Good Times Never Seemed So Good

I have tried, at various times in the past few years, to introduce the girls to my hobbies and passions. I bring them to a ballgame, play them a Springsteen CD, read them some of my writing, take them to Manhattan. They’re always interested, and I think they appreciate my sharing the things that I love to do without forcing them to like it, too.

Of course, I’d love it if Katie started wearing a CC Sabathia jersey, or if Chelsea started listening to “Born to Run.” But there’s no promise of that, of course. I’ll embrace the passions they develop, and encourage the girls to pursue those. That’s my job.

And yet, some things are just not fair.

I understand that the girls might not think it’s all that amazing that Derek Jeter broke the Yankees’ franchise record for hits. I know they might not want to sit down and watch his at-bats on TV. I know that the subtleties of Springsteen’s images of longing might be a bit over their heads. But please, I do not deserve this …

It’s my mother who hits the jackpot. Walks in the other day with a DVD, and says the girls just have to watch it. I listen to their conversation, and start shaking my head. It’s him again. Neil Diamond, live in concert from Madison Square Garden. The woman has seen this man in concert about two dozen times, and knows every single song he has ever recorded. In the world of pop culture, this man is beyond a passion for her. If she could buy a bottle of his sweat, she’d do it.

The girls know all about Neil Diamond – they’ve had no choice but to listen to him, and they’ve heard me groan whenever his music begins playing at their grandparents’ house. And yet …

They say sure. They’d love to watch the DVD.

I am cleaning the house, stewing with jealousy. I glance into the living room, and there the girls are, their eyes glued to the TV while this 68-year-old man, glittering with sequins, reaches out with his left arm and croons “I am … I said / to no one there / and no one heard at all, not even the chair.”

I could toss on “Thunder Road” right now, and dare the girls to tell me that “I Am … I Said” can hold a candle to my guy’s music. But I know they’d ignore me. “Look at him work the crowd,” my mom says, and the girls watch intently as this man, looking like a washed-up figure skater, pauses mid-chorus and brings 20,000 baby boomers to their knees. He continues, hitting the chorus with that nasally voice, the “yeahhhhh,” the eyes closed tight, the arm always reaching out toward a fan who’s frothing at the mouth. I try to mock him in the living room, and the girls wave me off. “Stop it, Daddy,” Katie says.

His signature song comes on, and the girls can’t control themselves. As the chorus to “Sweet Caroline” nears, Katie jumps onto the arm of our couch, pumping her fist in the air as she cries out at the top of her voice: “Good times never seemed so good / So good! So good! So good!”

It’s time for bed, and they don’t want to stop the DVD. My mom promises them she’ll watch the rest of it with them tomorrow, and they consent to that. They’ll have to wait another day to see how he works the crowd in “Love on the Rocks.” What a shame.

My whole life, I’ve had to listen to this guy and his pop songs. Several of them are catchy, I’ll grant him that. But so many others are painfully mediocre. For years, I longed for the day when I could get a little more highbrow with the music I played for my own kids. And just as they’re reaching the age when they might actually listen to a few more songs of mine, in swoops Nana with her DVD.

It’s just a matter of months now before she takes Katie to see the guy in concert. Soon, Katie will be wearing a Neil Diamond concert T-shirt, and asking me to buy her an iPod so she can listen to his songs while doing her homework. She’ll buy an old VCR copy of that awful “The Jazz Singer” film remake, and watch it endlessly. She’ll name her first kid “Shilo” or “Soolaimon.”

OK, maybe that’s going too far. It’s time to take a deep breath, let go of this petty envy, and chalk one up for Mom. Music tastes aside, she found a way to pass along her passion to another generation. And really, how awesome is that?

I’ll get my chance someday. For now, I’ll have to watch as this 63-year-old woman sings “Forever in Blue Jeans” along with her granddaughters. I can think of much worse. You go, girls.