B009HOTHPE EBOK (48 page)

He picks up the money. End of the week I try to reach him. He’s in Australia chasing the actress Tawny Kitaen.

I think,
Okay, let me call Australia.
“Dodi, I thought you were supposed to—”

“Well, I came down here, I’m starting a movie thing, and
duh duh duh
.”

“But Dodi, you promised.”

“No no. Don’t worry. As soon as I come home this week I’ll get you the money.”

He comes home, gives me a check, Bank of America. I go to cash it and it’s bouncing all over the room. Wall to wall,
boom boom boom
. I can’t believe it. I call him.

“Dodi, I told you I didn’t want to loan you this money. What are you thinking? And how dare you? What are you up to?”

“Oh no, I’m so sorry. It should have been in there. There’s a Bank of Scotland in London, I’m transferring the funds tomorrow.”

I know now that I’m smack in the middle of a bullshit story. And I’m livid. Checking around I realize that he hasn’t even paid his rent for months, he owes people money for jewelry, and he’s living way beyond his means.

Dodi gives me the name of a bank in London that I’m getting the money from, and I wait till about 12:30 at night—I’m living in L.A. and I call the bank, just out of the blue. I take a shot, I got nothing to lose, I’m already losing, and I ask for the bank manager. He turns out to be a fan. I give him a number to call me back, so he can check that it’s me.

He says, “Mr. Anka, you know I’m not supposed to give out bank information, but I feel that you’re telling me the truth, as to what the situation is. Let me be frank with you—this guy’s been a problem. There is not enough money in that account to cover your check.”

I go, “Oh, Jesus!”

I wake Dodi up, it’s one in the morning by now, and I’m shouting, my voice is in the 120 decibel range. I’m so loud my wife comes down, thinking I’m being attacked by some intruder.

“You be here tomorrow,” I tell Dodi. “Or you’re going to jail.” He comes over and in the afternoon pleads his case—the why and the what and the wherefore.

“You know what?” I tell him. “You need to be taught a lesson. You just can’t do this to people. And it’s not just me; I found out you’ve been doing this all over town.

“You are behind with your rent with that prominent lawyer in Los Angeles whose house you have been living in—way behind in your rent. There’s a host of people you owe money: these girls, the jewelry, the doctors. How can you do this? I’m going to save you; you need help. I’m going to call your father.”

“Don’t call my father,” he says. “Don’t call Daddy.”

He leaves. I call his father. “Fayed? How are you
blah blah blah
. I’m a parent, you’re a parent. I think I’m doing the right thing here for you. I’m going to help you with your son; he’s in big trouble over here with this one and that one. And now me, and I am right on the verge of calling the police.”

“Please don’t do that,” he says. “Don’t do a thing, don’t call the police. I’m sending my brother in, and someone from our law firm; he’ll be in your office tomorrow.”

They show up, and a checkbook is put in front of me. “How much do you want? Name any amount.”

“Only what you owe me, of course. I just want my $150,000 back.” They give me the check, shut down Dodi’s house, pay off all his bills, put him on a plane, and take him back to England.

Two weeks later I get a call from the doctor who treated Fayed’s son Dodi. She talks in this very regal manner. “Mr. Anka, first of all, you know, I went to school with your wife in Egypt; please give her my best. Second of all, I want to thank you for what you’ve done for this family in sending this boy back. He needed the help badly.”

Next thing I know I’m laying in bed at the Mirage Hotel in Vegas, where I was performing. It was months later and I’m watching the news on television. They interrupt the program with a news bulletin. It was about Princess Di and the car crash in the tunnel. You know when you just get up, like I did today, and there’s not even a transition from sleep to being awake? I haven’t even gotten kissed on the mouth yet and something like this hits you. It’s like
WOOOWACK!
I see the car in the tunnel and I think I’m dreaming. My brain can’t even take it in.

