Weeknotes: May 5 – 9, 2025

Monday, May 5

I'm spending another morning with Pink Floyd, this time working on a review for the Live at Pompeii soundtrack that came out last Friday. I re-familiarize myself with some biographical material and stumble upon their early single "Point Me at the Sky." I'd completely forgotten about this song, a fantastic bit of late-'60s psych-pop with shared vocals between David Gilmour and Roger Waters. I loved it when I was young, though it was a rarity that could only be found on bootlegs. I credit Wazoo Records in Ann Arbor with introducing me to the bootleg scene. They had a special cassette section where, if you knew what you were looking for, you could find strange compilations of unreleased live material, non-album tracks, and other oddities from a multitude of artists. 

I still have a David Bowie compilation with a photocopied cover that includes a version of him singing "All the Young Dudes," the song he wrote for Mott the Hoople which, incidentally, was the first song I ever learned how to sing and play on guitar. I'd been playing for a couple years by that point, but didn't yet fashion myself a singer. I was about 12 when my guitar teacher, Mike Lutz, taught me how to play "All the Young Dudes," and it was the most complex chord sequence I'd learned to date. I remember feeling a great sense of satisfaction once I'd managed to separate my unformed voice from my strumming which felt like a creative version of patting your head while rubbing your belly. Before that, I assumed I'd be the guitarist in a band with someone else acting as lead singer, as was the custom in most of the hair metal bands I listened to at the time. Being able to handle both was a revelation to me. I can see now that I've followed that path ever since. I love collaboration, but if I can find a way to take care of something on my own, that's how I will probably do it.

Later on, I take my guitar to the luthier for what I've now accepted to be its regular seasonal adjustment. I've had this Martin 000-15M for two years now and its mahogany body is so much more sensitive to humidity and weather shifts than my old birdseye maple Shenandoah. I played that guitar hard for 30 years and, apart from replacing the bridge about ten years in, barely ever had it worked on. It's as sturdy as they come. The new 000-15M fluctuates all over the place, though when the action is right, it's a joy to play and hear. I hope it settles into itself at some point, just like I did.

Tuesday, May 6

My sodden evening run leaves me with a chill. After a puddle splash from a passing car, I detour off the shoulder and into Highland Cemetery, remembering a path on its north end that should connect me to Clark Road. It deposits me inside DTE's solar array and I have to hunt for a gap in the fence to emerge wet-shod into evening traffic. I listen to Amy Poehler's podcast interview with Paul Rudd. Two funny people to carry me through an otherwise forgettable slog. They laugh and tell stories about filming Wet Hot American Summer, remarking that it rained for 90% of the shoot and that the actors were always cold. A light rain begins to fall about four miles in. At Superior Bridge I look east at the dammed up river wondering if I can get a paddle in before my trip. 

Wednesday, May 7

Today is the day. I transfer the morning glory seedlings from the troughs in the laundry room to their forever homes out along the back fence. In previous years I'd just sown the seeds directly in the ground, but not all of them survived the rabbits and squirrels, so now I let them get a head start indoors. I've cut and labeled identification stakes from fallen branches in the yard and fortified their new habitat with chicken wire until they're mature enough to climb. The transfer is a little messy since most don't have well-established roots yet, but I think they'll sort themselves out. I hope so. I'm leaving on Sunday and they'll have to fend for themselves for a week. I'll ask the neighbors to give them a few good soaks while I'm gone. I'm so invested in these little plants. Watching a new crop grow every year has become my summer pastime. That and picking raspberries from the bushes Donald left me. The vegetable garden can do what it wants. I have no patience for it. I'd rather level it and plant fruit trees, but I should have thought of that last fall. 

Thursday, May 8

Daytime:

• The conclave elects an American pope. Everyone freaks out.

• Former Tigers all-star center fielder Chet Lemon dies. When I was young I named a cat after him.

• The Tigers win the first of a double header against the Rockies 10-2.

Evening:

Forest Lawn Cemetery is where my grandparents live. I park outside its gates and up walk the dirt drive past a man and his young son. The man is holding a plastic cup of beer and his son is banging a stick against the ground. It's early evening, sunny, about 60°. I visit Grammy and Granddad and the portion of my aunt we scattered here two summers ago, then walk over to where my parents — both alive and well — have already marked their future resting place. A bustling marsh and Mill Creek lay just beyond the property. I stop to admire the birdlife: a kinglet, yellow warbler, and goldfinch. Nice warm weather birds. 

Just across the road from the cemetery's entrance is the brewpub where I'm playing tonight. It's a low-key acoustic gig I've done before. A place unlikely to net new fans, but a pleasant setting for a couple hours of singing, even better when I'm out on the patio in nice weather. I play directly into the sun and the faces of some old friends who have come out for the night. During my set break I discover that my parents are also here, but have been listening from their car, parked in the small lot facing the patio like they’re at a drive-in theater. On my way home I stop at the supermarket to buy Cheerios and a jar of peanut butter. A musician's life is sometimes exciting, but more often it is this.

The Tigers win the second game of the double header 11-1. They lead the American league.

Friday, May 9

I finish my last assignment and with great satisfaction, activate the out-of-office auto reply in Outlook. I'm effectively on vacation, though I have one last obligation. I spend the afternoon with a dozen co-workers at a volunteer event, weeding the rain garden of the Burns Park Senior Center. Afterward, we carpool to a nearby bar for a post-work happy hour. It's a nice social send-off with people I like. An evening walk with Islay at LeFurge Preserve, then a drink with Nick in the backyard. We talk about art installations and listen to the Tigers game on my little transistor radio. Another win. On Sunday, I fly to Iceland.