BEING FRANK SINATRA

I was in my third year of high school and an ardent Celtics fan. Cousy, Sharman, Russell, Heinsohn and Luscitoff. With a bench of Havlicek, Sam Jones, K.C. Jones, Frank Ramsey etc. The ultimate Dream Team. Lord, they were good. Their home was the Boston Garden, with an always-filled seating capacity of 13,909.

Occasionally, there would be hockey-basketball double-headers. Hockey first. Back then, the Bruins had a farm team, the Olympics, and they would precede the Celtics, after which there would be an extended intermission during which the famous parquet floor would be set down for basketball. While this was going on, entertainment, of sorts, would take place for the capacity crowd. Organist John Kiley would provide music and accompany anyone volunteering to sing. It was on such a night that I indulged my showbiz bug-bite and challenged the Gods of Probability. Believe it. There were 13,909 witnesses.

My friends and I were in our usual, kiss the sky, top balcony seats. Mr. Kiley was playing with vigor and a line of vocal aspirants had formed and was lengthening. I turned to my buddies and bursted,"I've got an idea!" and bolted for the steps. In no time, I was in queue, anxiously awaiting my turn. Those before me were the usual karaoke types, having their own good time, with absolutely no-one paying attention. Kiley's patience appeared strained at having to share the spotlight with such rank amateurs. Then, my turn came. The guy before me had just finished "Sweet Rosie O'grady", severely testing Kiley's sanity and sobriety.

 He looked at me and barked,"Whatsyaname!" This was where the genes of go-for-it took over.

"FRANK OX", I replied. Where did I get the name? I have no idea.

"Whaddayagonna sing, Ox?"

"It Had To Be You."

He went into the intro. Please try to imagine the constant low-level-but-consistent din of murmuring conversation coming from the increasingly impatient multitude. There was no backing out now, lest I be labeled a "chicken" on the corner and in the poolroom. I served it up.

"IT HAD TO BE YOU, IT HAD TO BE YOU, IT HAD TO BE YOU, IT HAD TO BE YOU, IT HAD TO BE YOU........."

That's right. I sang the song with just that repeating phrase. And an unanticipated, unique phenomenon occurred. An audio transition. Ever so slowly, the crowd noise began to dim, fade to silence, change to a sound of inquiry and understanding, then to a laughter of realization which quickly morphed into pure, unadulterated applause----and then a ROAR of approval.

These sounds reflected a picture of "stop--listen--do you hear what I hear?--that guy is singing just the song title, over and over--what a hot ticket--that's funny--let's give him a hand."

Kiley caught on almost immediately but he, too, picked up on the crowd reaction and, although truly pissed, held back on the hook and followed me right to the end.

I finished with a swaggering, old-time, Ethel Merman-type sign-off and raised my right arm in triumph. The crowd went nuts.

Kiley yelled,"Get the hell off!" The ovation had not diminished.

I began to leave the platform-stage and suddenly turned around and went back on, again extending my arm as a boxer after the final bell. Impossibly, the roar of the 13,909 crowd increased all the more.

I milked that moment for as long as I could, and then, finally, left the stage. People swear that it took a full minute for the cheering to subside.

'Tis an indelible page in my memory book.

The why of it all lies in my personal proclivities.

But, hey. Ain't youth a hell of a thing?

Life is an adventure.

Go for it.

SCARY BUSINESS

"I wish you a healthy and happy life", I said to an acquaintance.

"How dare you be so arrogant as to presume my future?", he angrily shot back.

Sounds ridiculous, no? But, that's the type of lunacy which attends Republican hopeful Rick Santorum. President Obama wishes that every youth has the opportunity for a college education and he, therefor, is brandished a snob, wishing to impose the liberal philosophies of professors on young people.

Before you laugh too hard, realize that there are many out there who agree with this insane twist of illogical interpretation. Match that with his condemnation of the bedrock separation of church and state in politics, and you, hopefully, begin to understand that Santorum is the essence of the most extreme right-wing zealot. In other words, he is dangerously nuts.

Why, then, is he apparently enjoying such a surge in voter sentiment? The answer is that the Tea Party minority has the lungs of a silent, reasonable majority.

Can Santorum ultimately prevail? The mere posing of the question constitutes grounds for apprehension. Political momentum is not subject to precise prognosis. What if his virus becomes viral?