I’ve just gotten over the business of the loan to Dodi, just put the money in the bank, and now this. Suddenly I remember that Dodi was always very security conscious; it was always about speed with him. Fast, fast, fast. He was very paranoid. Frightened all the time about kidnapping, holdups, vendettas. And when he got involved with Princess Di all that anxiety must have increased exponentially because the paparazzi were on them day and night. Always living with the fear that somebody might want to kill him—or her. Dodi, when he got in a car, it always had to be fast.

Wow, just a little favor and such a terrible end. What if I hadn’t loaned Dodi the money? What if I hadn’t called Fayed? I made myself crazy with that for quite a while.

*   *   *

They say you should never go home again, and after the way I’d been treated in Ottawa in the past I just stopped going back. That started a twenty-some-year personal Cold War with me. When I get ticked off, I get ticked off.

I’d gotten a scathing concert review in the local paper, the
Ottawa Citizen,
and in a 1962 cover story in
Maclean’s
(Canada’s answer to
Life
magazine), they called me “the world’s reigning juvenile” and went on to say, “Although most Canadians can be excused for shuddering at the thought, our best-known countryman abroad is indisputably a squat, bowlegged rock’n’ roll singer named Paul Anka.”

But in April 27, 2002, I returned for a fund-raising at the Ottawa Congress Centre for the Canadian Liver Foundation. Basically I came back in memory of my mother, Camy, who was thirty-seven years old when she died of complications from diabetes in 1961.

My mother had witnessed my early success, but her untimely death meant she didn’t live to see me really make it. My father, Andy, worked with me regularly and helped run Jubilation, my Las Vegas disco. When my dad died in 1993, at the age of seventy-four, I began reflecting on my feelings about not having my parents at the upcoming gala. Not having them there meant a piece was missing. My mother’s death was from complications brought on by diabetes, so it was symbolic for me to come back to raise money for another desperately needy cause, pediatric liver research.

I know they thought it was a long shot, trying to entice me home to perform, especially after I had refused previous overtures by concert promoters to get me to return to Ottawa. I hadn’t played there publicly since August 1981. But this time, they were ready to acknowledge me. In 2005, I got my name in Canada’s Walk of Fame, and on April 26 got named Paul Anka Day. The concert raised $250,000, so I was happy to be back, and to give back.

I’m sorry my mom never got to see it; she was my ally. She made the difference. My father was a straight-shooter, a practical person who was initially skeptical about my chances in a singing career. He wanted me in a legitimate business and back then show business to him wasn’t legitimate. But he would have been thrilled to see me welcomed back by Ottawa’s mayor and the prime minister.

*   *   *

I do believe there is a master plan. I believe that we are all given a gift. I also believe in luck and guardian angels. I believe there’s an angel on my shoulder guiding me—or how else would I have made it this far?

One of my problems—careerwise—is that I haven’t messed up enough. Seriously. Stories of success are always most interesting (and marketable!) when there are tragedies, when they’re entwined with setbacks (well, I
have
had those), outrageous behavior, controversy, drug addiction, and despair. This has not been my lot (or ambition!) in life, and a career without them can seem as monotonous as a love story without a breakup.

In today’s society it would probably do me good if I could get a little discoloration to my reputation. People love that. If I were to go out and tell all, or get a little funkier, there’d be an even bigger audience out there to eat it up. There are even a few popular national magazines that have offered to put me on the cover if I’d—shall we say—“open up a bit.” It doesn’t even have to be true, they tell me.

Well, come to think of it, there has been a frightening lack of boredom in my life in recent years. Around 2008, not only did I have the good luck to become the father of another great kid, but I had a second marriage, and a really scary divorce.

*   *   *

I was married for thirty-eight years. Despite our ups and downs, my ex and I are still friends. We can proudly say that we learned from one another, built a lifetime of memories, and have proudly raised five beautiful daughters all of whom I am, of course, very proud of. My second marriage ended in eighteen months. Need I say more?

So, I suppose, it will suffice to say the following: Anna Aberg and I met when she was my fitness trainer. Our courtship was quick, she was tall and blonde, I was a man in my sixties who, well, appreciated that she was tall and blonde. I am a man who can admit my weaknesses. At the time, she was in the middle of an ugly, messy divorce.

