Weeknotes: July 21–25, 2025
Monday, July 21
I love it when the teller sends your check for a little ride on the scanner. Watching it loop around the bend is my favorite part of visiting the bank. So many transactions happen invisibly, I think I'm just excited when I see something happen in front of me. Like the satisfying thump of a rubber stamp.
Twenty minutes later I'm at Barnes & Noble buying yet another copy of Ann Leckie's Ancillary Justice for a friend's birthday. I was like this with Becky Chambers' The Long Way To a Small, Angry Planet — every book lover I knew got a copy on their birthday or at Christmas. At the top of the escalator, I take a few hasty steps down, then realize I'd rather enjoy the free ride. The breadth of the store comes into focus around me and I feel some nostalgia for the pre-digital world when a big chain book store felt like the gateway to possibility.
My next stop is less inspiring — Dick's Sporting Goods, another box store in a strip mall. I've been here three times this summer and whenever I walk through the door Aerosmith's "Dream On" is playing. That can't be a coincidence. But why would this gritty 52-year-old rock ballad be a cornerstone of the Dick's playlist? Aren't there other more appropriate jock jams, even within the Aerosmith catalog? What about "Walk This Way" or even "Sweet Emotion." Does "Dream On" sell more tennis rackets?
In Saline I help K hang a couple shelves and we share a pizza. Across the street working in her garden is my old neighbor Kay. She lost her husband in the fall of 2020 while I was still living there. We all loved Doug. He was one of those affable small town neighbors — friendly, helpful, funny, a reliable presence on our street. I still send Kay a Christmas card every year, but haven't talked to her in ages. I walk over and we catch up for a while. She says she's turning 87 on Friday. I make a mental note to send her a birthday card too.
Tuesday, July 22
Once every year or two I go golfing. I have a set of hand-me-down clubs from my dad in one of his old bags with some scuffed-up balls and a few ancient tees in the front zipper pocket. I'd meant to get them out and go to the driving range to get a few swings in before our tee time, but never got around to it.
I drag the golf bag out of the shed and apply a dampened paper towel to its exterior. How many of our seldom-used objects have been hastily cleaned with some paper towel that's been run under the faucet for a couple seconds? It's just enough to remove the most offending cobwebs and top layer of dust and somehow we think, "eh, good enough."
Wednesday, July 23
I'm listening to the broadcast of the Tigers' day game against Pittsburgh. My team is in a bad way since the All Star Break, continuing a skid they started in early July. Rookie Troy Melton is on the mound for Detroit making his MLB debut. During a pause in the game I hear "All aboard… hahahaha!" Randy Rhoads' "Crazy Train" riff blazes out over PNC Field — Ozzy's legacy is felt even in American baseball stadiums. R.I.P. Prince of Darkness.
After work I spend an hour trying out ideas for a podcast intro I've been hired to write. I build a beat inspired by the B-52's Whammy! album which I've been listening to a lot this week. I think it might be my favorite of theirs. No other band could have written "Butterbean" or made "Legal Tender," a song about counterfeit money, sound oddly nostalgic.
It's poster night in Ann Arbor. I park in Kerrytown next to North Star Lounge and ride my little Penny skateboard up to Liberty so I can hit the main corridor. I make it all the way up to State Street to put one up at Wazoo Records, but I've chosen the one day of the week they're closed. I make it to all the other record stores, though. At Liberty and Thompson I'm taping one up on a light pole and overhear a passerby say to their partner "that's a nice poster!" People in Ann Arbor seem to like the big A2 logo I made for this show.
Back in Kerrytown I drop off my last four posters at the venue on the corner of Catherine and Fifth. I notice Serge's van parked behind his office across the street and send him a message. Over a beer and salad we talk about bands, bandmates, road trips, and Ann Arbor stuff. We make plans to go kayaking at Little Island Lake next month.
Thursday, July 24
I can't express how excited I am to leave my phone behind in the car. Ghost announced a no-phones policy for this tour to encourage fan engagement and enhance the live experience and I am 100% in. It shouldn't be a big deal — most of my formative shows were experienced this way, but the modern addiction to connectivity and documentation is so pervasive that, as we walk up to the arena, I find myself mentally noting the various missed photo opportunities I'd have likely posted on Instagram. Two men dressed as monks adjusting their rope belts in a doorway, a white robed Jesus, slutty nun costumes, all manner of ghouls in black and white facepaint, black Ghost t-shirts in every iteration.
I feel buoyant entering the arena without the anchor of my device. I'm just here with friends to enjoy the pomp of a big rock show. We lucked into some fantastic seats, stage right near the front of the lower bowl with great sight lines. Inside people are laughing, chatting with each other, no one is looking down at their hands or taking selfies. Like me, they're gazing around the room, enjoying the pageantry of the costumes anded warm communal vibe that a metal show offers. As one of the few people wearing a wristwatch, I'm frequently asked the time. At 8:07, the house lights go down and the place erupts. While the choral intro to "Peacefield" plays, the band is presumably emerging behind the giant ragged black curtain. A Nameless Ghoul kicks plays the opening guitar riff and Papa V Perpetua in his metallic mask appears on the two large screens. He sings the first two verses with the band still obscured, then all of a sudden, BAM!, the curtain drops and the ritual has begun.
Friday, July 25
A morning of procrastination. Tasks are deferred, and when I do finally tackle them I feel ineffective. This is the pattern of the day and I accept it. I drive around Ann Arbor in search of a few auxiliary items for a camping trip that begins on Sunday, but come up short. At the supermarket I forget to buy several key items. The Tigers' losing streak continues with a 2–6 loss to the Blue Jays. Sorting my camping gear feels daunting. It's an unsatisfactory Friday. At dusk I give up and lay in the grass drinking a cocktail watching the fireflies.