If Romney was endowed with common-sense gonads, he would break ranks with nonsense and denounce Santorom's rantings in a loud and clear voice. O.K.---Santorum is sincere in his dementia, but an absence of malice is perfectly consistent with an absence of mental stability.

Redemption lies in the yet-to-be-heard voice of reasonable people. Comets attract temporary attention but soon fall from the sky.

There is a close connection between reason and emotion.

The final vote tally will reflect the power of the mind to think, understand, and form judgements by a process of logic.

In the meantime, however, there is much cause for anxious concern.

THE YOUTHFUL PURSUIT OF GLORY

I've always looked upon life as as an adventure book, with each new chapter marking another step towards another positive moment in the sun.

From the charge of being a magical thinker, I do not run and, indeed, unabashedly embrace this proclivity as a virtue, not a frailty. I suppose that, in this sense, I shall always resemble a boy with wannabe aspirations, and the never-ending feeling that the best is still yet to come. Kill me, shoot me, I'm a card carrying romanticist. So it was, in the fall of 1950.

I was a freshman at Harvard, a commuter, hanging with the Jamaica Plain Townies who rode the rails with me each day as we were deposited at the kiosk Harvard Square "T" station. The grand-daddy of all culture shocks. Our command post was the Commuter's Center which adjoined the now defunct but then legendary "Cronins", the watering hole of the entire college. Ten cent beers--"dimeys"--need I say more?

One of the many historical traditions embraced by all was the Harvard Freshman Smoker, an annual event attended by, and limited to, the new freshman class. There were no definitive ground rules other than its reputation for duplicating the atmosphere of a bachelor party. A hell-raiser. I began panting as soon as I learned of it.

Somehow, someway, (I feel like breaking into song) I met with and swiftly seduced the Faculty Professor in charge of the program, resulting in his proclaiming me producer, director, star and casting director of the whole damned show. I quickly set to work.

I blocked out a few skits and personally, and with great selectivity, wrote a closing scene which called for me to passionately embrace and bend-back kiss six beautiful women. The largest Boston model agency was, at that time, the Ford Agency to whom I made an in-person pitch, equating Harvard's Sanders Theatre with Hollywood's M.G.M. studios. Presto! I had recruited six gorgeous ladies who were willing not only to participate, but to arduously rehearse as well---many, many times. Nothing like preparation to quell opening night jitters. Heh, heh, heh.

But, I still needed a boffo something to bring out the Hellmann's and bring out the best. I was an ardent Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis fan and, lo-and-behold, they were playing, in person, at the Metropolitan Movie Theatre, which became the Wang Center, and then something else. My adrenaline surge was unstoppable and my ambition for the project was boundless. Another mountain top to conquer, enjoy and use as a buffer against the valleys which all-too- patiently await their turn in one's journey through
life.

 Dean Martin was a charter member of Sinatra's Rat Pack which secured my support for his election to anything. His records outsold Sinatra's and his national tour with Jerry Lewis was the hottest ticket in any town. Appearing on the same bill with them was a lovely and talented songstress named Helen O'Connell. A lesser star but definitely more accessible. I put in a call to her at the Met, leaving a titled call back of "Chairman of the Harvard Freshman Smoker." Her manager returned the call and I raved about his client and how proud Harvard would be to feature her as the star of the Smoker. The planets must have been properly aligned, for he invited me backstage, the next day to speak with Ms. O'Connell, personally. Hold on world! Here I come!

At the appointed hour, there I was, in the wings of the stage, as Martin and Lewis were finishing their act. Off they came, trailed by thunderous applause, and walked past me, just inches away. Their bow ties   were undone, hanging down their tuxedo lapels. I could not take my eyes off Martin. He was the handsomest man I had ever seen. Black tan, black curly hair, cuffs shot and showing a good two inches of collar accentuating his 6'3'' frame. I am secure enough in my masculinity to proclaim that he was gorgeous. There were several Boston philanthropists waiting to greet the duo but Martin literally barged through them without saying a word. They flocked to Lewis with quizzical eyes, who tried to alleviate the situation with an explanation of how tired Martin was, and the damage seemed to be curtailed. On Lewis' dressing room door was a sign reading "The Jolly Jew." Martin's said "The Gorgeous Guinea." His manager told me that Dean was truly the guy who didn't give a damn about anything, against whom Bing Crosby was a nervous wreck. In any event, he was Apollo. Helen O'Connell said yes so the show was set, except I wanted still more.