In the beginning everything between us seemed fine and that’s the way we appeared in public. But you have to remember that we were only married a year and an inch by the time you heard us on
The Howard Stern Show
, telling this beautiful sexy fairy-story romance about our life together. On the inside things were quite different.

The problem is, in this age of reality TV, tabloid obsession, where society is bred to put their lives on display, whilst being a voyeur into the lives of others—not saying more is often an application of something far more sinister. So you find yourself at a crossroads. Do I answer the questions? Do I tell the tales about my ex-wife? Do I go through the details of what occurred and landed me in family court? Trust me, I have gone back and forth over this very question. And—I am still not 100 percent convinced of my answer. The problem is, this marriage in question produced a son, Ethan Paul. He, along with my daughters, is one of the profound joys of my life. To put this marriage under a microscope, while titillating to some—would put him in the position where one day, when he is surfing the Internet or sitting in a bookstore, he will have to confront every word that I have written here.

We live in a day and age when the world at large doesn’t care, people have become accustomed to outrageous behavior. Even amongst presidents. I’ve gone through fifty-five years of being in the public eye with never a drug or a sex scandal. I’ve never been in the tabloids for any reason. The big problem today is the need to fill time on television, the twenty-four-hour newscasts.

I’ve had it so good in my life that ten years ago you could have danced on my grave. The wonderful thing about a child, especially at my age, is that you’re no longer thinking of yourself, it’s all about him—Ethan. I find myself doing things for him that I don’t do for anybody else. It’s all about my boy, it’s all about Ethan. It’s not about me anymore. When I see Ethan and how much he adores my girlfriend Lisa Pemberton it makes it all worth while. She is a very giving and good person.

My advice, for what it’s worth, is to take precautions, keep your eyes open. There’s a lot of men out there who have really suffered at the hands of women like Anna because of the inane divorce and custody laws and the way the legal system works. That’s why I think I have to talk about it. I think the story has to get out there. I had lengthy discussions about the dilemma with my attorney Craig Leeds, a really good guy and a great lawyer, as to what can be done in the legislature about this horrible state of affairs in child custody and divorce and so on in California.

Craig Leeds was also intrinsically involved in my custodial divorce settlements with Anna. Eddie de Bartolo Jr. has been one of my dearest friends for years and is one of the greatest pals you could ever have. He’s a big shopping mall developer—huge—and onetime owner of the 49ers. Heart of gold, helps his fellow man, and loves his friends and charities, one of the most giving people you will ever meet, a man’s man to boot and just an all-around fun guy. I adore him as a brother. So, after all the disturbing business of my divorce from Anna, who better to go and hang out with than Eddie, his wife Candy, and his wonderful family. So, in July of 2011, Ethan, Lisa, and I went for a much needed getaway to his ranch in Montana where he held this great three-day Fourth of July event. Ethan loved the fireworks, the food, the show, and the spectacular environment. It was a joyful and healing experience that allowed us to put the past behind us and begin a happier, more loving phase of our lives together.

Twelve

AND NOW FOR MY ENCORE

Showbiz is unpredictable but sometimes you get lucky in the timing. As hard as I worked, as focused as I kept myself, with as much discipline as I could muster, I still question, Was I supposed to last this long? I took my fifteen minutes of fame and worked it into a lifetime. This little guy about two feet taller than a fire hydrant—incredible.

Coming from a small town in Canada and not having a lot to begin with, I learned at a young age that I had been given this incredible chance. I knew if I blew this, it was a big shame on me.

Coming from a modest background, it’s mind-bending to be thrust out in front of people and money and all that glamour. There’s some kind of curse that goes with it. And if you don’t realize that much, it could be over very quickly.

My father always said, “Things are going to change” and they always have. My philosophy is: Every day is a brand-new day. You don’t have any expectations in life, you will be fine. I live in the moment and forget everything else. That’s the way I’ve been all my life because while you’re down here planning, God is up there laughing. I learned from my mistakes very early. In life, you make choices and every choice has a consequence. I took the blows.

Success in this business is not all about talent. There are so many variables. We’re kind of pressured into marketing ourselves, creating an image. Art has no time.