Frank Sinatra Was Bad Ass.

I love Frank Sinatra. Not just for his voice, not just for his aura of effortless cool. I don’t love him just because he had style or wit or the courage to live life on his own terms. These things add up to an ineffable sum, a man that is also an idea. That’s why I love him. And that’s why a friend pointed me toward this article, from the April, 1966 issue of Esquire by Gay Talese, “Frank Sinatra Has a Cold“. Be my role-model, Old Blue Eyes:

Yet it would have been unwise for anyone to anticipate his reaction, for he is a wholly unpredictable man of many moods and great dimension, a man who responds instantaneously to instinct — suddenly, dramatically, wildly he responds, and nobody can predict what will follow. A young lady named Jane Hoag, a reporter at Life’s Los Angeles bureau who had attended the same school as Sinatra’s daughter, Nancy, had once been invited to a party at Mrs. Sinatra’s California home at which Frank Sinatra, who maintains very cordial relations with his former wife, acted as host. Early in the party Miss Hoag, while leaning against a table, accidentally with her elbow knocked over one of a pair of alabaster birds to the floor, smashing it to pieces. Suddenly, Miss Hoag recalled, Sinatra’s daughter cried, “Oh, that was one of my mother’s favorite…” — but before she could complete the sentence, Sinatra glared at her, cutting her off, and while forty other guests in the room all stared in silence, Sinatra walked over, quickly with his finger flicked the other alabaster bird off the table, smashing it to pieces, and then put an arm gently around Jane Hoag and said, in a way that put her completely at ease, “That’s okay, kid.”

Now that is style.

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