Sinatra in Bars

This is what happens when you decide to spice up your life by taking a second job:

You get up early, dress in bland, office appropriate attire and circle your Honda up five flights of parking garage to job #1. Then, a few hours later, you run up the parking garage stairs, pop the Honda trunk, change Mister Roger's-style from blouse and flats into sweatshirt and sneakers and speed to job #2. You get home at midnight, eat cold, leftover Thai take-out, go to sleep and dream of the extra cash you're banking.

But you don't blog. Because there is no time.

And then, five months later, you quit both jobs and move back to Brooklyn.

Last night someone put a few dollars in the jukebox of a quiet bar and played an entire Frank Sinatra album. Not necessarily in memory of Joey Bishop.


Just because... it's Thursday night, the bar is empty, the beer is lukewarm, the Red Sox are winning, the dart board is well-lit, the corners are not, and, even if you've heard it a thousand times, there's something that stirs the gut when Sinatra sings,

it's up to you... New... York...