Happy, Joyous, and Free

I watch a lot of American Idol. Have for many years. Really, it’s about the only TV I watch outside of sports. If you don’t cry during the auditions, then you have a heart that is three sizes too small.

Here’s what I noticed about American Idol: the judges. Lionel Ritchie, Carrie Underwood, and Luke Bryan. And before Carrie Underwood, it was Katy Perry. You know what I notice about these judges? They are happy, joyous, and free. They don’t have a care in the world—or don’t seem to. They don’t seem to be carrying around psychological or emotional baggage. They aren’t plagued by worries and anxiety. They are present in the moment. They laugh, joke around, and have a good time.

I mean, maybe we all would be that happy, joyous, and free if we were that rich and beautiful. Or maybe there is more to it than that—maybe they are rich and beautiful because they are happy, joyous, and free. Maybe we have cause and effect reversed. Maybe being psychologically healthy puts them in a position where they can take risks. I mean, it’s kind of hard to be a good performer if your mind is somewhere else, thinking about some compliance problem you have or some legal problem or family or romantic issues. I do know a thing or two about performing, and I can tell you that you’re not always in the mood to perform—but you do it, and you end up smiling and having a good time, anyway.

I want to be like those American Idol judges. Happy, joyous, and free.

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When I was 17 years old, I was drum major of my high school marching band. I was a happy warrior, an ebullient, cheerleading cannibal bouncing around the football field during rehearsals, exhorting the band kids to give it their all. In performances, I was the consummate showman, practically doing everything short of backflips on the podium. I loved the attention. I loved the adulation. At the age of 51, I still consider it perhaps the best days of my life.

I was happy, joyous, and free.

Then I joined the military, and I learned about fear. Fear of authority. Fear that they could take it all away from you at any moment. And they almost did. In January of 1994, I was declared unsuitable for service by a 3-person panel of Coast Guard officers, and was disenrolled—but kept around for one more semester on a probationary basis to see if I could get my act together. Those were dark times—I had fear in my heart. And that cheerleading cannibal that I once was just two-and-a-half years ago was gone forever, replaced by a trembling, neurotic mess.

I still haven’t fully recovered.

I didn’t go to the Coast Guard Academy by choice—I went there out of necessity. It was free. Now, you can Monday morning quarterback your life in myriad ways, and try to calculate how your life would have turned out if you turned left instead of right, or turned right instead of left, but I truly believe that if I took the path not taken, and went to Worcester Polytechnic Institute, majored in math, I’d be richer and happier than I am today. Not wiser, but richer and happier. But like I said—who knows? What the military stole from me was that happy, fearless 17-year-old kid—and I could have remained that happy, fearless 17-year-old kid if I took a different path.

Now that may sound a bit idealistic. We all grow up eventually, maybe not in college, but by the time you are in your late 20s, you have experienced loss. Or addiction. Or divorce. Or disability. Or a variety of bad shit. We all lose our innocence at some point, and we become hardened cynics as adults.

But I’ll let you in on a secret—the very successful people, the unimaginably successful people—never grew up. They never experienced loss. They never knew fear. Juan Soto plays baseball like a boy. Aaron Judge does not. Aaron Judge knows the stakes, and his performance in pressure situations proves it. Yes, the guy hits 60 home runs a year when he’s healthy. But if you look at his numbers in late innings in close games, he’s terrible. He was terrible in the playoffs. Remember, he was adopted, abandoned by his birth mother. That is a load to carry.

The secret to success is to never lose your innocence.

Of course, we all lose our innocence. But the real key to success is to get it back, and be happy, joyous, and free.

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That is what I have spent the last 20 years working on—reclaiming my innocence, being fearless, and happy, joyous, and free. Being those American Idol judges on TV. You can’t take risks if you’re operating from a place of fear. You can’t take risks if you’re operating from a place of anxiety. You can’t take risks if you’re operating from a place of depression.

I have a theory about elections, and it has held true in every single election I have witnessed: the candidate who is having the most fun always wins. I mean, look at 2024, Trump handing out fries from a McDonald’s drive-thru window. He was having a blast. Which also hearkens back to my theory about RULE 62—don’t take yourself so damn seriously. Have fun. Be a showman. Revel in it.

Don’t get me wrong. There are miserable billionaires. But the image that sticks in my mind is when Elon Musk was on stage with Trump at some rally, and Trump is at the podium, and he looks back at Elon Musk who is jumping for joy. Let me ask you a question: when was the last time you jumped for joy? I’m being serious. Think about it. When? When was the last time you truly didn’t give a shit about what people thought of you and started jumping all over the place because you were so happy? Maybe at a concert? That counts, but it’s dark, and nobody is looking at you, they’re looking at the band. We get old and we get cranky and we get serious and we stop doing these things.

Before I got into my spot of trouble at the Coast Guard Academy, we were constantly doing pranks. We’d play the penis game during lectures. Haven’t heard of the penis game? It’s where one person says “penis” very softly, then the next person says it a little louder, then the next person says it a little louder, and next thing you know some guy yells “PENIS” in the middle of the lecture, and everyone cracks up. You see, I’m reclaiming my innocence, because I still think that is funny. Elizabeth Warren will never amount to anything. It’s remarkable she’s made it this far—she is angry all the time. Have you ever seen a picture of her smiling? What would Elizabeth Warren think of the penis game?

Try to experience joy in everything you do. And I’m not just talking about hobbies and concerts and fun stuff like that. Try to experience joy in your work. I write with joy. I trade with joy. I teach with joy. When was the last time you sang in front of someone? My wife took a video of me singing to Depeche Mode in 2018 and I put it on the internet. And you know what—the feedback was good! I can sing a little. Here’s another one for you—when you go to a wedding, do you dance, or do you sit in the corner? Are you too cool to dance? It is always interesting to see who dances at weddings. Usually, the old people get up and dance. The 40-somethings? They know fear. They know loss. They take themselves too seriously. When you get old, you can reclaim some of that innocence, because you clearly don’t give a fuck what anybody thinks of you.

What I’m talking about here is trauma. We all experience trauma, and we have it in every cell in our bodies. The people who win are either 1) the people who never experienced trauma, or 2) the people who learned to overcome it. Remember, I was a 9/11 survivor. I didn’t jump for joy or dance at a wedding in over a decade, because of that trauma. Isn’t that sad? I’m 51 years old, I’m fat, I look ridiculous, I look even more ridiculous dancing, and I still dance. I am going to be DJing at the Palm Tree Beach Club at the MGM Grand in Vegas next month. 51 years old and fat. The audacity of it! And I will be doing Jesus poses and jumping around in the DJ booth, because I don’t give a fuck. Mark Manson published an 80,000-word word salad to tell us how not to give a fuck, and you finish that book, and you’re like, what? I still give a fuck. I am telling you how not to give a fuck. Overcome your trauma. Reclaim your innocence. Be that 17-year-old cheerleading cannibal.

You know, we never stopped being children. It’s just smothered in layers upon layers of loss and trauma. Do what you have to do to get rid of it—go to therapy, talk it out, and be happy, joyous, and free again—before it’s too late.