The importance of being Frank.

I was walking around today and caught a whiff of some music. It was coming from the window of a passing car like a passing gust of wind. It was Frank Sinatra. Fly Me to the Moon. The heat, the sun, the strappy shirt I had on, the volume of people walking around, and Frank.

Suddenly, I'm 16. At our summer rental on the boardwalk at Point Pleasant. My sisters are painting shells outside and will offer them up for sale later, using the badge checker station as a podium to announce their wares: 10 cents a she-ell! And who, really, would deny a 4 and 6 year-old blonde-haired, blue-eyed, super-cute couple of girls, a measly dime? Not many. They made a killing. They took their earnings straight to skee-ball and won enough tickets to get stuffed animals that were too big to carry home. All from some stupid shells they found on the beach.

So, I couldn't spend a lot of time outside during the day, because I would blister in a half hour. Sunblock bought some extra time, but generally, I would have to stay inside during the day and read, maybe go for a quick swim (oh how I loved to swim!), provided I slathered my entire body with a whole tube of Coppertone SPF 30. Needless to say, I missed out on the whole sunbathing experience that most teens my age were enjoying. Though even at the time, I really don't think I missed out on much. Especially since I see these women today who are my age, and whose skin has that leathery quality thing going on. Yummy.

Down the boardwalk, there was a large house (still there). It was owned by an older gentleman who installed an amazing sound system and had Frank Sinatra's entire collection of studio recordings on CD. I know this because he had them playing all day, EVERY day. His house became known to the boardwalk regulars as the "Frank Sinatra House." It was a comfort to come down every summer, and know that, no matter what new ugly condos went up, or how trashy the boardwalk got, the Frank Sinatra House would always look nice, and would always be providing some great tunes.

Sometimes, late at night, I would sit on a bench just in front of this house, close my eyes, and listen. The ocean waves surged before me. Cool winds coming off the water flicked my hair and cooled my often sunburned body. The gentle lullabyes of Frank billowed out from the house behind me. I fell in love. In love with life. In love with the ocean. In love with the salty night air. And if I had died at that moment, everything would have been just fine.

Frank has appeared in other indelible moments of my life. My dad playing records for me when I was a kid (I never stopped listening to records after that). "Our song" for my first wedding, The Way You Look Tonight. Well, it was more like "my song," since he wasn't such a Frank person. "Our song" for my second wedding, Fly Me to the Moon. Same deal. He wasn't such a Frank person either. IF there is ever to be a third wedding (there'd better be a very, very, very good reason), not only will there NOT be a Sinatra song, but there won't be a reception, either. What a waste of money.

So Frank Sinatra is poking holes back into my life. I'm now living in Hoboken, for one. This is one of the few places to which I've felt a calling, like it's supposed to be an important place for me. (There are two other places like this, which I may go into another time.) Essentially I felt, even years ago, that I belonged here. That whatever it is I'm supposed to do, it will be realized in Hoboken. I'm just happy that I finally made it back. And on my terms.

A friend of mine visited me at the bar the other night to tell me that he just bought a place next to where Frank was born, and he seemed pretty proud of that. I was pretty excited for him. So were other people in the bar. And thus began an hours-long discussion on Frank, and why he was the most important pop music icon ever. Some interesting counterpoints were Elvis Presley, the Beatles, and Bing Crosby. Hm. I say, close, but no, no and no. No one else has the catalogue, the stylings, the staying power, the cross-genre interest. No one else had Vegas like Frank. Elvis ran a close second. He certainly had the bling. But Vegas will always be Frank's turf. Classic-style. Someone made the argument that Frank was also the coolest pop icon ever. This argument was immediately put to rest when we started talking about Miles Davis.

In addition to this bar-chatter, most of my friends have brought up Frank in one form or another in the past two months or so. These were conversations that they started, or observations they made. All on their own. With no instigation at all by yours truly. Even though secretly, every time I heard/saw one of them bring it up, I got all excited. It's almost like I'm on the verge of something Franky. My inner Frank is aligned with the stars and something great is just underfoot.

Everyone loves Frank. From punkers to rockers to jocks to beboppers.. etc etc. My 93-year old nana loves Frank. My 23 year-old sister loves Frank. Hell, even Khan likes Frank. I'm not kidding. Whenever I play it, he comes in and sits on my lap. Tell me that's not love.

I went visiting my parents on their boat recently, and we went walking on the boardwalk. It was bittersweet; I was overcome by nostalgia (that big word again) for the tetherball we used to play in the sand, for the box of Hoffman's Donuts we'd get every year for my birthday, for the walks to Spike's fish market to eat THE BEST New England Clam Chowder, for the time we went for lobster and I named mine and cried when they pulled it out of the tank and the evil man took it to be killed in the back, and of course, for the Frank Sinatra House.

The old man has recently died and left the house to his children (who have children of their own). Some days, if you're lucky, you might hear Frank Sinatra coming from the speakers of that great sound system. But most days, everyone is too busy to turn it on, and instead of Frank, what you'll hear as you pass by are the squeals of children running around the house.

Sigh.