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PURCHASE THE DIGITAL COLLECTION (2013)
Francis Albert Sinatra
B. 12.12.15 Hoboken / D. 5.14.98 Los Angeles
Assuming the magnitude of the slight to Ava Gardner to be immeasurable, how many times and at how many miles per hour did the corpse of Frank Sinatra spin in its grave when Sean Puff Daddy Combs spoke these words: "I'm Frank, you know what I'm saying?" into a microphone proffered by Vanity Fair?
Does this mean Puffy will abandon New York to all its reminders of incomparable movie star booty irretrievably lost, just as Sinatra, after his sad, haunted years of seclusion, left Palm Springs—never to return? And for that matter, where are our years of seclusion? Where is the silence of Puffy's long brooding? It's looking like a cheat.
Poor Puffy, that mean geek, writing these lines in his head, rehearsing them to his friends, playing them for posterity.
And getting in deep with the Fates—who even now must be finding themselves in very much the same position as the Academy Awards nominating committee of 1953.
Poor frightened bastards.
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