For some reason, last night I went to a website that let me play Dean Martin singing That’s Amore. The next thing I know, I was singing as loud as I could while my bird Abdul looked at me like he suddenly realized he was in a locked room with a mad woman. Which he kind of was. But I didn’t care. I didn’t care that I couldn’t carry a tune with a wheelbarrow’s assistance or that I stumbled over half the words. Because suddenly I was back in my Italian childhood in Ducktown in Atlantic City and it was the 1950s and I had no greater care than getting to school with my friend Grace every day and making sure I made the nuns happy. And right across the street was the Venice Restaurant. Dean Martin used to go eat there after he and Jerry Lewis performed at the 500 Club around the corner. The parking valet was a friend of my dad’s and he’d always let us know when they came. They’d stand in the doorway and sign autographs before they went in to eat. I would see him and think he was cute and Jerry Lewis was the funniest person on earth and I was thrilled to be so close. The sun was always shinning and I’ve never felt so safe because it was my neighborhood and I knew everyone and everyone knew me. And suddenly, as these memories washed over me, I was crying and singing all at the same time because I was in my childhood living room and mom and dad were still alive and we were all watching the Dean Martin Show together.
I have to stop listening to his music or my bird is going to start dialing 911.