Weeknotes: March 23–27, 2026
Monday, March 23
I awaken from a dream about living in a wall tent dormitory with an unexplained desire to listen to Scott Walker. I put Scott 3 into the CD player and brew coffee to the discordant strings of "It's Raining Today."
In 1996, my brother and I were obsessed with Razor & Tie's Scott Walker anthology of the same name. I remember the two of us sitting in my car outside the Fisher Building in Detroit, grooving to "The Old Man's Back Again," before taking the elevator up to the studios of WJR-AM. We were musical guests on The Mitch Albom Show, an honor that involved being completely ignored by the two co-hosts and frantically self-editing about 20 seconds of live performance into the gaps after each commercial break. We never met Mitch, who was broadcasting from the East Coast that day. After one of the breaks he made fun of my falsetto which I admittedly overused back then. I still think of this every time I see one of his books in a grocery store checkout lane.
All day I'm beset by abstract weariness. I yawn self-consciously through my morning class and subsequent errands. At the vet I pick up a prescription for Trazodone, hoping it might curtail Islay's destructive chewing. I suspect it’s just boredom, but I haven’t ruled out seperation anxiety. Bolstered by two naps, I work steadily all afternoon and through most of the evening, eyeing bedtime as my just reward. When I finally turn in, I revive a credo from a few years ago and say out loud "my favorite part of the day is right now."
Tuesday, March 24
I give Islay her first dose of Trazodone and wait the recommended two hours. She doesn't seem very sedated when I leave. The Polka Dot Bar isn't open yet, so I drive around Hamtramck for a while listening to Led Zeppelin on WCSX-FM — "Immigrant Song" and "Heartbreaker" followed by a lengthy commercial for a local jeweler. This was the classic rock station of my youth and they're still playing the same tracks.
At 8:20 I'm the only patron in the bar. I deliver a stack of posters for my gig next Tuesday and stay for a beer with Linda, a local musician who moonlights as their Tuesday night bartender and books occasional shows. After about ten minutes a regular named Jeff walks in, sets an old camcorder on the bar, and orders a Topo Chico. It's his 38th birthday.
When I arrive home, Islay has gotten into my vinyl collection. Not the loose in-rotation records, but a pair of LPs violently yanked from their alphabetized filing on the shelf. Tom Zé lays face down on the floor, traumatized but unharmed. The original cast recording of You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown, however, has been dealt a mortal blow. I've listened to it maybe twice in the past 20 years, but it holds some sentimental value. I played the lead in a high school production of this musical during my senior year. The Trazodone had no effect — my Snoopy has gone rogue.
Wednesday, March 25
The math class is getting more difficult and my resistence to it has increased. I suffer through lesson on quadratic functions, but the video doesn't make a dent. I have no clue what any of these formulas mean, nor do I want to. Feeling miserable, I give up and go for a run.
At the Spring Street Bridge, lights flare, red and blue — a fleet of emergency vehicles has just arrived. I cross on the south side, avoiding an ambulance unloading search and rescue equipment. Either someone has jumped or fallen into the river. It’s a harsh dose of perspective on a day when I needed some. I will survive MTH-125. People have way bigger problems than I do.
I later learn a 13-year-old boy jumped off the bridge and never resurfaced. I’ll think of him every time I run over that bridge.
Thursday, March 26
The Tigers open their season in San Diego with a commanding 8–2 win. Rookie Kevin McGonigle becomes only the second player in the team’s history to notch four hits in his Major League debut.
Outside of baseball and playing guitar, I give this day one out of four stars.
Friday, March 27
Freshly showered and laundered, I step out into the cold spring evening and head up to the club. This week has been a beast — I feel a severe case of TGIF.
Yellow windows hang like paintings in the marine blue of twilight. I walk slowly, deliberately, and pause for a little while on a bench. An electric car passes, broadcasting its artificial space hum. A group of college kids masses on the opposite corner.
I cut across the vast Ypsi Performance Space lot with its solar umbrella EV chargers and onto Washtenaw. The quality of light makes me think of a project I did for my photography class a little over a year ago. I pass many of the same buildings, looking as enchanted as they did then. From the alley off Washington I enter the club’s back entrance into a room of friends and noise.
* Before leaving the house I gave Islay another dose of Trazodone and set a heavy guitar case up against the vinyl shelf. As an added precaution I covered my library cart with a blanket and made sure she had plenty of treats. Fingers crossed.
ONGOINGS:
I’m finally reading Derek Jarman’s memoir Modern Nature. In the first chapter, I discover we share the same birthday. I love my creative Aquarian brothers: Philip Glass, Phil Collins, John Lydon, Alan Lomax, Derek Jarman.
I mailed a third postcard to my yellow scarf care of the Tom Cat Tavern in Three Oaks. They will either find this exercise charming or it won’t register at all. I’ll find out when I eventually make a road trip out there to retrieve it.
Top Chef is back. It’s the only reality show I watch. So far, I like Rhoda and Anthony.