Weeknotes: September 15–19, 2025

I’m trying something new. Is This Something? has now joined Substack. The primary blog will of course remain here on my website, its forever home, but if you’d also like to sign up and receive posts via Substack’s more public platform, you can do so here. It’s a work in progress, but I’m interested to see if there is a wider readership out there. Thank you to all my regulars who have joined me over the past two years. - TM

Monday, September 15

A night of dog-sitting for my parents who are enjoying a micro-vacation up in Empire, visiting the beaches they love. I'm glad for them. The world has felt so heavy lately — we all need a break. My mood tilts into nostalgia when I reach my hometown. 

I hike the Penosha Trail and take the new spur that heads north up the U-Hill, my old childhood sledding destination. I know some of it is perspective, but the topography has also changed. This new path is still young and needs some feet on it. I'm happy to oblige.

In my dad's workshop I use the table saw to advance a few woodworking projects, then drive into town to pick up another board at Home Depot. The gallery of ghouls just inside the entrance makes me smile — maybe humanity isn't that bad after all. If your job is designing life-sized Halloween monsters for box stores, you've got a pretty cool job. The clerk at the checkout asks what the board is for.

"My cat is moving back in with me next week after four years apart. I'm building a raised shelf for his food dish so my dog won't eat it."

She immediately warms to me — you know when you've found another animal person. She tells me about her 15-year-old deaf and blind cat and how they have to bang on the furniture, using vibrations to let it know where they are.

"I judge people by how kind they are to animals and children," she tells me.

This is a metric I can agree with.

Tuesday, September 16

• "Let the storms shape you, not shatter you." - Anonymous spam text

• "DO NOT HONK. Unless you are a goose, in which case please keep honking." - Bumper sticker on Clark Road

• "You eroded all doubts and are standing taller than the hoodoos with your awesome work on Module 4! Way to start off the second unit!" - Notes from my pun-loving Geology professor

Wednesday, September 17

I wake in the dark and put Yma Sumac's Voice of the Xtabay on the turntable. Outside my window birds invent the new day. I grind coffee to the humid exotica of bongos, strings, and operatic excess. I think of the Jackie Treehorn scene in The Big Lebowski, famously soundtracked by Yma's song "Ataypura." Incredible to think that this strange record, with its faux tribal grunting and bird noises, was a number one hit in 1950.

At the dry cleaner downtown the owner walks toward me with a black suit. Mine is blue, I tell him, and he heads back into the textile jungle to give it another go. On his return trip he holds my plastic-wrapped garment in his left hand and extends his right for a handshake. It's an unexpected, old-fashioned gesture from an old-fashioned business. We briefly clasp hands — he thanks me and I wish him a good day. It's an honest, respectful transaction. More of this, please.

Thursday, September 18

There are nine people on stage — James is fielding a huge band these days. I know their hits, but not the deeper catalog. On their North American tour, they are livestreaming their Detroit show in a special pay-per-view event. I'm sure they bring it every night, but we are clearly getting the full package. Halfway through the first set, trumpeter Andy Diagram suddenly appears on the Majestic Theatre’s tiny side balcony to play a wild solo. A few songs later, frontman Tim Booth works his way through the crowd to dance spotlit on a platform in the back of the room. At 65, his global raver vibe is a little dated but still charming. He commands the room with ease and I’ve always been a fan of his voice. James are blowing some life back into my bellows during a tough week.

Bookended on either side by bassist and band namesake Jim Glennie and guitarist Adrian Oxaal, the front battery consists of Booth, Diagram, singer and multi-instrumentalist Chloe Alper, and violinist/guitarist Saul Davies. That's six players in the front row with original drummer David Baynton-Power, second drummer Debbie Knox-Hewson (playing six months pregnant, we find out), and keyboardist Mark Hunter in back. I've never heard so many people play rock music so subtly. It's a master class in stagecraft. By the time they play "Laid" and "Sit Down," they've already won me over with the deeper cuts. It makes me miss State Park. Maybe it's time to revive my own band.

Friday, September 19

9:45 AM

I am handed a tiny plastic frog, maybe a centimeter long, by the youngest son of my friend Margaret. We are at her funeral service in my hometown — Margaret loved all animals, but apparently had a special affection for frogs and her kids have pocketfuls of them to offer as keepsakes. My mom and I accept our frogs with appropriate reverence to later be treasured on windowsills or tucked under the fronds of a lush and healthy houseplant. 

The subsequent Catholic funeral mass is mostly confusing to me and doesn't mention her nearly as much as I'd prefer, but this isn't my world. I tune out the dry scriptures and instead remember Margaret's wit and relentless optimism in the face of the cancer that finally claimed her. I thank her for bringing old friends together, which is one of the deceaseds’ greatest gifts. 

12:30 PM

On my way out of town, I make a pass down Main Street. Somehow, Brighton has become a destination for Gilmore Girls fandom. Cheery autumnal displays line the sidewalks in front of store windows advertising Luke's Diner, Kim's Antiques, and the Dragonfly Inn. My hometown is cosplaying as the fictional Stars Hollow for the weekend, an event which is expected to draw 60,000 fans. As I exit the scene, I expect to hear Sam Phillips singing "la, la, la la."

8:50 PM

T.G.I.F. It’s been a long week. I walk back through Frog Island after meeting my brother and Jenny for beers at Andy’s bar. I've never seen the Huron this low. I walk over the rocks to what should be mid-river and take a photo of the Cross Street bridge from a perspective I've only ever seen by kayak. I scramble back up the bank and look down the other side at a man riding no-handed laps on his bicycle around the park's dirt track.