Weeknotes: March 31 – April 4, 2025

A sick week last week. Weeknotes had a fever, but it’s on the mend.

Monday, March 31

Q1 ends with a sigh. The flu in February, then Covid in March, family health scares, and the daily horrors of the news. I'm exhausted. But, tomorrow is a new month. My energy is starting to come back, I've got a gig on Wednesday, and I'll be done with classes in just five weeks. After that, Iceland. 

Today it's Scott and Amanda's birthday, siblings born seven years apart on the same day. I've been in different bands with each of them dating back to high school. On the turntable, I’ve got the first of two Loretta Lynn and Conway Twitty duet albums. I pause work in late morning to test drive an outfit for the Iceland trip. By most accounts, I can expect average Icelandic temperatues in the mid-40s (F) which is the weather in Ypsilanti is today. I've got a good rain jacket I'll use as my outer shell and a zip up fleece for a mid-layer. Islay and I walk for about 45 minutes and I feel comfortable in my layers. But as much as I appreciate the tech gear, I'd be so much happier in my tattered canvas coat and jeans. I'll probably bring them too. Obsessing over what to pack for an adventure is it’s own vocation

Tuesday, April 1

My uncle died on this day exactly five years ago, right at the beginning of the pandemic. I think about him throughout the year, but especially today. There have been so many reminders of that time lately, not least of which the fraught politics and social unrest. 

Fatigue sets in just as I leave for class. I linger in the parking lot, aching to just lay back in my seat and close my eyes. Instead, I wrench open the door and march to my building, faking it all the way. I can barely keep my eyes open during the lecture and have to buy a coffee at the student center during a break. 

At home the hyacinths next to the driveway are blooming and the irises are beginning to fan out their green blades. I’ve picked up five packets of morning glory seeds to begin sowing this weekend. Last year's crop with it’s aerial trellis was such a success, I'm anxious to get going. 

Wednesday, April 2

Green shoots stretch their new spines up into the April rain. The back door is part refrigerator, part greenhouse. Islay leaps out into it while I inhale from the stoop, waiting for her with my paw-cleaning towel. 

I've made it to the Ms in my listening project. I start the day with Magnetic Fields' first two albums, The Wayward Bus  and Distant Plastic Trees, which I've only ever owned packaged together. These records were so important to me when I first heard them in 1996. Their quirky DIY ambition, lush lo-fi pop beauty, and sense of melancholy had such a hold on me. They are the only releases in Stephin Merritt's catalog to feature Susan Anway (R.I.P.), whom I think was their best singer. 

Thursday, April 3

Shoe Carnival. Such a ridiculous name for a store. I don't know why I've thought of it just now. I don't think I've ever even set foot (pun intended) in a Shoe Carnival. It's just there in the folds of my brain, jumbled together with a lifetime of movie lines, band names, and mundane snapshots. I laugh out loud.

Later, at the end of a long day, I think of it again while I'm walking over the Forest Street Bridge and I laugh again. Why do I feel self conscious laughing alone in public? Who cares? "Shoe Carnival!" I shout it out over the rail at the swollen river and again at a passing car. 

Everyone's at the brewery. I've gone to meet my brother, but run into a half dozen other friends all with the same idea. After being quarantined all last week, I'm socially malnourished and friends are like vitamins. We sit at a long picnic table in the beer garden and my spirit is replenished. In the nautical twilight (thanks, Denise) we look up to see the silhouette of a lone goose standing atop the adjacent factory roof.  Then it’s back over the river to my home.

Shoe Carnival. So dumb.

Friday, April 4

It's the Tigers' home opener. 125 years of baseball in Detroit. I've been to two opening day games, both courtesy of Cathy Franklin, who hired me for my first record store job when I was 18 and plays viola on most of my albums. She's the most devoted Tigers fan I know. I listen to the broadcast on 97.1 FM, taking comfort in Dan Dickerson's familiar voice. It's a good game and they threaten to rout the White Sox, who claw back for a few late inning runs of their own. In the end, the Tigers win, 7–4. I'm happy to have baseball back. 

In the evening I walk up to a bar where some friends are playing. Like last night, it's a tonic to see so many people I love in one room. I immediately fall into a discussion about breakfast habits with the Going Gones, a new Detroit supergroup who sound a bit like Brinsley Schwarz and Squeeze. Three strong songwriters, great harmonies, hooks for days. No one is doing pub rock right now, especially around here. I hope they blow up. After their set is Virga, another triple-songwriter threat who play a sort of winsome surf-pop with lush harmonies. They are also a supergroup of Ypsilanti notables including Mary who plays drums in my band and keys in another band where I'm the bassist. Tonight she sings and plays guitar with Zach who is also a fantastic multi-instrumentalist in various projects. Such a concentration of talent in this town.