Frank Sinatra: Indulge Me Not

Sometimes I wish I could just swagger onto a stage to the sounds of an orchestra swelling, the twinkle of my pinky ring competing only with the twinkle in my mischievous blue eyes, a swirling tumbler of bourbon held aloft in one hand and a cigarette pinched deftly by the thumb and forefinger of the other. I start feeling this way in mid June. Like werewolves and their full moons, the scent of gardenias and jasmine suddenly induce a terrifying transformation; I must have a scotch and soda, I must have a tiny orange kerchief poking out of the pocket of a white silk shirt, I must take up residence in a bungalow with a kidney-shaped pool in Palm Springs, I must forge contrived mob connections, I must alternately speak/croon, I MUST BE FRANK SINATRA.

Last week yet another best friend of mine fled my clinging desperation loving arms and moved across the country, causing me to wonder, self-centeredly, what I do that is so damned repellent before remembering both that not everyone's (no one's) major life decisions have anything to do with me and that lists of my more repellent qualities can be found with ease in the archives of this blog . I wanted to provide some kind of ceremonious goodbye, some means of expressing the gravity of this move and the meaningfulness of our long friendship, but as we hurtled towards the Sacramento airport that night, I could think only of "New York, New York." Under the delusion of a misguided sense of situational appropriateness, I allowed the beast to emerge. The imaginary suit closed around me. I felt the silk lining. I belted out, "Start spreading the news, I'm leavin today..." with an unpopular encore of "Come Fly With Me." Farewell: ruined!

Hide your grandpa's record collection, your Seven and Sevens and your soft summer nights, I'M ON THE LOOSE!