The Art of Jaywalking, Part 9

I've noticed a disturbing new trend in my humble town. As if the sidewalk did not exist at all, people have taken to walking in the street. And not just on the side of the road, mind you. No--they walk right down the middle of the street. Cars be damned, they just saunter down the middle of the road. I just don't understand. Are the sidewalks not wide enough? Smooth enough? What's worse, some of these people walk their dogs down the middle of the street. And some of them barely step aside to allow a car to get by. They have their iPods plugged in, cranked up to max volume or they're talking on their mobile phones. Not one sliver of attention to the cars bearing down on them.

In these situations, I believe in survival of the fittest. I believe that my 1,900-pound car (a weakling by today's standards) could squash your puny 200-pound ass. And your little dog's too. Sorry, folks, but the law does not give you the privilege of just strolling casually wherever you'd like. It's for your own good. It's the same reason you have to be 21 to buy liquor and can't buy heroin at all. Just looking out for your welfare. We don't want you doing anything stupid.

So, folks, stay off the smack and stay out of the street. Jaywalking is one thing. But taking up the whole street is just asking for it.

Diary of a Delusional Man, Part 2

I was looking over some old letters and came across some from Frank. Ol' Blue Eyes really knew how to make me laugh. Even at my most dire moments. And vice versa.

Here's a passage from 1962:

Had breakfast with Sammy today. He sends his regards. He was kind of blue. Played the Sands last night and he felt his performance fell short. He beats himself up almost every night. And he has a set of golden tonsils, let me tell you. Talent to burn. I just don't understand it. Wish you'd been there buddy to cheer him up. And to see my set! Man, it was smokin'!

And so on. Ah, we would laugh. That night he coughed up blood. OK, not so funny but later ... ? Oy. We were doubled over. At least he was.

I miss him. He would write nearly every night he was on the road. The highs, the lows. And everything in between. He would let me in on all the details. I felt as if I were there. Here's one from 1958:

The joint sure was jumping tonight. Lester and the orchestra sounded marvelous. When I broke into "These Foolish Things," the crowd went wild. I wowed 'em, baby. Just wowed 'em! Knocked 'em dead. They were on their feet at the end of the number. And yet I feel an emptiness after every performance. A hollow, sinking feeling that only the wild, appreciative applause of 300 people can replace. It puts me in a lonely place. But I'm back again on that horse tomorrow. And when I feel that low again, I can always drown my sorrows in some gin.

Yes, Frank could be mercurial. And cruel, God knows. He went for months without writing. I never heard from him. And when he did finally break his silence, there was not one word of apology or even an acknowledgement that he'd cut me out of his life (even if it was temporary). I would lay in bed and let the tears stream down my face thinking how he had hurt me. But I knew it was unintentional.

Many people ask me about my relationship with Frank. My therapist is especially curious. Some folks even try to suggest that it was not "real" or "imaginary." I tell them all the same thing. It was a real as any relationship I've had with any other human being in the wonderful world of entertainment.