Weeknotes: June 16–20, 2025
Monday, June 16
"Those metal things you smash with a hammer to secure a loop of metal cable?"
"Ah, I know what you're talking about. Ferrules?"
"Yes! Pity the ferrule."
I'm at Ypsi Hardware where they translate pedestrian into practical. I leave with two small ferrules, costing $3.10. It's the summer of thrift. I want to spiff up the yard, but I'm trying to rely on stuff that's free, cheap, or already in my possession. Last Saturday was the College Heights neighborhood yard sale, the sequel to Normal Park's where I procured the two metal fish now swaying in my garden. Held back-to-back on the first two Saturdays of June, College Heights is usually as lively as its predecessor, though it seemed to me a little diminished this year.
On the ride there I found a $20 bill on campus and took it as a good omen. I spent $2 on a lemon muffin from a platter of homemade pastries on Roosevelt Street. Next, I bought a bird feeder I didn't need for $5, and immediately regretted it. I cruised down beautiful Cambridge Street, one of my favorite little neighborhoods in town, then west to Collegewood where, leaning against a tree with a "free" sign attached, was the hammer rail of a small upright piano. Jackpot.
Unlike last week's fish, this prize could not be transported under one arm or strapped to my bike rack. I hammered out several fevered messages to nearby friends with cars and Greg was my first responder.
Tonight's goal is to mount the piano hammers along the back fence behind my fish. With a pair of old tin snips I slowly maul the end of some steel cable that was once a zipline leash system I'd bought for Islay. She hated it and after only a year it was mercifully knocked down by a large branch during an ice storm. I stuff the frayed ends of cable through my two ferrules and smash them closed, creating a wire mount on the back of the hammer casing. With these three whimsical items — the two fish and the piano guts — I now have the beginnings of a sculpture garden.
Tuesday, June 17
The watermelon I cut up this morning is a dud. I'll eat it, but it's not nearly as sweet as the last one. You never know, do you. I stood there at the supermarket stand and slapped it a couple times listening for… for what? Hollowness? An echo? A heartbeat? I'm sure farmers and fieldhands know the sound of a properly ripe melon, but most of us are just guessing. We give it a tentative smack, pretending we know what's up, but feeling a little ridiculous. We place it in our carts, usually the first one we handle, and hope for the best.
I'm hoping refrigeration will improve its blandness. Or sometimes, when the juice pools at the bottom of the bowl, whatever sugars there are end up marinating the lowest level and then you have to rotate the rest of the chunks to get an even coating. When I bought this one, I noticed a small stand selling watermelon-branded knives. They looked like smallish machetes with red handles and green plastic sheaths. Don't be fooled by this racket. I use a serrated bread knife to half, then quarter my melons, then switch to a chef's knife for slicing, removing the rinds, and cutting into cubes. You don't need a cheap machete dressed up in team watermelon colors.
Wednesday, June 18
A morning thunderstorm takes down a decent sized limb from the tree of heaven out front. It makes a perfect landing on the sidewalk, avoiding my car, front porch, and driveway. Long ago, someone allowed these weedy trees to reach maturity around my neighborhood and with their compound leaves and claw-like branches, they resemble dumpier, more sinister walnuts. They also produce an unpleasant, meaty, peanut butter scent. I don't hate them, but I don't love them either. Donald, who owns my house, really hates them. When he bought the place, he was so irritated by their constant sprouting around the lot that he filmed a tree of heaven documentary out of spite.
I step out into the post-storm steam and spend about 30 minutes clearing the debris from the sidewalk, dragging it into a stinky pile out back. The humidity is visceral — the Louisiana bayou come north on a Midwest tour of terror. I'm already drenched and I haven't even started my run.
Storm cells threaten for the rest of the day. While I consider whether or not to drive out to the Ann Arbor Summer Festival, I'm reminded of July 2008 when Great Lakes Myth Society was scheduled to headline. The forecast was dismal, but we arrived in our full suited regalia and went through the motions of loading our gear into a tent while they deliberated what seemed like an obvious decision to cancel. A local charity had booked the tent and provided full catering. Stranded as the storm howled around us, we were treated to a free buffet, resulting in this photo of Fido and Scott which might be my favorite band photo of our career.
With much less delay, I learn that tonight's performances are cancelled. I'm playing there on June 29, the festival's final day. Hoping for the best.
Thursday, June 19
A wren is moving into the birdhouse out back, loudly announcing itself to neighbors and furnishing its new home with a selection of the finest twigs our yard has to offer. When I cleaned it out this spring, I pulled out a literal cube of densely compressed sticks. I love these industrious little birds. The day is cool and overcast, a brief respite from the heat which will return this weekend to form a "heat dome" over much of the U.S.
At work I finish up my edit of Bono's biography. Say what you want about him, the guy is remarkably consistent. He's still in a band with his three high school friends, he's still married to the woman he met when he was 13, and he has remained a staunch champion of social justice causes since before U2 was even famous. The dude can afford to have an ego. While I was working on it, I remembered an Entertainment Weekly feature from the '90s describing Bono stalking the stage looking like a "Celtic Popeye." It still makes me laugh.
I write my quarterly newsletter to my email list. I've had some form of this list since I started performing around age 16. Back then it was a clipboard with a sign-up sheet for mailing addresses. I called it Tim Worldwide. I designed postcards with my upcoming dates and mailed them out to fans every few months. It morphed into an email list sometime after the millennium. Now it's a "campaign" and I use Mailchimp. I still think of it as Tim Worldwide, though. If you want to join Tim Worldwide, scroll down to the footer on this website and add your info.
Friday, June 20
It's already heating up, but tomorrow's forecast looks worse, so I knock out my long run in the morning. 14 humid miles, the last three in light rain. I listen to Michael McDonald's memoir, the one he wrote with Paul Reiser, and when it gets to the section where he's running around L.A picking up session work, I think of the great Rick Moranis sketch on SCTV where he has to keep popping in and out of the studio to sing backup on Christopher Cross' "Ride Like the Wind."
Above I-94 near Willow Run Airport the Blue Angels are doing a rehearsal demo — four sleek jets flying in formation while two more race in and out of vision, pulling off insane aerobatic maneuvers. One pierces a low cloud then quickly reappears in a vertical climb leaving a trail of smoke like an exclamation point. It's the start of the annual Thunder Over Michigan air show and I've heard them practicing in the skies over my house for the past two days. I've ridden in a few zippy prop planes, but can't imagine the G-forces of a supersonic fighter jet. Those pilots have to have guts of iron.