One of the most famous burlesque dancers in the country was Ms. Sally Rand. She was playing at the the Old Howard burlesque house in the legendary Scollay Square district. I went after her with the same tenacity employed with the others. She was a stripper with class, far removed from the pole dancers of today. She was a charming lady. I explained why I was seeking her out and she immediately said, "I'm in!" The show was now ready for prime time.

Sanders Theatre was packed with howling, beer-soaked wolves. They didn't applaud, they just screamed, non-stop. Word had gotten around The Yard as to the show's content and what had been a ritual of rowdy behavior was now a coliseum screaming for blood as the gladiators fought to the death. Gasoline waiting for the drop of an errant match. A riot ready to happen. The ultimate tumult. The Frankenstein monster and I was its creator.

Sally Rand was the opening act and it was like tempting Hannibal Lecter with blood. She was scantily dressed in see-through fans. I had written a few lines but it was useless trying to follow them. At one point, the fresh-animals began throwing pennies onto the stage. Bellowing beasts. Rand, ever the classy pro, picked one up, looked straight into the dark void and said, with a sneer somehow managing to be heard,"I only know of one animal that throws a scent." In that one instance, the crowd was hers. In her profession, hecklers were routine, reducing the taunts of college freshman to EZ putty. The veteran stood tall and conquered all. A masterpiece of tone limit-setting. She saved the show. At least for Helen O'Connell's appearance.

Another polished performer, she was demure and enchanting. She answered my questions with grace and aplomb. She was lovely. She even sang, a cappella, a few lines from her all-time hit,"Green Eyes." An epiphany was experienced by all: the mature sound of applause. Her years of band-singing with the likes of Jimmy Dorsey had the quality of experience that schools can never teach. She wow'ed 'em.

And then, the return of the animal kingdom. My self-authored skit with the Ford models. The scripted lines, such as they were, served only as a build to me embracing and kissing them all. In some situations a kiss is a ritual, a formal or symbolic gesture indicating devotion, respect or greeting. In this instance, it served as a call to the wild. The dormancy created by Ms. O'Connell was overcome by the primal instincts of drunken zoo-residents. The degree of ferocity increased with each model joining the congo line l'amour. At one point, these fine Harvardians began tearing out the seat cushions of the benches and hurling them onstage. All hell broke out. As difficult as it may be to believe, I was experiencing no carnality whatsoever. I just wanted to end the thing and avoid a riot. You never in your life saw such hurried kisses of beautiful women. Finally, it was over. But not without repercussions.

From that night on, and because, in part, of that night, Harvard Freshman Smokers have drastically changed. "Sex, beer and a riot" used to be a comfortable definition of this revered tradition, but no longer. If they are held at all, they are much more subdued and frequently held in a House dining room. That's cool. But, oh, what it used to be.

For my then freshman peers, it was a night to remember. For me, it was an indelible episode of life.

To put it succinctly, we all had a ball.

The ambition, the drive of youth. All challenges gingerly accepted with confidence.

If not then, when?

THE NBC DEBATE OF 1/23/12

The beginning was the end of Gingrich. Romney, obviously honed to steel, seized the moment, grabbed the sharp- attack ball and ran with it for a game-winning touchdown. Were it not for excessive makeup, Gingrich's complexion would have revealed panic green. It was not unpleasant to see a bully finally get his due. His resignation as Speaker in disgrace, his lobbying for Freddie Mac under the sham cover of "historian" and his "consulting" for the pharmaceuticals cannot be controverted, despite his embarrassing attempts at denial. The Florida primary may turn on a dime, but as that state goes, the nation may very well not.

Romney seems to have found a rhythm, confident in his own skin. But there are few accolades connected to that claim. A long road remains untravelled as the vetting becomes even more intense, inviting more issues to cause the self-destruction of a candidate.

The GOP dilemma may be thusly stated: as it hopes for an electable candidate to survive, what if all the trees in the forest fall, leaving no scintilla of competency standing?

The West Wing night lights illuminate a 2012 election gambol.

