There was a time when I wished my father would die.
Before my mom passed away, my dad was not a nice person. He was really difficult to be around and very angry. So I hoped he wouldn’t be around—and that his death would be a quick solution to the ugliness that was happening between my parents and tainting so much around him.
But I’m lucky: in the years since the publication of my first book, Face the Music, I’ve been fortunate enough to get to a point where I can say to my dad, “I wish you could be here forever.”
He’s going to be ninety-nine, and in these most recent years, rather than being saddled with strictly negative memories, I have been given some things I’ll actually miss.
My dad had a hard time reading Face the Music because I talked so openly about the misery I experienced as a child, the lack of support I got at home, and the problems between my parents—the constant fighting and lack of affection. Since the book came out, I’ve found myself sometimes recollecting things with my dad that he doesn’t remember—but that were great. He took me to the opera, for instance. And he took me to museums. So although he couldn’t connect with me on an emotional level, he still took me places that shaped who I am, the good and the bad.
What I left out of Face the Music was the fact that, despite his flaws, my dad was well intentioned. In the past, I regarded that as irrelevant. But now I can see that it did make a difference—and that I can learn from that too.
To try to illustrate this to my dad, I reminded him of the time when I was probably eight or nine years old and asked him for sunglasses. I told him I wanted to buy sunglasses at the luncheonette around the corner from our apartment. And he said, “No, I’ll get you good sunglasses.” So he ordered a pair of quality sunglasses from an optometrist, but unfortunately it backfired, because when I saw them, I hated them. I’ve sat with him since Face the Music came out and said, “Remember, you bought me good glasses.”
The process that made our relationship ultimately so much better was setting boundaries, which creates a level of self-respect and respect for other people. We can’t allow somebody to make a fool of us or lower our self-worth or treat us less than we believe is acceptable. It’s fine to set the rules for interactions: let someone know what is acceptable and what isn’t. That’s not sitting down when we meet somebody and reading them the riot act. It happens through their seeing how we deal with situations with others and how we deal with situations with them. I’ve said all of this to my adult son, Evan, and I believe it’s very important.
Initially my parents were thrown by the idea that I could say something to them that they thought was unacceptable, or that I could hang up the phone on my father when I thought he was out of line. He would call me back and say, “You hung up on me!” And I would say, “Yeah, I told you that talking to me like that is not acceptable.”
It’s important in all relationships to preserve and protect our self-respect.
Even so, I’m a strong advocate of leaving as little to regret as possible. As my life has progressed, I’ve always wanted to make sure that I didn’t have coulda-shoulda-woulda scenarios left on my plate. I would rather hash these things out. Seeing my dad at ninety-eight means that every day is unknown and precarious. For both of our benefit, it’s not a time to leave things unsaid.
Talking with my dad about his demise is addressing the elephant in the room. It’s no secret to him that his days are numbered. He has an almost contradictory outlook about that: he says he’s lived too long and all the people he knew have died. To which I reply, “They’d all change places with you.” But when he’s not well, he makes sure he goes to the hospital and then says, “Boy, that was close.”
So on one hand, he says he shouldn’t be here, but on the other hand, on some level he wants to be here.
There’s so much to be lost by not talking about mortality. And in the course of the conversations I’ve had with him about it, I realized I needed to tell him that his grandchildren will miss him, and as basic and as childish as it sounds, I needed to tell him that I will miss him too. That I will miss him and that I wish he could stay forever.
The night before I decided to first broach this topic with my dad, I thought I had to talk to him tomorrow because I didn’t know how many tomorrows we had left. The change in our relationship needed to be acknowledged. So I told him, “You know, I’ll miss you.”
Which is a terrific change. I couldn’t have said that to him five years ago, because five years ago I wasn’t rooting for him. But I needed to say it, and I didn’t want to end up thinking what so many people in similar situations think after it’s too late: I wish I’d told him when I’d had the chance.
I did have the chance, and I wanted to use it.
That’s something really cool about this chapter of my life. Not that our conversations erase the past, but rather than being left with a lot of bitterness or bad memories, I enjoy being around the person my dad has become. And he’s learned to be supportive. I feel very fortunate.
