I'm in Ontonagon, Michigan, on the southern shore of Lake Superior. Time moves slowly here. I met a man yesterday who was upset that Simon and Garfunkel broke up. I was respectful, but I wondered silently how you can stay so out of touch. He and his wife have never attended the festival I'm playing, only ten miles away.

The main stage of the Porcupine Mountains Music Festival is at the bottom of a ski hill. After my set yesterday, I walked up the hill and turned around to survey the greatest of all lakes. If you lost your floater in the Nipigon River, it might be two hundred years before it reached Lake Huron. You could sink South Carolina in it. The stage was a pitiful postcard against that backdrop, a fleck of humanity on the beard of a great cold maw.

So maybe Simon and Garfunkel did just break up. 43 years ago. That's my age and, from the top of the ski hill, I can't even make it out.

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