend, but it was abhorrent. At least I'm pushing air around on the track. I listen to the audiobook of Kim Stanley Robinson's Red Mars on my headphones. It fits the mood — I could be running inside a space station or a domed city in the shadow of Olympus Mons. The marathon is in 25 days — I haven't managed a long run for over two weeks. The AQI looks tolerable on Friday. If it stays that way I'll run no matter the forecast.
Wednesday, August 6
I'm reading two books. The first is Whiteout, the fourth in Ragnar Jónasson's Dark Iceland series which follows young detective Ari Thor of the tiny Siglufjörður police force. Although I never made it to Siglufjörður or the north part of the island, the Icelandic landscape and customs seem familiar to me now, having traveled there in May. Reading these books has kept me connected to that trip and somehow extended it throughout the summer. Reading is its own form of travel. There's another of Jónasson's books that shows one of the Vestmannaeyjar (Westman Islands) on its cover — visiting those islands was a highlight of my trip and I'm sure I'll read that book too.
The other book I'm reading is Stephen King's On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft. My brother was a big King fan when we were young, though I only ever read a couple of his novels. Of course, I appreciate his cultural impact, but sometimes I find my way into an author's catalog by way of a memoir. Such is the case here. I'm only a third of the way through, but already this is a witty, informative, and inspiring book. Maybe after I plow through the Icelandic novels, I'll go on a King spree and catch up on what I assume everyone else in the world has already read.
Thursday, August 7
Today on the A–Z listening project a stack of Pete Seeger records awaits. Most were recorded in the late-'50s, all of them for Folkways. Among them are volumes one through five of the American Favorite Ballads series. I'm a Seeger fan, though not to the extent my collection suggests. These are part of the Penny Brackett collection, a substantial haul of LPs I inherited from an ex-girlfriend's mother in the late-'90s when she decided she was done with vinyl. I also have a very distinctive autoharp given to me by that same ex-girlfriend's father which once belonged to Detroit folksinger Chuck Mitchell, ex-husband of Joni Mitchell. For years I was under the impression it was actually Joni's — who knows, maybe she strummed it a time or two. Regardless, it's a prized, if seldom-used possession. To date, it appears on just one recording of mine — if you listen to "Plough King," you can hear me playing it like a zither, plucking each insistent half-note throughout the song's front half.
As for Penny's record collection, it's a wonderful gift I've engaged with quite a lot. Most recently, I noticed her name scrawled in ballpoint pen on the jacket of the Rolling Stones' Their Satanic Majesties Request. I've sold some of it off over the years and I don't know if all the Seeger records will make the cut — that's a lot of solo banjo and vocals to get through — but it's hard to let go of this treasure, especially Folkways titles which are so aesthetically beautiful.