Weeknotes: March 2–6, 2026

Monday, March 2

The ancient editorial program we use for work is almost unusable this morning. We're in the process of beta-testing its successor, but right now I'm caught in the drying amber of the original's slow decline. While the next entry on my screen loads, I try to stay productive in other arenas, scheduling a band practice on my phone, using a different computer to send emails and design a logo. It's an ineffective and exhausting workflow; nothing gets done as well as it should.

Outside, the sun glares over bleached lawns — March's signature look. I take Islay for a walk and think about Jonathan Richman twirling his guitar and dancing snake-hipped at the edge of the Vickers Theater stage. On Saturday, Greg and I drove three hours across the state to the little town of Three Oaks to hear him play. At 74, Richman still seems so youthful and vibrant, a rare specimen of preserved health and creative spirit. I've always loved his self-titled 1989 record and of course the first Modern Lovers album. I figured he would be good live, but I had no idea how special and whimsical it would be. Halfway through the first song, I thought to myself: this is one of the greatest performances I have ever seen.

Before and after the show, Greg and I set up shop at the Tom Cat Tavern, just down the block. At breakfast the next morning, I realized I'd left behind my favorite woolen scarf, gifted to me by friends after their visit to Ireland. When we got back home to Ypsi, I called the Tom Cat and confirmed proof of life. Unless I can convince them to mail it back to me, I have another three hour road trip in my future. 

At six o' clock I go for a run through town and listen to Alvvays. Molly Rankin's voice sounds like a beam of light. Behind the old Michigan Ladder Company building the moon rises, pale and full.

Tuesday, March 3

My Dream Job: Being Me

This is written in my Moleskine notebook, dated just over a year ago. It's taken me a long time to understand that the behaviors, preferences, and quirks that represent me to the world are my greatest assets. I waste so much time worrying about unmet goals, making wrong choices, and the fear of inertia that I often forget to offer my bouquet just as it is and expect it to be enough. Why is that so hard for most of us? I think again about Jonathan Richman — his job is absolutely to be himself. Some people just can't help it, though it's probably hard for them too. I don't know. All I can say is that his personality and charisma were so apparent the moment he stepped onto the stage, it hardly mattered what he played. I was there for him.

After work, I walk into Depot Town to the old barracks building which now houses a restaurant with a decent happy hour. In the parking lot, I pass a black Subaru that someone is clearly living out of. The rear gate is open to reveal a wall of tightly packed bins and bags. An unruly nest of additional belongings festoons the roof rack. A few feet away on the ground, a small propane stove is boiling some water. I can't tell if they're living rough or living free. I've road-tripped all over the country, sleeping in my car, making meals in parking lots. It can be a grand adventure if it's a choice rather than circumstance.

Wednesday, March 4

I stand in front of my house in the damp chill, feeling adrift. The world is so chaotic, it's hard sometimes to just get on with the daily business of living. Islay refuses to walk, so we head back inside. I hang her leash on its peg and take off my boots and coat, a process we’ll repeat several times throughout the day. On the bed, Esteban stretches languorously. I stick my face into his black fur and remember to be thankful. It's like I pressed a button — the sun immediately comes out. 

Over lunch, I read Heather Rose's novel The Museum of Modern Love which centers around Marina Abramović's performance art piece The Artist is Present. For 75 days she sat at a table inside the MoMA atrium, silently facing a succession of volunteers who waited in line to sit opposite her and stare into her eyes. She took no breaks, ate no food, drank no water, and made few movements aside from the occasional shoulder roll. Abramović was 63 at the time. My back hurts after a morning working at my desk. I can't imagine the stamina required to complete this piece.

Marina Abramović (Andrew H. Walker/Getty Image)

Thursday, March 5

I'm trying to write rock songs again. I have two in development, no demos yet, just me hammering out the parts on my guitar throughout the day. I can feel myself trying to get too clever with both of them. Sometimes I struggle to play it straight, especially when it's not a folk song. Not everything has to be like XTC or Squeeze, though I often love it when it is.

In the evening, I meet up with some coworkers to volunteer for a shift at the Ronald McDonald House next to the children's hospital. I'm a little nervous because I'm not much of a cook, but the six of us manage to fix a nice meal for the families staying there. We finish a little ahead of schedule and in the fading light I take a walk through the Arboretum, past the dormant peony garden and down to the river. The hospital lights glow through the bare trees. I interrupt a pair of raccoons who pause mid-tree to gaze down at me. Standing at the water's edge, I recall lashing my kayak to a nearby log about six months ago. It was the day before fall semester began and I was trying to get one last adventure in. After paddling upriver from Gallup Park, I laid on my back on a wooden bench, pine boughs latticed over my head, wondering what this winter would be like. I had no idea.

I listen to WCBN on the drive home. The DJ is playing a set of different versions of "Sweet Georgia Brown," one after another. The same song, yet such variety within each iteration. I can't help but think of the Harlem Globetrotters who used it as their theme song.

Friday, March 6

Today is my Mom's 81st birthday. We talk on the phone and have a good laugh. Two of her best friends are taking her out to lunch at a local cafe, then my dad is taking her out to dinner at Outback Steakhouse. That's a busy social schedule. I'll see her this weekend. 

By early evening, the temperature rises into the upper 50s. The fog has mostly burned off and I go for a run in my shorts and come home sweating. In Saline, K and I watch the Paul McCartney documentary, Man on the Run. Paul has always been my Beatle. A true North Star of creativity.

Driving home just ahead of a thunderstorm, lightning strobes the route ahead of me. I make it home just before the sky opens up and go to bed early. 

I dream I've been reluctantly drafted into playing bass in a jam band. I'd gone there to sell an amp to someone, but when a busload of fans shows up, I know I'll have to sit in and play. No rehearsals, unfamiliar gear, a set list of Grateful Dead classics. I'm more nervous about being away from Islay all night than I am about the gig. I keep trying to tell the guitarist that I have to go home to feed my dog.