Times Like These

The healing power of sometimes saying “yes”

Dad bod. Dad jeans. Dad jokes. Dad rock.

Search anywhere on the internet and you are bound to find some Millenial or Gen Zer using “dad” as a pejorative prefix, meant to suggest corny, old, outdated or, worse yet, a man still trying not to be any of those things.

Dad Rock, like Yacht Rock or Minivan Rock became one of those online signifiers to codify all men who still go to concert or host weekend garage bands or wear Pavement t-shirts while drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon. All while, god forbid, also parenting children.

It was a term first famously employed in a caustic review of Wilco’s Sky Blue Sky album, in which the reviewer decided that the band was no longer on the cutting edge of innovation and were instead revealing some of the Boomeresque, rockist influences of their upbringings. And even worse, some of their songs chose as subject matter the lives they were currently living at the moment- as husbands, dads, friends, and neighbors.

I swear, I didn’t begin this piece as a defense of Dad Rock or rock of any kind. But what I would argue, based on my experiences the last two days, is that sometimes dads need a rock concert. Or a trip to a rock concert. Or the conversations that come when your oldest friends hit you with a fortuitous free ticket to an out of town show.

I had no idea how much this dad needed that experience. That is, until it fell into my ever-expanding lap.

For Generation Xers of a certain age and usually gender, we are very keen on quoting random lines from 70s/80s comedies as if they were inherited Talmudic wisdom. And one of the most cited verses comes from Risky Business. “Sometimes you just to have say ‘what the fuck.’” And my new, modern addendum apparently has become, “Sometimes you have to say ‘what the fuck’ and go to Fresno.”

Less than 48 hours ago, I had never been to Fresno, California’s fifth largest city. That’s not entirely accurate. I did stop in their McDonald’s once on the way to a 7th grade Yosemite class trip. But I can’t say it gave me much insight into their local flavor nor filled me with Fresno-centric civic pride.

Then, two days ago, I got an out of the blue call from to fraternity brothers from Brown— guys I’ve now known for 36 years. They had an extra ticket to see the Foo Fighters. The next night. In Fresno.

My natural instinct, under the best of circumstances would’ve been to say “no.” I’m a pretty shy guy, who likes to be home and doesn’t jump at spontaneous plans. And to be perfectly transparent, these have not been the best of circumstances in a lot of ways, but especially emotionally.

And probably because things aren’t going or feeling well, I did something entirely counterintuitive and out of character. I embraced the healing power of saying an occasional “yes.”

I don’t know if I said it, but I certainly thought it: “What the fuck, let’s go to Fresno!”

Now I’m not going to get super spiritual or esoteric on you. But…I do believe that things happen for a reason. And that energies I sent out into the universe may have come back to me with the right plan with the right people at the right time. Huh? I take that back. Maybe I will get super spiritual and esoteric on you.

All I know, is that on Tuesday, I was experiencing a particularly pronounced psychic nadir. And I told my therapist exactly that. Maybe not using such douchey, flowery language. Or maybe using much douchier. Anyhow, I informed I wasn’t doing well. And as function and cause of not doing well, I wasn’t reaching out and connecting to friends from the various points in my life.

Now I know my doctor did not betray my doctor-patient confidentiality and start cold-calling my Facebook friends list. But something did immediately change from the moment I confessed my sadness and loneliness to the doctor. It was as if saying it out loud, even in the confidence of a Bev Hills doctor’s office, was akin to sending out a silent, subliminal Bat Signal to my extended community.

Within a few hours I started to hear from friends and lots of them. A writer friend wanted to talk about the Beatles’ Get Back documentary, which lead to a fascinating deep dive into Paul McCartney’s preponderance of Jewish life partners. Another pal, this one from college, lured me into a discussion of favorite 70’s tv heartthrobs including, but not limited to both Morgans (Fairchild and Brittany) and both Landers (Judy and Audrey). A newer friend was no less nice, offering me both a pancake breakfast and sending me a guide to Southern California’s best hiking routes.

But the coupe de grace of unexpected offers came from my two college buddies with one lone Foos ticket. Now, I know what you’re thinking. If they were calling with 12 hours notice, I obviously wasn’t their first choice. But I don’t care. In fact, a miracle ticket magically appearing when I needed it most made the whole deal feel even more beshert.

I won’t bore you with every specific detail. But how often do you get to road trip, midweek, in your mid-fifties with your old college pals. Sure, the conversation starters—healthy eating, finances, mental health, and lawsuits—weren’t the identical ones we had road tripping from Brown. But also, how often, especially at this age, especially during Covid, do you get to talk to your oldest friends about meaningful, intimate things for hours at a time? Answer: not very often.

And naturally, the concert itself was awesome. I know, I know, there have been whole new waves of indie bands since the Foo Fighters made their debut 26 years ago. All I know is that everybody at the show was my age or older. And though I occasionally had to sit and rest my ankles during semi-obscure album cuts, by and large, the concert made me feel young.

And isn’t that the whole point of dad rock and road trips and old friends?