Monthly Archives: January 2009

A happy day

OK, how’s this?

  • It’s a rather cold, but still happy morning in Ohio. I turned off my reading lamp at 10:58 last night, and when I looked at the clock again, it was 4:06. That’s a good night for me.
  • I have auditions for DT features today…looking forward to that.
  • I found out more about the quantitative issue (see yesterday’s post) from a friend in PA last night. Nice to know some stuff that will give me direction.

And finally, this will hopefully brighten your day:

And the tradition of musicians in the Fink family continues (what am I thinking???)

Happy Wednesday!

To quote John Lennon…

I’m soooooo tired.

Tired of what? Tired of quantitative research — the not-understanding-it part. Remember when I said that I was going to make sure I understood my statistics problem by the end of the day? Well yeah. That was a big fat lie.

I really have to question being expected to know enough about analyzing a quantitative study (that is, research that uses numbers, formulas and statistical data) to write for 2 hours about it, when none of my coursework dealt with statistics in any significant manner. In fact, I haven’t had a statistics class since doing my masters work back in 2001 or whatever. But hey, I’m always up for a party. Count me in.

Would I be a terrible teacher if I let my students watch the inauguration today? Thing is, the “big” part (the swearing-in and inaugural address) starts at noon…right when high school choir meets. Hmmmm. And it just isn’t the same watching video snippets of it later, you know?

Meh…I dunno. They need the rehearsal. Why am I so easily distracted these days? Why am I seemingly unable to form a single cogent thought? Why was I still awake at 1:45 a.m.? Why do I possess violent, angry sentiment toward my present educational situation?

I think now that I shall quote H.L. Mencken:

Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit upon his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats.

Yeah. That sounds nice.

Fink out. (Yarr!)

Some things defy explanation

Here’s handsome Joaquin Phoenix, a while ago:

and here…

And here’s Joaquin now, after he quit acting and turned rapper:

Somewhere, Kevin Federline is laughing.

Fink (I really need more coffee) out.

PS – Yesterday’s AFC Championship game was a strange experience. How does one come away happy afterwards when one wants both teams to lose? Regardless, it’s time for a brand new Super Bowl champ, don’t you think? A team that deserves a Super Bowl win, but never got one.

Photo credit: Associated Press, Reuters, PA Photos

Poor Junior

(First, I’d hate being called “Junior.”)

Again, I’ve long forgotten how I got there, but last night I ended up at one of my occasional research haunts: TruTV’s Crime Library, where I was reminded of an event I hadn’t thought about in years — even after doing a post on Big Frank last month.

Of course, I’m talking about the bizarre kidnapping of Frank Sinatra, Jr. back in 1963. The Crime Library’s David J. Krajicek did a fine job on the essay; you should read it. But in case you haven’t the time or inclination, here are the more tasty bits that made it truly wacko:

  • Barry Keenan, the “mastermind” (if you can call him that), chose to kidnap Junior over another celeb’s kid, because Big Frank was a wise guy — meaning he was in thick with mobsters — and putting a guy like Frank through a few hours of misery wouldn’t be morally deplorable. Besides, this was about money; Keenan had no plans to hurt the 19-year-old Frankie. In fact, after he got his $240,000 ransom money from Daddy, Keenan was going to invest it, and within 10 years, pay Sinatra back.
  • He and his two idiot accomplices had originally planned the kidnapping for 22 November, but were too depressed to commit the crime after John F. Kennedy was assassinated that morning. (Hey, ya gotta give ’em that.) So they chose 8 December, when Junior was booked at Harrah’s in Lake Tahoe. They entered his hotel room after posing as delivery men, and it was on.
  • Big Frank, frantic with worry and refusing to eat or walk away from the phone until it rang with the ransom demand, quickly offered Keenan $1 million for Frankie’s return. But Keenan said no, $240,000 would be fine. (cricket…..cricket…..)
  • The Mastermind and one of his goons happily went to the agreed-upon spot (between 2 school buses in an LA parking lot) and picked up the suitcase with the 240 grand in it — in full view of FBI cameras.
  • They returned to find Goon #3 — and Junior — gone. He’d gotten nervous, left the house, and let Frankie out on the highway someplace, where he was eventually picked up and taken home. So, like, the kidnapping part was done. Oh well. At least they had their sultan’s fortune in cash.
  • Goon #3, dizzy with delight at getting his cut of the ransom ($40G), had plans to go to New Orleans and live the high life. One problem: he stopped at his brother’s house in San Diego to stay the night, and told him all about it. Bro called the law and the jig was up. He sang like a nightingale, and within hours, everybody got arrested.

But the story gets better after that…

Enter the bumblers’ defense attorney, Gladys Towles Root, who has a great story herself. A Hollywood lawyer who often took on sex offender cases (and won), she came up with an interesting defense for the would-be criminals. It didn’t work.

Happy ending for Keenan, though: he’s now the millionaire he always wanted to be, thanks to a lucrative real estate business. He was sentenced to life in prison plus 75 years. He was out in four. No lie.

But Junior… poor Junior. Can you imagine trying to make a name for yourself in shadow of your larger-than-the-universe father, singing the same kind of music he did? Kid didn’t have a prayer — not back then, when his dad was the king of all media.

He was a good-looking young man, though, and he and his sister Nancy were pretty visible in the early-mid 60s, mostly on TV specials with Big Frank. Nancy also had two or three top 40 hits. My all-time favorite is this one, that she recorded with her dad. It’s such a pretty song, and beautifully simple…it brings back fantastic memories. Music does that to me.

Anyway, Junior had to live down years of speculation that he himself set up the kidnapping in order to jumpstart his own career. He never had a fraction of the success his dad enjoyed. He does the casino circuit now (ALTHOUGH I’M SURE HE HAS MANY OTHER GREAT THINGS IN THE WORKS, LIKE A SHAKESPEARE FESTIVAL, OR OCEAN’S 19, OR MAYBE AN EVEN NEWER BROADWAY VERSION OF THE JERRY SPRINGER SHOW), still singing big band and crooner tunes, just like Pop. Here he is today.

In a way, though, Junior had the last word on the whole kidnapping thing. In 1998, when they made a movie of the story, Keenan stood to make $1.5M from it as a consultant. Sinatra sued, invoking protection under the Son of Sam law, and won.

Heh.

Happy Sunday. Back to work.

Photo credit: Associated Press; Phil Konstantin 2005

Cutting out some fat

Heh, I wish it was that easy, don’t you? A lil snip here, a lil nip-tuck there — voilĂ . Well, actually, it is that easy, if you have the semolians. Alas. Anyway…

I have decided that, for the time being, I am going to bow out of all my social networking sites. Not because they’re not fun, mind. But because they get in the way. So, Twitter and MySpace are gone; I’m just waiting to close out a comment conversation or two, and then Facebook is bye-bye as well.

I’ve done this a couple of times before over the last 2-3 years. I’ve been asked, “Why don’t you just let your profile sit?” Two reasons: 1) an outdated profile would bug me to death, and 2) I’m not disciplined enough to stay away. So, out with the trash it goes.

I only have room right now to squeeze four things into my life: family/friends, school, Dinner Theatre rehearsals, and studying for comp exams. There is simply no space for anything else. (Well, except for RtB and email…those things are constant, like breathing and complaining about my salary.)

It’s not a huge deal. I mean, I’m not singing It’s a Long Way to Tipperary or anything. I just need to focus right now, and I have to cut out things that interfere with being mom, wife, Grammie, teacher, pal, writer, choreographer, director, and student.

Off to read David Elliott. *yawn*

Fink out.