January 17, 2017

Frank Sinatra

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 “€œpally”€ 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 “€œpress confrontations”€ for the duration).

“€œSinatra’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.

“€œI 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 “€œsecret code names”€ aren”€™t actually secret”€”and are often unflattering. (Bill Clinton’s screwup brother was “€œHeadache.”€)

So, what’s Donald Trump’s?

“€œMogul.”€

I like it. But who cares if I don”€™t?

It’s Trump’s world now. We”€™re just living in it.

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