Good Help Is Hard To Find
Location: El Dago, 35,000 Feet
You all know that I've been trying to find George
Jacobs or a replacement for him. Good help is a real
pisser to find and so I'm sendin' my condolences out
to Elaine in New York (yes, that Elaine). Seems
Tommy, her Limey bartender of more than 30 years is
callin' it quits. See the article in The Post
here
for the full story. Tommy was one of the few who knew
how to pour my drink perfectly, every time. Looks
like he remembers me fondly too. There's a 'Thanks,
Sinatra' gold lighter coming his way.
It Ain't Palm Springs, But It'll Do
Location: Another Undisclosed (Still foreign, still
warm and sunny)
It's nice here. Can't say where of
course, but trust me, its almost got it all,
including some dynamite sunrises like this one. No
word out of Momo yet and I'm gettin' itchy.
Don't get me wrong, I like this place, hell I've even
sung about it once, but it ain't the good old U.S. of
A. I got none of my pallies around. The women here
aren't quite my cup of whiskey and the accent the
people have here is a little irritating, but hey, I'm
off again in the morning to another 'undisclosed'
location... that is if I haven't got word from Sammy
G. by then.
Something he said when I saw him got me thinkin' last
night. He said, "By this time next month Frank, I'm
gonna' be listenin' to you sing 'Chicago' in my new
casino. Ya' gonna' have a piece of it too, just like
before. It's gonna' be better then ever and no one
will be able to touch us, ever." This is got my
wheels spinnin' baby.
Casinos, like broads are my addiction. I love bein'
in them, singin' in them and more importantly, owning
them. You can't beat the high, it's literally better
than knowing a president (and I outta' know, I've
known a few), so the idea of owning part of a casino
again has got the old grey matter pulsing with new
ideas. I hope Sam wasn't just blowin' smoke up my
shorts.
Well, I've got a good supply of Jack on hand, enough
smokes to take me to next Wednesday, but only enough
patience to get me through to Saturday. If I don't
hear anything by tomorrow, I may just stir up the
dust myself. George, wherever you are... you'da'
loved it here pal.
So Mia Drops by with Her Kids...
Location: In N Out Burger, Los Angeles, CA
OK, so get this. I just got out of the shower, ready
to head out to grab some mid afternoon
breakfast/dinner down at
Lord
Fletcher’s.
I couldn’t wait to get my choppers into the beef
short ribs and a side salad with the special
dressing. My suit’s on, my mouth’s watering, I
grab my orange windbreaker and I’m heading for the
door. I go out to the driveway and am greeted with
this:
I thought it was a weird scout troupe who had heard I
was back, trying to hustle me for some cookie
“dough”, when out of the throng comes Mia. My eyes
rolled like slot machine wheels.
Fuck.
“Hey Frank! It’s so good to see you! I heard you were
back, but I couldn’t believe it. How’ve you been?”
She gives me a hug, wrinkling my windbreaker.
“I’m fine Mia.” I say as I politely try to
disentangle myself from her boney embrace. “Who are
all the kids?” I ask, dreading the answer.
“Oh Frank, don’t be silly. Their mine!”
Fuck. I knew it.
“Mia, I thought your litter would’ve all been grown
up and on their own by now, adopting their own army
of children... somewhere far from here.”
“They are Frank, they are. That was the first batch.
This is the 2nd and 3rd rounds of my adopted
children. Come on, let me introduce you. This is
Mishanawa from Thailand, she was abandoned by her
aunt in a rice paddy and this is Oshwan, he...”
“Mia, Mia, Mia,” I interrupted. “I was just heading
out to dinner. I haven’t eaten all day and the help
is all Splitsville at the moment,” I didn’t have the
heart to tell her that I couldn’t track down George.
He could have handled this mess without me having to
get involved. Truth be told, it’s her fault he got
fired in the first place.
“I’m a little out of sorts here, doll. Can we do this
another time?”
“Oh, I’m sorry Frank. I knew I should’ve called, but
none of your phone numbers ever seem to work. We
didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner plans.”
