A Moment Of Despair

   My name is Gomez. Writing songs, playing music, singing; these are the things that lift my spirit.

   No money, broken cars, riding the bus; these are the things that wear me down.

   Somehow I push on imploring the skies, all the while punishing myself with a self-imposed penance in regards to my sense of having regretful actions, in my mind, of a fast past wild life and condemn myself to the fate of the likes of Sisyphus forever to lean into the rock, sweat pouring from my brow. I ask you there must be a reason, right?

   Will the pain never end?

   Many of my comrades have now passed before me, good men gone astray, yet I carry on as my black beard grows gray.

    Should I die today there are those who would mourn me. Those whom I prop up and encourage to fight on, not to give up the ship, for the battle can be won, at least I keep telling them and myself this.

   Still, when alone, I sit in thought wondering why. Who would pep talk me in my hour of need? I grow weary and doze off into erratic day dreams. I dream of my passing into nothingness and leaving nothingness. What of this life then? Some say there is no meaning to life, but I think there must be and so I look to the heavens and the future. And what of the future, one must live for today, but if today brings only sadness, then what?

   Have you ever felt like throwing up? Not because you’re sick from a virus or of having too much to drink but because you’re sick with a thought.  

   Will it pass? Most likely and I will push on, nose to the grindstone, shoulder to the rock, an errant tear mixed with the sweat that falls beneath my brow spurred on by defiance. I shall succeed…

   That is how I feel now… in this moment until once again I let the fire snorting steed of my ambivalence buck and drag me boot in stirrup down the road throat choked with dust trying to shout out the words, ‘Whoa, WHOA!’

Marilyn Monroe And Me

   Back in '86 maybe '87, in those days the years fogged into one another, I met a guitar player by the name of Sandy Bull who was hip in the 50's and 60's and had numerous LP's (vinyl) out. Don't remember exactly where I met him....it could've been at the Musicians AA meetings in North Hollywood.

   

   He himself was an ex addict now well off with a lovely wife and two great kids and I was a wild guy trying to clean up my act. No easy feat when you're still burning that candle at both ends.

   Any one of you out there that have had a substance abuse problem and tried to kick any bad habit from drugs to cigs know that it can be a daunting task. That's why there are support groups out there like NA CA and AA. Now I'm not a proponent of these organizations as I kicked my habit cold turkey, sheer force of will is the real mitigating factor. 

   This musicians AA meeting was pretty cool though for the longest time; David Crosby, Gary Busey, Paul Butterfield, Motley Crue, mostly Nikki and Tommy, these guys were pretty much all regulars....

   I would show up buzzed when finally Sandy said that he was going to be my sponsor and I was going to make a concerted effort to clean up my act....Hey I was sort of trying already so I said, "Okay".

   Now Sandy and his wife had a big old house that they were renting in Brentwood on 20th off San Vicente and he had told me they recently bought a nice ranch style house down the road near Bundy and would be moving soon and that he couldn't wait to show me the place.

   Anyway, he moves into his "new" house in Brentwood and invites me over. His wife and kids are out shopping and we're sitting around playing a little bit, me on guitar and Sandy on banjo and I say to him, hey this place looks vaguely familiar, like I've been here before. Yeah he goes, this was Marilyn Monroe’s house where she died. She died in our bedroom, freaks out the wife a bit. Wow, I thought, thinking about Joe Dimaggio parked up the street waiting for her to get home. I know that feeling...

   So we strolled into the master bedroom carrying our instruments and sat down on a couple chairs and played some more. A little strange but lovely in a way.

   Could I feel the spirit of Marilyn Monroe some have asked? I don't know but I definitely was off in another world. I was playing guitar in the room where she passed away. Now how many people could say that? Maybe only Sandy and I.

   So to make a short story shorter, I stayed on with my friend and his family for two weeks there in Marilyn Monroe's house in Brentwood on 5th Helena and kicked my lonely habit in the house where she tragically died.

   Goodbye Marilyn, thank you for listening and I hope you liked our jamming.