And I’m beginning to feel that maybe, just maybe, I am enough. Though every now and then, when I’m feeling good and I start humming to myself or thinking a thought that makes me smile, my old adversary will chime in, as he often has in good times before. “Yeah, everything’s just fucking peachy, isn’t it, dipshit?” hisses my Darkness. Which of course will switch my focus to everything that isn’t peachy in my life and my world. I know he will never let me go. And maybe I deserve him. I continue to do my best and to live well: to be the man Gomer thinks I am, my sons believe me to be, and Barbara is pretty sure I am in my heart. I still feel guilty over the pain that my past actions have inflicted on those I love—particularly B—but I try not to wallow in it, no matter how much my Darkness thinks I really should. My focus is on the present and the future as I watch out for booby traps on the path ahead. And the Buddhist phrase I most need to have tattooed backward on my forehead so I can read it in the bathroom mirror every time I look, is: “Each morning we are born again. What we do today is what matters most.”
On good days I love my life, my girl B, my family, my music, and my career choice. On bad days I want to drive straight into a fucking tree. And most days are spent somewhere in between. I think back to “Gary’s Girl” in my old stained-glass class and the “million-dollar snub” she gave me, and I’m thankful I don’t always get what I want. Proof that something wonderful comes with every slice of shit we are served.
So what do I believe?
I believe in the path I have chosen and the emptiness of celebrity. I know that identifying the demons that drive me is a good start, but it’s only that: a beginning. Analysis and psychotherapy are instructional, but not a satisfying end in themselves. The battle is lifelong. Certainly recognizing the things that propel and pursue me is a major step, but it is not a cure. There is no cure. The drug addict knows this. The alcoholic knows this. The sex addict knows this. And I know this. The Darkness is the shepherd of all my negative thinking, drives, passions, and weaknesses. And I will take the fucker to my grave. I continue to wage a daily crusade not to let him take me over.
The things that changed me for the better are obvious to me. Barbara is my light and my love. She is the one true soul life who wants to be my companion through this life, and I hers. She has incredible depths that I am still discovering. Those fortunate enough to know her, love her for her selflessness, her passion for others, her hopeful view of the world, and her benevolence. Not to mention her awe-inspiring burritos.
My precious sons Liam and Josh, who made me realize I am not the most important person in the universe: they are. And I thank all that is merciful that I get this. It took a giant load of pressure off me. Plus I get to hang with these two most amazing beings. I seek/pray for a true and hopefully lasting spiritual connection, something I am exploring on an hour-to-hour and minute-to-minute basis. I may never know the truth until it looks me in the eye at the end.
Speaking of the end, this isn’t it! There will be volumes II, III, and IV in this autobiographical series. (“Oh no,” they moan in unison.) I have a lot of living left (I hope) and still too much to learn. And I don’t know how it will end, thank God. Hey, speaking of God and faith, it’s good to have someone who believes in you to guide you from time to time. My dad was there, both physically and spiritually, with a hand on my elbow to steer me back during the times I wandered off my path and headed for the cliff. He’s with me still. I inherited my old mum’s persistence and “school-of-hard-knocks” fighting spirit, but it was from my dad that I learned to love others, never shrink from kissing the face of a dog, and periodically get down on my hands and knees and humbly thank the gods. When I meditate and connect to God, he/she most of the time wears my dad’s face. This is amazing to me, since it was my father’s death that originally caused me to question my faith so many years ago. I am incredibly lucky to have had that sweet guy as my father and as a constant believer in me; I always hurt for anyone I meet who doesn’t have a good “old man” connection the way I did. I’m doing my best to forge that same kind of good bond with my two sons, and as I’ve said, I think I’m doing an okay job of it. Mostly.
I realize now how important family has been to me, both my own and those that adopted me when I was most in need. I couldn’t have survived without them during those times when I was adrift in a foreign land. I am eternally grateful for the few who stepped in and filled that void. It’s usually something only blood relatives can do. I thank all that is meant to be that I found B and that she found me. Our connection is irreplaceable. She most certainly is. And I completely embrace how important it is for me to be an honest and moral person, to accept all the shit I am saddled with and have created for myself, to write with veracity and passion, and to be able to absorb a good hard kick in the balls now and then when the world doesn’t go the way I want it to. Also to be a good shepherd of the small furry animals.
And speaking of small furry animals: My sweet main man Gomer is about to check out and go home. I wish we could be together forever. I look at my dear old boy, silver-muzzled, tired, at the end of his good journey. The only beings I have had a pure relationship with, and with no regrets, are the dogs in my life. There has never been a moment when I have wished anything but to be with them. My beloved companion Gomer has been with me for fourteen years now. He is so deep and amazing that he waits for the two months I have off from touring before he says good-bye. Over these precious weeks I hang with him, lie with him, breathe him in, take mental pictures that will last a lifetime, kiss him, cuddle with him, and share him with all those who love him. As his legs weaken, I carry him around the house from dog bed to dog bed, inject water into his mouth with a syringe so he doesn’t go thirsty, feed him cat food, raw steak, chicken teriyaki, and Gelson’s chili by hand—anything that will entice him to eat. I hold him upright out in the grass so he can pee.
