There was a guy who used to live in Pt. Pleasant Beach. His house on the boardwalk was known as the Sinatra House, because he blasted (“blasting” is relative, but you could hear it from a pretty wide radius) Sinatra throughout most of the day and night. I used to think this was bogus. After all, if he had opted to blast the Misfits or worse, Naughty by Nature—both New Jersey natives, just like Frank—the police quickly would have been at his door. I moved away from Point Pleasant 8 years ago, and the owner of the Sinatra House has since joined Frank in the great beyond. However, I think I am more sympathetic to what Sinatra means to a lot of people of a certain generation and geography. There was a toughness and endurance about Sinatra and all his cronies—particularly Deano and Sammy—in the Rat Pack. They weren’t PC, they didn’t care about stepping on toes. They did their thing and didn’t care what anybody said about it. Maybe that is going a bit far, but that is their lore. And their lore, their myth, is what matters more than any reality.
When one thinks of the Rat Pack, their place in history seems to make sense immortalized on cocktail napkins—meant for drinks, a bit dainty, but they wouldn’t care if you called them dainty or not. Sort of above the opinions of the common horde. I still think it’s horseshit that a New Jersey punk or hip hop outfit would not be allowed to own the boardwalk on summer nights, but I guess that’s the way it goes.