I schlepped two and a half hours to meet Gene Simmons at the Chill Out Expo, and I’d do it again tomorrow. Aside from Aerosmith, KISS has always been my second favorite band—louder than life, unapologetically theatrical, and built on marketing genius that every entrepreneur secretly admires.
The line wasn’t long, but my anticipation was. When I finally got up to Gene, I had him autograph a Montreal Canadiens KISS Night puck—two of my favorite things in one souvenir.
What most people don’t know is that Gene Simmons was born Chaim Witz in Haifa, Israel. My grandparents owned a fish store in Kiryat Yam, a Haifa suburb that was more of a slum back then. Gene’s mother was a Hungarian Holocaust survivor. So was my grandmother. That connection hit me harder than any bass line.
Meeting Gene wasn’t about fanboy nostalgia—it was about lineage. Two generations later, two descendants of Hungarian survivors—one who built a rock empire, another who built a law practice—standing there joking in Hebrew and swapping Hungarian curses like old friends.
Gene was exactly what I expected: sarcastic, sharp, and utterly self-aware. No hugs, no fake warmth—just authenticity, which to me is more meaningful than any smile-for-the-camera moment.
When I shook his hand, I didn’t just meet a rock star. I met a man whose story started in the same soil as my family’s—a reminder that even from the roughest corners of Haifa, you can build something lasting if you believe in your own noise.
That moment? I won’t forget it.