We’re all bracing ourselves, but there is really no way to prepare for the end. I have said good-bye to so many beings I love. Gomer is the hardest, because he’s woven into the fabric of our daily lives. He is part of our family, has local friends, distant fans, and a presence that is forbidding and mighty. I fear the giant black hole he will leave. I don’t want our connection to end. I see him lying there and I don’t want to let go. We all know his pain and the look in his eyes that truly says, “I’m only hanging on because you bastards won’t let me leave.” We’re trying to find the courage to say good-bye.
And as sure as winter, the fateful night arrives. He is breathing too hard; it looks like it hurts him. His eyes are unfocused, yet they still catch our movement around him as he lies on our bed. The vet arrives. We come to the decision. He gives our boy his shot and we hold him, talk to him, tell him over and over that we love him, and kiss him until he takes four deep breaths and is gone. He is gone. He is gone. May the starlight guide you home, my sweet boy. We all crumble into one another’s arms for support. That night I am missing him terribly and he comes to me in a dream. I wake with the phrase in my head—“It is the way of things.” And I understand that it is.
I take him to be cremated at the place I took Ronnie many, many years ago. I have more peace with Gomie’s death than I did with Ronnie’s. We gave him all we could. We sent him home with love and tears. He died well. I have no regrets. And he will always be our boy. I take his ashes (that too-small box, again) to the grave site where we eventually buried Ronnie’s ashes, and I pray that they are together and will wait for me. I don’t look for a sign, but I know there will be one. As I rise and walk back to my car with my furry boy’s ashes under my arm, I look up. I see two hawks circling lazily over the grounds. Only two. Gomer and Ronnie together. Spirits.
I know every story should have an ending, though thankfully my life is still going on, but I’m thinking about my own mortality lately. I hope for a painless crossing when my time comes, but whatever it will be, it will be. Not that I deserve a free pass or that I’ll have a say in the matter, but I’d like to suggest that
the first thing I see when I cross over is a big-ass sign that reads “All is forgiven.” My dad will be there, and my mum (though it’s not a certainty that she’ll go before me; as I have said, she’s made of extremely tough stuff), and my sweet mutts will be there, too. The best line about what awaits us is the one Will Rogers said: “If there are no dogs in Heaven, then when I die, I want to go where they went.” I wholeheartedly concur. Ronnie will be running to me with Gomer at his side, both smiling as only dogs can smile, along with Cleo, my only friend in adolescence, and way, way in the back, running to catch up as fast as his legs can carry him, a scruffy black-and-white terrier from a long time ago … my long-lost and abandoned boy … Elvis.
My mum and dad in Sydney on one of their first dates, before I was even a gloomy little gleam in their eye.
The Springthorpe family with our first car. Why am I wearing a dress? Because we’ve just gotten back from christening me Richard Lewis (not Howard Lewis).
Two years of age and already depressed. No, not really, but judging by the look on my face, I am possibly post-tantrum.
I’m the bug and my brother is the exterminator. Our mum made these charmingly coordinated costumes. What was she trying to insinuate?
My kindergarten class in Bandiana. I’m the one in the middle row, third from the right, clearly ignoring the guy with the camera who’s yelling, “Everyone, look at me and smile.” Can you spot Vicky the Erotic Poop Queen? She has a look that says in twelve years she’ll be Trouble.
England in 1960. I think I see the Darkness in my eyes even then.
The beginning (and near end) of my acting career: the coveted lead role in Scuttleboom’s Treasure and another fine outfit whipped up by my mum. I think all “official” photos in our house were staged on these stairs.
Harold Hare, the grinning little bastard that got me in trouble when I was ten.
Back in Oz and in love with the guitar. At thirteen I had no inkling of what would take place inside this shed in the not so distant future. At this moment, however, it was just a wonderfully white-trash backdrop for a swingin’ cool shot of me with my first guitar and my one “hip” outfit.
Vietnam, out in the boonies, 1968. In-ground bunkers like this were set up around a camp to guard the perimeter against the enemy. Dude, I’m just a freakin’ guitar player. Don’t shoot me.
The boys of Zoot, 1970. Whose bright idea was this? Oh yeah, mine. Sorry, fellas. The flip side of this photo is even funnier. Photograph © Glenn A. Baker
My first Hollywood apartment (1972). That’s not a hat, it’s my hair. And those things on my head? Earphones—what people used before the invention of earbuds and illegally downloaded “free” music. Photograph by Yoram Kahana/ Shooting Star
Good to go. Melbourne, 1971, just before heading to the US of A. You can’t tell but beneath those shades I’m pretty damned excited—even though I’m leaving everyone and everything I know behind. Photograph by Jacques L’Affrique
Young lad loose in Hollywood circa 1974. Proof I did love Greta Garbo and that at one point in the ’70s, you just couldn’t wear enough denim.
