Weeknotes: December 8–12, 2025
On top of my day job, schoolwork, and the countless creative tasks I assign myself every year, I’ve picked up a side hustle as a Door Dash driver to earn some extra holiday cash. It’s a lot, but it has helped me pay off a few unexpected bills and offered some security I need right now. A few nights ago, I was navigating up an icy path, delivering some sandwiches to Glencoe Hills Apartments, when a woman stopped me. “Hey. Slow down.”
Her voice barely registered. “What?”
She looked me in the eyes. “Slow down. You’re gonna get there.”
I paused, mumbled a thank you, then hustled forth to complete my delivery. Later in the week, as I was careening toward year-end burnout, I thought again about the encounter. Maybe she’s just a keen observer of body language, but something about my energy must have seemed manic enough for her to flag me down.
As we tumble into the heart of the holidays, it’s a good reminder to take a breath and allow yourself a little grace. I’ve got some leave coming up and I’m going to hit pause on Weeknotes for the rest of the year. If the mood strikes me, I may toss up a bit of miscellany, but otherwise, I’ll see you in 2026. Cheers! -TM
December 8–12
The pale sun casts oblong beams across the rug. My mind drifts. I'm working through a desultory data project, but really I'm miles away… possibly in Argentina. Should I visit South America next year? Does anyone go to Ushuaia in the winter? I mean their winter, which is our summer.
More snowfall, mixed with rain, followed by another freeze. Still, I'm thankful for the winter weather. It's not even the solstice yet, but we’ve had such abundance. I can’t remember the last time we had such a white December.
The mood on campus is anxious and festive as end of term approaches. I have just two more classes before the holiday break.
In the evening I bake honey cardamom granola and listen to Jo Stafford's Ski Trails. I think of it as a Christmas album, but it's not explicitly so. It's more a collection of winter standards: "Baby, It's Cold Outside," "Moonlight in Vermont," "Winter Wonderland," "By the Fireside."
I intermittently read stories from Gary Budden's Hollow Shores, but get swept up in Will Birch's more sensational pub rock chronicle, No Sleep Till Canvey Island. I knew nothing of the great Brinsley Schwarz Fillmore debacle of 1970. I'm a sucker for wild tales of the pre-internet music industry and this one is a doozy.
My annual rejection notice from the Chicago Marathon arrives on Thursday. How many years does one have to enter a lottery before some mercy is shown? I’ll now pin my hopes on New York, a lottery I’ve lost even more times than Chicago. Meanwhile, out of the roads, I'm diligently maintaining about 20 miles per week, trying to get to 1000 for the calendar year. I'm sitting at 955. No problem.
At the post office, a departing customer wishes her friend in line a merry Christmas. She then notices the five of us queued up behind her and adds "and to you, and you, and you, and you…" I'm gone maybe 20 minutes, but when I return home, Islay has gotten into my giftwrap supplies and eaten a pile of red and gold ribbon along with the entire plastic spool it was on. The vet closes in 40 minutes and it's about a 25 minute drive. We arrive just in time for the doctor to induce from her a shiny, festive vomit. I cancel my Friday evening plans and ferry my sad, woozy dog home for a quiet night in.
ODDS & ENDS:
AllMusic has published its annual Year in Review. A number of the pieces carry my byline. Turnstile's Never Enough was a near-unanimous vote among colleagues, but many of the others are personal favorites I lobbied for. Brìghde Chaimbeul, Duo Ruut, Faten Kanaan, Hayden Pedigo, John Southworth, Shrunken Elvis, Steve Gunn, Tristen — all are highlights of 2025 and worthy of your attention.
R.I.P. the great Raul Malo. I saw the Mavericks once in Ann Arbor in the mid-'90s — his voice really was magnificent.
During a lengthy wait at the doctor’s office, I stumble on the paintings (and poems) of Gary Bunt. My socks are charmed clean off.
