Summer Lovin'

The year was 1979.

I was 12 years old.

It was Bar Mitzvah season in San Diego.

That pretty much meant that for two or three weekends every month.

We would spend two or three hours in a synagogue.

For the service.

And two or three more at a local hotel.

For the reception.

As terrifying as that may sound now, it never got old.

And the schedule of events never really changed:

• Blessing on the bread

• Hava Nagila

• Eat the rubber chicken

• Last Dance by Donna Summer

In that order.

Ok, I left out a few details.

But one thing for sure.

As soon as we heard Donna’s sultry voice, the parents headed for the parking lot.

While the kids headed for the pergo dance floor.

For the final time.

Like Kent Tekulve, Last Dance was the #1 closer in 1979.

The final song at every reception.

It was one of those ballad/disco combo songs.

For the first 81 seconds we got a chance to slow dance.

Which felt like you were going steady.

If you had a partner.

And felt like you had a big L on your forehead.

If you didn’t.

Then.

Just as you were starting to get comfy.

BAM.

Donna kicked it into high gear.

So let's dance the last dance

Let's dance the last dance

Let's dance this last dance tonight

Reading the words on this blog doesn’t quite do it justice.

But if you listen to the song, you’ll know exactly what I mean.

One second, I’ve got my hands on Jenny’s hips.

The next second I’m Tony Manero.

On a Saturday night.

Moving my feet like they’ve never moved before.

If I wasn’t at a Bar Mitzvah, you never would’ve believed I was Jewish.

That song was what music was all about.

In 1979.

And it still holds up today.

Unlike Boogie Oogie Oogie.

Or Boogie Fever.

Or pretty much anything with Boogie in the title.

Last Dance is a timeless classic.

And so is Donna Summer.

Well, so was  Donna Summer.

She died on Thursday.

At the ripe young age of 63.

A victim of cancer.

Donna Summer was Whitney before Whitney.

Christina before Christina.

Mariah before Mariah.

Back in her day, Donna Summer was the queen of the world.

The Queen of Disco.

The only musical act to release three #1 double albums.

The first female to have four #1 singles in a one-year period.

The first female artist to have a #1 single AND a #1 album at the same time.

MacArthur Park

Heaven Knows

Hot Stuff

Bad Girls

Dim All the Lights

No More Tears

On the Radio

I could go on.

Ask anybody who grew up in the 70’s... like me... to name the greatest female voices of all-time.

And Donna Summer.... won’t make the list.

It’s not that she doesn’t belong.

It’s that our memories are too short.

Just like her career.

In 1979, she had more hot singles than Magic Johnson.

Five years later, she was working hard for her money.

So hard for it honey.

But she wasn’t going anywhere.

This hot stuff had turned ice cold.

Other than a guest appearance here.  

Or a #18 song there.  

The long hot summer had ended.  

And it was time for a fall.

She got caught up in a bit of a controversy in the mid-80’s when she allegedly made some anti-gay comments.

Comments she denied ever making.

But nevertheless, the bulb had burned out on her spotlight.

In 2008, Rolling Stone Magazine came out with their list of the 100 Greatest Singers of All-Time.

The same year Donna was nominated for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Donna didn’t make the Hall.

And she didn’t make their list either.

Bob Dylan did.

He was #7.

Clearly their definition of “singer” is different than mine.

But not having the voice which DOMINATED an entire generation was a definite oversight.

Bjork made the list.

So did Toots Hibbert.

Even Mary J. Blige snuck in at #100.

But no sign of Donna Summer.

Now that she is gone, I’m sure there have been plenty of tributes.

But unless you lived through the Disco era.

And attended Bar Mitzvah receptions every other Saturday.

There is no way that you can appreciate the greatness that was Donna Summer.

Long live the Queen.

Striking Out

My dad’s been gone for nearly ten years.

And I can say without any hesitation, I only have good thoughts of him.

Funny how time works.

Don’t get me wrong, my dad was a GREAT man.

Honest.

Sincere.

Supportive.

Great.

But when it came to me, his only son.

His only child.

He carried a hammer with him.

Not literally.

That would’ve hurt.

In fact, he never hurt me.

But he did lose his temper with me.

More than once.

Like the time I was supposed to be at the corner waiting for him to pick me up.

So I could go get a haircut.

But instead I was at home playing with the local kids.

You would’ve thought I killed someone.

I’ve never seen his face so red.

But he got over that one.

Eventually.

Or on the day of my Bar Mitzvah.

When I decided to loosen the knot in my tie.

He was not a fan.

So much so that when he tightened it, I could barely breathe.

Thankfully time.. and a little therapy... has erased all of those memories.

And now I only have good ones.

I’m hoping my son can say the same when he is my age.

Now all-in-all, I’m a pretty good dad.

Or so I am told.

But perfect?

Not so much.

Need an example?

Let’s go all the way back to... 

...yesterday.

You see, I see greatness in my son.

I know, that’s my job.

But really, it’s there.

It’s there in the classroom.

It’s there at home.

And it’s definitely there on the baseball field.

This little one has the opportunity to do some great things with a bat.

A little weight room.

A couple hours in the batting cage.

A few shots of steroids.

He’ll be great.

But seriously folks.

From the moment he put on his uniform, on or around age five, he’s had it.

You know... IT.

Not sure exactly what IT is, but he’s got it.

I know it.

His coach knows it.

