There is a specific kind of emotional imbalance that occurs when certain songs hit My Speakers in the car. For some, it might be a Springsteen anthem or a Dylan ballad, but for those of us navigating the murky waters of middle age, Rod Stewart’s “Forever Young” is the one that really started to do the trick for me. It isn’t just a catchy tune with a mandolin; it is a full-blown existential crisis wrapped in a gravel-voiced voice.
Whenever the first few bars of that song start to play, a predicament arises. Suddenly, the internal compass starts spinning. Am I the son in this story, still looking up at a father who seems ten feet tall? Or am I the father, looking down at my own kids and wondering if I’ve remembered to pack enough wisdom in their metaphorical suitcases? It turns out, I am both. And trying to exist in both of those spaces simultaneously is a bit emotionally tricky
“May the good Lord be with you down every road you roam…”
When Rod kicks off the song with this line, my mind immediately jumps to my own father. I am convinced I have the greatest father in the world: a bold claim, I know, but I’ve checked the stats, and the math checks out. He has always been the one standing behind me, teaching me the difference between right and wrong and, perhaps more importantly, the difference between doing what is easy and doing what is right.
Growing up, the moral compass was the law of the land. My father didn’t just tell me how to behave; he showed me. He’s the kind of guy who has always had my back, whether I was pursuing the stable career following in his footsteps or decided to become an actor/comedian (which, to be fair, is basically the “vagabond” option on the career menu). I honestly hope I can bestow even 10% of what he taught me onto my own children. If I can manage to be half of what he is to me, I’ll consider my parenting career a success.
It is a strange feeling to be a grown man with his own mortgage and a salt-and-pepper beard, yet still feel like that young man who needs his dad’s approval before making a big move. But that’s the power of a good father: they become the internal voice that guides you long after you’ve left town.
“And may you grow to be proud, dignified and true…”
These lyrics hit on a philosophy I try to live by every day: the idea of leaving the place nicer than you found it. Most people think of this in a physical sense: pick up your trash, don’t leave the hotel room looking like a scene from The Hangover: but I believe it applies to emotions and people as well.
I want my kids to grow up with that same sense of dignity. I want them to pursue whatever makes them happy, whether it’s neurosurgery or competitive unicycling, as long as they are “dignified and true” while doing it. My hope is that when they walk out of a room, or out of a relationship, or even out of a brief conversation at a supermarket, the other person feels a little bit better than they did before.
Happiness isn’t a place to aim; it’s the byproduct of how you treat the world. (But not to worry, I’m lazy, so I only manage to be emotionally uplifting a couple of times a month!) If I can teach them that goodness is a choice you make every morning, I’ll feel like the “Forever Young” prayer is being answered in real-time.
“Build a stairway to heaven with a prince or a vagabond…”
This lyric is essentially my life story in ten words. For years, I was the quintessential vagabond. I traveled the world, told jokes in night clubs, and lived out of a suitcase like a man with no permanent address. I was a nomad by trade and by choice.
Then, I found Angie. And then came the kids.
Suddenly, the nomad had a home base. I didn’t stop traveling: touring is still the lifeblood of what I do: but my perspective shifted. I became what I call a “Domestic Nomad.” It’s actually the title of my latest comedy special because it perfectly captures that weird duality of being a traveling performer who is also deeply domesticated. One night I’m under stage lights in a city I can’t quite name, and the next morning I’m negotiating with a toddler about why we can’t have ice cream for breakfast. I mean we CAN we just Shouldn’t.
The “stairway to heaven” isn’t built with riches; it’s built with the connections we make. Whether I’m hanging out with high-rolling “princes” in the industry or fellow “vagabonds” on the road, the only thing that keeps me grounded is the family I come home to. Being a good husband and father is the hardest gig I’ve ever booked, but the payoff is much higher.
“And when you finally fly away…”
The final section of the song is where the “predicament” really comes to a head. Rod sings about the moment the child finally “flies away,” and the parent hopes they “served them well.” It’s a gut-punch of a lyric.
I think back to when I first left home. My father was right there, the wind beneath my wings. He let me fly, but he never stopped watching the horizon to make sure I was okay. Now, I see my own kids growing up at a speed that seems to defy the laws of physics, and I realize I’ll eventually be the one standing on the ground, watching them.
Whatever road they choose, I want them to know I’m right behind them. Win or lose, prince or vagabond, I’ll be there. It’s a terrifying and beautiful cycle. We spend the first half of our lives being the “young” ones and the second half trying to make sure the next generation stays “forever young” in spirit.
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