Treading The Missed Mondays: I Shaved My Couch For THIS? And Other Post-Cleaning Let-Downs


I’ve had two sides of constructive criticism when it comes to my pieces, the first of which was “I really like when you just do whole albums, as it feels more cohesive” and latter being, “You put a lot of personal stuff into them” (neither of which I could fault either individual for), but YOUR GOD DAMN RIGHT!

This weird thing happened when I was none years-old; I emerged from my mother’s womb, two to seven nurses made sure to get my phone number for their daughters, and I cried like the baby I was. This event has lead to a quarter century of intermittent tears over different burgeoning speedbumps, and still to this day I am a waterworks when I’m upset. It takes more than a gentle nudge to boop me over the edge and vastly more antagonization than what I’ve witnessed the “average joe” take before walking away. So, that being said, let’s set the stage with some admittance’s.

I have not had a great past few weeks. I have stood bewept alongside a cornucopia of plans I laid for myself, and what few dimly glistening fireflies of solace dimly orbited me seem to have found better homes. Depression takes many forms, from seclusion, to lashing out physically, and it often happens without the affected party being terribly aware of their actions. As a individual, I have so much trouble walking by someone if I can see their hurting, even if I don’t need to know them personally, or even understand the situation, I will still do most anything I can to help them. There are those that would walk away from a car accident or even start recording the damn thing on their phones, the EXACT OPPOSITE of what anyone worth their weight would do in that situation, the EXACT OPPOSITE of what I would do. The immaculate value we place on our own lives just because we are so caught-up in them is superfluous.

We are not special.

You are not special.

You are a car accident, just like each and everyone else. Now, before you get mad, let me hit you with WHY this is the case, and our first track of the day:



I first heard this song whilst my brother was playing OG Gran Turismo (still tight), and in this instance, even my hardcore gangbangin’ brother was singing the guitar melody out loud. Needless to say it took about 7 years for me to accidently roll back across this gem for myself, listen to the lyrics, and actually take something more meaningful than base sensory pleasure from it. The video contains a very powerful metaphor for control, as Nina Perrson the lead singer begins by placing a gigantic boulder on the gas peddle before peeling out into the road. For many that “lack” of control may seem like jumping the shark (if you will), as in “If anything could go wrong, this is where it’s gonna happen”. Those shark-jumpy choices shape your life, and at least in my own experience, how I weigh my own “worth”. As we move into a hyper-monitored, privacy-free world, try and maintain at least some connection to who you are out of the spotlight. Be that adult who gave you stars in your eyes through some act of kindness as a tyke. Don’t Instagram that dead bird you saw, bury it, and give it peace. If you see a child about to get crushed by a city bus, do something more than film it, ‘cause honestly y’all are making me lose faith.



Landing directly between Queens of the Stone Age and walking into a Jazz-Fusion club, is this outstanding gaggle of well-fits. How impeccably rare that not only does the whole band understand how a vamp works, but everyone in TROK are MUSICIANS. These are not “Played guitar in college” types. Each member is tactically efficient with their note placement as they listen and interoperate how the other members of the band are going to enunciate their notes. Maybe it’s just me, but this dude also definitely has a Josh Holmes thing to his voice that makes me waterfall in the trousers a bit. To sum up the average instrumentality of a song, you can usually find the following: Acoustic guitar, multiple vocal tracks, stunning piano movements, thoughtfully played drums, and even the accent of woodwinds peaking through over the tribal essence of the secondary-percussionists. Essentially TROK is just a bomb of talented mofo’s, and it’s hard to beat “No, we’re all the best”.



I first heard Mr. Sparro in my old bestfriend Kate’s dance class, and I could instantly tell what niche he was going to fill. Imagine a lounge singer actually got a big break to go off on their own with their brown hair an-. . .right, right, right, that flouncy tart Shania Twain. How I almost forgot. Sam Sparro is nothing like that wickerbasket-skinned hay monster. I picture Sam at 65 pulling a full-on reprise of his earlier work, much akin to Sinatra, and to possibly have a re-run of “THE ROARING 20’S” in 2020 gives me sooooooo many boners.

So yeah. Learn to cry. Learn what you give without re-imbursement. Figure out that you as a person are the most valuable thing you can trust someone with, and know how far that trust is allowed to be stretched. Ya stupid, beautiful idiots.


– Bear (@blairsphemy on instagram)

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