Hey, Monday. Let's get to it. I have lots to say and do today.
There are two things I don't suffer well in folks- people who don't curse
and people who have no affinity for Frank Sinatra. I don't care who you are,
or where you come from, but you better be able to curse and you better like
Frank Sinatra, or at least appreciate his perfect pitch. I don't get you if
you can't do either of the above. There I've said it. Now we can move on.
Fuck.
My lifelong love affair with Frances Albert began at an early age. I'll call
it the bat mitzvah era, of which every weekend of my life involved going to
a Torah reading and then a party of some kind. Heady times those. Heady
times.
I remember being driven to one such affair by a boy named Eric's father's
Mercedes. Eric was a rich kid and his father was pretty classy from what I
can remember. While en route to yet another rite of passage for yet another
Jewish classmate, his father had Frank cranking. At this point in my life, I
was inclined towards the Sex Pistols and the Clash, but something about
Frank that day stuck with me- that voice, those lyrics, that silky style.
Yum. I remember going home and requesting my own dad play Frank, to which he
was incredulous. He said "YOU like Frank Sinatra?" This because I was an art
school kid with an asymmetrical haircut and a good deal of angst. I told him
that indeed I was digging on the Chairman- it was the era of Frank's live
album Trilogy and I couldn't get enough. Regardless of where life took me-
hardcore shows, Dead shows, hip hop shows- I always could count on Frank to
make me feel joyful. I found his elegance coupled with brutishness beyond
fantastic, and I still do. Plus, he got me out of one of the biggest
depressions of my life, and for this I am eternally grateful.
I had my heart broken by a true cad in my New York days. I was living on
Smith Street in Brooklyn, in a two bedroom I was sharing with a crazy woman
who posted an ad in the Voice for a roommate. I had painted my bedroom
Valium blue, to suit my rather dreary mood. Now that I think about it,
maybe it was to match Frank's eyes. This cat broke my heart and I cried for
days, making paper dolls out of supermodels I would cut out of Vogue while
listening to Frank on repeat (rest assured this was much cursing on my part
during this rather sallow era). I can't say I recall those days with
fondness, but I am happy to report that because of Mr. Sinatra, I made it
through. And I never dated short men again, but that's another post
entirely.
I'd have to say I have a few favorites in the Sinatra canon. I adore "That's
Life", "The Summer Wind", and "Fly me to the Moon" (don't even get me
started on 'I've Got You Under My Skin'). His voice makes me positively
giddy. His story- epic. His style- flawless. His romances- legendary. I'm
talking about a young Mia Farrow and a hot as hell Ava Gardner, whose
relationship with Frankie was legendary for its tempestuousness. And why?
Cause that's life, kids. Who among us has not been up and down and over and
out? We all have, and that's why Frank is amazing. He sings with truth in
his voice and makes no apologies for it.
I have a book called "Why Sinatra Matters", which I adore, but I already
knew he did way before it arrived in my hands, gift wrapped by another
boyfriend, who was the rebound for the one that stomped on my aorta. (He
didn't last either). Regardless of what's happening in my life, I can always
put on Sinatra and transcend my current situation- to me, his music is
timeless and effortless and perfect.
Oh and I had my own brush with the Rat Pack, albeit a sorry group of
impersonators at the Greek Isles casino the weekend I got married. (In
Vegas. Duh). I finally got it right and was marrying the man of my dreams.
He was tall and not afraid to curse and I was madly in love with him. He
took me to see the Rat Pack tribute show at the decrepit Greek Isles Casino.
There, a man with an oxygen tube in a wheelchair got serenaded by a rather
surly Marilyn, while the boys did their thing in camp fashion. I adored that
evening which climaxed in "Joey Bishop", on a way to a possible AA meeting
to which he desperately needed to attend, checking out my rack obsessively
as we stood in the meet and greet line. That's life.
Which brings me to the next book I am going to devour after I get through
reading about Keith. It's called "Frank: The Voice" by James Kaplan and
although I have read many books on the man (loved the one by his long
suffering butler), I am excited about this one. Romance, drama, shenanigans,
mafia ties, and a perfect voice. Doesn't get much better than that (look at
old footage from the Rat Pack days and tell me who had more fun...)
And you can bet your sweet ass that good old Frank was never afraid to
curse. Because cursing helps get the point across in a pure yet emphatic
way, just like the music of the Chairman of the Board. He always kept it
real. And that's why Frank matters, kiddos. Or at least he does to me.
And that, my friends, is what's up this old blue eyed Monday in the MIA. If
you're having a little trouble motivating this am, I suggest some Frank.
He's good for whatever ails you.
XO