NEWT IS A BEAUT

Newt Gingrich is a cad. A malicious malignancy who constantly plays the room and revises history by attempting to justify and contort his proclivity for doing wrong things by saying he's sorry for being like everyone who makes mistakes. His contrition is a three dollar bill. Formally previously castigated and scarlet-lettered by his own party, he has knowingly violated the ethic rules of his own kind--which ain't easy to do. His moral character reflects that he is his own pimp. Cheating on a cancer ridden first wife while simultaneously savaging his President for similar misconduct, cheating-repeating on wife #2 with mistress-now #3 may not be a crime but it certainly warrants giving his postman a change-of-address card reflecting a present domicile of the gutter. He shoots first and thinks later. His feigned anger at John King for serving up a grooveball question on his lack of moral compass is laughable. His temperament and sociopath instincts makes his presidential candidacy terrifying. He almost makes Romney look not so bad.

My prediction: keep your eye on Jeb Bush, to whom the GOP might very well turn, on bended knee, in order to avoid certain disaster.

"THANKS FOR YOUR SERVICE" FALLS SHORT

It's too casual, dammit! Like saying "excuse me" if you bump into someone.

Consider that you are addressing an individual who has volunteered to risk his (her) right to stay alive. Every day, just read a newspaper or watch T.V. Troops killed in a mortar attack, by a roadside bomb or in a firefight. The war status drags on with no complete closure in sight, perhaps causing our tolerance for these daily horrific events to stiffen. Is it possible to even partially imagine the dread which pervades the family of a service member, to whom every phone call is a potential harbinger of death or injury?

The marvel of it all is the attitude, spirit and sense of duty shared by the troops themselves. True patriots who take pride in their mission and deal with their risk of ultimate sacrifice as the given responsibility of an American citizen. Several tours of duty do not diminish their allegiance. And what caliber of people they are. They truly stand tall. Overriding fear will not be found in their DNA.

There should be an honoring ceremony for every homecoming. Educational and/or employment opportunities should be mandatory. Cutting edge medical treatment should be available, regardless of cost. They must, even in the best of times, never be taken for granted. That's why, when you see a service member in public, don't be shy. Approach and proclaim. "God bless you." It's the very least you can and should do.

Look at it this way: it's because of them that we can indulge in the luxury of addressing life's responsibilities in a free society. They are first class citizens and should be treated as such. It's up to us to always remember and appreciate.

SOMETHING'S AMISS

Christmas time.
When I was a kid, I'd visit downtown Boston and be mightily impressed by the Christmas lights that seemed to be everywhere. The streets were bustling despite the presence of traffic. Downtown Crossing was yet to come and Filenes reigned supreme. The Basement was still your best bet. Jordan Marsh was next door, while across the street stood Gilchrists. And don't forget Raymond's or R.H.White. These Washington Street havens formed a compound of holiday activity complemented by Salvation Army chorales and the ringing of its bell. Electrical Santa Claus's hung on high and it was magic time. The spirit of Christmas permeated everything and everyone. Carrying wrapped gifts was the right of passage. A smile was the password of the day and snow was the perfect complement. Bing Crosby's dream had been fulfilled. None of the future malls would ever came close to replicating this concentrated space of the nice kind of excitement.

All that is gone. Macy's tries hard, but it cannot overcome the symbolic dreariness created by the transformation into Downtown Crossing, where the streets become precarious for pedestrians after dark.  Today, people seem to slog along, burdened with the chore of staying within financial limits, as they strive to cover their gift lists, with strained incomes making the chore most perplexing and challenging. Is it all the fault of the economy or has the way it is today, in all things, become a joint venturer? Foreign wars seem to have existed forever. We have come to live with the constant threat of terrorism. Has a toll been taken on the nation's mood?

Entering a supermarket, today, I spotted a man soliciting donations for the Salvation Army. He was dressed in familiar garb, holding a bell in one hand and a receptacle in the other. But there was no movement of enthusiasm to his manner of indifference, no ringing sound or oral greeting. He looked just a little depressed. Are we wading through an "On The Beach" atmosphere or is all this a figment of my imagination?

Driving home, listening to the radio, all I could get was news or sports talk.
Then, by chance, I found a station playing universal Christmas songs, exclusively.

A breath of old but fresh air.