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.

School Crossing

This is not the first time I have lived in the New York metropolitan area.

In fact, I was conceived in the New York metropolitan area.

I know, TMI.

Sorry.

When I was a sophomore in high school, in San Diego, my father took a once-in-a-lifetime job in the Big Apple.

So we moved from "America's Finest City" to the home of Mr. Richard Feder.

Fort Lee, New Jersey.

Fort Lee is located right across the George Washington Bridge.

Right across from The Bronx, one of the five boroughs of New York City.

From our apartment window we were able to see the Empire State Building.

But we were still far enough away to avoid the mayhem of Manhattan.

The move for me carried all sorts of emotions.

Moving to the big city was very exciting.

My dad working for the New York Yankees was amazing.

But the transition from one school to another, one coast to another, was downright scary.

That wasn’t my first school change.

In fact, it wasn’t even my first school change that year.

Just six months earlier, after graduating from an all-day, private, orthodox, hebrew day school with seven other classmates, I headed to a public high school.

With three thousand students.

Talk about culture shock.

But at least that move was in the same city.

Living in the same house.

The same won’t be the case for my three kids.

Their upcoming school change, IF we ever sell the house, will take them from one side of the country to the other.

Just like my move to New Joisey 28 years ago.

I think I am better for it.

At least most of it.

But it wasn’t easy.

My first day at Fort Lee High School was quite an eventful one.

Early in the day, I was headed to my P.E. class in the gym, when I accidentally walked into the Girls Locker Room.

Now if you'll notice, I did not put accidentally in quotes.

And that's because it really was an accident.

Even though all of the Jersey kids thought it was a prank by the pervy new kid from California.

I eventually made it to the gym for a class I would never forget.

At some point during that period, one of my new classmates "introduced" himself.

Notice the quotes.

It actually wasn't much of an introduction, but more of an education.

He came up right behind me and whispered, "name the five boroughs of New York by tomorrow or I will kill you."

That sure was a funny way to welcome me.

The fact that I am writing this blog today, either means I learned the five boroughs or he was a liar.

The correct answer was B.

I could probably figure out the boroughs today, but I definitely didn't know them then.

Fort Lee was quite the experience for me, especially coming from laid back California.

I got to meet all sorts of new people, experience a new type of culture and learn a brand new language -- New Yorkish.

I think it was day two or three when two of my new buddies came up during a break and asked if I wanted to go outside and "smoke a bowl."

Smoke a bowl?

I figured out the smoke part pretty quickly, but this “bowl” thing was something I had never heard of.

Call me naive....  call me crazy...  call me anything you want, but as a 14-year old kid fresh out of all-day hebrew school, somehow I had never been introduced to that term.

So when the cool Jersey guys asked me again, I did what any SoCal kid living in a hostile environment would do.

I giggled. 

Several times.

They asked me again.

And I giggled again.

If my recollection is correct, the conversation went on for about 97 hours.

At least that’s what it felt like.

Pretty simple formula it was.

They asked.  I giggled.  Rinse and repeat.

But somehow my giggling must’ve been an endearing quality because when the conversation ended, without any smoking or any bowls, one of the guys gave me an offer I could not refuse.

"If anyone gives you a hard time, just punch them in the face."

"What???!!!!" 

I shouted.

Silently.

In my head.

I thought, “I'm from California, we don't punch.”

We sue.

And so began my new life.

My kids have so much to look forward to.