Weeknotes: September 20 – October 3, 2025
Monday, September 29
I'm in a blue jeans drought. I have a couple pairs I feel okay in, but neither of them is my favorite. When the world is in chaos, you have to have at least one pair of jeans you love.
After work I carve a soap dish from a hunk of cedar fence plank in my shed. I've obsessed over buying a soap dish for weeks, but keep putting it off. I blame the specific dimensions of my sink, but really I'm just indecisive and spend too much time deliberating over small stuff in order to avoid the big stuff. Once again, a bit of DIY effort saves the day.
The DEVO documentary is a masterpiece — such vision, such commitment. Also, it's unnerving how relevant they are right now. I'm so glad I saw them when they came through Detroit in June.
When I was about 13, two new kids, brothers, moved to town and joined our little skate crew. They claimed to be relatives of Mark and Bob Mothersbaugh, and once brought over a pair of red energy dome hats as proof. I got to wear one.
Tuesday, September 30
Despite their historic collapse in September, the Tigers somehow clawed their way into the Wild Card Series against our Great Lakes nemeses, the Cleveland Guardians. Game 1 starts mid-afternoon while I'm in my design class. I do some covert scoreboard-watching, then listen to the last two innings in my car. Tigers win!
Wednesday, October 1
Dozing in the post-dream fringe, I lay in bed and worry "what if Esteban can't read?"
The spell breaks the minute my feet hit the floor. Esteban is a cat — he'll be illiterate his whole life.
I put on the 12" single for Trip Shakespeare's "The Crane," which has a rare live version of "Toolmaster of Brainerd" on the B-side. Matt Wilson's narrative vamps during the intro are priceless — "... you can get white lung." Without Trip Shakespeare, there would have been no Great Lakes Myth Society. My brother's song "Big Jim Hawkins" is a Midwestern epic straight out of the "Toolmaster" playbook.
At night a group of friends assembles for a pub quiz just up the road. Together, we're a well-balanced base of knowledge and we win the first round handily, beating out 12 other teams with our perfect score. The second round goes south, though, and we tumble into last place. Heroes to zeroes.
Thursday, October 2
In class, we're given a paper sack and sent out to collect found objects which we'll use to design an invitation of our choice. It’s an entirely handmade, screenless project. I’m so happy. I forage a mixture of decayed leaves and twigs to assemble into a mock bonfire which I'll border in a garland of golden honey locust leaves.
While we're assembling our designs, I overhear several classmates — most of them decades younger than me — wondering about the value of what they see as a childish "craft day" exercise. I have to remind myself that they are much closer in age to those halcyon days of construction paper, glitter, and glue than I am. They haven’t lived long enough to realize how important reconnecting with that kind of intuitive, childlike creativity is. They're just a couple years out of high school, facing a punishing job market already being carved out by AI. They want to know the way forward.
Later, as we observe our results on the critique wall, our professor provides the answer. "AI could never in a million years make these. These are incredible! This is what you bring to the table. No one else could have made what you just made."
At home, I resume my workday typing words about other musicians into a large database. The Tigers win the Wild Card Series, vanquishing Cleveland and moving on to Seattle. It's a good day. I pull a half-eaten pint of Ben & Jerry's out of the freezer and toss away the lid. I'm finishing it.
Friday, October 3
I've got weird hair right now. It only looks good maybe one day out of three. Post-shower, I'm driving to the pet store, windows down, trying to achieve a windblown look, while curling the damp back strands around my finger so they don’t dry in a dumb flip. It seems like I'm working pretty hard avoid getting a more basic short haircut.
An hour later, I learn that one of my neighbors has died of a heart attack. Andy lived a few houses down on the opposite side of the street and made our block feel like a neighborhood. He was a regular, reassuring presence working in his yard and helping others with theirs. He had a big old Chevy van parked out front, the kind I used to covet in my touring days, with a bumper sticker that read "Just up north raking leaves." He was also a big Tigers fan and could often be found across the street visiting John and Judy on their porch, chatting, drinking gin and tonics, and listening to the ballgame on the radio. I liked Andy very much. He was only 64.
The night ends in Ann Arbor at the Blind Pig, a club I've played at least a couple dozen times during my career. Shonen Knife, the great Japanese all-women punk trio, is in town, singing songs about cookies, wasabi, and cats.