January 17, 2017
Frank Sinatra
Source: Wikimedia Commons
Sure, hard-drinking Sinatra (who had shirts custom-made to button below the crotch, and whose homes were model midcentury modern) would have ribbed his teetotaler “pally” about his loose suits and Sun King decor (while being dead jealous of his friend’s abundant hair”Sinatra’s toupee was a masterwork of understated design that belongs in the Smithsonian next to the Shaker chairs).
But he”d also recognize Trump as another swaggering, short-fused, thin-skinned alpha, worthy of his fealty, and who”d be more loyal that John F., too.
Sinatra’s not around, alas.
Or is he?
Who needs a Sinatra to sing, spectacular as that would be, when we”ve got one taking the Oath of frickin” Office?
Come on: We saw it at last week’s explosive press conference (although Trump’s should really be dubbed “press confrontations” for the duration).
“Sinatra’s idea of paradise is a place where there are plenty of women and no newspapermen,” noted Bogart; he sent a particularly nasty gossip columnist a tombstone with her name on it, and pissed on another critic’s grave.
“I suppose that many of you may have heard that I have been, in the past, very hostile and brutal to members of the Fourth Estate. And these are lies, vicious rumors started by a few disgruntled members of the press…that I happened to run over with my car.”
That was Sinatra, the keynote speaker at…a 1965 media luncheon.
Now back to where we started:
It says something about the United States of America that your First Family’s “secret code names” aren”t actually secret”and are often unflattering. (Bill Clinton’s screwup brother was “Headache.”)
So, what’s Donald Trump’s?
“Mogul.”
I like it. But who cares if I don”t?
It’s Trump’s world now. We”re just living in it.
