A Note From the Author When I turned fifty, I wrote a song about my life so far, to see if I could fit it into a three-minute pop tune. My Depression Born in the Southern Land where a man is a man Don’t remember too much, warm mama, cold touch Postwar baby boom, fifty kids in one room All white future bright but living in a womb Got a TV receiver Jerry Mathers as the Beaver No blacks, no queers, no sex.

Mouseketeers Daddy kept moving round, I can’t settle down Always the lost new kid in town Mannlicher lock and loaded, JFK’s head exploded Dark figure at the fence, end of my innocence Hormones hit me, chew up, spit me Get stoned, get plastered, always was a moody bastard Guitar fool, kicked out of high school Joined a band, Vietnam, Mama-san, killed a man Daddy gets real sick it’s too intense I can’t stick it Buy myself a ticket to the U.S.A. Oh my God, it’s my life. What am I doing kicking at the foundation? Convert Ventura Publisher Files Converter. That’s right, my life. Better start thinking ’bout my destination Hollywood sex-rat, been there, done that Jaded afraid I’d never get a turn at bat Last in a long line, finally hit the big time Gold mine, feeding time, money/fame, I get mine Use it, abuse it, Daddy dies, I lose it Get a wife get a son, beget another one. Head said “God’s dead,” motorcycle body shred Midlife crisis rears its ugly head Prozac, lithium, could never get enough of ’em Last wills, shrink’s bills, sleeping pills, sex kills Edge of sanity, my infidelity Looking in the mirror and thinking how it used to be Don’t like the skin I’m in, caught in a tailspin Honest-to-God vision, spiritual transmission Climb aboard the life raft, looking back I have to laugh Take a breath, don’t know if I’m ready for the second half Oh my God, it’s my life. What am I doing kicking at the foundation?

That’s right, my life. Better start looking at my destination My life, my depression, my sin, my confession, my curse, my obsession, my school, my lesson.

For anyone with a short attention span, that should cover the major details of my life, so you can put this book back on the bookstore shelf. For those of you who want to hear the deeper cut, many thanks and read on... —RS Prologue A Swingin' Teenager So here I am, seventeen years of age, feeling as ugly as the ass end of a female baboon at mating season, unloved, very much in need of a good caressing by some attentive young woman and, right now, swinging by my neck at the end of a very thick twine rope like some pathetic B-Western movie bad guy. I’m thinking to myself as I lose consciousness, “Wow, somehow I thought it would all end so differently.” Thank God I haven’t succeeded at a lot of the things I’ve tried, like this suicide attempt for instance.

Dec 21, 2017 Rock Of Life Rick Springfield wolfenstein ii the new colossus annie u0027s kitchen latest Kimmo rasa rozmari castors hollow. The Paperback of the Late, Late at Night by Rick Springfield at Barnes & Noble. Climb aboard the life raft. Except when famous rock-and-roll icons and skimpily. Rick Springfield has been writing and performing music for more than four decades. An accomplished actor, he has performed on Broadway, headlined in Las Vegas, and starred in numerous movies and television series; most recently, he played a twisted version of “himself” in Showtime’s hit Californication.

But thank God I have succeeded occasionally. Because in a furious flash-forward, of the type that can only happen in the movies or in this book, I am thirty-one years old and standing onstage with a very expensive guitar strapped around my very expensive suit, playing a rock-and-roll song that I wrote. The audience of this sold-out show is clamoring for more. A bevy of young girls is waiting backstage for me, and there’s a middle-aged bald guy standing on the side of the stage, smiling at his healthy profit, ready to hand me a big, fat check when I’m done. Wait, wait, wait, wait! Just a second here...

So if I’d succeeded in offing myself back in my teenage years of staggering angst, I would have missed all this? Evidence, I think, that when we are at our lowest and ready to give in and go belly-up forever and for always, we should take a step back and say, “Is this the absolute best move I can make right now?” And then give ourselves an extra year or two or three. I am walking, breathing, living proof that, considering how depressed and full of self-loathing and self-pity I am right now, swinging by my skinny, teenage neck three feet off the ground, thinking that I am worthy of not much more than the gig of pre-chewing hay for a horse with bad teeth, good things can still happen. It’s just the law of averages, and the law is on our side, losers. So to those who are at the bottom of the emotional heap—and it’s crowded down here—there is still reason for hope! Not that the teenage idiot I was (who is, by the way, still swinging freely from a crossbeam and turning a lovely shade of blue) would have believed that dopey, feel-good phrase anyway.