YOU'LL BE MISSED

I sit here numb on a Friday night, late, staring at TV images of a legend gone forever. This generation's last mania-inducing legend.

Mad genius and oddball eccentric he was part Howard Hughes, part Elvis, part Mickey Mouse and that's what made him, him.

Scandals aside, my adolescence and to a large degree, even my early adulthood was consumed by his essence.

I wasn't alone. There wasn't a tucked away corner of the world where people didn't know him.

Need proof? He broke the internet when he died. Imagine that.

He's suddenly and unexpectedly gone now and I, like, the rest of the world will miss him dearly.

LAYOVER IN AN AIRPORT LOUNGE (poem)

LAYOVER IN AN AIRPORT LOUNGE
I was at the airport recently
when I saddled up to a gentleman
in the lounge.
People were smoking.
She brought me my usual in this
most unusual of places.
At least for me.
It had been years since I was in
an airport lounge alone and I
couldn't help my body language from
advertising it.

My plane wasn't in for at
least an hour and I had
enough time to kill before
the pre-flight Valium, so
I glanced at the TV
and thanked the Lord
next week's impending
hurricane would be arriving
just about the time I'd be mowing
my lawn safely 1000 miles away.

As I stared at the local anchor
I admired her teeth and face.
They jived.

The guy two seats down must've
been on my wavelength because
he pointed at the screen and said
to me, "Now that's a doll..."
I nodded and tried to size the
guy up, two drinks in.

He was wearing a three piece suit
and I found that quite odd
since no one dresses for travel
anymore and furthermore, it was
a fucking three piece suit.
Who wears those? As I was inspecting
him for a pocket watch and monocle,
he asked me what my poison was.

Raising the glass, I answered
him and he raised his eyebrows
with approval.

His name was Rick or Rob or
something short and manly and
we chatted about our work.
I told him that I was asked to
speak at some conference I had
no business speaking at.
I told him I bluffed my way
through and they all bought it.

As he checked his watch, he seemed
to listen to a distant,
muffled voice through some
godforsaken airport speaker.

When I asked where he was off to,
he stopped and whispered in
my ear, "Like I'd tell you..."

Stupefied, I ordered my third drink.

Chomping on ice, I watched him
walk to his gate and wondered
how I could ruin that flight.
A second later I was looking
for a payphone.

THE POWER OF A SINATRA ZIPPO (poem)

I remember my old Sinatra Zippo
that I picked it up on one of the Vegas
trips that seem now like a figmant.

For years to come, Frankie would
keep me company at the watering
holes and help me look cool
when one of the cupcakes needed a light.

He'd stare at me, smiling,
half-embarassed that I placed him
next to my sweaty Miller Light.
It beckoned me to order a Jack.
He was right. I did him the favor.

Through the years I've come to
understand that it takes a particular
kind of man to do certain things
like wear leather;
sip whiskey;
construct the perfect tie knot;
look without getting noticed;
and yes, work a Zippo.

One night after one too much
petrol, I left without Frank.
The next night I went back
but 'Ol Blue Eyes was gone.
I felt like one of the dames
he'd pat on rear after a day,
month or a year of hey-hey.

I managed to track down the
same Zippo online but it
just wasn't the same.
Frank was gone.
His work was over.
Someone else needed the cool.

I knew now how to sip whiskey.