And I guess it ties in to the other thing I’ve learned: that my dad will continue on. Yes, I will remember the things that weren’t so great, but I will also remember the fact that we came to terms with each other. That’s a good thing. That’s a great thing.
That’s a gift.
My dad is a much nicer person—still haunted by his demons, still haunted by guilt, but nice and kind. Setting boundaries for other people allows us to decide what is acceptable and what isn’t. And my verbalizing my boundaries to my father, making clear to him what is acceptable and what isn’t, was probably the start of the transformation between us. These days my dad is very supportive and comes out to see my musical side project, Soul Station. He wants to know how the shows go and how my art exhibitions go. He compliments me on things I do. And it doesn’t matter how old we are; everybody wants their parents’ approval.
In the past, my dad’s acknowledgment of my accomplishments, if I ever got any, was always tinged with jealousy and resentment. To have it without that is a blessing, because his life is—he knows and I know—coming to an end.
So I’m blessed.
I’m blessed that I can tell him that I love him, that I’ll miss him. It’s something I didn’t expect, and it’s something I didn’t have before and didn’t have when I wrote Face the Music. It’s a good thing.
I don’t want my dad to die. Now I’m lucky enough to be able to tell him that I wish he wouldn’t die and I wish he could always be here. It’s a gift to him, but it’s probably a bigger gift to me, because I’m going to remain. I’ve tied up the loose ends.
The end of Face the Music feels like the end. But it’s never the end. There’s always a new end. And a new beginning.
Finding both is what this book is about. If you’re young and envisioning a new path forward that will lead you to a better end, or you’re farther along in years and looking to reimagine a different future, this book is an all-access pass to what I’ve learned. I hope it serves you well.
Who doesn’t long for the mythical backstage pass? In rock and roll, the backstage pass is the golden ticket. It’s the pass that allows you to see what most people never get a chance to see—the inner workings; the pass that allows you to see behind the curtain and glimpse the true Wizard of Oz. The backstage pass allows you to see all the dedication and debauchery that is everyone’s fantasy. But how real is that fantasy?
In life we often yearn for something and seek it out, only to be surprised by the reality. But therein lies the gift. Everything isn’t always as it appears, and reality can be far more life changing than our fantasy.
You now hold in your hands that backstage pass, a chance to finally see the good, the bad, and the ugly—and hopefully to be that much wiser for it.
This book spells out my approach to success and living the good life. It’s an approach to being healthier in mind and body, to having a more fulfilled and rewarding life. And you don’t even have to put on a Yoda outfit.
Of course, the good life looks different for different people. For some, it might mean laughing more with their kids; for others, it’s a nice glass of Italian wine. And while I enjoy both of those things, the specifics don’t matter. It’s about an approach to life. And this approach has worked for me.
The lessons I’ve learned—contained in this book—are truths. But I’m not here to tell you this is the path to success. I’m here to tell you that you can find your own path to success—that it’s in you. Everybody has a destiny or destination they can pursue and reach, or not. So I’m not here to lecture anybody; I’m here to cheerlead. I’m here to explain what I did and how—and how you can too.
Of course, it would be presumptuous of me to tell you how to deal with your personal life. After all, I’ve never lived a day as you have. All I can do is tell you what I’ve done and hope that serves as a road map or a template to help you discover who you are. I didn’t have a road map, and as a result I made a lot of mistakes. I got a lot out of those mistakes, but I can spare you from making the same ones so you can set up an effective plan of your own.
I’m not a therapist. I’m not a bodybuilder. I’m not a dietician. But I don’t think self-improvement is rocket science. With a little bit of guidance and a little bit of support, we can do it together.
I’m also not here to tell you to do anything you don’t want to do—after all, the only person we have the potential to change is ourselves. But I’m here to do it with you, to serve as a guide. I’m here to show you how you can establish an effective outlook that will influence every aspect of your life.
One thing I’ve found—and a thing that’s humbling for somebody who believes he can change most anything—is that I can’t change other people. So this isn’t about me changing you. This is about you changing you.
And if you want to change, you can.