Weeknotes: June 30 – July 4, 2025
Monday, June 30
The door whispers closed and I am entombed in a lobby of implied wealth. Its forest green rug, dark wood paneling, and brass fixtures signal the superiority of this bank branch over the others I usually visit. Through a second door I emerge to the faint strains of "Space Oddity." The immaculate teller compliments my fragrance and I stand a couple inches taller. I'm just a guy in a baseball cap and concert t-shirt depositing my weekend gig money, but a little theater goes a long way. I carry this confidence into subsequent transactions with the clerk at World Market and the young mechanic who runs the engine code on my 13 year old Hyundai.
Tuesday, July 1
All my running gear is dying at once. I'm two miles into a nine-miler wearing played-out shoes, tattered shorts, and an armband I've sewn back together three times. I haven't had a running watch in two years. They always break. Now my earbuds are shorting out. They’ve been declining over the past two weeks and after pausing to rest under a shady tree, I give up and toss them into a nearby trash can.
In theory, this is a sport that shouldn't require much more than willpower and an adequate pair of shoes, but when you're logging a lot of mileage on hot summer days, the right gear really helps. I finish the run with the only thoughts in my head. I’ll finish my podcast at home.
Wednesday, July 2
Halfway through 2025. Am I doing enough? Am I doing too much? I never can tell. Story of my life.
On my morning run I pass a funky handpainted wooden chair at the end of a driveway on Prospect. I remember it later that evening and drive out to see if it's still there. It is, and it's ridiculous. It looks like a '90s Trapper Keeper and Cool Ranch Doritos had a baby. I put it in my car and drive up Plymouth Road to buy some bourbon at Picnic Basket Market.
Inside, Cyndi Lauper's "Time After Time" plays, followed by Cinderella's "Don't Know What You Got (Till It's Gone)." I remember buying their first album, Night Songs, when I was about nine or ten. It does not hold up. I browse budget whiskeys, looking for Very Old Barton, a thrifty gem that punches above its weight. No dice. I settle for the ever reliable Evan Williams Bottled in Bond and a small bottle of Martini & Rossi vermouth. I’ll mix a budget Manhattan when I get home.
I cruise down the dirt roads of Superior Township listening to the Pogues' Hell's Ditch and pull up behind some MAGA jackass in his pickup truck. His bumper stickers read "My Pronouns Are: We/The/People" and "Climate Change is a Hoax." Fuck that guy.
Thursday, July 3
Even though she seems content crouched next to the neighbors' shed all day waiting for rabbits to emerge, I feel like I haven't been giving Islay the summer she deserves. I put her in the car and we drive out to Cherry Hill Preserve. These are trails we both love, but it's hot out, even in the shady sections. I decide to tack on a visit to Parker Mill so she can cool off in the creek.
Often she takes only a perfunctory dip, then scrambles back up the riverbank, but today her joy at being in water is infectious. She wades out and sits, submerging her whole body while I hop across the river stones keeping hold of her leash. We're halfway up the path to the car when she decides she wants an encore and drags me back down to the water for another go. At home, after giving her a bath, I unfurl a fresh towel in front of the rabbit hole where she sits contentedly, drying off.
Friday, July 4
I sit with my guitar and strum through a few songs-in-progress. I've had a lot of luck over the years writing on holidays. Their elevated status makes them feel special enough to disrupt my regular routines, though I rarely have many plans. I'm also off work. I tighten up the bridge of a song I started back in January, hopefully completing its lyrics. I'll have to sleep on it to be sure.
The Ypsilanti 4th of July parade is a little less robust than last year, though it still lifts my spirits some. A small church brass band plays Michael Jackson's "Thriller." There are Rosie Riveters, Hare Krishnas, Cub Scouts, a belly dancing troupe, the Ladies Literary Society, a fleet of Chevy Corvairs, and two drag queen floats courtesy of Wall Street Towing. Midway through, a big gaudy Trump float goes by with an emcee proclaiming "the golden age is here!" Silence. A few boos.
A yawning gap follows, after which a lone car heads down the hill bearing some unidentifiable sculpture atop its roof. A lumpy, vertical disc of segmented white material abuts a pale brown tower festooned with flopping antennae. We all realize it at once — it's a snail. Someone built a weird, haphazard snail on top of their car and is driving it solo through the parade. No identifying signs or banners. I love this town.