Weeknotes: February 2–6, 2026

Monday, February 2

"I hate how good it is."

I just poured two fingers of Kirkland Signature Islay Malt Whisky, a birthday gift from my brother, who misses no opportunity to troll me for my aversion to Costco. 

"Is it ok?" 

"It's legit Islay malt… tastes like Laphroig."
"Put it in a different bottle."

"No, I will participate in your cult, albeit second hand."

I'm also wearing the Costco Wholesale sweatshirt he got me for Christmas two years ago — I won't be seen in public wearing it, but I loathe to admit it's become my preferred house hoodie.

I don't understand the Costco obsession so many of my friends have. They'll spend 30 minutes comparing notes about the impressive blocks of cheese, bulk frozen ravioli, or in this case, repackaged booze they managed to score, all of it emblazoned with that godawful black and red logo. Am I just a grump? I appreciate a bargain and I know they have a decent reputation, but being inside a Costco is an aesthetic nightmare. It makes me feel 20 years older.

Maybe I will pull out my decanter after all, and give this good whisky the home it deserves.

Tuesday, February 3

The moon: how can anyone put gas in their car, visit friends, or even listen to the radio, when there is this insane celestial body fully visible in the sky? It hangs over the road, glaring and imperious. I imagine never having seen it before. What did humans think before we understood its scientific purpose? What do animals think about it? No wonder the moon is the inspiration for so much mythology. 

At home, Islay has chewed up the polished wooden block I built for displaying records. It was just a simple piece, maybe 5" x 4" x "2, with angled slots — one for regular LPs and a thicker one for double albums — made from the cherrywood my late uncle brought up from Mississippi. It has a twin that I gave to K. Not much of that wood is left, now. 

I feel unreasonably sad about losing this one. I hadn't been using it in recent years, but it had sentimental value.

I lay on the bed with Islay and Esteban staring at the moon's indifferent face out my window.

Wednesday, February 4

Another year, another chance at the New York City Marathon. I think this is my seventh time entering the New York Roadrunners' lottery in about as many years. I've never been chosen, so I usually have a handful of back-up races in mind for when I receive the inevitable rejection, but who knows, maybe this is my year. Someone has to get in — why not me?

After getting her nails trimmed at Petco, Islay and I debrief over a walk at County Farm Park. There are ski tracks on the path, a reminder that I haven't pulled out my Nordic skis even once this season. Many years ago, my friend Roger gifted me a pair of old wooden skis from Norway. Roger was a bit of an eccentric who favored old fashioned pursuits and fostered the look of a classic adventurer. Like me, he loved sea chanteys, though he was an actual sailor with plenty of big water experience and a boat he kept on Lake Huron. Roger once brought a massive enamel cast iron stove to an outdoor wedding and made everyone oatmeal and bacon in the morning. Several times, he offered to teach me to seal my skis with pine tar, but we never got around to it. Roger died of a heart attack in 2020.

My skis are still in decent shape, though I wish I'd learned how to seal them. My old 3-pin boots are another matter. When the soles started separating, I used shoe glue to try and coax them through another season. I no longer trust them. It might be time to finally modernize my kit and join the 21st century. My fear is that I'll spend a bunch of money on new gear and then next winter will be a dud.

Thursday, February 5

In my dream I'm watching a rarely-seen mid-'70 snowboarding video of Paul McCartney. It's bearded Paul with the shearling coat from his first solo album. He's cruising down a mountain at top speed and catches massive air, barely sticking the landing. Another jump lays just past it and he's hardly recovered his balance before launching back into the blue sky and disappearing out of view. It's very dramatic — to think we might have lost a Beatle to winter sports. Later in the dream, I get a chance to ride that battered, historic snowboard, which is broken in the middle from Paul's efforts. The bindings are fitted for regular — I'm goofy-footed — but I think I can make it down the hill.

Two years ago, I shared my first Weeknotes post. I had every intention of baking it a sheet cake when the second anniversary rolled around, but again I forgot. It's a stressor sometimes, gathering my thoughts in writing each day, but I'm glad I've kept up the habit.

Friday, February 6

The Olympics Games open today in Italy. I've always loved the Olympics, especially the Winter Games. Michigan is well-represented this year, with athletes from around the state, including bobsledder Jasmine Jones, who makes history as Eastern Michigan University's first Winter Olympian. 

Despite all our drama, I think this is a good time for Americans to be guests in Europe. I know the IOC is not without its own controversies, but I still think of the Olympics as a unifying event. I'm confident our athletes will be courteous and respectful, and show the rest of the world that Americans and their government don’t neccessarily mean the same thing.