I sit here in my bedroom. 4:47am. Prime writing time.
The only sound is the rickety clicking of the past it's prime ceiling fan in the bedroom of my house. It breezes new fresh air into my face that I inevitably fill with smoke. Thoughts race. I have to be up in four hours, clean myself up, take that short schlep up the 210 freeway to Church then on down the dreaded 710 to the daytime gig in Long Beach at the Blue Cafe where you can actually taste the smell in the dressing room.

Lately I've been questioning my role as a songwriter. Do my stories matter? Does honesty and struggle get you anywhere? Where is anywhere? Where is it I'm trying to get?

Then I repeat back to myself what I told my father when he told me to pursue other avenues instead of the music I've loved so much. I told him... "Virtually no one makes a million dollars doing what they love in an honest fashion, but a great deal of them can support their families."

I'm a lifer. Music is my life, love, pain, income... all of it.
I can't lie. Sometimes I'm swept with thoughts of others. I see many people I grew up with married with the house, the cars, the 2.5 children and the perfect glamor shot mall smiles... I am conflicted regarding the path I took... For a brief flickering moment.

Then I realize how blessed I am. I have a beyond gorgeous woman who loves me more than anything, I've traveled the world doing what I love, I've been honest, I've told my story thus far to open ears, and I am happy. And I will always tell stories so long as people care to listen. And even when they don't I'll still be rambling on with nocturnal monologues.

This concludes the random thoughts portion of the night....

This minstrel is off now to the land of sleeping Italians. Where the gentle click-clacking of the aged ceiling fan mixed with the Miles Davis' "Round About Midnight" on vinyl lulls me into the sleepiest of sleeps.