Oh, to have Jimmy Carter as our president. Happy Birthday, Jimmy Carter.
Butoh baby” by Oliver Coates.
WLEY regional Mexican radio in the car with Sammy, appreciating the ultraslick horn lines and deep vocal vibrato.
Tr*mp sign after Tr*mp sign in rural Michigan yards. But then: one massive farm building, painted corner-to-corner with a Biden mural.
The ultrathin film of cobweb between the bed headboard and the wall, rippling in the draft.
The person pushing a bike stacked with like eight wooden dining chairs.
The cubic church building, which was once painted gray and had no windows, is now a hyper-hip office with art and large ferns in its newly cut windows [also:
Watching the Vice Presidential debate, struggling to understand what motivates someone like Mike Pence to do the things he does. I know the answers are there. They’re not easy to accept.
The huge tree grown around a light pole. Like, the entire base of the light pole, engulfed by tree.
The public park field house door that comes to a triangular point at its top.
The minivan driver resting her head on its steering wheel at a stop light.
The Calvin drawing-esque decal on a pickup truck at a gas station in Indiana: “Nobody cares about your stupid little family,” beneath a stick-figure airplane dropping bombs on a stick-figure family.
The grandpa and grandson perched atop a sand dune, stoicly/sweetly watching Lake Michigan.
Reading and sleeping on a dune myself, leg sorta dangling over the edge.
The dessert shop worker cleaning a giant metal cauldron (for fudge) with a proportionally giant toothbrush-ish brush.
Pulling up old carpet, and little patches of it sticking to the concrete beneath like tufts of fur.
Los Angeles” by Dougie Poole.
The smell of campfire emanating from my hair.
While buying a garbage can at a home improvement store, the cashier asking Jason and me if we would like to put her in the garbage can and take her home.
The banner advertising the “National Collage of Phlebotomy” [sic].
The semi-truck tractor with a “STUDENT DRIVER” sign on it.
Feeling the back of my bottom teeth for the first time in like 10 years, after getting my bottom retainer wire removed.
Tr*mp campaign advisor Mercedes Schlapp’s tweet comparing Biden’s town hall to an episode of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, as if that were a diss, reminding me of
this post I wrote in 2018.
Automatic Slim and the Fat Boys” by Michael Hurley.
Hurley’s “dawn’s early light” reminding me that in all my childhood, I thought “dawn’s early” of the national anthem was a single adjective, like “dawnserly.”
At a socially distanced hang, a friend dropping her phone into a campfire, and me pulling it out with a conveniently located pair of fire tongs. It survived with screen damage.
The person flying a dragon-shaped kite alone at a church parking lot at night.
Imagining a Robert Pollard and Lil B collaborative album.
The car transport truck almost getting stuck under a viaduct. The driver getting out, smiling and laughing at his near-handiwork. Ten minutes later, me, walking home on a different street. He’s driving on it, having found a safe route around the viaduct. I give him a thumbs-up and he thumbs-ups back.
The lawn-mowing robots on a corporate campus in the suburbs.
The release of
Mirror Sound, a book about musicians who self-record I created with Lawrence Azerrad and Daniel Topete. Available here. 😊
The so-sweet messages from young self-recording musicians about being encouraged by
The cotton-candy pink fiberglass insulation shards embedded in my arm.
The weak radio signal cutting back and forth between fantasy football talk radio and old-time music.
The release of
LOVE IS THE KING, my dad’s new album made with Sammy and me. Available on Bandcamp, everywhere you stream music, and physically at WilcoWorld.net!
Sammy Davis Jr.’s many TV performances of “Mr. Bojangles” from the ’70s and ’80s.
Carving pumpkins with Casey and Mel.
And the Hits Just Keep on Comin’ and Pretty Much Your Standard Ranch Stash by Michael Nesmith (via my friend Don).
Colbert, after Sacha Baron Cohen.
I’m always surprised to see a Sacha Baron Cohen interview because I expect him to be secretive, hermetic, like Banksy.
The massive, independent wholesale hardware store, frozen in time, a delicious if not dank antidote to Home Depot and Lowe’s.
Deliberately scuffing up my pants with drywall dust before driving there, to help my chances of being taken seriously.
The beautiful green vise I want to buy for my (future) workbench.
The chained-shut double-door that opens from a second-floor office out onto nothing.
The store’s point-of-sale-system: CRT monitors with a black-screen-green-text command-line program running on them.
Hauling wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow of drywall debris.