Weeknotes: July 6–10, 2026
Monday, July 6
The downtown library is crowded with other refugees charging devices and working on laptops. I am one of nearly 350,000 DTE Energy customers who lost power during Friday night's storm. At the time, I was 200 miles away in Benzie County, setting up for a gig after two nights of camping on the Leelanau Peninsula. The weather up there was lovely.
Today, the downed power line at the end of my block is still sparking and smoking on the curb, cordoned off by yellow emergency tape, but otherwise unbothered since its explosion almost three days ago. It's like a less-endearing Neil the Seal: troublesome, potentially lethal, but exciting to watch.
Last night, Nick and I drank scotch on a dark porch a few houses down, chatting with neighbors who claim to have heard that DTE were recruiting French-Canadian electrical workers from across the border. Makes sense that they’d seek reinforcement, but the French-Canadian part seems dubious — were none available from Ontario? My mind forms an image of a lively Québécois lumber camp popping up on our street, mingling aromas of woodsmoke and maple syrup as flannelled men scurry up the poles, shouting instructions in French.
It’s late afternoon and I'm dozing on the bed, unaware my electricity has just been restored. Nick sends a text from next door: They did it!!! Ooohhhh, Cannnnnn-ada! I don't know who is actually responsible, but I'm happy to give our Northern neighbors credit.
Tuesday, July 7
Over a late lunch I watch Egypt rise to the occasion against Argentina, holding Lionel Messi & Co. scoreless until the second half when the wheels finally come off. Incongruous with the Spanish-language telecast and stadium full of foreigners is John Denver's "Take Me Home, Country Roads," playing over the P.A. Everyone sings along. Group singing is such a special aspect of global sports fandom. Having the World Cup in North America this summer has been an unexpected joy.
Wednesday, July 8
I'm at a volunteer event with my co-workers, weeding and spreading woodchips around the playground at Esch Park. During one of my wheelbarrow trips, I notice a small metal plaque embedded under a tree: Thomas Naughton, A Happy Boy, 1993.
Later, as I’m walking down the hill from the brewery, a man rides by on a fat tire bike. On his back is a small iguana, clinging to his black t-shirt. A Snapple delivery truck clatters over the train tracks beside them and I worry about the iguana startling at the noise. Somehow, I don't think this is its first bike ride.
Thursday, July 9
The band text thread informs me that Bonnie Tyler has died. As a kid in the '80s, "Total Eclipse of the Heart" seemed like a ubiquitous cornball power ballad, its melody inescapable. Over time, I've come to love it as much for its melodrama as its commanding performance. It holds a strange power. A tiny Welshwoman with ragged vocal fry, Bonnie really sold it. "Holding Out For a Hero" hasn't aged quite as well, though I do still love "It's a Heartache." R.I.P., Bonnie — forever’s gonna start tonight.
After a tedious day of work, Nick and I drink German doppelbock in his backyard. He shows me a late period Sears catalog he worked on when he lived in Chicago. He was the photographer's assistant, but also appears as a model, holding a drill and wearing safety goggles and work boots.
Friday, July 10
I walk with my green polka dot umbrella under bright sun and rain, a fox wedding. A couple blocks away is a small gallery, accessible by a hidden side street and unpaved alleyway. Avery Williamson's bright canvases radiate with vibrancy and colors I find irresistible.
The rain has stopped, but its moisture lingers, close and hot. Several blocks further into town I step into a cool, dark book store to hear my friend Scott Beal read from his new book of poems. I met Scott at a songwriting retreat in the U.P. about eight years ago. In 2023, he invited me to serve as artist-in-residence at the Lloyd Scholars for Writing and the Arts where he is director. His poetry is intense, occasionally funny, and sizzling with wild humanity.
Before bed, I listen to an old Afro-beats compilation and read John U. Bacon's book about the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. On page 259, I'm astonished to come across a familiar name. Dr. Gerald Waite is only mentioned in passing, but seeing him in print stops my heart for a moment. Just last September I was drinking beers on his patio in Harvey, Michigan, after running the Marquette Marathon. Gerry's daughter Nora is an old friend of mine and over the past 20 years I've come to know and love the entire extended Waite family. He died this past January.