I feel faintly ridiculous whenever I find myself mourning a public personality.  But today I feel mournful and I can’t get around it.   Donna Summer died on Wednesday.

When I got the RIP email, I was seized by a flashback – the moment of sadness instantly routed by a kindly brain circuit to a distant memory of sheer exhilaration.  The summer of 1978.  A crazy slumber party.  The 45 rpm of Last Dance spinning on the record player with the arm set to return for interminable plays.  A dozen or so 10- or 11-year-old boys doing what they envisioned disco-dancing to be, which I think was mostly jumping frenetically on couches and incorporating some faux-martial arts.   Someone had also gotten their hands on a strobe light, and by the closing crescendo, a delirious chaos had set in.  It’s the closest I ever came to a rave, and it can never be bested.

I have a lot to say about Donna Summer, and I’m going to say it later, but now I’m going to feel thankful for a wondrous slumber party memory and  say a for-real prayer for her.  She would like that.

I feel love.