The severely balls-flattening white silk pants, white two-inch-heeled shoes, and “R”-for-Ricky lightning bolt sweater I’m wearing comprise the first of two stunning ensembles designed by yours truly. The sexual double entendre—cooked up by some teen magazine—is purely intentional, of course. Photograph © Michael Ochs Archives/ Getty Images
It’s hard for me to reconstruct my logic now, but at one point in my career I thought this loopy outfit was the right look for me. Thank God the only things in this photo I still have are my hair and that Gibson guitar, which I would eventually use to write the opening riff of “Jessie’s Girl.”
Linda and me hiding out in my … okay, her Hollywood apartment in 1975. Photograph by Michael Montfort/Globe Photos, Inc.
My only concession to disco: satin shorts. In the backyard of 1216 Maryland Avenue with Ping and Pong, my two chickens—trying to make up for the beheading of so many of their Aussie brethren by treating them well and not eating them. This photo is also proof that at twenty-seven I could actually grow facial hair.
Lethal Ron and me outside my first house. Joined at the hip. We don’t know it yet, but Barbara will be moving in with us soon.
1982. Me and the beautiful B.
No real doctor ever had this much time to coif his hair. Photograph © American Broadcasting Companies, Inc
Probably one of the single most valuable pieces of paper I own: the original lyrics to “Jessie’s Girl.” I guess paper was a luxury back then because I wrote “Love Is Alright Tonite” and “Red Hot and Blue Love”—both from the Working Class Dog album—on this same sheet of paper.
From playing cover songs for twenty people one day to playing my own music in front of twenty thousand the next. It’s a bit of a mind-fuck, to be sure, and, yes, that is a REDFENDERSTRAT I’m holding. For years I tried to believe this could really happen, but when it finally did, it was hard to absorb.
The original photo of me that made it to Ronnie’s shirt for the album cover of Working Class Dog along with Polaroid outtakes. Proof that while I needed perfect lighting, hair, and makeup for my close-up, Ronnie did not.
Record store signing in 1981, according to the Miss Teen America sashes. Were these two my bodyguards? If so, then it was kind of like having the hens guard the fox.
Me and Ronnie at RCA. Is it any wonder I put this handsome hound on the cover of my album? What a ham.
B and me leaving my mum’s house after our wedding. You’ll win a prize if you can spot my mum in this photo.
Live Aid, JFK Stadium, Philadelphia, 1985. One of rock and roll’s finest hours. I was performing in the stateside part of this landmark event. The other half was taking place simultaneously in London’s Wembley Stadium. Given the estimated four hundred million viewers who tuned in across sixty countries, it’s surprising the world’s TV satellites didn’t all spontaneously combust. Photograph by Paul Natkin/WireImage/Getty Images
Hawaii, with Liam at fifteen months. I could have stayed like this forever.
Shortly before my momentous walk around the pool. Smiling with my mouth but not my eyes.
Liam and I hanging with his new bro, Joshua, just after his birth. Little Mr. Center of the Universe, the sequel.
Sahara, drawing you in.
The EFX show. Somehow (in the minds of the writers of this MGM show) I was supposed to be P. T. Barnum who had just landed in E.T.’s spaceship, wearing Sgt. Pepper’s jacket and playing Elvis’s guitar. At least I didn’t have to dress up in a fat suit like the guys behind me. It was a pretty cool show just the same. Photograph by Liz Engel
Taking the Pete Townshend windmill one step further: the rose decapitation. Don’t try this at home. Photograph by Rhonda Hunt
A recent concert shot. Playing live is my favorite way of connecting with other human beings. The emotional experience of a concert is a communion. And as an aside: What’s the point of getting a tattoo that only people you have sex with can see? Photograph by Rhonda Hunt
My old mum and me in our backyard. Is there a family resemblance? I think so. She’s closer to one hundred than I care to contemplate. I do hope that “family resemblance” includes the longevity gene. Photograph by Jay Gilbert
B and me out on a recent date. My soul mate.
Gomer and me. My other soul mate. Photograph by Kym DeGenaro
www.Springthorpe.com. COUNTERCLOCKWISE FROM LOWER LEFT: Joshua, Liam, Barbara, and me.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
From the Touchstone side:
Stacy Creamer: ace editor, publisher, and friend (who, disguised as Supergirl, fights a never-ending battle for truth, triathlons, and the literary way)
Lauren Spiegel
David Falk
Stacy Lasner
Martha Schwartz
Rob Goodman
Stuart Calderwood
Cherlynne Li
Marcia Burch
Mark Spee
r
Joy O’Meara
George Turianski
Mick Wieland
From the RS side:
Barbara, Liam, and Joshua: my heart and soul
Mum and Dad: thanks for the rude awakening
Rob Kos
Alana Mulford
Jim Gosnell
Julie McCarron
Steve Fisher
Kym DeGenaro
Jay Gilbert
Ken Sharp
Late, Late at Night Page 36