The problem is he doesn’t know it.

Or doesn’t see it.

Or maybe worse, he doesn’t believe it.

I have tried motivating him.

In every way I know. 

But I haven’t found the magic touch.

I have been too hard.

I have been too soft.

I have been on him all the time.

I have walked away.

I have patted him on the back.

I have kicked him in the butt.

Somedays we are close.

Somedays, not so much.

Yesterday... not so much.

After his game, I took him into the privacy of our basement and gave him a speech.

Actually, it was more lecture than speech.

The gist was -- “You are great, but if you don’t work harder, you won’t be great.”

It was filled with all the nutrients a good lecture needs.

Cliches.

Loud Volume.

F-bombs.

Not my proudest moment.

By far.

And what made it worse were the tears pouring out of my son’s eyes.

Everything I was saying may have been right.

But every way I was saying it was oh so wrong.

Downright pathetic.

Instead of teaching.

And loving.

And holding.

I was yelling.

At the top of my lungs.

At a boy.

My boy.

Who just wants to be loved.

And instead of being loved, he was being screamed at.

By his dad.

What in the world happened to me.

Needless to say, I didn’t sleep much last night.

And when I got up this morning, I made him a PB&J sandwich.

And I gave him a hug.

Or 10.

And when the clock hit three, I picked him up at school.

The big hand had never moved so slow as it did today.

When I got him, we went directly to the batting cage.

I knew I couldn’t change yesterday.

But I couldn’t wait to start today.

We didn’t pass go.

There was no $200.

But there was a bat.

A new bat.

Courtesy of Daddy Guilt.

(I got it on the clearance rack at 75% off, so we were both happy.)

We spent over an hour at the batting cage.

Laughing.

And smiling.

And a little teaching.

But mostly smiling.

And when the day was done we got in the car to head home.

And he said, “Thank You”.

“Thank you for taking me to the batting cages.”

Now I’m the one with tears in my eyes.

Happy New Year

For Jewish people around the world, today marks the beginning of the new year.

Year 5771.

Wow, do I feel old.

Growing up, this holiday was a big deal in my house.

We used to spend all day in synagogue praying.

Praying that the next year would be better than the last.

Praying that your family would be safe and healthy.

Praying that you could stay awake during the Rabbi’s sermon.

My dad was really good at the first two.

He loved going to synagogue or as we always referred to it in the Jewish slang, Shul.

We would go to Shul almost every Saturday during the year, but we would never miss the “High Holidays”.

As I’ve stated before, I’m a big believer in religion, any religion.

If it works for you.

I still believe in God and I still believe in faith and I still believe in tradition and I still believe in believing.

But as for spending all day sitting in a synagogue, that’s just not for me.

And it hasn’t been for a while.

I haven’t gone to a Shul in several years and I won’t be going for these holidays.

It’s not a protest or political statement, I’m just not going.

And it sounds like I’m not the only one.

I spoke to several of my Jewish friends yesterday and we exchanged Happy New Year greetings as we always do.

I asked if they would be going to Shul for the services and the group was split.

Some are.   Some are not.

Not exactly a Gallup Poll, but it was still interesting to me.

I was raised to be much more religious than the core of my friends.

In fact, I was raised a hardcore part-time orthodox jew.

I went to a Jewish school, five days a week, learning English, Math and Science for half of the day.

Jewish studies for the other half.

We kept a strictly kosher home, with strictly kosher rules.

All kosher foods.

Different plates for meat meals and milk meals.

And there was no getting around it.

Unless we were out of the house.

Then we did what worked.

In the Jewish religion you can’t eat shellfish.

But my dad always raved about the crab cakes in Maryland.

On the Sabbath, you cannot drive a car.

But we always drove to Shul.

On the Sabbath, you cannot turn on lights or electronics.

But we always watched a game on TV.

In fact, sports was a religion in our house.

I can remember May 24, 1980 like it was yesterday.

That was the day of my Bar Mitzvah, the day I became a man.

I spent many months preparing for that day.

Learning the words, writing the speech, picking out the food.

But sitting here thirty years later, the first thing that comes to mind from that day was coming home from the services and turning on the TV.

At that EXACT moment I saw Bob Nystrom of the New York Islanders skating around the ice after scoring the game-winning goal in the Stanley Cup Finals to defeat my Philadelphia Flyers.

It broke my heart as a Flyers fan.

But little did I know at the time that Nystrom was Jewish, not that it would’ve made me feel better.

I always loved hearing my dad's story about the time he mixed religion and sports.

He was working for the original Los Angeles Angels at the time, in the early 60’s.

The team was in Chicago on a road-trip and going through a terrible losing streak.

So bad, that he found a synagogue in Chicago where he could go to a Saturday service and pray.

At one point, as a visitor, he was called up to the stage to recite a certain prayer.

As part of that prayer, the Rabbi asked if there are any specific people in my dad’s life that he would like the Rabbi to mention.

When this is done, people will usually bring up their mother or father or children or anybody that they feel needs an extra shot.

That’s where Starbucks got the idea.

Well my dad mentioned his close family members, like most people do.

And then asked the Rabbi to say an extra prayer for the Angels.

The Los Angeles Angels.

The Orthodox Rabbi stopped cold and seemed shocked.

He informed my father that he could not do that.

“Why,” my father asked.

“Because I’m a White Sox fan."

Happy New Year, no matter what team you are on.