Or I might have titled it “They don’t make them like him anymore” or maybe even “Chairman of the Bored” or . . . okay, that’s plenty enough.
Frank Sinatra was a Godspell sending in my baby days. Mom used to key up tunes from her turntable and rock me to sleep gently on his lullaby. Years later telling me the tales of having done so. I might have been unwitting at the time, but it was a soluble hoist, because I was mad with the fever of those long ago songs from an age far younger than my brethren.
Methinks the advancing of time is a better place, because it will allow me the platform of sharp suits and brilliant hats the likes of which Sinatra rocked on to coked up club mates and old school swingers.
And while I never saw Sinatra belt those places out of his black suit in live form, it’s just fine. That would have been a strict and hard loss, if not for the fact that mama did see him do his thing. And while I was running around in her belly at that.
So yanno, it counts just the same.