“Don’t Be the Joke.” — The Last Lesson David Cassidy Gave Me
When people heard that David Cassidy had dementia, the headlines remembered a teen idol. The hit records. The Partridge Family. The screaming fans. But to me, he wasn’t just a co-star from a 1970s TV show. He became my brother.
Not at first. When we started working together, he was twenty and I was ten. We weren’t close. I just thought he was the coolest human being alive. I told people he was like my brother because he was David Cassidy. That was enough.
Years later, something happened I’ve never really shared. Sean Cassidy called me. We’re friendly, not especially close. He said, “I just want you to know that David thought of you as his other brother. It was important to him that you knew that.”
The truth is, I already knew. David told me himself. He went out of his way to say he loved me. And I’m really sorry he’s gone.
David wanted the best for me, even when I made it hard. I got into trouble. Arrests. Tabloids. I was embarrassing myself in public. One day he called and said, “You’re the funniest guy in the world. But now you’re the joke. Don’t be the joke.”
That stung. But he wasn’t trying to humiliate me. He was trying to save me.
He asked me to go on tour with him. It sounded crazy. He laid down the rules: show up on time, sober, do your job. No women on the bus. No smoking. No drugs. No alcohol. I told him I wasn’t going.
Then I went.
He was right. I got a job out of it. That tour helped steady me. In a way, I owe my life on the radio to that conversation. I’ve been on the air every day since. That was David. He didn’t just shine under the spotlight. He pulled people toward it.
People think fame is fun. Sometimes it is. But it’s also a weight. I’ve seen what it can do. The Cassidy family lived with enormous fame. David sold out massive venues, a hundred thousand seats in a night. But I also did a show with him once where forty-three people showed up. I counted them. I made it part of my act.
And David gave those forty-three people the same show he would have given a stadium. He didn’t phone it in. He didn’t sulk. Every audience got the best he had.
I spoke to him right before my vacation. He was excited about a biography project and wanted me involved. I told him I’d love to tell good stories about him. I got on a plane to Rome with my family. When I landed, a stranger said, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” I thought he meant my mother. He meant David. At the time, David was still on life support.
That’s how fast things change.
David Cassidy was more than a teen idol. He was generous with his talent, fierce with his loyalty, and brave enough to tell me the truth when I needed it most.