Relieved, “Hey baby, no problem. Like you said, you
had no idea of my itinerary.” I could charm the dead.
“Your so sweet Frank. You run along to dinner and
we’ll wait here until you get back. We’ll be fine.”
Fuck.
“Mia, sweetheart,” (I’m pouring on the charm now, I’m
all teeth and eyes at this point, and I’d give both
to get the fuck out of this), “I really don’t know
what time I’ll be back. I mean, it could be hours
baby. You know The Chairman when he swings out on the
town. The clock holds no sway...”
“Oh Frank, really, we’ll be fine. You’ve still got the pool in the back, right? Listen, if it gets too late, the kids can sleep in the guest houses and the living room and the front lawn. Really, don’t worry.”
FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!!!
There are times in a man’s life, no matter how powerful or accomplished he may be, he must do what he has to do to extricate himself from the worst of fates. To mete out a just action to bring his difficulties to a charitable yet agreeable solution. In other words, when he must “un-fuck” himself. In this case, a cartoon rat that sells rubberized pizza was the best I could come up with on short notice.
“Mia, I just thought of something. You know there’s a Chuck E. Cheese out on the 111. I’m sure you and the kids...”
“Oh Frank, what a great idea...”
Whew! The Chairman snatches another victory from the fire. But, just as I begin to bask in the glow of my own genius, Mia continues...
“Hey kids, Uncle Frank’s gonna’ take us all out to Chuck E. Cheese, isn’t that great?”
FUCKING HOLY FUCK!!!!
As she continued repeating herself in 15 different languages to her league of underprivileged nations, I nearly lost my lunch right there on the driveway. I’m sure “Mr. Cheese” runs a fine establishment and all, but I just don’t eat anyplace that has a cartoon for a logo. I don’t even work for Disney. I’ve got a rep to cover and for Christ’s sake, this wasn’t going to be my coming out party.
Her multi-colored minions piled into the three busses she brought along. I declined the ride and told Mia I’d need to have the car with me, as I forgot I had to jet out to Vegas for a late show (why the fuck hadn’t I come up with that idea before this fucking disaster?).
FFUUUCCCKKK!!!
So we drive out to the 111. There I am, the greatest singer the world has ever known,. The greatest entertainer of the 20th (and soon to be 21st) century and I’ve got an entire third-world country following me in three busses with my ex-wife. I had a plan though. The Leader is wise, baby.
See, Mia’s a sweet dame, but a little spacey upstairs, if you get my drift. Her elevator don’t always stop at every floor. Me and Kasparov always used to joke that Mia stood for “Missing In Action”. I wish it really stood for that right at the moment.
So anyway, we pull into the parking lot and I slide my bird along side her bus.
“Mia, you go on inside with the kids and get set up. Shoot the works.” What was it going to cost, I thought, $20? “Tell the manager to put a tab on my address. I gotta’ gas up the Bird and I’ll be back. I’m running on fumes.”
It was enough fast talk and complex detail to confuse her into going along. And with that I made my escape. I haven’t driven in a while, but I got enough road smarts in the driver’s seat to push that Bird like a union stunt-man. I drove all the way to L.A. at about 100 mph before I stopped at one of them “In-N-Out” burger joints (love the name, my kinda’ place, huh?). It wasn’t Lord Fletchers, but it wasn’t dinner with Mia’s United Nations either.
WHERE THE FUCK IS GEORGE?!?!
A Little Gratitude
Location: Twin Palms, Palm Springs, CA
I’m sendin’ a “Thanks, Sinatra” lighter out to the kid who runs this site here. Apparently he’s been keeping the torch alive for The Chairman and he’s a big, big fan (then again, who isn’t, right?). So he gets the first lighter I’ve given out in years (and I don’t just toss these things out… meaning I don’t just toss out thanks, I’ve got a plane load of the lighters).
