As another Lame Cherry exclusive in matter anti matter.
The New York City Metropolis has inflicted a great deal on the world in the offense of lounge acts, like Barbara Streisand, Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra, Sammy David jr, Peter Lawford, Andy Warhol, Joe DiMaggio to Woody Allen. None of this would have ever been known any more than Garrison Keehler at Minneapolis, if it had not been for New York amplifying some sundown talent as some global success.
Hollywood has it's flukes in Bing Crosby and Bob Hope, to whatever else was Rosemary Clooney put upon the world, but most of them kept it under the wraps of what hosebags they were except for Frank Sinatra.
I was listening to some music industry leftist crooning on Coast to Coast one night in being such big supporters of John and Bobby Kennedy. I thought what the frick was there to support in Jack Kennedy? He was a f*cking pervert who had absolutely no policies, no more than his horn dog brother Bobby going after mobsters when their old man was just another black market swindler.
Sinatra though was what they all were and he was always in public with his beating somebody up in a restaurant, to picking a fight at a party on a ship and being dragged away. Sinatra was his real self when he was drinking and as he never had to work, he had all the energy in the world to party all night and stick his cock into some whore to validate himself.
I never did get that big band sound no more than those stupid Bob Hope jokes. In a world of Bill Cosby drugging and raping anything on two legs, it is interesting that Bob Hope had a constant stash of bimbos and no one ever knew what a pervert Hope was.
What is strange to me is Paul Anka wrote the one song that Frank Sinatra did ok in My Way. A man 25 years younger than Sinatra, wrote the song that made him an international star, when Rock had rolled over the rat pack of perpetual drunks.
Sinatra tried to have people killed, but the mob never took him up on it. In fact when Sinatra raised too much hell in a casino, then owned by Howard Hughes, the manager who was a mobster busted Sinatra's teeth caps loose, and the mob told Sinatra to stay away from that man or it would be Sinatra on the receiving end.
That is not to say that Sinatra was the worst, as he had times like when a French actor was beating up showgirls he was f*cking, Sinatra sent two hotel employees over to tie the frog up, and throw the mattress he was on, in the shallow end of a pool. Frank did not want his pretty showgirls abused by a foreigner.
Things like working for the mob just would not appeal to me. Not because I dislike the mob, but because I just do not get the Hollywood version everyone worships. The Vegas mob back in the day, were in their own group of keeping things in line, to the point of Jimmy Hoffa death when crossed, but were soft sells for employees in taking care of their workers on the strip. It is Sinatra, as I don't like golf, smoking, partying all night, smoking, f*cking, wearing leisure wear, suits or cities.
It just is the point that if New York had not created these illusions, Frank Sinatra would have been a club act down on the Jersey shore, and probably did Miama for the snowbirds in February, and no one would have ever heard of him, like the rest of this kid's game and bad film creations.
Frank Sinatra being whatever he was, was interesting like a bull in a china shop. He was something to watch as he kept the mob around to protect him, the Kenendy's around to protect him, women around to protect him, the rat pack around to protect him, as he kept booze and temper around to protect him, because he was scared all the time.
It seems odd in all of this that the only really interesting thing I ever read in this, was that Frank and Dean Martin both said Angie Dickinson of North Dakota was the best in bed, that ever had them. John Kennedy never found out, as Dickinson in cruel humor said, "JFK was the best 30 seconds of her life".
Marilyn Monroe seconded that as the FBI tapes of her and JFK were all bed squeak for a short time as JFK never was in it for the long distance pull.
Odd epitaph to a legend to so many in why they looked up to Frank Sinatra.
Nuff Said
Sinatra, His Way
Sinatra, My Way
agtG
