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It’s been over twenty years since the world lost Francis Albert Sinatra back in May of 1998, and to say that in the years since that the world has changed would be an understatement on the level of saying that Google has grown as a company in the same amount of time. The world of 1998 and the world of 2018 don’t even resemble the same universe, let alone the same planet. And that’s not to say that our world now looks like the glimpses of the future we were shown in Blade Runner or (to use a film from that era) The Fifth Element, but more different in how we interact with each other and the, let’s face it, Orwellian language our “woke” society has adopted.

In a way, it’s a good thing that the Chairman went when he did. He would not have fared well in the age of #MeToo. A lot of aspects of Sinatra’s persona would have been anachronistic our world of non-binary, Amazon, Social Media instant gratification, especially in a world that doesn’t buy records anymore. How does an aging crooner make a living for himself?

Although it may sound harsh and morbid, we are actually glad Sinatra went when he did. He wasn’t made for the 21st century. He didn’t have the delicate grasp of 2018-speak that keeps you from making the public apology circuit after using a word that, perfectly acceptable in his day, would gain you instant pariah status today. He once referred to legendary singer Glenn Campbell as “the fag guitar player,” but the man was also an ardent supporter of the Civil Rights Movement. Not only a personal friend of Martin Luther King, Jr., but he also insisted on having integrated orchestras play for him when he performed (and not to call out the elephant in the room, but one of his lifelong friends and performance partners was a black Jewish convert.)

No, Sinatra did not speak with the wokeness of a Janelle Monae, or used the sensitive language of an NPR host, but he was always a man on the right side of history without compromising his masculinity. He referred to women as “broads” and “dames,” career-enders in 2018. Promising entertainers have their careers dashed away in an instant because one person had a bad date. Frank Sinatra once told Sam Rayburn* “hands off the suit, creep.”

Why do I rattle off these anecdotes about a man who was, at the end of the day, a singer and an actor and has been dead long enough for you to go to TWO high school reunions? Because that man defined what it meant to be a man for nearly six decades. The man was a drinker, a womanizer, had arguably homophobic tendencies, but ostensibly had malice towards none and a bigger heart than most would ever have believed.

Frank Sinatra represents a masculinity that has been lost to the ages, possibly forever, and is one of the pieces of the past that we need to keep alive for reference, not just reverence. He is the product of immigrant parents, abusive yet Progressive (his mother ran an illegal abortion service on the sly for $50 apiece,) and came of age in this country as its strength was forged in some of its most trying of times. A Frank Sinatra born in 1960 would not have been; growing up in the 1970s and 80s, having not Depressions, no World Wars, no Golden Age of Hollywood to temper his spirit. He would have maybe been a Don Draper-type; successful, sure, but not legendary. More evolved in his treatment of women, having gone through adolescence during the Sexual Revolution and the Women’s Movement, but would not have had the string of iconic romances and sure as hell would not have been able to sing “In The Wee Small Hours” with notes of such pain and personal heartbreak.

The man who sang “Fly Me To The Moon” in 1964 sang the song as a backdrop to NASA’s Apollo missions, an era when our country was literally flying to the moon. That same song performed a decade earlier (when it was first written) didn’t have the same resonance and perhaps seemed foolhardy. Performed ten years later, and it seems an afterthought. When it is sang in 2018 by a contemporary artist, it has a “oh well, isn’t space travel a quaint idea?” feeling to it and hearkens back to a more lofty, innocent time when we, as a nation, had grandiose ideas beyond wall building and free two-day shipping.

2018 Sinatra would be in the news weekly, for saying that the “broads” on T.V. talk about sex too much, while at the same time, have his countless trysts and dalliances with starlets be front page news. 1950 Sinatra had the advantage of living in a world where the press all took an oath amongst themselves to rarely, if ever, publish a photo or an article that could potentially damage the career of someone even remotely close to Sinatra’s. There was an honor among thieves, so to speak. Legitimate journalists and paparazzi alike jump at the chance to expose someone’s private life; the bigger the star and that the more salacious the scandal, the more clicks the story gets. Ruining someone else’s livelihood for the sake of putting a notch in your own cap is the M.O. today for the less scrupulous reporter. No, the world of 2018 wouldn’t be a world that nurtures or even gives rise to a Sinatra. A Grande or Swift, sure, but not a Sinatra.

So, while we lament the loss of a titan of his status, we’re glad Frank lived when he lived in addition to how he lived. He probably would not have been able to do so in the same manner had he been born just fifteen years earlier or fifteen years later. He was built for the Twentieth Century because he was built by and of the Twentieth Century. We’ll probably never see someone like him again, because the forces that created Sinatra no longer exist. Even replicas made in his image don’t reflect the man’s true essence, like a CG’d Grand Moff Tarkin character that’s shoehorned into your movie. It may resemble the original, but we can spot a fake when we see one.

So, in honor of what would have been his 103rd birthday, we toast the man from Hoboken who lived a life that was full, literally drinking in and lavishing in all that life has to offer, not once compromising his masculinity, or his humanity.

Oh…Sam Rayburn just happened to be the Speaker of the House of Representatives at the time, i.e. the third man in the presidential line of succession. That takes BALLS. Big ol’ Sinatra balls. A move like that today would never ever occur for multiple reasons, but mostly because there’s no longer a Frank Sinatra to make it.