Weeknotes: September 7–11, 2026

Monday, September 7

A musician I know is unloading a bunch of gear. All of us who've been at it for more than a decade or two are generally in some liminal state between acquiring and shedding. I have everything I need to make music right now, but after seeing John's listing on Marketplace, I can't stop thinking about his Guild Starfire bass.

My first bass was a cheap '80s-era Magnum, which my mom helped me bring home from a thrift store when I was about 16. My brother called it Frankenbass, because one of its tuning keys was a metal washer someone had soldered onto the shaft in a cheap fix. I don't know what happened to Frankenbass — it either went back into circulation or was abandoned somewhere. 

In December 2010, I walked into Dennis' Music in Ypsilanti and bought a dark blue Squier Jazz bass for $100. I played it on stage that same night, backing up my friend Pat at Mittenfest, an annual fundraiser for the creative writing nonprofit 826 Michigan, then held across the street from Dennis' at a bar called Woodruff's. It was only my second gig on bass.

I've played the Squier ever since, and recorded my last two albums with it. When my friend Misty asked me to join her band in 2022, I bought my first bass amp and settled into a new supporting role. Although I'm confident with the bass parts I've written in the studio, I feel like I'm still pretty early in my journey as a live player. I've gotten incrementally better over the past few years, though the band doesn't gig quite enough for me to have improved by leaps and bounds. Still, I've been thinking about an upgrade, and a hollow body Guild would offer me a different palette of tones. Also, it looks great, and has a short-scale neck, which suits my wingspan a little better than the Jazz bass. 

I message John, who tells me a prospective buyer is coming to look at it on Wednesday. That's all the incentive I need. I hit the ATM machine and drive over to his basement studio on Ann Arbor's west side. At the door, I'm greeted by his enthusiastic little mop of a dog, Remi, who rolls around at my feet. The bass is strung with Thomastik flatwounds and plays like a dream. I've known John since the '90s. He's a great player and a nice guy. I have no business spending money on another instrument right now, but this is too good to pass up. I drive home, windows down, with the Starfire in my backseat.

Tuesday, September 8

I walk the steep wooded trail above Island Park. Across the river, unseen but visceral, a Life Flight helicopter descends upon the hospital. Sitting on a park bench next to the boat landing, I feel an unexpected sense of melancholy. The river lazes by, but my mind won't settle. It takes a lot of effort to appreciate the present when the world is so chaotic and angry. 

I head over to CC's condo to practice for our gig this weekend. There's a co-op board meeting wrapping up in the community room we use for rehearsal, so we hang out for a while on her balcony and catch up. She's beginning her first semester as a lecturer at U–M and tells me about the Chekhov class she's teaching. Up on a ridge, just beyond Riverside Park, 200 N. Ingalls peeks through the trees. I was born in that building. When we go back downstairs, the lights are off in the community room. We run through our set, both feeling a little exhausted. 

Wednesday, September 9

I submit the final draft of an article I wrote for the Observer, then re-write the bio of a Finnish metal band for work. It's only 76°, but the humidity is almost unbearable. My forearms stick to the clammy surface of my old wooden desk.

Despite the drab morning, I feel a heightened sense of creativity and a strong desire to make some kind of visual art. In between assignments, I play around with acrylic paints and stamped patterns. My desk becomes a jumble of small tools and notepads. I'm full of ideas, even if I don't know how to execute them. When your body craves making, don't question it, just make.

In the evening, I close out my latest Field Notes commonplace book (Explore America Series B: Triple Crown of Hiking, 8/25/26–9/9/26) and copy its pertinent information into the next one (Shenandoah Edition: Red Maple, 9/9/26– ?). Among the phrases I transfer into the "Ongoings" section are: 

Lake Ontario
Bathroom Bookshelf
Find a New Fantasy Series
Eat Oysters
Bass + Wind Chimes
Miyazaki Films
Keep Paddling
Less Phone Time

Thursday, September 10

Growing on the north side of my shed are two paw paw trees, planted a year or two before I moved in. The one closest to the house is practically dwarfed by the other — now twice its size — and yet it's the smaller one that bears fruit.

This is the first year the squirrels haven't beat me to it. A cluster of three ripe paw paws weighs down the tiny limb, bowing the tree like Charlie Brown's woebegone pine. I pluck one — pale green and soft to the touch — and bring it inside. 

Despite it being native to Michigan, I've never eaten a paw paw before. An internet search instructs me to cut it in half lengthwise like an avocado, then remove the large brown seeds and scoop out the soft custard-like fruit with a spoon. It's like a natural yogurt cup with a mild, but pleasant banana and mango-adjacent flavor. 

Friday, September 11

I'm only at the store about 25 minutes, but when I return, Islay has claimed another victim. It's bad enough when she destroys one of my own books, but this time we're house-sitting in Brighton. 

I kneel in my parents' living room to gather up the remains of Peterson & McKenny's A Field Guide to Wildflowers. It's a beautiful old hardcover edition from 1968. I imagine my mom, newly married, buying it in Illinois while my dad was on the other side of the world, completing his U.S.A.F. service in Thailand. Books are precious in my family.

With a heavy heart, I fess up and message her a photo of the damage, along with an explanation of Islay's wrongdoing. Her response is warm and liberating:

Do not feel bad. I already know all I need to know about flowers! I love her and you.

Later, at the Russell Industrial Center in Detroit, K and I interact with the outer fringe of Turnstile's mosh pit. It's a festival-like atmosphere with a diverse multigenerational audience. In front of us, we watch a mom set her grinning boy aloft to crowd-surf toward the stage. He is handled with care and returns unharmed, imprinted with a moment he’ll likely remember for the rest of his life. Hardcore etiquette at its best.