I’m slowly getting my crew back together. I don’t
want every yes-man I’ve ever known around me…at least
not at first. I’m doing it in stages, reading what
might have been said about me in my absence, figuring
out who was worthwhile and who was just a party
crasher, a wannabe.
Believe me, you find out real fast who your friends
are when you’re down for the count, particularly when
they think the count is over. Vultures. I’m not going
to name any names just yet, but you know who you are
and more importantly, I know who you are... and where
you are. Word to the wise; the party’s over.
Speaking
of parties, I finally got in touch with my world
famous “entertainment coordinator“, Jimmy Van Heusen
(can you believe it, the guy named himself after a
shirt. A SHIRT! I’ll tell you, Chester’s a real
stitch. Gotta’ love it.).
Tonight, he proved once again that he hasn’t lost a
trick, in either song or his other great talent (more
on that later).
I’m still looking for George Jacobs. I hear he’s living near here, but so far we haven’t been able to turn him up. If anyone knows where he’s holed up, let me know.
And George, if you’re reading this, I’m not saying I’m sorry (do I ever?), but I am saying I know how it really went down and 40 years seems like a long enough punishment. Get in touch with Gloria and get your ass back to the Twin Palms or I’ll fire you again! I’m thinking of moving back over to Bowmont Drive, so get cracking. I don’t like sitting still for too long.
It’s been a long day, but I’ve got a few more minutes before the sun starts to rise. I’ve defeated another night. Ever wonder why orange is my favorite color? Stay up and watch the sunrise baby, you’ll fall in love with it too.
The House That I Live In
Location: Twin Palms, Palm Springs, CA
I thought about swinging over to the house in Beverly
Hills at 915 Foothill Rd. (you know, the one I
“checked out” in), but then I remembered, Barbara
would be there. Love fades. Which reminds me. I need
to get in touch with my legal witch doctor, Mickey.
Anyway, I really hated that house. More “Wop-Gaudy”
than Mid-Century.
So I ordered the pilot to flap over to Palm Springs
International. We were out of booze, out of broads
and out of smokes. I was itchin’ to land and get
freshened up while I got reacquainted with my
favorite pad, the Twin Palms. Crazy times there baby,
crazy times.
So after getting off the plane and driving to “home
swingin’ home”, we pull up the driveway and there is
this horrible friggin’ racket coming from the back of
the house. Thankfully, I picked up Jilly earlier in
the day, ‘cause when we went around back, we found
this:
They were everywhere. On the roof, in the pool, in
the yard. IN MY BED!!!
Jilly and I walk into the house and this fag (wearing one of my fucking hats!) walks up to me and says, “oh great costume dude, you look just like Howard Hughes!” HOWARD FUCKING HUGHES!?!? That was all I could stand. Before Jilly could get to him I beat this punk like a bush-league reporter.
I hit him so hard, not only did he land in the drum kit behind him, but it knocked that stupid blue friendship bracelet off his flabby arm. Jilly picked him up by his t-shirt and dragged him out to the pool area. This guy was crying like a cheap trick who’d just been stiffed. All Jilly had to say to the rest of the crowd was, “who’s next?” Everyone scattered like cockroaches.
Splitsville baby.
That left us with a small problem. Everyone was gone, but they left their trash behind. They took all their booze, but left everything else. I couldn’t get George on the phone, so Jilly suggested we get the “hat thief” I’d clocked to clean up the mess. It didn’t take much negotiating with him (Jilly has a way with people, if you know what I mean, and if you don’t, then you don’t wanna’ know, believe me) and in a couple of hours things were getting back to normal.
I felt bad for the clean up kid, so I duke’d him a c-note, told him no hard feelings, then had Jilly give him a lift home. I let him keep the hat too. You’d thought I gave him a backstage pass, or introduced him to his first lay, but there was no way I was ever gonna’ wear that hat again. Not after his greasy head had been in it.
I gotta’ admit. It’s good to be home again after being away for so long. I think I’m gonna’ go mix myself a salad, light up a nail and watch the sun set out by the pool. Elvis may have left the building, but The Chairman’s back in town baby.
