Backstage Pass

by Paul Stanley

  Dedication

  To my dad, who has saved

  his greatest gifts to me for last

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Introduction

  Part One: Business and Success

  1. Let the Past Be the Past

  2. Be Tough on Yourself, but Always Be Your Own Biggest Fan

  3. Every Success Starts with Knowing the Difference Between a Dream and a Fantasy

  4. A Fighting Optimism

  5. The Only Rule Should Be: No Rules

  6. Own Your Actions, Own Your Outcome

  Part Two: Relationships and Family

  7. Live for Others and Live Forever

  8. Life Becomes Worthwhile When We Make Others Feel Worthwhile

  9. The Boundaries We Inherit Limit the Distance We Can Travel

  10. Strive to Raise the Bar, Not to Lower It

  11. Understand the Why and Struggle Less with the Why Not

  Part Three: Self, Health, and Happiness

  12. Kick the Bucket List

  13. Choosing Your Battles Means You Win More Often

  14. When You Find the True Meaning in What You’ve Accomplished, You’ll Fall in Love All Over Again

  15. Vanity Isn’t Narcissism

  16. Pride in What We Do Is Pride in Who We Are

  17. If We Keep Moving Forward, We Never Finish the Journey

  Outro

  Addendum

  Acknowledgments

  Photo Section

  About the Author

  About the Collaborator

  Also by Paul Stanley

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Introduction

  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, bec
ause 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.

  Part One

  Business and Success

  1

  Let the Past Be the Past

  Last spring, I returned to West 211th Street, in Upper Manhattan, to the one-bedroom apartment where I grew up. It hadn’t been a happy home, to put it mildly. I hadn’t been in that building in sixty years. I’d driven by it once or twice, and I hadn’t had a good feeling when I did.

  This time, I had a specific reason to go there: along with my wife, Erin, and my oldest son, Evan, my three younger children—Colin, age twelve, Sarah, age ten, and Emily, age seven—were with me, and I wanted them to see the place where I’d started my life. I hoped it would help them understand the difference between their lives and mine.

  Years ago I had visited the area in Queens where my family moved when we left Upper Manhattan. Queens is where I lived when I went to high school, started playing music, met a bass player named Gene Simmons, and eventually started KISS. But after that visit, I fell into a few weeks of feeling miserable. It sort of confirmed what I had always thought: these places from my past held only negative associations for me.

  Still, I thought it was important to give it another try. I hoped this visit to 211th Street would offer a beautiful chance to give concrete reality to the stories I’ve told my kids over the years, to make my childhood memories into something tangible for them.

  So we went back. Or, I should say, I went back, since they’d never been there.

  I was born with a crumpled mass of cartilage instead of a right ear, a facial difference known as microtia. From the time I can remember, people stared at me—both kids and adults. People seem to detach a deformity from the person—instead of being treated like a human being, I was treated like an object. An object of curiosity in some cases, I guess, but most often an object of disgust.

  When I started to attend the elementary school right next door to our apartment, PS 98, I didn’t have any friends, but I was always the center of attention. And that sort of attention felt just horrific to a five-year-old. I wanted to disappear. Or hide. But there was no place to go.

  It was one thing when somebody stared at me—that was bad enough. But when someone yelled out at me, that drew other people’s eyes to me—everyone would look at me, scrutinize me. I felt violated and threatened to my core. These were the worst moments—like the kid who would point and yell, “Stanley, the one-eared monster!”

  All I could think was: You’re hurting me.

  On top of that, I never had a shoulder to cry on. My parents insisted on not talking about it. Kids need parents. Kids need protection. When my parents didn’t empathize with me and didn’t want to hear about my problems, I felt cut off from everybody.

  For most of my life, West 211th Street had represented just one thing for me: pain.

  But now, as I drove up toward the apartment, I wondered whether it would be different.

  We arrived and walked through the entry arch to the five-story walk-up and stepped into a paved space surrounded by the building—to call it a courtyard would make it sound too nice. Memories started to rush back. Crossing the yard, I suddenly remembered jumping on another kid’s back and biting him. This kid had taunted me and spat in my face. The courtyard triggered the memory because I’d been there one day with my mom and explained to her that this kid had been bullying me and hinted that I might want or need her help dealing with the situation. And she had told me, a kindergartner, to fight my own battles.

  “Don’t come crying to me,” she said.

  Which led to my attacking the kid.

  Entering the apartment, my initial reaction was surprise at how small the place was. Obviously, when we remember something in one scale—based on our size and stature as a child—and we go back, it’s startling. The building was also a bit rundown, but it was the size that really surprised me. As small as I remember it, this was so much smaller. And four of us had lived in it—my parents, my sister, and me. My parents had slept in the living room on a foldout sofa, and if my sister or I got up earlier than them and wanted to go to the kitchen, we had to crawl under their bed.

  My heart was racing. I was a bit light-headed.

  Back outside, we saw the school
next door, and the schoolyard where I’d been called “Stanley, the one-eared monster.”

  I’ve always told my kids to remember that their dad was teased and ridiculed. I’ve always told them that it hurt me and that they should remember, when dealing with other people, how I had been a target. That means a lot to them, and I see its impact in their eyes. Colin is aware of others’ vulnerabilities, as is Sarah. Even Emily is keenly aware of the feelings of others. If it happened to their dad, it could happen to anybody.

  And it does, though during my childhood it never occurred to me that I might not be the only one to be bullied and to suffer. Children tend not to think in terms of how they fit into the wider world. I never thought about anyone else being taunted and bullied because my world was just me. And even if somebody else was being subjected to similar treatment, it didn’t matter—I was still hurting. I wouldn’t have been consoled knowing that somebody else was also getting beaten up.

  My children all know about my being stared at and pointed at, about my having trouble in school and not being able to hear—all kinds of adversity. It’s the best way for them to really understand that sort of thing, to attach a face to it: my face. A face that, as a member of their family, probably means the most to them.

  But now, standing there in that apartment and schoolyard more than sixty years later, all of it felt like another lifetime. The memories were still there, but my connection to the place no longer had negative overtones. I could tell that, unlike earlier visits to places in my past, this one wasn’t going to leave a mark. It wasn’t going to cause pain or bitterness.

  That has everything to do with who I have become. And by that I don’t mean a globe-trotting rock star with a fancy house and a fancy car. I achieved that fairly early in my life and have realized it didn’t help smooth over the emotional scars. At one time I thought a Playboy Playmate and a bankbook full of cash was the answer. But it wasn’t. I had wanted so desperately to rub my fame in the faces of cruel classmates at reunions, but it didn’t help me feel better. I had wanted so badly to be desired by the sort of women who had always ignored me, but I found I still couldn’t establish meaningful relationships. I had wanted so badly to surround myself with the trappings of success, but I found that stuff was still just stuff, no matter the price tag. On the one hand, I had accomplished everything I had ever wanted and more. But on the other, I still languished emotionally, never entirely comfortable with myself, never entirely happy.