Weeknotes: March 30–April 3, 2026
Monday, March 30
A young college DJ announces she'll close out her afternoon show with They Might Be Giants' "Birdhouse in Your Soul," an old favorite of mine. There's a period of dead air, followed by about ten seconds of the song's intro, then more dead air. An acoustic guitar track I don't recognize makes a couple false starts, then after another long gap, Arcade Fire's "Sprawl II" begins to play. A change of heart, I think, but no — it too goes quiet. An additional seven or eight seconds of dead air (an eternity on radio), then finally, the marquee event: "I'm your only friend, I'm not your only friend, but I'm a little glowing friend…"
There was a time when I would have turned the dial, but I've been so smitten with WCBN lately. As AI becomes more intrusive and our trust in the authenticity of content erodes, I think we are instinctively attracted to what feels human. You can't fake inexperience. Hearing someone fumbling around learning the ropes on live radio gives me more pleasure than the edgeless infinity of algorithmic curation.
A few hours later I'm sitting on a lawn chair outside the back door, squinting at my laptop and enjoying the warm sunny afternoon. Islay stands next to the Mexican blanket I laid out for her, browsing a menu of sticks to eat. All of a sudden a wild turkey runs around the side of the house, sees her, and vaults itself noisily over the back fence. My dog is unphased, but a minute later she goes crazy barking at a guy walking by out front. I wave hello and he asks "did you just see a turkey?"
Tuesday, March 31
I miss my exit and am routed through Southfield, a city of gold-tinted office towers which held some vague enchantment in my youth. On rare trips into Oakland County with my dad, these tawny monoliths radiated grown-up importance, but now feel dated in this inner ring suburb.
The evening drizzle is intermittent — just enough to smear, but not lubricate the windshield. I listen to the radio and let my mind roam across the turmoil and anxiety of the past winter. Every time a recurring stressor rears its head I repeat to myself: you are on your way to do something you love to do.
At Polka Dot Bar, I connect with the other musicians and help set up the P.A. The room fills quickly — some familiar faces I haven't seen in a long time, but mostly new ones. As my spirit warms, my worries dissipate. Alison and Emily have generously agreed to let me, the only non-Detroiter, play the coveted middle slot. Their sets are lively and interactive, great songs played with craft and received with joy. Mine goes well too — a pitchy first song and a few bum notes on one of my showpieces, but overall, a set to be proud of.
I meet new people, talk shop, laugh, and feel like part of a community. It's the kind of night that renews one's faith in gigging. I've devoted so much time over the last couple years to my job, writing, school, design, and just keeping up with life's demands. I'm proud of it all, but from a young age my identity was always very plain to me: musician. The simplicity of this title comes back to me tonight.
Wednesday, April 1
Walked along the beach to the shop, the sun a puddled vein of molten silver in a vast amphitheatre of cloud — descending tiers in shades of grey with dazzling creamy edges, cascading into a sea of little waves falling over themselves in their eagerness to swallow the sands, the sands reflecting all this like a lazy antique mirror.
I'm a sucker for purple landscape prose, a certain strain of which I attribute to British writers. I read this passage from Derek Jarman twice, then let out a satisfied "ha!"
It's a wonder I have any time at all to read on this busy day. After class, a quick turnaround to Brighton, and a frantic afternoon of work, I ride with Greg out to Jack's farm to help him manage a recently-felled locust tree. Scattered amid his little pocket apple orchard are heaps of logs, freshly split or soon-to-be. It's a big tree and a lot of work. We load three trailers full of heavy, wet wood, back them into the barn, and stack them two rows deep to season.
It's a privilege of the white collar worker to consider manual labor a treat for the senses, but I really do love stacking firewood. During the pandemic, I took great pleasure in constructing my first holzhausen, a cylindrical woodpile that resembles a beehive. I will generally say yes to any log-related activity.
Thursday, April 2
Hackles raised, Islay the defender warns me of the mailman's arrival, her sharp bark fogging the windowpane through the screen I just installed. Esteban darts under the bed while I sit, laptop open, plugging my ears against the commotion.
During my haircut, Tiffany and I discuss our secular Easters and which cocktails our families like to drink. Gin and tonics for mine, bloody marys for hers. Afterward, I print some posters at what I still think of as Kinko's, but for almost two decades has been a FedEx office.
Driving home, I eat a slice of pizza from Whole Foods and immediately regret not buying a second. I go out of my way to stop at a local pizza joint where I buy another slice, this one malnourished and leathery from its abandonment under the heat lamp. Too many regrets. On the car stereo, Bill Nighy remarks of his late dog Smoky, "he was a festival of bad character."
Friday, April 3
I choke up listening to a message from a Great Lakes Myth Society fan in Houghton who first heard us play in 2005 when he was a student at Michigan Tech. His wife reached out to us a couple months ago asking if we'd be willing to record a video wishing him a happy 40th birthday, which of course we did. I'd forgotten all about it until this morning. In my inbox is an audio clip of Eryk from Houghton nostalgically revisiting his first experiences seeing us live, and how much the band has meant to him over the years. Greater commercial success may have eluded us, but a cult band's fans are for life. I'm humbled. Thank you, Eryk.
Out my studio window a small crew begins renovations on Andy's house. The porch light has finally gone dark — his soul has moved on. Through the screen a gentle zephyr sways the fronds of my rabbit's foot fern. It’s the spring day I’ve been waiting for.