After ringin' one at the loudest success bells in show business history, Frankie still knocks around with the same guys who knew him when. The boys in the bands he used to sing with love him like a hot trumpet. When he walks down River Street in Hoboken, the policemen's horses give him sugar. He thinks in big numbers. His favorite is 140,000,000; he wants no part of the 400. He makes an old social climber like me feel like a social climber. Hate that boy!
He weighs 130 with a flat iron in his pocket. But he once knocked out a couple of plug-uglies for making a stupid, bigoted crack. How do you suppose that makes me feel? I usually substitute chit-chat for the old one-two. Loathe that boy!
A few months ago, Little Bow Tie walked out of a zillion dollar picture and flew to New York to stooge for Phil Silvers the night he opened at the Copacabana. For this he got (a) no dough and (b) no billing. He did it because "Rags" Raglond, who had been booked to do a double act with Silvers, died a few days before the opening. "Rags" was an old buddy of his. That kind of gesture makes a "do-nothing-for-nobody" look pretty crummy. Can't stand that boy!
When he could be sunning himself at Palm Springs, he flies to faraway schools and talks to kids about tolerance. I hate intolerance just as much, but I do less. When he believes in something he does something. The courage of this skinny kid with the loving-cup ears makes me feel as yellow as Chiquita Banana. Detest that boy!
When the Theater Guild brought in a hit called "Oklahoma!" a few years ago, I turned chartreuse with envy. Frank Sinatra thinks Bing Crosby is wonderful and says so to anyone who'll listen. Phooey on that boy!
When someone tries to make a touch, he reaches for his wallet like Wild Bill Hickock used to reach for his six-shooter. A good way to hit me for five is to ask me for twenty. Intensely dislike that boy!
In 1944, he worked for a studio where the boss-man was a Hoover Republican, but he drove his car on the lot with a windshield plastered with Roosevelt stickers. Me, when I'm with Hannegan I'm a Democrat, when I'm with Dewey I'm a Republican. A pox on that boy!
Next spring he's financing a series of four-year scholarships for musical students who otherwise couldn't afford advanced technical study. I've made a lot at money with musicians, but I never gave one of them a downbeat without collateral. He makes me feel like Scrooge. Nuts to that boy!
When he sings, my wife puts her arms around the radio. When I sing, she leans out of the window so the neighbors won't think it's she. He eats southern-fried chicken, candied sweets, and rye bread. I eat lettuce and rye-krisp. He has a waistline like Gregory Peck. I have one like Gregory Ratoff. Bomb that boy!
When I do a show I need seven press agents to protect my investment. When he does one, they need 70 cops to protect the theater. I'm snips and snails and puppy dogs' tails. He's sugar and spice and everything nice. The son of a so-and-so gives me an inferiority complex. Hate that boy!
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