It has been just a horrible week… My lower back decided to file a formal complaint with HR, where sitting and lying down became an Olympic event in discomfort, which meant sleep was basically a rumor. I was twisted up like a pretzel someone dropped behind the couch — the kind you find years later and think, “How was this ever food?” Then, in a bold act of self‑punishment, I went celibate from coffee and good food all week because I had a colonoscopy Friday. A colonoscopy. Truly the Super Bowl of indignities.
But it is the best 45‑minute sleep money can buy — It’s not just a nap. It’s a micro‑vacation. A budget‑friendly coma. A medical‑sponsored spiritual reset. The kind of nap that feels like you briefly slipped into a parallel universe where you wake up unsure of your name, the year, or why your wife is staring at you like you’ve been elected mayor of the recovery room in your half nakedness from the waist down glory.
So the lead‑up to that short blissful slumber? Oh, it wasn’t just rough — it was Brutal, Biblical rough. We’re talking about caffeine withdrawal headaches so intense they could’ve been listed as one of the lesser‑known plagues. I was one migraine away from grabbing a staff and parting the Red Sea. And now? This morning, after returning to another pain filled night with no sleep night, I sit here treating this cup of coffee like it’s a sacred potion brewed by forest wizards. I’m sniffing it, swirling it, judging its legs like I’m performing a one‑person show called The Phantom of the Café. I’ve become the sort of person who whispers “caramel notes” into the void. I earned this
So yes, I feel like celebrating my morning coffee revival with sounds that bring joy, and I’m finally getting to this one on the blog — it’s been warming the bullpen bench for a while. I heard snippets on the web prior to purchase and immediately thought, Oh yeah, that’s mine now.
The Troyes. Why was this not a classic? “Love Comes and Love Dies” doesn’t just start — it pounds in like it’s kicking down your front door. They were signed to Ray Anthony’s Space label, which is such an odd pairing it feels like someone pulled record‑label names out of a hat.
And the picture sleeve? Smokin’. Gorgeous. A real collector’s trophy. Do I own it? Of course not. Will I ever? Probably not — unless I stumble across it in some cosmic garage sale where the universe decides to throw me a bone.
But the record itself? Pure joy. Exactly what a man deserves after a week of back pain, sleep depravation, caffeine celibacy, and medical adventures in plumbing.
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