Weeknotes: December 1–5, 2025

Monday, December 1

Even though it takes place on Christmas Eve, I don't remember thinking of Gremlins as a Christmas movie. Rewatching it now, the first thing I notice is that it was obviously filmed in California, and that the small town of Kingston Falls looks a lot like another fictional '80s town. Apparently, Back To the Future was also filmed on Universal's Courthouse Square backlot. Kingston Falls is Hill Valley, but coated in a layer of fake snow. 

As a kid, I didn't question the set design — I just wanted to see Stripe plow the grumpy WWII dude over with his own tractor. I also didn't question why Phoebe Cates stuck around at Dorry's Tavern to serve all the bad gremlins alcohol and smokes — I just laughed at them getting drunk and doing dumb human things like playing cards and singing along to Snow White. Now, though… I’m afraid Gremlins just isn't very believable. 

Tuesday, December 2

I'm re-reading Russell Davies' Do Interesting, the handy little book about creativity that led me to start this blog. If anything, it's even more inspiring the second time around. Among its nuggets of advice is the oft-repeated phrase: do it now. I'm more of a dreamer and spend a lot of time working ideas out in my head. If something marinates long enough, I’ll take action, but I’ve always wanted to be a more effective do-it-now person.

I've chased affirmations of action my whole life — when I was 24, I had an exclamation point tattooed on my wrist so that when I looked at my watch, I would receive a secret message of action: time is passing (aka do it now). That was almost 25 years ago, and I'd say it works maybe 25% of the time. Still, I'm still glad it's there.

In the spirit of do-it-now, I spend the first 30 minutes of my morning designing a simple sticker idea I had during my run last night. I then surprise myself by ordering a stack of them. No hesitation — Idea > Action > Completion.

Wednesday, December 3

"Next victim."

I'm at Burger King, picking up a 10-piece Door Dash order for a guy named Walter. It's been snowing for two hours and I want to go home. I've already reached my earnings goal for the night — this is my last delivery.

"We need more Whopper meat," shouts a line cook. They're woefully understaffed, but the guy behind the register (likely the manager) has brought his personality to work. He quips to a family of four, whose bored kids are ping-ponging around the room, "Any children left alone in the restaurant will be put to work. I'll have to shave their heads and they will learn phrenology, but they'll be taken care of."

Behind him, affixed to the stainless steel wall, is a sign that reads R.E.A.P. (Restaurant Employee Advancement Program). I nominate him.

Thursday, December 4

Tonight is a supermoon. I'm conscious of this as I finish my workday and make dinner. I keep peeking out the kitchen window where I expect it to rise, but see nothing. I'm looking in the wrong direction. At 6:30, I find the moon out my bedroom window. It's pretty big. I get another look while I walk over the river, then up to the bar. 

Through a thing veneer of tonic, I drink my glass of gin. Better than the other way around, I guess. Mary and John are here, and Elly, who I haven't seen in ages. My bandmates, past and present — people I love. In this formation, along with bassist Scott, they are Mary's band, Child Sleep, and they’re about to play a show across the street. The past few weeks have been a hustle — I could use a night out with friends.

Friday, December 5

My daily running route passes the post office, so for the first two miles I clutch a stack of Christmas cards to be sent out. When I lived in Saline, I had easy access to a mailbox a block away, but I now live in a postal desert. Maybe a mailbox isn’t a feature you prioritize in your neighborhood, but I am a frequent sender of things, and rely heavily on the U.S. Postal Service. I could hand them to Charlene, the postal carrier who so patiently tolerates Islay’s viscious barking every time she steps onto our porch, but today our schedules don't align. From the sidewalk on Hamilton, I hop over a snowbank and into the drive-through lane, where I feed my cards into the blue chute, then dash off, unburdened.