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06 April, 2011

To Sinatra Oneself

Know who I despise as much as Heston?

Frank Sinatra.

Old Blue Eyes (with nothing behind them other than a greedy little lizard soul). The Velvet Talk-singer. Whatever name, a guy who became top of the heap with a little (wee, miniscule, nano) bit of talent and a helluva lotta moxie, attitude, and arrogance. King of the hill, having it his way, mean little pissant standing behind his goodfellas. Self-proclaimed Rat Packer.

Just so you are not confused: I didn't like the guy.

When he died, the hagiography was unbearable. And yet, surreally entertaining. Everyone who'd met him had to tell their story, and many of them described basically this sequence: "We met him. He liked it when we told him he was the best. Then he put his cigarette out in my niece's birthday cake, fondled her (she hasn't washed that breast since!), and skipped out on the bill."

The one that really sticks in my mind is one from Jersey somewhere, maybe even blessed Hoboken (before those yuppies started ruining it). A family had an Italian restaurant, but closed for the holidays, to enjoy Thanksgiving with the family. Along come's Mr. My Way (who for all his In Crowdedness is alone because even toadys have families), and insists on them dropping everything, opening the restaurant, and cooking for him. Eats, belches, runs out on the tab and after some skirt. What a guy!?

It was strange how many people would sit there, recite their tale of douchebaggery, and act as if Mother Mary had blessed them.

Probably it was my wife who first thought it up, but the pattern needed a name, and it was decided to invent a verb: "to sinatra": to tell a story in which the supposed hero is revealed as one who is selfish, mean, idiotic, lizard-hearted or otherwise objectionable. When the tale is self inflicted, I use the reflexive "to sinatra oneself."

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